Work Text:
1
It was after the dust had settled. Matt was dead, Peter was redead, things were settling in a matter of seconds. No longer paralyzed, Derek and Stiles stood side by side; Melissa knew what was going on, as did Mr. Stilinski, which meant that though things had calmed down, things were also about to get a lot more confusing.
But for the moment, things were okay. And Derek reached out a hand, gently grasping the nape of Stiles’ neck, and pulling him closer. He pressed his lips to Stiles’ sweaty forehead, inhaling deeply before pulling away, and setting about setting his pack right again. Stiles didn’t even question it.
2
The second time was at a considerably boring pack meeting. Derek had to have a private discussion with Melissa and John—Stiles’ dad—about the implications of them dating, and how it was ultimately the best thing they could’ve done, and how nice it was to have mature people in the pack. Then Derek lectures Scott about the dangers of continuing to pursue Alison, especially since the Argents aren’t exactly on any sort of level ground with the Hale pack. Scott of course ignores all this and keeps brooding in a way less sexy way than Derek.
Stiles sits, unlectured and silent, for the duration of the meeting. As people file slowly out of the Hale house—either to train in the front yard, or to go home—Stiles stands and yawns and stretches.
Derek catches Stiles by the wrist, and whispers into his ear “get dinner started?” And Stiles nods, bowing his head easily when Derek leans in to kiss his forehead again.
3
The third time it happens, it’s a miracle Stiles remembers it at all. Because it happens the night of junior year graduation, and he gets so totally smashed. His dad isn’t happy, but since his dad attends the pack bonfire, it obviously isn’t too big of a deal. Lydia drinks slowly, but surely, and there’s a light in her eyes that screams party animal. Jackson and Scott mourn together over their inability, and Stiles distinctly remembers Danny and Jackson eye-fucking from across the room. The entire time.
They set up a big fire, and form a circle. Derek tugs Stiles over to sit practically in his lap; Derek’s warm body makes him sleepy, and the dull chatter of his friends lull him to sleep. Derek kisses his temple since it’s call he can reach, and whispers something that could probably be counted as a ‘sweet nothing.’ (Which Stiles really would’ve appreciated, had he not then lurched forward and barfed onto the ground, just shy of his and Derek’s shoes, splattering onto Jackson’s instead.)
4
By the fourth time it happens, they’ve kissed plenty of times in other places. On the lips, the cheeks, the neck and shoulders and chest, and thighs and ankles and wrists and… ahem. But the forehead is something special, and Stiles wonders if it’s a werewolf thing, or an alpha thing, or maybe just simply a Derek thing.
Not that it matters, because Stiles can honestly say he turned to ooey-gooey-romantic-mush when, just after knotting him—which, for the record, both a blessing and a curse—Derek leans up and kisses Stiles in the middle of his forehead, murmuring things. Things like, “I love you,” and “thank you, thank you for giving me this, for allowing me this,” and “Mine, yours,” over and over.
5
Stiles is laughing the next time it happens. He’s smeared with paint and probably smells like a really gross mixture of summer heat, B.O. and drying paint, but Derek scoops him into his arms anyways, wrapping his hands tight around his wrist as they smear paint against each other.
“I love the apartment,” Stiles says, giddy and bouncing on his toes. The new place is exactly what they’ve wanted since moving out became an option.
“I love you,” Derek replies honestly. Stiles reads into it silently, knowing that the ‘I love you’ is actually a big sewn-together mess of ‘I love us, I love the apartment, I love the pack, I love my life, our life, our home, I love the sex, and the romance, and I love your cooking and your intelligence and how well we go together.’ Stiles isn’t surprised when there’s a small press of warmth on his forehead, and he looks up with a grin when Derek pulls back.
“I love you too,” he says, but it’s swallowed by Derek’s mouth when they fall to the ground, evidently intent on taking “sex with and/or surrounded by paint” off their bucket list.
1
“Stiles, they will eat me alive.”
“Derek.” Stiles grips him by the shoulders, fighting back a grin. “They’re your children, they aren’t going to eat you.”
“They’re pups, Stiles.”
“Pups that I have nurtured and taken care of for two years while you were off running a business that was mine originally.” Stiles hears a crash, and then the sounds of their daughter and son fighting. “They really aren’t that bad. Just make sure Laura doesn’t steal Joey’s crayons, because then there will be a real fight, and I know you can’t handle that. Laura usually likes to go out for soccer a few times, and Joey will sit on the porch and color, so they really take care of themselves.” Stiles pats Derek’s cheek. “Not too much junkfood, they know what’s okay for lunch but don’t feed them lunch until after twelve-thirty. I’ll be home by six to make dinner, okay?”
Jackson passes by and mutters something that sounds like ‘housewife’ so Stiles makes a mental note to key his car later.
Stiles leans forward, kissing Derek briefly on the lips and then once on the forehead. “Don’t die!” He says cheerily, and then is out the door and off to work in far too long.
He doesn’t see Derek’s wince, but he hears the unmistakable sound of the hideous lamp in the front hallway breaking, and grins the whole drive to work.