Archive of Our Own

✨

✨

By the time Laura got Derek home from urgent care, the pain meds had melted his bones into soup.

Derek was vaguely aware of the couch beneath him and the ice pack sliding slowly off his shoulder, but the rest of him felt pleasantly disconnected from reality. His arm hurt less, though. That was nice.

“Stay there,” Laura ordered, nudging his legs further onto the couch with all the tenderness of someone handling roadkill. “Stiles is coming over in ten.”

Derek blinked slowly up at her. “Why.”

“Because we have a podcast to run, remember? Some of us have jobs.”

Derek frowned. 

Laura pointed a threatening finger at him. “And before you say anything stupid, you are not getting up to ‘help.’ Last time you tried to help after breaking your pinky and taking pain meds, you put frozen waffles in the dishwasher.”

“That was one time.”

“And?”

Wow. Rude.

Laura pulled a blanket over his legs tenderly and disappeared into the kitchen while Derek sank deeper into the cushions, heavy and warm and a little miserable because this means his whole summer is wasted. The meds wrapped everything in cotton, smoothing sharp corners off his thoughts until every thought felt slow-moving.

Then the front door opened. And Derek would swear he could hear his pulse jump in his throat.

“Laura?” Stiles called.

“In here!”

Footsteps crossed the house. Familiar and quick. Derek could identify Stiles by sound alone, which probably said something unfortunate about him.

Stiles appeared a second later in the living room doorway carrying his backpack.

His beard was darker today.

That was Derek’s first thought. Not a hello. Not normal person observations. Just, beard.

It had filled out more over the last few months, thicker along the jaw than before. Still soft-looking, though. Not scruffy exactly. Intentional and well-kept. It made Stiles look older in a way Derek found profoundly destabilizing.

Stiles’ face softened immediately when he spotted Derek sprawled on the couch, Derek hated it a little. “How’s the arm, basketball superstar?”

Derek narrowed his eyes. “Miserable.”

Stiles dropped his bag by the armchair before sitting carefully on the edge of the couch near Derek’s hip. “Laura said you tripped over your own teammate.”

“Laura should learn the importance of not advertising my misery to her best friend.”

Stiles laughed. Derek felt it directly in his bloodstream. 

This was terrible. He needed everyone to leave immediately. Except Stiles. Stiles could stay. And maybe come closer.

“You look high as hell,” Stiles said.

Derek considered this seriously. “Probably because I’m high as hell.”

“That’ll do it.”

The couch dipped slightly as Stiles shifted, reaching for the water bottle on the coffee table. His knee pressed briefly against Derek’s thigh through the blanket.

Warm.

Derek realized, distantly, that he’d been staring at Stiles’ mouth for an alarming amount of time. 

Stiles noticed after a second, glancing back. “What?”

“Your beard looks soft.”

Stiles blinked.

Derek, meanwhile, felt deeply peaceful about this revelation. It was true. Stiles’ beard did look soft. Soft and thick and probably rough in the right places too.

From the kitchen, Laura made a strangled sound. Derek wished she didn’t choke on coffee. She promised to drive him to physio after the cast came off.

“Uh. Thanks?” Stiles rubbed at his jaw automatically, clearly caught off guard.

He shouldn’t be caught off guard about a compliment. People should compliment him more. Derek should compliment him more.

“Did you condition it today?”

“Oh my god,” Laura called from the kitchen.

“What?” Derek asked, genuinely confused.

Stiles was looking at him strangely now. Not uncomfortable exactly. More… startled. His eyes were twinkling. Wow, were they always so honey coloured? Derek suddenly understood why people wrote poetry about eye colour. 

“I… used beard oil,” Stiles admitted slowly.

Derek nodded. This was important information. “It smells good.”

Laura started laughing outright.

“Hyena,” Derek muttered toward the kitchen.

Stiles huffed a laugh, still touching his beard. Derek’s eyes tracked the movement helplessly.

“I’ve kinda wondered what it feels like,” he admitted.

Stiles’ hand paused against his jaw. “What what feels like?” he asked carefully.

Derek frowned slightly, trying to assemble the thought through the cotton haze in his head. “The beard.”

Laura appeared in the doorway holding two mugs, eyes glittering with delight. “Absolutely not. I’m not staying for this.”

“Coward,” Stiles accused weakly without looking away from Derek.

“No, I’m not!” she yelled back. 

Derek frowned at the noise. Why was she always so bright and loud? Unlike Stiles. Stiles who was still watching him, with this strange focused expression that made Derek warm all over.

“You can touch it, you know,” Stiles said after a moment, voice lighter now. 

Derek looked at his cast, and his useless arms. They had to be dysfunctional at a moment like this. “Occupational hazard.”

“Right.” Stiles laughed.

“I think about it sometimes,” Derek sighed slowly. “Like during kissing.”

“Kissing,” Stiles repeated.

 “Wanna know what it feels like,” Derek nodded once. “Like if it’s scratchy or soft.” He tilted his head slightly, studying Stiles with lazy concentration. “Would it burn?”

“Derek,” he said slowly.

“Cause it looks soft,” Derek continued earnestly. “But maybe it scratches a little. Maybe both.” His eyelids felt heavy. Everything did. “But I think I’d like it.”

Stiles had gone completely motionless beside him now. The kind of stillness people got right before witnessing an explosion. Derek wanted to explode. He bet it’d be nice to explode against Stiles’ mouth.

Derek looked at him blearily. “Would it feel different on different skin?”

“Oh my god,” Laura whispered somewhere behind the kitchen island.

Stiles made a strangled noise. “Laura, leave him alone.”

“I’m literally just making coffee. For you!”

“You’re eavesdropping so hard right now.”

“I’m only human, Stiles!”

Derek barely heard them. His attention stayed fixed stubbornly on Stiles. On the beard. On the fact that he was finally saying the things that had apparently been living inside his brain for weeks. And it felt so good.

“Like, my face probably wouldn’t be as sensitive,” Derek murmured thoughtfully. “But maybe thighs would.”

Stiles choked. Actually choked. It was concerning. Laura also made a sound like she was dying.

Derek frowned at both of them, vaguely offended by the interruption of his warm, gooey thoughts. “What?”

Stiles was staring at him now like he’d just detonated a bomb in the middle of the living room.

“Derek,” he repeated weakly.

Derek leaned heavier into the couch cushions, eyelids slipping lower. His thoughts drifted lazily toward the one that mattered most.

“I think,” he mumbled, “I wanna know what a beard burn feels like.”

The room was dead silent.

Stiles sighed. “Maybe you should ask me about that beard burn when you’re off meds.”

Derek hummed. That’d be nice.

✨

“Great,” Derek rolled his eyes at the empty box. “No sugar.” 

The kitchen smelled faintly like cinnamon from the stupid artisanal coffee Laura bought when she was feeling financially irresponsible —which, he loved, no complaints there actually. Morning light spilled through the windows in soft gold stripes across the counter, illuminating the disaster zone Derek was slowly creating one-handed as he ripped open a new pack.

Sugar granules scattered across the dark countertop as he fumbled the bag.

“Shit.”

Derek awkwardly nudged the bag upright against the coffee maker with the side of his cast. More sugar spilled anyway, glittering everywhere like tiny crystals of failure.

Great. Perfect. 

Maybe the ants would unionize this time and carry him directly into the woods so he wouldn’t have to survive another day in this house.

Derek stared down at his coffee like it had personally betrayed him.

Not that it tasted bad. Derek had made it himself, and Derek made good coffee because, like the rest of his family, he respected the sanctity of caffeine. The problem was more existential in nature.

Specifically: his left arm.

Or, more accurately, the cast currently encasing his left arm from knuckles to elbow like a punishment devised by a particularly vindictive god.

His dominant arm.

Which meant simple tasks had become humiliating obstacle courses over the last week. Buttoning jeans. Opening jars. Showering. Sleeping comfortably.

Jerking off.

Derek scowled into his mug.

Not that he particularly wanted to jerk off lately anyway. The pain meds had flattened his libido into the ground. Most mornings he woke up vaguely annoyed, half-hard, and deeply inconvenienced rather than genuinely horny.

Still.

There was something profoundly aggravating about your body attempting to stage a morale-boosting event while your usual equipment was trapped in an orthopedic prison.

And honestly, after what he’d said to Stiles while drugged out of his skull, maybe the universe was right to punish him.

Derek took a long sip of hot coffee. And immediately thought about Stiles again. Because apparently, his brain was committed to making every waking moment unbearable.

He could still remember it in horrible, vague, foggy fragments.

The warmth of the meds swimming through his veins. Stiles sitting beside the couch helping him drink water. That stupid soft look Stiles got when he worried about people. And Derek, high and loose-limbed and catastrophically sincere, staring at the beard Stiles had grown over the last few months.

“Looks soft,” Derek had murmured.

Jesus Fucking Christ.

He reached for his mug again just as voices echoed down the hallway. His entire body reacted before his brain did, pulse kicking hard under his skin.

“Okay, but listen,” Stiles was saying, voice closer now, warm and animated in that way that always filled the house too easily. “You cannot tell me that raccoons don’t understand capitalism.”

Laura snorted. “Stiles, you think ravens hold grudges.”

“They do!!!”

Their footsteps got closer. And Derek’s stomach dropped.

Retreat.

Immediate retreat.

He grabbed his mug with his good hand so quickly coffee sloshed over the rim and burned his fingers.

“Fuck,” he hissed.

The voices were almost at the kitchen now. And Derek, because apparently he had the emotional regulation of a startled deer lately, panicked. Not normal panic, either. Not “my crush is nearby” panic.

No, this was the uniquely terrible panic of having recently confessed, while heavily medicated, that he wanted to know what Stiles’ beard felt like against skin.

Oh his face.

During a kiss.

Maybe several kisses.

Derek wanted to die. So, he abandoned the sugar catastrophe entirely and fled.

Up the stairs two at a time, coffee mug clenched in hand, cast awkwardly tucked against his chest while his socked feet slipped slightly against the wood.

“Was that Derek?” he heard Stiles ask.

Laura, after a beat, sounding deeply delighted in a way that annoyed Derek so fucking much. “Yep.”

Derek made it to his room and shut the door with his shoulder before leaning against it, breathing hard.

Humiliating.

Absolutely humiliating.

✨

The podcast room had once been Derek’s favourite place in the house.

Not just because of the podcast itself —the first time Derek had tried listening once, he spent forty minutes learning what must be all the history that there was about male circumcision because Stiles had apparently written an essay about it and went off on a tangent while he and Laura were discussing the history of sexual practices.

No, the reason it was his favourite place in the house was because Laura and Stiles recorded in the converted den in the basement, which meant Derek always had an excuse to wander in.

Mama made snacks? Derek delivered them.

Papa lost his keys? Derek “helped” look for them.

Someone needed coffee? Derek was suddenly a barista who made drinks for every single person in the house regardless of their want.

Sometimes he’d browse the bookshelf, listening to Stiles rant about cryptids or municipal corruption or raccoons with union aspirations. Sometimes he’d just linger in the doorway pretending to scroll through his phone while listening to Stiles talk with his hands and laugh at his own jokes.

Pathetic, honestly.

Now Derek avoided the podcast room like it contained airborne toxins.

The first time after the meds incident, Derek heard Stiles laughing downstairs while he was halfway to the kitchen with a plate of sliced peaches Mama Hale had asked him to bring them.

He froze. Every muscle in his body locked at once. Then he turned around so abruptly one peach launched off the plate and hit the wall. And Derek stared at the slowly sliding fruit in silence before quietly rushing to his room with the other slices.

They shrivelled up on his dresser by day three. 

Which was when Laura cornered him in the hallway holding two iced coffees.

“Can you take this to Stiles? I forgot my notes upstairs.”

Derek looked at the coffee like she’d handed him a live grenade.

“I can’t.”

Laura narrowed her eyes. “You can’t carry a coffee?”

“I’m injured.”

“You have one broken arm, not Victorian wasting disease.”

Derek refused to dignify that with a response and walked away.

Laura yelled after him, “You used to bring him cinnamon rolls voluntarily!”

Yes, Laura. That was before Derek had admitted he wanted a beard burn on his thighs and she cackled like a hyena instead of protecting his virtues.

Another time, Derek made the mistake of coming downstairs while Stiles was chatting up with Mama.

He only wanted water. That was it. A simple human need.

Unfortunately, the second Derek entered the kitchen, Stiles’ attention entirely shifted onto him.

“Hey Der! You know what animal absolutely understands revenge?”

Derek stopped moving, throat clicking painfully dryly when he swallowed.

“Geese,” Stiles declared. “Geese know things.”

Derek could practically picture him while he talked. Leaning over the breakfast counter. Gesturing wildly. Probably stroking his beard while he grinned. 

Derek abandoned the idea of water immediately and retreated upstairs still thirsty.

Later, Cora found him drinking leftover orange juice from her glass that she forgot to take down to the kitchen sink that morning.

“You’re acting insane,” she informed him.

Derek pointed at his cast. “Trauma changes people.”

“Uh huh,” Cora smirked. “And this isn’t about how your arm isn’t even the embarrassing injury anymore?”

Derek nearly dropped the juice. He closed his eyes and wished the earth opened up wherever Laura was and  just swallowed her whole.

“I’m going to walk into the ocean.”

“You hate the beach, Der.”

“I’ll learn how not to.”

✨

“You know I don’t bite, right?” 

Derek nearly walked directly into the porch swing, starling himself. “I know that.”

Stiles was sitting on the front staircase with his laptop. How Derek never saw the guy, he didn’t know. But he had to be more careful. 

“Then why do you keep running away from me?” Stiles asked, throwing his hands up when Derek made a detour back into the house.

“I’m not!” Derek yelled, sprinting out into the backyard.

.

“Did I somehow get cursed without noticing?”

“No.”

.

“Is this because I beat you at Mario Kart?”

“No.”

.

“Are you dying?”

“Not physically.”

.

At one point he fully climbed back out a window after spotting Stiles in the hallway. And then Laura watched him crouch-crawl past the backyard hedge with absolute delight.

“You know,” she called through the window, “most crushes don’t qualify as cardio.”

Derek flipped her off with his good hand and kept moving until he found his dad trimming the rose bushes.

✨

And it wasn’t sustainable. It was the problem.

Avoiding Stiles had initially felt necessary in the way amputating your own leg to escape a bear trap might feel necessary. Painful, unfortunate, probably humiliating, but technically survivable. 

It’s not like Derek enjoyed dodging Stiles left right and centre. It made him miserable. Because he wasn’t getting his daily dose of one Stiles Stilinski. 

Derek missed him.

And it was pathetic. Deeply pathetic.

He missed Stiles stealing bites of food directly off Derek’s plate at dinners because Mama always insisted he eat before going back home. He missed Stiles barging into Derek’s room to complain about podcast comments like Derek had any idea how Twitter worked. He missed hearing Stiles argue with Laura about cryptids over breakfast.

Now the house even felt wrong all the time. Too quiet in places Derek had grown used to hearing him. Too loud in other places because Derek noticed every single sound Stiles made now that he was actively avoiding the source.

Profoundly miserable.

And the worst part was that avoiding Stiles didn’t even stop Derek from thinking about him.

If anything, it made it worse.

Now every glimpse of him felt rare. Derek was losing years off his life.

Which was why, several days into his self-imposed exile, Derek found himself lurking halfway down the staircase at two in the morning because he’d heard voices in the kitchen.

Well, not intentionally lurking. Just… temporarily standing very still in darkness.

Different thing, obviously.

Laura was sitting on the counter swinging one foot while Stiles leaned against the fridge holding a beer. They both looked tired, like they always did when they spend hours editing an episode. The kitchen light cast everything warm and soft, catching silver against the edge of Stiles’ rings.

Derek hated having functioning eyes.

“I don’t get it,” Stiles said quietly.

Laura glanced at him. “Get what?”

Stiles shrugged one shoulder, but it looked forced. “Did I do something?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Derek.” Stiles laughed a little, but there was something thin underneath it. “He barely looks at me lately.”

Laura’s expression shifted almost imperceptibly. Derek suddenly became very interested in not breathing too loudly.

“I mean,” Stiles continued, staring down into the bottle in his hands. “Before the accident he was always around, y’know?”

Because Derek had no self-preservation instincts where Stiles was concerned. Wonderful observation.

“He used to come downstairs like every twenty minutes while we recorded.” Stiles smiled faintly. “Half the excuses didn’t even make sense.”

Laura snorted softly.

“Remember that one time he interrupted us because he said he thought there was a gas leak?” 

Laura barked out a laugh. “Oh my god, I forgot about that.”

“There wasn’t even a gas smell!” Stiles said, sounding more animated now, and a little fond. “He just stood there staring at me for ten minutes while I explained why possums would survive the apocalypse.”

Derek closed his eyes. In hindsight, that had been difficult to defend.

“But now he runs away every time I walk into a room,” Stiles finished more quietly. “So seriously. Did I do something?”

The kitchen fell silent for a moment. And Derek, horrifyingly, felt guilt begin to crawl up his throat. Because Stiles sounded genuinely upset. 

Laura looked at Stiles for a long second before sighing through her nose. “You didn’t do anything.”

“Then why’s he acting like I kicked his dog?”

“He doesn’t have a dog.”

“Laura.”

Laura pressed her lips together so hard they disappeared. And then she opened her mouth. Closed it. “Derek’s just… stupid like that.”

Thanks, Laura.

✨

The front door slammed just as Derek reached the kitchen. He startled hard enough to nearly drop the glass in his hand.

Shit.

Voices drifted up a second later. Just one voice, actually. Familiar and warm and immediately catastrophic to Derek’s central nervous system.

“Laura?” Stiles called. “Your disastrous ass forgot the external hard drive again!”

Derek stared blankly at the kitchen doorway.

Okay.

Okay, this was fine.

Laura wasn’t home. Cora had dragged their parents out shopping. Which meant if Derek moved quickly enough, he could absolutely escape upstairs before Stiles came looking around the house.

Easy. Simple.

Derek turned sharply toward the staircase. And walked directly into Stiles coming around the corner.

Both of them froze.

Stiles blinked first. His beard was shorter than it had been last week, trimmed closer along the jaw, and Derek’s brain immediately supplied the deeply unhelpful observation that it probably felt rougher now.

“Oh, so you are real,” Stiles said.

Derek’s throat tightened. “Hi.”

“Wow,” Stiles breathed. “He speaks.”

Derek nodded once like an idiot and immediately pivoted toward the stairs again.

“Derek.”

Too late.

Derek kept walking faster anyway because dignity was a social construct and survival instincts were real.

“Derek, I can literally see you speed-walking away.”

Why was the voice getting closer rather than farther?

“I’m busy.”

“With what?”

Derek looked around for an answer —which was a bad idea because his feet slowed down. “Uh… Arm stuff.”

“Arm stuff,” Stiles repeated flatly.

Derek nodded once, deeply committed to the lie. He made it exactly three more steps before a hand caught the back of his shirt.

“Jesus Christ,” Stiles laughed, sounding equal parts exasperated and delighted. “Stop fleeing like a wounded wolf!”

Derek’s stomach flipped violently.

Because this was already bad enough. Stiles touching him while laughing was an unfair combination. Stiles touching him while chasing him down was actively hazardous to Derek’s remaining life expectancy.

“I’m not fleeing,” Derek muttered weakly.

Stiles made a disbelieving noise and tugged him backward.

Derek stumbled. His shoulder hit the hallway wall with a soft thud and suddenly Stiles was there. Close. Really close. One hand now fisted loosely on Derek’s t-shirt collar while the other braced beside his head. And Derek stopped breathing.

Stiles was looking at him with narrowed eyes. He stood close enough that Derek could see the faint golden specks in his irises, close enough to smell coffee and soap and something woodsy from his beard oil. Derek hated having eyes. 

Hated it desperately.

“You are impossible to catch,” Stiles informed him.

Derek stared at a point somewhere near Stiles’ shoulder. “You caught me.”

“Yeah, because I had to physically corner you in your own hallway like a raccoon digging through trash.”

Derek considered that. “Raccoons are very intelligent.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Union-minded too.”

Stiles blinked. Then barked out a startled laugh despite himself. “Oh my god, Laura was right. You really do listen to the podcast.”

Derek immediately regretted every decision he’d ever made. He could feel Stiles’ hand still curled in his shirt. Could feel the warmth of him everywhere at once.

Then Stiles exhaled quietly.

“You’ve been avoiding me for weeks.”

Derek swallowed. “I haven’t.”

“Derek.”

Right. Okay. Fair.

Derek’s gaze dropped helplessly to Stiles’ mouth for one catastrophic second before snapping away again. And Stiles noticed.

Of course he noticed. Stiles noticed everything. Something softer slipped briefly across his face before he spoke again, quieter this time.

“So, you tell me what you want,” he said, “and then don’t even give me a chance to give it to you?”

Derek’s brain short-circuited so hard he nearly saw static. This conversation was exactly what he was hoping to avoid until he was ninety and dead. 

Heat rushed violently up his neck. “I was on pain meds.”

“Okay.” Stiles nodded once. “Was it untrue?”

Derek opened his mouth. But nothing came out.

Because unfortunately the answer was sitting directly in front of him wearing flannel and a stupidly soft-looking beard Derek had thought about almost constantly for weeks.

Stiles watched him carefully. “Or was it just something that was not supposed to be said out loud?”

Obviously, yes.

Derek closed his eyes briefly. “I made a fool of myself.”

When he opened them again, Stiles looked almost offended by that.

“You told me you wanted to kiss me,” he said. “That’s not exactly humiliating.”

“There were… other details too,” Derek swallowed.

“There were many details, yeah.” Stiles huffed out a laugh. “Honestly, the scientific curiosity was kind of impressive.”

Derek groaned and thunked the back of his head lightly against the wall. “Please kill me.”

“No.”

The word came fast. Certain.

Derek looked back at him before he could stop himself.

Stiles was closer now. Derek didn’t know when that had happened. Stiles was definitely the one who moved closer because Derek’s back was still against the wall. Either way, Derek could feel the warmth coming off him.

“You know what I think?” Stiles asked softly.

Derek’s pulse stumbled.

“I think you meant every word.” Stiles tilted his head slightly, eyes flicking over Derek’s face. “And then you got embarrassed because you thought I didn’t want the same thing.”

Derek didn’t answer.

Which was answer enough.

Something warm and unbearably fond unfolded across Stiles’ expression then. It nearly killed Derek on impact.

“You idiot,” Stiles murmured.

Then he stepped fully into Derek’s space. Derek’s brain was torn between wondering how there was still any space between them and wanting him to move even closer. 

Stiles lifted a hand slowly, like he was giving Derek time to stop him. Derek couldn’t have moved if the house caught fire around them.

And then Stiles turned his face slightly and brushed his beard gently against Derek’s jaw.

The reaction was immediate.

Derek sucked in a sharp breath, eyes falling shut before he could stop them. Heat flooded straight through him, low and electric and devastatingly real. The scrape was softer than he’d imagined and but pricklier too, cold against his skin in a way that made his stomach swoop violently.

“Oh,” Derek said helplessly.

Stiles made the quietest pleased sound.

Derek’s body betrayed him instantly after that. His hands found Stiles’ waist without permission, fingers tightening reflexively in the fabric of his shirt.

Because holy shit.

Holy shit.

Stiles brushed against him again, slower this time, dragging the edge of his beard along Derek’s jaw toward the corner of his mouth.

Derek’s knees nearly gave out.

“That answer your question?” Stiles asked softly.

Derek opened his eyes. “Maybe,” he managed roughly. “Need more testing.”

Stiles’ mouth twitched into a smirk immediately. “More testing,” he repeated. “Wow. You really are committed to the scientific method.”

Derek barely heard him.

Because Stiles was still holding onto his shirt. Because his beard was still brushing Derek’s skin every time either of them breathed. Because Derek’s hands were still gripping Stiles’ waist and nobody seemed interested in stopping that from happening.

“You really thought I didn’t want to kiss you?” Stiles raised an eyebrow.

Derek looked away automatically. “I’m your best friend’s brother.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

“It answers enough of it.”

Stiles stared at him for a second like he couldn’t decide whether to kiss him or shake him.

Possibly both.

“I’ve been trying to figure out if you were rejecting me or having a prolonged psychological event,” Stiles informed him.

Derek winced. “Little of column A. Little of column B.”

“That’s fair. You know,” Stiles said quietly, “you could kiss me instead of staring at me like you’re about to be executed.”

Derek’s brain stopped functioning entirely.

“You want me to?”

Stiles made a face somewhere between exasperation and affection. “Derek. I pinned you to a wall.”

Right.

Right, okay.

That did seem significant in hindsight.

Derek swallowed hard. “I might be having a heart attack.”

“Yeah, I noticed.”

“And you still want me to kiss you?”

Stiles’ expression softened instantly at that. Like the question itself hurt a little to hear.

His hand loosened in Derek’s shirt just enough to slide upward, fingertips brushing lightly against the side of Derek’s neck.

“I’ve wanted you to kiss me for a while now,” he admitted. “I was just waiting for you to finish school.”

That did it. That cracked something open clean down the middle of Derek’s chest.

Before he could overthink himself into another month-long exile, Derek leaned forward and kissed him.

And immediately understood why people wrote songs about this kind of thing.

Stiles made a soft startled sound against his mouth before kissing him back hard enough to steal the remaining oxygen from Derek’s lungs. Warm and immediate and so eager.

Jesus Christ.

Derek actually felt dizzy from it.

The scrape of his beard against his skin was perfect. Rough enough to make heat spark low in his stomach, soft enough that Derek wanted more immediately. He’d spent months imagining it and somehow still underestimated the reality of Stiles kissing him like he’d been waiting for this too.

Derek’s grip tightened instinctively at Stiles’ waist, pulling him closer with a quiet desperate sound he’d absolutely deny making later.

Stiles seemed to like it, though.

One of his hands slid into Derek’s hair while the other stayed planted against his chest like he needed to feel Derek there. Real. Kissing him back with the kind of enthusiasm Derek was absolutely not emotionally prepared to showcase.

It was messy almost immediately.

The kind where Derek kept chasing the next kiss before the previous one properly ended. Where Stiles laughed breathlessly into Derek’s mouth when Derek accidentally knocked their noses together trying to get closer.

When they finally pulled apart, Derek’s breathing was wrecked.

Stiles looked barely better —lips pink, eyes dark and bright all at once.

Derek stared at him helplessly. “Okay.”

Stiles blinked. “Okay?”

“The beard thing,” Derek clarified faintly. “I get it now.”

Stiles laughed so suddenly he nearly folded into Derek completely.

And Derek, still dizzy and flushed and painfully fond, kissed him again before Stiles could recover enough to tease him properly.

✨