Work Text:
They use the back door when they re-enter Stiles’ house because even though the Sheriff has the night shift at work so they don’t have to avoid him, the back door is right next to the washing machine and what’s the point of tracking blood through the house when they can confine it to one room? Stiles murmurs for Derek to get naked and it’s testament to how exhausted they both are that no jokes are made about it, instead they strip off in silence and Stiles starts the washer on a hot cycle. It should be finished by the time the Sheriff gets home in a few hours.
“I need coffee,” Stiles slurs, snagging fresh boxers off the pile and slipping them on. Derek would go naked. Neither of them care – Derek was brought up in a house where modesty was basically out the window because of constant shifting between forms and Stiles... Well, Stiles appreciates the view.
They shuffle through into the kitchen, Derek sitting with his head in his hands at the table while Stiles drifts around putting the kettle on and measuring coffee granules and putting Pop-Tarts in the toaster because he’s frigging earned it tonight. That witchy bitch didn’t go down easily; it took her practically being dismembered and chopped up to stop her casting at Isaac, whose dimples she’d taken a rather unhealthy interest in. Poor Isaac – constantly preyed on for being so darn adorable.
The sound of the toaster popping makes Stiles groan; it’s so loud in the silence that he flinches away before realising that this means his pure-sugar-energy-source is ready. He throws one at Derek, who catches it easily and starts lazily nibbling on the corner. Once the coffee is ready, Stiles, too, takes his seat at the table and slumps forward.
It’s cosy, kind of nice and safe after a night hunting witches in the woods. The dawn sunshine seeps through his mother’s yellow curtains, casting a diffused glow all around the kitchen. It reminds Stiles of camping: that early morning feeling, sunlight beating down on the canvas to wake him at dawn, the smell of foliage and dirt that’s hovering around them... Yeah, they really need to shower.
“Need to get clean,” he says through his last mouthful of Pop-Tart. He doesn’t care about full sentences, just about communicating the important bits and it works. Derek downs the rest of his coffee and stands up, holding a hand out for Stiles. They climb the stairs together and it’s like a mountain, seriously, Kilimanjaro would pale in comparison.
“Come on,” Derek whispers, pulling him into the bathroom by the hand. Oh yeah, Stiles can do stuff like shower with Derek now. Now that it's official. They step into the shower together and Derek pulls him close under then stream of hot water. It’s so comfortable, being held upright, warmed on all sides by water and solid, muscled werewolf. Stiles sighs and rests his head forwards until his nose is nuzzling into Derek’s shoulder and he can feel each breath the Alpha takes tickling against his ear. It feels safe. So safe after the oppressive darkness of the woods where every tiny shift of leaves was a sign of something that might kill him.
Derek reaches for the shampoo and starts to massage it into Stiles’ scalp, slow and sure in his movements and Stiles feels every thought dissipate from his head except holy shit that’s good and unnnnng. “Tip your head back.” He follows the orders willingly, feeling the suds sliding out of his hair and down his back, also acutely aware that his neck is being showcased marvellously and Derek kind of has a fixation with his neck. Sure enough, Derek lets out a tiny whine and leans forward to lick and suck his way up to Stiles’ mouth as the shampoo drains away in a swirl of slightly red bubbles.
Stiles gasps a little when Derek’s hands slide up his arms, coated with lemon flavoured shower gel that makes progress easy. Derek turns him around, pressing forward until Stiles has to steady himself with one hand on the wall. He glides his slick hands down Stiles’ back, thumbs digging into the boy’s spine until he moans with pleasure. Derek decides that Stiles should always be making filthy noises, his head lolling forwards, panting a little bit.
If he’s a little rough getting the blood of Stiles’ spine, who’s there to tell?
~~~
They’ve been kissing for a long time, now, tongues sliding together in long, languid strokes, their hands wandering and skimming over wet skin just for the sake of it, just to touch because they can do this now – they can take pleasure in their bodies because that’s what they’re supposed to do... Worship each other.
And if Stiles is honest with himself, he feels like he’s falling even more desperately in love with Derek. More amazingly, Derek feels the same. Stiles can see it in the way Derek looks at him like all his prayers have been answered. He can feel it in the way Derek cups his face, fingers feather light on his jaw and cheekbones as he strokes and adores every inch of him. He can hear it in the way Derek whispers his name between kisses and tell him he loves him, voice so full of relief because they may have taken a while getting together, but they’re sure as hell going to enjoy it now they’re here.
But for all Stiles babbles on about God alone knows what, he’s never had to put such strong emotions into words, he doesn’t know how to say it to make Derek believe it. So he shows him, instead, kisses him desperately but never rushes, caresses his skin quickly but thoroughly, slides their tongues together, hot and wet and deep because he has no idea how else to tell Derek and Derek needs to know.
So when Derek brings him off slowly and methodically, driving Stiles gradually insane with want... That’s unhurried too, because they can’t rush this.
When they fall into their fresh, clean bed and Derek whispers “I love you,” straight into Stiles’ ear so it sounds as much a promise as a declaration, Stiles kisses him again, pouring passion and love and need into it in the hope that Derek will understand.
Derek’s small smile as they pull back tells Stiles all he needs to know.
Derek understands, because Derek feels the same.