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There is a picture on Stiles’ desk. It’s nestled amongst a bunch of research papers and scattered notes, an old coffee cup with several pens without caps and his two-year-old apple laptop. The picture is set in one of those dark wooden distressed frames, the kind with the thrift-shop vintage feel to it although it was purchased at an over-priced online store, something that Stiles would never bother to buy himself or even care to look for.
It’s a photograph of Stiles with Derek, which Stiles would admit is probably bordering on incredibly embarrassing but it hadn’t been his idea – the photo or the frame – so he uses that as justification for having a photograph of him and his could-be-titled-as boyfriend sitting on his dresser. It's beneath his mirror, the one with the picture of his mom and dad tucked beneath the frame’s edge; and Scott and Stiles when they were five-years-old, the first week that they had met at school, all toothy grins and scrawny limbs.
Derek had been sitting out on the stoop of the front porch and it had been early summer and it had been one of those odd days where all of them had been out in the yard – Isaac and Boyd, and Scott with Allison and Lydia – and Stiles too, of course. Even Peter had been about, leaning against a tree with his arms folded, watching Boyd wrestle with Scott and smiling every so often when Scott missed his mark and Boyd tossed him to the ground.
And Stiles had wandered out of the house, shoes scuffing across the worn wooden slats as he settled behind Derek, bending down at the waist to slide his arms around the front of Derek’s chest, hands linking and dangling comfortably above his stomach.
Derek hadn’t pushed him away, or stiffened in response, probably having already scented Stiles and instead he had breathed easy, shoulders bent forward and curled his hand around Stiles’ wrist. There was a familiarity in the way they touched, quiet actions that seemed to have settled into their bones without conscious thought: Derek’s hand against Stiles’ neck when he bent around him to retrieve a magazine or a cup from the cupboard; the way Stiles liked to fit his shoulder blades against Derek’s when he was bored or tapping away at his phone and just wanted something (someone) to lean his weight into. They touched without thought, finding each other’s presence and swaying into that warmth, hips brushing or the back of their hands and sometimes Stiles breathed into Derek’s neck when he tried to read over his shoulder and sometimes Derek rested his head on Stiles’ folded legs when Stiles was caught up with research on the couch and Derek needed to rest, somewhere safe to close his eyes; Stiles had become that definition of safe; Derek had shifted into that curl of comfort that eased Stiles’ jittery nerves.
Lydia was the one who had noticed them, not with words but she had pulled out her phone and snapped a picture without their knowledge. A small cardboard box had arrived on Stiles’ doorstep some odd weeks later and Stiles had just stared down at the frame and photograph nestled amongst tissue paper, stared at it like was capable of sprouting legs if Stiles touched it.
Stiles had quailed a little when he caught Derek looking at it on the desk, had worried the corner of his bottom lip and made a small jerky movement forward with his chin, awkward and uncomfortable and scrambling for an explanation of some kind, of any kind because this was really rather ridiculous and he hadn’t meant for Derek to see it. But Derek was always coming over unannounced; Stiles hadn’t had the chance to hide it.
“It’s – Lydia took it.” Stiles explained, trying to read Derek’s thoughts by the firm angles of his back. “I can, you know- I can always put it away if it’s, weird. I’m not even into that kind of stuff but she gave it to me and I didn’t, well it seemed a waste to throw it away.”
Derek shook his head slowly, eyes eventually meeting Stiles’.
“It’s good.”
Lydia had captured the photo so that Derek had been faced in profile view, eyes safely protected from flashing in reaction and Stiles had been smiling, soft and quiet and content, because he had been happy.
-
It’s a one day travel left to Beacon Hills. They had set out later than usual and Derek cut the drive in half, stopped after five hours and settled into the parking lot of a cozy looking inn, white porch winding around the front like some cottage out of a Home and Gardens magazine, the kind Stiles’ mother used to leave lying around the house.
Derek had stopped at a pharmacy a few miles before they had entered the town, shutting off the car wordlessly and leaving Stiles to remain behind in the car in silent confusion, his mouth full of want and a quiet ache that pressed against his teeth and swelled heavily upon his tongue.
He had opened his mouth to say something when Derek returned minutes later, because his mouth felt too full and Stiles was starting to fear that all the things unsaid might tumble down the back of his throat and choke him and make it impossible for him to speak at all.
But Derek had simply pushed a small plastic tube into Stiles’ hand, started the car and stared ahead at the road with a creased forehead and furrowed brow.
“Scar cream?” Stiles had asked, mouth dry and throat itching as he swallowed down the stutter in his heartbeat.
The tiny print on the plastic case proclaimed flawless recovery of broken or marred skin and Stiles just stared at the words, as the letters bled together and blurred into a sea of black ink.
He applies it to the wound on his neck once they are checked into the hotel, after Stiles has locked himself in the bathroom to be alone, where Derek cannot see but he knows that Derek can smell the chemicals in his skin, even as he covers it with a white bandage, as if it could possibly hide the evidence. He never puts any of the cream on the bite mark at the back of his neck though, and he knows that Derek can scent that.
-
Stiles sets his watch on the dresser, the heavy metal clinking softly on the dull hardwood. The room is quiet, enveloped by a shallow darkness that seems to swell and recede around him. His wrists look pale blue in the light and he watches the way the shadows dance across his skin. He can feel Derek's gaze on him, from where he is standing by the bathroom door.
Stiles swallows.
“You can touch, if you want to.” He hears himself say, hopes that his voice does not sound as shaky as he feels. He meets Derek's gaze. “I want that too, you know. I want that and I don't want you to be scared that I don't anymore. Because I do. If you still want me.”
Derek’s eyes are dark beneath his brow, drawn down tight. His hands curl against the painted walls.
Stiles breathes through his mouth. He turns to face Derek fully now, doesn't allow his gaze to falter as he grips hem of his shirt and slowly drags it up the length of his torso, over his head and lets it fall to the floor. A muscle ticks in Derek's jaw, but he makes no move to shift closer.
Stiles can hear himself breathing, the drag of air that pulls through his lips and dries his mouth. His fingers shake as he works open the clasp of his belt buckle. There is the soft rasp of leather as it slides free, the clink of metal and the drag of the zipper as Stiles slides his jeans past his hips. The room is so silent his ears ring. And Derek is still staring at him, pinning Stiles to where he stands and Stiles’ skin feels unbearably hot against his palms as he slides off his boxers. He steps out of the crumpled heap of fabric, has to steady himself on the chair as he does so and then Derek is suddenly there, so close that he can feel the brush of his shirt against his chest.
Stiles shivers and Derek reaches out and curls his hands over the naked curve of Stiles waist, growling softly when the skin twitches in response.
Derek’s breath skates across his mouth and Stiles parts his lips so he can taste more of it, get drunk on the taste of Derek who is so close but still not close enough.
Derek presses his lips together; his face looks like he's trying to battle a maelstrom of want and Stiles really hopes that he gives in soon because he can barely keep himself from pushing himself into Derek's body. He can't stop staring at Derek's mouth.
“You don't smell like me,” Derek finally says and he sounds gutted. “You don't smell like me anymore and I want- Stiles, you don't smell like mine anymore.”
Stiles fists his hands into the collar of Derek's shirt, because he can't keep himself from swaying into Derek's grip. He wants so bad.
“Then do it, Derek. Please, I can't, I can't stand this anymore. I need you so bad, please. Why are you holding back?”
The force of Derek's kiss startles him, causes him to stumble backwards into the dresser, and he clutches at Derek's shirt frantically, fingers tangling in the fabric and pulling, trying his best to haul Derek closer now that he's got his mouth on him. Derek pushes his tongue into Stiles’ mouth, bites and licks his way inside and Stiles moans without even meaning to, but there's no way he can stop it now, not with Derek's thigh pushing between his legs, trapping his erection between their bodies and Stiles whines at the delicious hot friction of it.
“Derek your shirt - your skin-“
Derek isn't relinquishing his vice grip on Stiles’ body, that much is evident by the way he growls into Stiles’ mouth and bruises his fingers deeper into Stiles’ hips. He slides one hand around the small expanse of Stiles’ lower back and hikes him up against his body, crushing himself into Stiles like he can absorb him.
Stiles makes a frustrated angry sound and releases Derek’s shirt from his hands so he can yank it upwards. Derek doesn't even try to keep from scraping his teeth over Stiles’ jaw when he’s free from the garment, as if that small moment of separation has left him agitated and Stiles mutters a curse as he struggles with the button of Derek's jeans.
“Get these off,” he hisses and Derek knocks his hand away, shoves him down against the bed and presses his whole weight into Stiles.
“Need to taste you, all of you,” he tells Stiles roughly, sucking a wet bruise into Stiles’ neck and Stiles feels that all the way down his spine, skin too hot and tight and he is clenching in all the right places now because Derek has a hand down between them, tight slick pressure around his dick.
“Jesus Christ, Derek,” Stiles swears, his mouth open and wet with Derek's saliva, which shouldn’t be so hot but he can't help arching into Derek's huge warm hand and he says, “You're going to fuck me, right? Please Derek, tell me you're going to fuck me, I need-“
Derek bites into his throat fiercely. “Yes, I am going to fuck you, Stiles. God, can you stay still for just a moment? You feel so fucking good and I don’t want to hurt you, I don’t but-“
“Please,” Stiles whines, twisting up into the jerking rhythm of Derek’s hand because Derek is finally there, all around him, pressing into Stiles’ body and it’s hard to breathe, it’s as if all the pieces of Derek’s being have shifted into a vapor, filling up Stiles’ pores and he can’t stop pushing his lips against the wet heat of Derek’s mouth, the need rolling over his body like waves.
Stiles’ hands slam into the headboard above him, nails grating against the wood grain and Derek pushes Stiles’ legs apart, a little too much stretch and that hurts and makes Stiles’ twist up against the pressure digging into his thighs.
Derek shifts between his thighs, slides down the mattress while keeping his palm flat against Stiles’ clenching stomach muscles, pinning him to the center of the bed.
“Don’t move,” he growls and then his mouth is covering Stiles, wet burning suction as he takes Stiles deep into his throat and Stiles gives a strangled shout at that.
The room is too cold, or at least it feels that way now, skating over Stiles’ flushed, sweat slick skin as Stiles whimpers unseeingly up at the ceiling.
“Derek, please.” It’s all an incoherent mess in his brain now and he isn’t even sure what he is saying, a babbling string of words that spill from his gasping mouth. “Derek, Derek, just like that, god yes, ohplease, ohpleaseohplease-“
His hand reaches for Derek’s shoulder, fingers digging into the unyielding muscle, desperate for some kind of anchor because Stiles is coming apart, shaking helplessly as he comes in thick hot spurts down Derek’s gloriously tight throat.
He is still making soft needy whimpers when Derek pulls off him, his body trembling with the aftershocks, boneless and wonderfully sated amongst the sheets. Derek presses his body into Stiles’, skin against skin and that feels so good, that feels tangible and Derek’s heart is a steady pulse against his chest.
“You’re beautiful,” Derek tells him, mouth skimming over Stiles’, a gentle caress of skin as he takes in Stiles’ erratic little pants.
“You always say,” Stiles swallows, wills his lungs to take in oxygen because Derek is still hard in his pants, throbbing against Stiles’ thigh and his body still feels empty and twitchy, restless for something that Derek still has not given him. “the most wonderful shit.”
Derek huffs a laugh, licks across the bottom of Stiles’ mouth and Stiles just slings his arms over Derek’s shoulders and sucks his tongue into his mouth.
“C’mon Derek,” he whispers, rolling his hips up into Derek’s. “I’m good, I am, I can take it. Please, you don’t have to wait for me, honestly-“
But Derek says, “shh, shh” into his mouth and breathes into his lungs. Stiles cranes his neck forward and gently latches onto Derek’s jaw, teeth scraping against the rough stubble, all scratchy friction against his tongue and sending little electric pulses down his spine.
“Okay, Derek?” he asks and Derek replies, eventually, “Okay.”
Stiles’ hands push at Derek’s shoulders, because Derek’s body is still crushing into him and Stiles is trying to roll over onto his stomach for Derek. But Derek catches Stiles around the waist and steadies him, much to Stiles’ slight alarm, and gently eases him back beneath him, stomach flat against his own.
“It’ll hurt,” Derek murmurs, indicating with a nod of his chin to Stiles’ bandaged shoulder.
“It’s better now. I’ll be alright.”
Derek shakes his head, hands warm against Stiles’ shivery wet skin.
“Breathe for me, Stiles,” Derek whispers and Stiles hears the snap of a bottle cap and the slickening of lube against Derek’s skin.
Stiles feels his body shudder at the sound, that filthy wet slide of Derek coating his fingers and he lets his eyes flutter closed, waiting, body tensing slightly because it knows what’s about to come.
He clenches at the first press, the blunt tip of Derek’s finger pushing into the tight ring of muscle of his ass.
“Easy,” Derek murmurs, resting a hand over Stiles’ stomach, massaging out the twitching spasms with firm circular motions of his palm. “That’s it, that’s it Stiles, yes, you know how to do this.”
Stiles breathes out, his chest concaving with the release and it’s easier now, to lift his hips and allow Derek further entrance. His hisses between his teeth when Derek reaches the second knuckle, hot sparks of white hot-pleasure building in the muscles of his thighs, the cock-twitch response and then a second finger joins and Stiles gives a desperate whine at that.
“Too slow,” he says tightly, tasting saltwater in the back of his throat. “Too slow-“
Derek makes a punched out groan in the back of his throat and god, Stiles’ forgot how he could get off on that sound alone. His back arches, a sharp bow off the mattress and he feels the edge of Derek’s thumb sliding against the cleft of his ass, igniting nerves and Stiles all but keens when Derek angles his fingers right just.
“Derek.”
Fuck that sounds so wanton, so needy and shameless but Stiles doesn’t want this, he doesn’t want to be played with, his cock already straining and leaking against his stomach and he doesn’t want to come, not like this, not alone and without Derek inside him.
“C'mere,” Derek coaxes gently, pressing soft kisses against the curve of Stiles’ neck, pausing against the shuddering pulse point. He slides his fingers free and Stiles makes a begging sound at that, his muscles trying to clench on what is no longer there. Derek takes Stiles hands and guides them to his shoulders. “Grip,” he tells Stiles, who does, a little unsure and inhaling a bit nervously but trusting Derek still.
“Good,” Derek says gruffly, his brows drawn in concentration. He curls his hand around Stiles’ hips, lifting him towards him and leans back and Stiles’ eyes widen as Derek pulls him to this new position. Stiles’ knees settle on either side of Derek's hips, where Derek’s jeans are bunched around the tense muscles of his thighs, and Derek is holding his cock with one hand, guiding it between the cleft of Stiles’ ass.
He gasps, spine arching taut as he eases his weight down onto the thick head of Derek’s cock. It feels so much fuller this way, and it's almost too much, and his body cants up on instinct away from the intrusion.
“Derek,” he gasps.
“Shh,” Derek's mouth is warm against his ear. He soothes a kiss against Stiles’ brow, damp with perspiration. “Breathe, Stiles, you can do this. Breathe for me.”
Which Stiles does, and that becomes a lot easier, his body remembering the familiar stretch and burn, his insides feeling tangled and disarranged but good, everything about Derek is so good. He breathes out again, because it helped the first time and he is slowly trying to relax again.
“No, wait-“ Stiles cries out suddenly, remembering, fingers gripping tightly into Derek’s arms and Derek freezes immediately.
“Stiles?” his voice tight with concern and the obvious struggle for control.
Stiles closes his eyes, breathes in deep, concentrates on that, breathing in and out, because he knows how difficult this is for Derek but he needs this, needs this moment now, before it’s torn away.
“I need you to know something,” Stiles says, grateful for the steadiness of his voice. He opens his eyes and his face is so close to Derek’s, and that’s good, it makes him feel safe, this close intimacy and feeling Derek’s breath dampening the shape of his mouth. “I love you,” he says, heart tightening in his chest at the words, now that he’s finally said them out loud. Derek’s eyes widen slightly and Stiles can feel the way he tenses beneath him. “Please, just, you don’t have to say anything, that’s not why I’m saying it. I wanted to tell you before and I didn’t because I thought that we would have time, that we had all the time in the world and I nearly lost you instead. So I have to tell you now. Because if this all goes to hell tomorrow I need you to at least know. You deserve to know.”
For a moment Derek hesitates, and Stiles feels that cold rush of panic spread up his spine, the dread that builds at the back of his wrists, beneath his shoulders, the base of his skull. Because he is suddenly terrified that this has become too much for Derek, that Derek wasn’t ready to hear the words as much as Stiles had hoped that he was, selfishly, and Stiles pulls back.
“Derek, no.” he says a little desperately and this wasn’t how it was supposed to go, not now, not when Derek was finally touching him again, making Stiles feel right and whole. “Don’t run away, don’t you fucking-“
“It’s okay,” Derek tells him, hands tightening on Stiles’ hips, holding him still. “Just- it’s good, Stiles, it is. It’s very good.”
And Stiles breathes out, in shaky heady relief. Derek leans into him, very slowly, and Stiles watches the way Derek’s face changes, the subtle shift from something hard and distant into something tender. He presses his mouth softly against Stiles’, a barely-there pressure and Stiles holds his breath. He feels like he could ruin this and he’s terrified of doing just that.
“You don’t know what you do to me,” Derek says against his mouth and Stiles smiles in return because it’s enough, it is.
Derek gives a cautious rock of his hips again, his cock pushing deeper into Stiles and Stiles opens his mouth in a silent gasp, staring into Derek’s face and it’s simultaneously terrifying and perfect at the same time, because Derek is staring at Stiles with a naked open expression and that makes Stiles hurt inside his chest; because Derek looks like he would let Stiles break him if he asked.
There is a moment right before Stiles comes that he wonders how he ever managed to go so long without this, the glorious stretch opening him up with every heavy thrust of Derek pushing into his body, the broken sounds that Derek makes against Stiles’ throat whenever Stiles’ clenches around him just right.
His mouth is against Derek’s, not kissing but just hovering right above it and Derek is looking at Stiles in a way that makes Stiles feel fragile and torn open, as if Derek had just reached into his chest and curled his hand around Stiles’ heart, holding it tight and that makes all the breath stop in his throat, like a punch in the gut, the way water rushes into your lungs when you finally give in. But Derek has his arm wrapped around Stiles’ waist, keeping him firmly anchored against his chest; he isn’t going to let Stiles go under.
Stiles presses his hand against Derek’s cheek, thumb smearing away the tiny beads of sweat building around his damp hairline.
Stiles says “Derek,” a little desperately and Derek’s deep rhythmic thrusts break into something erratic and uncontrolled, forcing Stiles to grip onto Derek’s shoulder to keep from falling off of him.
“It’s okay,” Stiles says, voice too high and uneven, the pitch catching each time Derek pushes up into his body, making his spine tense ridged. “It’s okay, Derek, come inside me, I want you to.”
Derek makes a sound in the back of his throat that is utterly wrecked and more broken than Stiles has ever heard. Stiles covers Derek’s mouth with his own, swallowing all of those little trembling sounds that breaks into his mouth, keeping them safe, keeping them secret, as Derek fucks desperately into Stiles, hips rolling once, twice and then he is coming with a violent shudder, making Stiles feel full and warm.
Derek catches Stiles’ neck between his teeth, not hard enough to break the skin but it is right upon the mark that Daniel had left on Stiles’ skin and he whispers, tightly, “Mine” and it is just enough to make Stiles’ hips stutter as he stripes his come against the still spasming muscles of Derek’s stomach.
-
Stiles is breathing soft and easy, his chest rising and falling, rising and falling in quiet rhythm. Derek is breathing against the curve of his neck, his chest pressing against Stiles’ back as it matches each drag of air pulled into his lungs. They’re much too tangled together, legs and feet and jut of knees and Stiles thinks that his left arm may be caught somewhere beneath his ribs and Derek has Stiles gathered in his arms like he wants to physically mold their bodies together. It’s a little uncomfortable, Derek’s elbow is pressing a bit into the bruise mottled across Stiles’ right side, but Derek’s fingers are curled around his wrist, shielding the restraint marks that had broken into thin delicate skin; and Stiles is grateful for that, he is, and every so often Derek’s veins will swell black and thick as he draws out a little of the pain wrought in those swollen gouges.
Stiles has remained quiet, allowing Derek to do what he needs, because Stiles thinks that this may be as much as a healing process for Derek as it has been for him. But there is still something left unspoken, words trapped in Stiles’ mouth and heavy on his tongue and will just not go away, as much as he tells himself that it is not important. But he needs to know, he does.
"Will you tell me what happened?" Stiles asks quietly. "When I was unconscious. They did things to you. Will you tell me?"
Derek’s body stills, the soft caresses and gentle ministrations by his hands halting; he curls his right hand over Stiles’ elbow.
"It doesn't matter anymore, Stiles.” He says, voice almost too quiet for Stiles to hear. “It’s over.”
“I know,” says Stiles. “But - you saw what happened to me, you saw what they did. And you were able to,” he searches for words, "you were able to help me. I don't know what they did to you."
Derek shakes his head.
"They hurt you." Stiles says.
Derek's hand tightens around Stiles’ elbow.
"They can't hurt me, Stiles. I can heal, I have healed. I'm alright."
“That's not true, Derek.” Stiles says, “Just because you've been- because you've gone through this kind of thing so many times that it's become some sort of fucked up normalcy - it doesn't make it right, doesn't make it any less important.”
Derek sighs. He sounds tired and worn down, like this conversation is a physically tangible thing pressing down upon him.
“Stiles, it doesn't matter. Please.”
Stiles forces himself quiet, biting at his lip and feeling suddenly too twitchy in his skin and his voice breaks a little in his throat.
“What did they do to me?”
Tension snaps into Derek’s body and Stiles can feel the tremor build in his muscles, the clench in his teeth.
“Don’t, Stiles,” Derek grits out.
But Stiles has to push, because this is just one more thing that Derek has been trying to deal with on his own, and Stiles doesn’t want that. Derek shouldn’t have to deal with any of this on his own, not when he’s already been doing it for so long, not now that he has Stiles.
He lets out a shaky breath, tries to calm the nerves that shudder though his veins because Stiles knows that somewhere during that night, from when he had been thrown to the floor and awoke in that basement, that he had lost something, a chunk of time or memories that belonged to him but cannot remember. Because he had been too battered when he had regained consciousness, bruised in places that he had not been present for and his face – he would have remembered something that brutal done to his face.
“Please, Derek,” Stiles whispers, twists around in the embrace so that he can look at Derek. But he isn’t looking at Stiles, face turned away, mouth tight and brows drawn together in tight determination. “What happened?”
Derek shakes his head, one firm action and Stiles thinks, for a terrifying moment, that Derek is going to pull away from him.
But instead he says, “Don’t ask me that, Stiles, please.” And Derek never pleads, he doesn’t.
"Derek," he says, soft and quiet. "I don't want you to be alone."
Derek sets his eyes on Stiles, and the seriousness of his gaze makes Stiles feel as if Derek is looking through him, into him.
“I'm not alone.”