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Over the Threshold

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“This is the last time,” Stiles declares, just before he attacks Derek's mouth with his, the kiss fevered and desperate, his long fingers jabbing roughly into Derek’s abs as he tangles them in his shirt. He pulls him close and walks them away from the front door, and in his hurried clumsiness, Stiles’ nose smashes Derek’s glasses into his face, hard enough that they smudge against his eyelids. It should be annoying, but like everything else about Stiles that should be infuriating, Derek can only find it hopelessly endearing.

That’s the thing about love, he supposes, even a love he won't fully admit to himself, let alone to Stiles.

“You said that a week ago,” Derek bites back, twisting his fingers in Stiles’ hair. He kisses him again, equally hard to punctuate his not-so-playful teasing. Stiles has him pressed against the wall at the foot of the stairs, and Derek gets his hands around his hips, underneath his shirt and sweatervest, hands hungry for the touch of his skin. Derek spins them so Stiles is the one pinned, and his eyes fall to stare at his full, pink lips. “And the time before that too,” he adds, breathing hard.

It’s been four months since Stiles declared their casual, no-strings-attached relationship over, and tonight is the sixth time since then that he’s come back, asking for one more last time.

“I mean it this time,” Stiles says, and Derek wants to quip back, you said that last time too, but there’s a steely resolution in his voice that gives him pause, and a hard desperation in his eyes that tells Derek something’s different tonight. "I can't keep doing this to Trevor," he says, sounding resigned.

Derek stiffens at his name – the one Stiles left him for. (But that’s absurd, he thinks, how can someone you never really had leave you, especially when he keeps coming back?). He commands his features into well-practiced stoicism, the wrenching twist of regret in his gut so strong it nearly takes his breath away. Derek doesn't meet his eyes, focuses instead on pulling off Stiles’ tattered gray sweater, then roughly unbuttons and pushes off his shirt.

He had his chance with Stiles, the newest faculty member in the English department where Derek just earned tenure; he had captivated him from their very first meeting, despite his previous insistence on not getting involved with colleagues. Stiles had undone that rule, and their shamelessly unprofessional flirting had quickly turned into an almost-perfect six months of mind blowing sex and tentative friendship. Almost perfect, because Derek was still too scared of relationships and real emotion after the extended hell that was his marriage and lengthy divorce. And so he hesitated with Stiles, tried to play it safe by keeping him at arm’s length and insisting that he didn’t want more than sex. And then Stiles told him that he was at a place in his life where he was ready to settle down with someone, that he wanted a real relationship more than he wanted great sex. Tell him, he had screamed at himself, but the words caught in his throat, tangled up in his fears. And then the next thing he knew, Stiles was telling him that he was going to start dating Trevor, another professor in their department.

There were so many other times before that that Derek wanted to tell him how he felt. He had been planning on it, eventually. But he just needed more time. He was aching to tell Stiles how he had been enamored of him since the first time they met, at the reception after Stiles’ job talk when he interviewed for his professorship, utterly charmed by his vibrant, quick wit and blinding smile. He wanted to confess that he had fallen head over heels for him during their first kiss, in the coat room at a faculty party a month into the fall semester.

Derek wanted to tell Stiles that until he met him, he had been certain he’d never fall in love again. And then Stiles fell into his bed and into his heart, and Derek realized that he had never really been in love before, not like this, not this kind of love.

But every time he tried, the enormity of it choked away his words (as a prolific writer and scholar, he recognizes but does not appreciate the irony of this), and his inability to find the right way to tell Stiles also fed his fears of getting hurt. So he let himself be paralyzed by fears of what-ifs and what-had-beens and had only given Stiles his body, which was easy and cost him nothing. (Not just his body, he thinks, remembering all those times a late night hook up turned into cuddling and laughing into the early morning hours until they fell asleep wrapped up in each other, and those cozy afternoons in one another’s offices, grading papers and working on their various articles and book projects.

But that hadn’t been enough for Stiles, who of course had no clue about Derek’s inner turmoil, gifted as he is at hiding his feelings beneath his stern façade, even as he let his guard down for him, bit by bit (so he does smile, Stiles had smirked after that first kiss).

And so when Stiles told him that he wasn’t going to have sex with him anymore because he had started dating Trevor, Derek knew it was his own fault. He missed his chance and it served him right, losing him.

Stiles had stayed away for almost a month. A month of Derek avoiding eye contact in the coffee lounge and at committee meetings; a month of trying to distract himself with working out and obsessively working on his newest book, doing everything he could to ignore the urge to call or text him or rush down the hall to Stiles’ office, lock the door, and blow him under his desk like he had done so many times before.

But Derek never did and he didn’t need to, it turned out; before long Stiles came back to him, knocking on his front door unannounced near midnight three months ago, shame-faced and slightly drunk, drunk enough to admit that Trevor doesn’t top and that he was dying to get fucked. Derek had no illusions that it meant anything, knew full well that Stiles was going to stay in his new relationship, and he couldn’t even muster the strength to feel guilty about helping him cheat. He was too happy to have him in his arms again.

But now, Stiles is here again, kissing him with a new desperation like it really is the last time, like he really is actually going to put an end to their affair.

“Trevor asked me to move in with him,” Stiles explains, a controlled tightness to his tone, like he’s working hard to keep his voice neutral. “I’m going to say yes,” he goes on, not meeting Derek’s eyes. “So this has to stop. I can’t keep doing this to him."

They’re still pressed against each other at the foot of the stairs; Stiles is shirtless, and their hard cocks are slotted together through Stiles’ khakis and Derek’s sweats, but Derek can feel nothing but his heart shattering into a million Stiles-shaped pieces. He swallows hard, trying to retain his composure. “I thought you said he doesn’t know.”

“That doesn’t make it okay.”

“Dating four months and moving in together already.” Derek wants to bite his tongue as he says it, fists clenching in frustration, hating that he’s even talking about it, about him when he should just be telling his heart and his mouth to shut the hell up so he can make love to Stiles one last time.

“Yeah well, my landlord is selling my house and I have to be out soon, and Trevor offered, because he’s a good boyfriend, whereas I am a piece of shit boyfriend because I can’t stop fucking you.” As if to prove it, Stiles kisses him again, fierce and filthy, taking his hungry mouth away just long enough to get Derek’s tank top over his head and then licking back between his lips, fingers curling in his chest hair.

Derek steadies his emotions and tries to force himself back into teasing, seductive indifference, so much safer. “I though you wanted me to fuck you,” he whispers, biting at his bottom lip, already red and swollen from his beard, a heartbreakingly familiar sight that he’ll never see again after tonight. “Because Trevor,” he goes on, saying the name like it tastes foul, cringing internally at how immature he sounds, “doesn’t top. And you fucking love riding cock, don't you, Stiles,” he asks big hands cupping his ass and squeezing hard.

Stiles breathes hot into ear before biting the lobe. “Goddamn you, Derek,” he whines, a confusing thread of frantic anger woven into his frustrated tone as he presses his lithe body closer to his, hot skin to hot skin. Derek scoops him up easily, Stiles’ long legs wrapping around his waist, hands tracing up his chest and shoulders, up his neck to tangle in Derek’s unkempt, shaggy hair, pushing Derek’s glasses off his face, still kissing him.

He hauls him upstairs to his bedroom and throws him down on in the middle of his unmade bed. “Tell me what you want,” he orders, needing to hear him ask for it one last time. They switched pretty regularly during their not-relationship – getting fucked by Stiles had been a revelation – and it was always unbearably hot, how hungry to bottom Stiles would get, how resilient he was, perfect body taking Derek’s generous length and girth like he was made for it, the most gorgeous sounds of pleasure spilling from his panting mouth.

“I want you to fuck me,” Stiles mewls beautifully, arching up so Derek can slip his khakis and underwear off with an swift pull, freeing his hard cock that arches up towards the rough patch of dark hair low on his stomach that Derek likes to come across. Derek savors the sight of him, stretched out naked on his bed, eyes hooded and hungry as he watches him strip out of his sweat pants, not wearing underwear, his own cock hard and heavy, aching for the impossibly tight heat of Stiles’ perfection. Stiles' glittering eyes fall to his dick and he licks his lips, groaning, and Derek is overcome with affection and love and the need to touch him.

He crawls onto the bed and settles over him, knees between his spread thighs, letting their cocks rub together, both of them dribbling precome. He tongues into Stiles’ mouth before licking across his jaw, letting his beard further rough up his skin, kissing and sucking down his neck, not caring if he leaves marks. Stiles bucks and rolls under him as he licks down his flushed chest, tracing the familiar contours of his pecs and ribs, nuzzling into the dark hair of his armpit, breathing in deep, savoring the taste and smell of him, every sweep of his tongue a reminder of all the times before he touched him like this and all the times he'll never have again.

Eyes shut tight, Derek sucks hungry kisses down his stomach, letting his hair whisper across his skin, smiling when Stiles stutters and twitches underneath him. He teases his cock with his hands first, taking a moment to memorize the solid, warm weight of him in his palm before bending down to flit his tongue across the crown, finally looking up at him again, this time from under his lashes, meeting Stiles' gaze and trying not to swoon at how gorgeous he looks, cheeks red and mouth hanging open. “Fuck, Derek,” he huffs, hips snapping up, shoving his cockhead against his lips. “You're so beautiful.”

Derek keeps his eyes locked on his and starts to lick with more purpose, teasing his slit and circling his head until it’s shiny with spit and more bittersweet precome. When Stiles is panting and begging for more, he finally starts sucking him slowly, lips stretching wide and throat fluttering, taking him all the way down, beard tangling in the wild thatch of dark hair at the base of his cock. Derek swallows and moans around his hot mouthful of exquisite cock, feeling every twitch and shudder of Stiles falling apart, listening greedily to his litany of gasping curses. He worships his cock until Stiles is twisting his hands in the sheets, fucking up into his mouth, groans growing louder and more urgent. “Fuck, Derek, your fucking mouth,” he gasps, bucking uncontrollably. Derek doesn’t want him to come yet, knows just how far he can take him before he does; he works him right to the edge with increasingly fast and wet suction, bobbing up and down on his dick until he’s sure the back of his throat will be bruised.

He pulls off just in time, smiling into the sloppy string of saliva and precome that webs between his lips and Stiles’ flushed cock, grunting in pleasure when Stiles yanks on his hair in frustration. “Derek,” he whines pitifully, “please.”

“What do you want, Stiles,” he asks again, moving down to kiss along the inside of his pale, slender thigh.

“You,” he breathes, pupil-blown eyes dazed and drunk with arousal, watching Derek hungrily. “Want you.”

Derek’s chest aches, his heart seizing with how badly he wishes Stiles meant more than just his cock, but at least he can give him that, he tries to reason, a pitiful attempt to ignore the rising ache in his chest.

Derek rolls Stiles on to his stomach, pressing him down with a firm hand to his lower back when he tries to rise to all fours. “Just your knees,” he murmurs, lifting his narrow hips up so his gorgeous, slim ass is arched high off the bed, Stiles resting on his chest with his head turned to the side, arms stretched up to hold on to the headboard. Derek takes a long moment to just stare at him, memorizing the nimble, willowing curve of his back and how his beauty-marked skin shines with sweat. He runs a slow, reverent hand down his spine, listening for Stiles’ groans of pleasure that grow more needy when Derek cups his ass and spreads him wide, exposing his soft pink hole, lightly furred with dark hair, already twitching for him, making his cock throb.

He leans down to breathe softly over him, beard whispering across his supple skin, and Stiles arches his back and rolls his hips, mewling. Derek is aching to taste him, to lick into his tight velvet heat, to feel him clench and squeeze around his tongue, but he’s determined to make this last, to keep Stiles in his bed as long as he possibly can before he has to say goodbye for the last time. He ducks down lower to lick and suckle at his balls and tease more at his cock, eventually letting a spit-slick finger tease lightly across his rim until Stiles whimpers for more. Derek gives in and licks up, tongue flat and wide and wet across his hole. Derek licks him a few more times, lets heavy drops of spit fall from his lips and into his loosening hole before finally slipping in tongue inside of him as far as it will go, then slipping it out, and back in again. He alternates tongue-fucking him with greedy licks and nibbles on his rim, Stiles fucking back against his mouth, Derek’s name a shamble of broken syllables as he stutters and grunts.

Fuck, he’s extraordinary, shameless in his wantonness, trusting Derek so completely to give him what he craves. He wonders bitterly if Stiles is like this with him, if he’s so aggressively sensual and charged with insatiable lust like he is with Derek, and the thought stabs through his heart and makes him want to scream in frustration. He pushes the traitorous thought from his mind and refocuses his complete attention on Stiles, reminding himself that he needs to be completely, utterly present for every moment of this, because it’s all he has, all he’ll ever have.

He eats him out until Stiles is hovering on the edge again, then pulls back and slicks up his fingers with lube, prepping him for his cock while petting at his prostate, gaze raking all over his body to catch every wild, needy tremor, drinking in the way his pale skin stains with swathes of pretty red.

“Derek, please,” Stiles begs when he finally pulls his fingers out, satisfied that he’s loose enough. Stiles is resting on his elbows, panting, ass pert and demanding, hole shining and wet. Leaking, throbbing cock in hand, Derek moves closer and slots the front his thighs snugly against the back of Stiles’. He lets his dick fall heavily onto him and takes a long moment to admire how much he likes the look of his swollen, uncut cock, dark and insistent, resting on the supple swell of Stiles’ ass. Still gripping himself tightly, he runs his head down his cleft, teasing, circling his clasping rim, working more sticky fluid from his slit to drip into him.

He eases into him slowly, losing himself in the impossibly tight, soft heat that pulls him in and holds him close. Derek had wanted to fuck him on his knees like this, so he could watch himself disappear into him, but he’s so overwhelmed with love and the need to touch him, not just be in him, but to be with him, that instead he collapses on top of him with a shuddering, sorrowful rumble, wrapping his arms under his chest like he's holding on to him for dear life. Stiles makes a pleased, throaty noise and rocks his hips up, twisting his head back as far as he can to meet Derek’s mouth in a messy, uneven kiss. “Feel so good, Der,” he whispers. “You always feel so good.” His voice is quiet and low, like he’s overcome with feeling too, and Derek doesn’t know what it might mean but he wants him so badly he doesn’t care, lets himself believe that this is wrecking Stiles’ heart just as much as it is his.

Stiles turns his face back to the bed and Derek’s lips trail across his lightly-scruffy jaw, sucking on the bony hinge before licking down, pressing an open-mouthed kiss on the back of his neck and leaving his mouth there, steadily fucking into him with slow, demanding thrusts, wants to make sure Stiles remembers every moment of this too.

Soon the back of Stiles’ neck is wet with Derek’s spit and red from his beard and hungry mouth. The rolls of Derek's hips get more frantic, fucking him harder, faster, Stiles throwing a hand back to clutch at Derek’s ass, trying to bring him deeper. Stiles is rutting hard against the bed, and he comes with an explosive groan and clench of his ass that triggers Derek’s own own orgasm; body alight with electric pleasure, he pulls out just in time, spilling thick bursts of come across his ass.

His body goes limp, pressing Stiles further into the bed, echoes of the coiling of pleasure surging throbbing through him, and he holds on to him even tighter, curling around him, pinning him further to his bed. They stay like that for a long time, wordlessly breathing in sync, Derek trying to commit to memory the smell of Stiles’ lemony shampoo, the salty-sweet taste of his skin, the solid warmth of his back against his chest.

Derek eventually rolls of off him, sighing, sticky with come. He lies down next to him, and even though he wants to hold him longer, wants to hold him forever, he doesn't let let himself touch him anymore.

“I should go,” Stiles mumbles after awhile, listless.

“Is he expecting you,” Derek asks bitterly, unable to stop himself.

“Yes,” Stiles admits, his tone even more biting, sitting up and swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. Derek watches his back as he stands and searches for his underwear, a slightly anxious tension in his shoulders.

Derek rolls away into his side to stare out the window, unable to watch leave for the last time.


Three weeks go by in a fog, just going through the motions of his life, once again despondent over losing Stiles after never really having him. He tries desperately not to think about him, which means Stiles is all he thinks about.

Stiles, and all the things he should have said that night when he left for good. All of the things he should have said every night, every day, every moment he was lucky enough to be near him, instead of keeping him at arm’s length, too scared of his own past mistakes to see the future promise right in front of him.

Derek makes every effort to avoid him at work. At the beginning of the quarter, he set his office hours to deliberately coincide with Stiles’ to better ensure that he’s run into him, and now he changes them to Wednesday mornings, knowing firsthand that Stiles doesn’t come to campus on Wednesdays, and that he never gets out of bed before nine am anyways. He even bails out of a couple of committee meetings, and a guest lecture on diversity in comics that he knows Stiles helped organize. He’s terse and distracted during his undergraduate lectures, and completely zones out several times during his graduate seminar. Fortunately one can always rely on graduate students to keep talking when no one’s listening, so at least that’s not too noticeable.

He manages to avoid him, mostly. A couple times he catches a glimpse of khakis and unkempt hair ducking into the faculty lounge, always turning the other direction immediately. He doesn't know what he'll say if he has to talk to him, or god forbid, he happens to see him with him.

He does, unfortunately run into Trevor alone, late one morning after his grad seminar, the other professor waiting for him outside of his office. “Derek,” he says, crossing his arms and standing up straighter, but even so he can’t match Derek’s height. Derek looks him over, squeezing his keys in his fist, trying to control his jealousy. The man Stiles left him for is attractive enough, he supposes, a pale kind of handsome with watery blue eyes.

“Trevor,” he replies curtly, unlocking his office door. He doesn’t invite him in, but he follows him regardless, and Derek bristles even more. The nerve of this asshole, ambushing him like this. And for what possible reason? To gloat that he won because he’s not so emotionally damaged that he’s able to give Stiles the relationship he wants? Or maybe he's here to confront him, has somehow found out about their affair. Distantly, through his near-blinding haze of jealousy and frustration, Derek feels vaguely guilty for being the other man and knows he deserves whatever Trevor has in store for him.

“Look,” Trevor says, crossing his arms. “I don’t really want to be talking to you, especially about this.”

Derek tosses down his bag and remains standing, crossing his own arms, trying to figure how his strained tone. “About what?”

Trevor’s glare hardens, as if Derek is the one being obscure here, and he’s feeling more confused by the second. “About Stiles. He’s not responding to my texts and I’d like him to come pick up the rest of his stuff. I don’t want to have to bring it into the office. That won’t be dignified for any of us.”

“Pick up his stuff?”

“Yeah. He took most of what he had moved in after his freak out, but there’s still a couple boxes of books and some clothes. I’m tired of looking at them.”

“Freak out?” Derek sounds even more befuddled this time, and he’s sure his confusion is written all over his face. “Is Stiles okay?"

“How would I know?” Trevor snaps. But then he cocks his head, features shifting from irritated to intrigued. “He’s not living with you? I assumed he would be after the speech he gave.”

Derek gives up and falls to sit on the edge of his desk, hands up in something like surrender. “Trevor, I haven’t talked to Stiles in weeks. I was under the impression that he moved in with you.”

It’s his turn to look surprised now, but he still has his arms crossed severely. “He did,” he sighs. “Well, he almost did. Moved in half of his stuff and then freaked out, said he couldn’t go through it. Because he’s been cheating on me with you.”

“I’m sorry,” Derek says, quiet and slightly ashamed. He knows he doesn’t sound sincere, even though he is sorry that they hurt him. But he can’t bring himself to ever truly regret a single moment with Stiles, no matter the effects, and that’s what makes his love for him so utterly terrifying, he realizes.

“He’s not over you,” Trevor goes on, ignoring his admittedly pitiful apology. “I should have known, really,” he says, sighing again, finally relaxing a bit and shoving his hands in the pockets of his slacks. “I knew he was hooking up with you when I first asked him out – everyone in the department does, by the way, you two were hardly discreet – and I was honestly surprised when he said yes. And when I asked him about you, he said it had just been casual, that you weren’t the relationship type.”

Derek cringes at his clichéd excuse to Stiles parroted back to him. “I’m not,” he admits. “At least I wasn’t,” he mutters quietly, mostly to himself.

“I should have known better than to try and compete with you, Hale,” Trevor shrugs, resigned.

“Trevor, look, I really am sor –”

He cuts him off with a firm wave of his hand. “I don’t really want to do this. Just…get a hold of Stiles and tell him to come get his stuff, okay?”


Trevor hasn’t even closed the door behind him by the time Derek’s calling Stiles, anxiously pacing his office, knocking over a pile of books that need to be shelved, not caring, awash in a chaos of contradictory emotions. Utter relief and joy that Stiles is not with Trevor and that he might feel the same way Derek does. Abject terror that it’s too late, that he did too good a job of convincing Stiles that he didn’t want a relationship. After all, he realizes, that must be why Stiles didn’t come back to him after broke up with Trevor. That Derek so aggressively avoided him likely didn’t help, he thinks, grimacing in shame at how he practically ran from even the slightest hint of his presence.

Stiles doesn’t answer, and Derek is relieved, and not just because he realized by the third ring that he has no fucking idea what he’s going to say to him. This is conversation that should be had face to face.

But where the hell is Stiles? Derek knows the house he was renting has sold, so he couldn’t have gone back there after not moving in with Trevor. And he didn’t come to Derek’s like Trevor assumed, and shit, Stiles could have been homeless these past three weeks and it’s all Derek’s fault.

“Scott,” he mutters, rushing over to his computer, remembering Stiles’ best friend who he mentioned often but who Derek’s never actually met – Stiles never asked, and neither did he – and who’s a professor in the veterinary school. He quickly pulls up the vet school’s website and clicks on the faculty page, searching his memory for his last name. He comes up empty on that, but fortunately there’s only one Scott listed – Scott McCall – and Derek recognizes his photo from Stiles’ Instagram. He’s got twenty minutes until Scott’s listed office hours end, and the vet school is on the opposite side of campus. Derek scrambles down his office location and phone number just in case, and runs out the door.


Two and half hours later, Derek arrives in the town of Beacon Hills, pulling to a stop in front of the address Scott gave him, a small two-story house with a sheriff’s cruiser parked in the driveway next to Stiles’ old blue Jeep.

It took only a little convincing for Scott to tell him that Stiles has been living at his dad's house in his home town, a two hour drive from the university. When Derek explained the situation – saying, out loud for the very first time, that he loves Stiles – Scott gave him the address and a stern warning not to hurt Stiles that lost quite a bit of its attempted intimidation because Scott couldn’t stop smiling.

Derek thought the entire drive here about what he was going to say, rehearsed a hundred different ways to tell Stiles that he’s sorry for taking so long to tell him how he really feels and that if he’ll give him another chance, he’ll spend every day for the rest of his life making it up to him by loving him in every way he knows how.

Derek walks to the front door and rings the bell, praying that Stiles’ dad doesn’t answer. He’s not sure he could handle that right now.

Fortunately it’s Stiles who does, looking devastatingly handsome, as usual. His hair is slightly damp, like he just showered, and it’s dark and wild and getting long and Derek wants to bury his hands and his face in it forever. Stiles is wearing his usual khakis and a snug-fitting maroon shirt, and he’s so delectable Derek remembers quite vividly why it has always been so hard to think clearly around him; he’s so maddeningly, distractingly gorgeous. “Hey,” he manages to mutter, completely tongue-tied and overwhelmed, like the three weeks without seeing Stiles lowered his tolerance for the drug that is his beauty.

“Hi,” he smiles cautiously, like he’s been expecting him. “Scott told me you were on your way,” he explains, stepping back and gesturing for him to come in. “He uh, didn’t tell me why though. Just that you, and I quote, ‘sad-eyed’ him into telling you I was staying with my dad and that he gave you the address.”

Derek flushes hot at that, ducking his head while he steps in, trying not to be too obvious about looking around for an angry sheriff. “My dad’s not here,” Stiles assures him as he leads him to a large, comfortable living room cluttered with boxes. “He and Melissa are on a cruise in the Bahamas.” They stand awkwardly amongst the mess of boxes, all stolen glances and false starts, and Stiles launches into one his adorable nervous rambles. “I promised her I’d have my stuff in storage by the time they got back, but I just can’t seem to get motivated to move it all again,” he says, hand squeezing at the back of his neck. “Just too tired from the damn commute, I guess. I’m looking for place in Davis, but fuck, man, finding a decent place to rent in a university town is a real bitch.”

“Move in with me.” The words burst from Derek's mouth in a rush, surprising them both. He shouldn’t be surprised. It’s an idea that he kept coming back to with more and more certainty as he drove, and he was even going to suggest it, if it seemed like Stiles would give him a second chance. He just wasn’t planning on opening with it.

Stiles’ mouth is hanging open adorably, and it’s all Derek can do not to take the two steps that separate them and kiss the surprise from his lips. “Are you serious?”

“Yes,” Derek answers, completely sure, feeling his own Stiles-like rush of thought and feeling starting to rise, stepping closer to him. “I know it’s sudden, and it might be crazy, I don’t know, and I don't really care if it is. I love you, Stiles. I’ve been in love with you since the first time you kissed me. I'm love with your laugh, and your ridiculously smart and wild mind, and your tender heart that you hide behind sarcasm. I love you, Stiles," he repeats, reaching up cup his jaw, exhilarated by how good and right it feels to say it, finally. "I want to be with you, and I want to be yours, for as long as you’ll have me.”

Stiles’ look of surprise morphs in blinding smile of awe and adoration that Derek can only briefly appreciate because then Stiles is kissing him, throwing his arms around his neck and pressing his chest against his, fitting against him perfectly, just like he always has.


Their first real date is to the uHaul place to rent a truck, and Stiles jokes gleefully about how they’re cliché lesbians, and Derek loves the ridiculous man even more.

They stop for a late lunch on the way back, and even though it’s hardly the first time they’ve gone out to eat together, it still feels new and exciting, Derek’s stomach swooping and flipping and his heart pounding every time Stiles touches him, which is pretty much constantly. (“Because I can,” he explains, leaning in for a kiss. “And because I love you.”)

It takes them a while to load up Stiles’ things in the truck, their tendency to grab each other and make out feverishly slowing their progress considerably. They finish just after nightfall, and then Stiles leads Derek up to his childhood bedroom and gives him the most incredible blowjob of his life, smirking with pride and wide-eyed, hungry lust as Derek streaks his face with thick ribbons of come. Derek collapses in a blissed out heap across the narrow bed and licks his lips as he watches as Stiles straddle his thighs and stroke himself off, coming with a litany of loud grunts all over Derek’s abs.

“We could just sleep here tonight,” Derek murmurs, Stiles lying across his chest, practically purring as Derek lazily strokes his hair, because he can.

“No,” Stiles sighs happily, sitting up. “I’m ready to go home.”


Derek drives the uHaul, which is totally worth it to see the look of utter delight on Stiles’ face when he offers to let him drive the Camaro, saying they can come for the Jeep in a couple of days.

When they pull up to Derek’s house just after midnight, he helps Stiles out of the car and kisses him eagerly, feeling positively giddy, in awe of this moment, this beginning of their life together. They walk up front steps hand in hand, Derek letting go to unlock and open the door. Stiles goes to step in but Derek stops him, pulls him close and swings him up easily into a bridal carry, grinning at the yelp of surprise Stiles makes. “It’s tradition,” Derek explains, feeling bashful.

“Dude, this is for married couples,” Stiles laughs, kissing his cheek and nuzzling into his beard.

“This is for forever couples,” Derek declares, stepping over the threshold.