i want to cry can i just climb them all like the trees they are
i want to cry can i just climb them all like the trees they are
THIS IS THE STORY OF HOW I DIED
Tyler Hoechlin at the John Varvatos 11th Annual Stuart House Benefit
Plane is delayed, there are 6 babies, 4 toddlers, half of them are crying and I just want to take off so I can put in my headphones and read some sterek porn, is that too much to ask?
and very southern belle like (google lemon from hart of dixie and that’s basically it) and I ramble. A lot. So I’m sitting on the plane and I’m super nervous and the poor guy next to me, seriously, ‘cause he was polite and asked how I was and I just went off, telling him how this was the first time I’ve been on a plane by myself and that I’m slightly terrified and he doesn’t have to worry about me squeezing by him during the flight because I refuse to get up and pee and man, how do airplanes work anyway, magic? I mean obviously not really, because duh, but let’s be real here this shit is nerve wracking and what do you do for a living and I work with children and I’ve been up 16 hours already today and when I land my best friend is getting me in n out and I’m super excited but I’ll be more excited when the plane lands and on and on and on.
"No," is what he says, when Derek asks if it was just a joke. As if the weeks that Stiles just spent with his palms sweating, heart pounding and stomach churning in anticipation; a nervous wreck as he worked himself up to plant that first kiss on Derek were just for show. Apparently Derek had never noticed.
"I thought you were just being Stiles," he says, with that wide-eyed look he gets sometimes, as if he weren’t a werewolf, as if he didn’t have fangs and claws, speed and strength. As if he were the one walking around in naught but his vulnerable human flesh, instead of Stiles. But he steps forward, and he kisses Stiles back.
"No," is what Stiles snaps, with a roll of his eyes, "no I don’t want to have sex with you tonight Derek, with all the naked flesh and the sweat and the groaning and the multiple orgasms."
"Well okay then," Derek sneers, "we won’t have sex."
"I was being sarcastic!" Stiles yells.
"I know!" Derek yells back.
They have sex, and despite the arguing, and the insults they sling back and forth at each other before, after and during, it’s soft and sweet and slow, switching fucking each other multiple times as they roll around on Derek’s bed until they collapse, sated and unable to move in each other’s arms.
"No," is what Stiles says as he shakes his head back and forth.
"It’s time," Derek says, like he’s wise, like he’s knowledgeable, like he’s doing this for Stiles’ benefit, and not like he’s terrified, and reflexively pushing, pushing, trying desperately to push Stiles away for the third time.
"It’s not over," Stiles says, his voice flat. He hasn’t even bothered to stand up this time, and he sits on the old Stilinski sofa with his arms crossed over his chest.
"It’s better when we’re apart," Derek tries, valiantly.
Stiles doesn’t even dignify that one with a response, just a pointed look at Derek, then at the space on the couch next to him.
"Fuck," Derek says, and steps over to sit next to Stiles. After a minute he leans onto Stiles’ shoulder, and Stiles wraps his arms around him. After another few minutes, he buries his face in Stiles’ chest and they sit there like that for a long time.
"No," Stiles cries out as he arches his back and fists his hands in the sheets, "don’t stop please don’t stop," he sobs as tears slip down his cheeks.
"I should," Derek leans down to whisper in his ear, the smooth tone of his voice broken by the grunts of effort he gives as he continues to thrust inside of Stiles, "I should leave you just like this, begging and ruined."
Stiles’ mouth forms the word, ‘please’, but no sound emerges.
"I should take you apart just to watch you break," Derek groans as he comes, cock pulsing inside of him.
When Derek finally removes the cock ring from around the base of Stiles’ dick, all he has to do is wrap a fist around Stiles and say, “Come,” and Stiles orgasms so hard he blacks out from the intensity. When he comes back to, his skin is singing, his nerves and the blood in his veins are singing in pleasure, he swears, and every sensation comes back as bliss.
"No," Stiles absently says as he chews on a highlighter, E. E. Cummings swimming around on the page. After a minute of silence, he starts and the highlighter drops from his mouth. "Wait, what? What was the question?"
Derek is standing stiffly at the kitchen counter of Stiles and Scott’s little college apartment, looking out the window.
"I’m not hungry, that was the question right?" Stiles asks desperately as he scrambles off the couch, papers and textbooks capsizing in between seat cushions of the long suffering Stilinski couch (delightfully pawned off on Stiles and Scott by the Sheriff).
Stiles knows that wasn’t the question, it can’t have been, otherwise he wouldn’t be freaking out like this.
"It wasn’t a question," Derek grits out and refuses to look at him.
Stiles has to cross around the kitchen island and squeeze in between Derek and the sink, and he has to put both his hands around Derek’s face to draw his gaze to Stiles’.
"What?" Stiles whispers. "What was it?"
Derek huffs a frustrated sigh and says, “I just, I came in and saw you there, gnawing on that stupid highlighter with your hair all,” Derek breaks off and makes annoyed gesture at Stiles head, “and…” Derek stops again, frowns and shakes his head as much as Stiles’ grip will allow, and stubbornly glares at Stiles’ left ear.
"And what?" Stiles coaxes.
"And I said that I loved you, which…I don’t anymore, by the way."
Stiles strokes his thumbs over Derek’s cheekbones. “Oh yes you do,” Stiles grins, can’t stop the ‘hit over the head with happy’ grin that’s spreading across his face. “You totally still love me.”
Derek groans in defeat and drops his head down to Stiles’ shoulder.
"Shhh," Stiles’ pets through Derek’s hair. "Shhh it’s okay, we’re going to have sappy ‘I love you’ sex now."
"You don’t deserve sex," Derek mumbles grumpily into Stiles’ collarbone.
"I know," Stiles sighs exaggeratedly, "I’m a terrible boyfriend and I’m awful and so bad, no sex for me."
"Shut up," Derek says and lifts his head back up and then they’re kissing; a kiss that is familiar and comforting at the same time that it’s new and unexplored.
"I love you too," Stiles says between breaks for air, and shifts his hips deliberately against Derek’s.
"Right here in the kitchen?" Derek asks as mouths a slow, wet, hot line down Stiles’ neck.
"Oh yeah," Stiles sighs as he tilts his head to give Derek better access.
"But Scott eats in this kitchen," Derek says.
Stiles just grins and waggles his eyebrows.
"No," Stiles says, no room for argument in his tone.
"But Stiles," Derek says, like the complete and total asshole he is, "It’s blood orange."
Stiles glares at Derek a good long while before finally saying, “That couch is the fugliest couch I have ever seen in my life.”
"So you’re saying you’d like this in our living room?"
"Never," Stiles icily replies.
"We’ll take it," Derek turns and says to the associate nervously waiting off to the side.
"Over my dead body," Stiles flails in outrage.
It sits proudly, dead center in their living room. Stiles would have accidentally on purpose spilled something acidic on it two days after it was delivered, but he fell asleep on it before he could fully formulate that plan, and then napping on it just became habit and it would be too much effort to go and get rid of it now. It’s definitely not because it’s an insanely comfortable couch and Derek was right.
"No," Stiles says, when Derek asks the question that Stiles knows he’s been working up to for a long time. He says it gently, and he says it like he knows it means goodbye. It might, and it’s the worst that Stiles has felt; a terrible weighted adult feeling.
No, Stiles doesn’t want children. There’s too high a chance that any genetic offspring would inherit his Mother’s disease, and still too high a chance that he could develop it himself for adoption to be a viable option.
Stiles knows Derek wants a family, wants it like air, needs one like breathing. But Stiles…Stiles can’t give it to him.
All Stiles is capable of giving Derek is himself.
It hurts. Stiles gives Derek his space and the waiting hurts, and the emptiness and the uncertainty and the certainty. It all hurts.
Derek stays. Derek and Stiles are still a Derek and Stiles, because it turns out that just Stiles is enough for Derek.
"No," Stiles says in his dreams, in the throes of a nightmare, where guilt eats him whole.
"It’s okay," Derek whispers to him when he jerks awake, and strokes a sleepy hand through Stiles’ hair.
And it is, it is okay, because Derek’s there. Derek’s always there.
"No," Stiles sighs reluctantly even as he holds out his arms for the little furry bundle of werewolf joy. The kid burps up on him. "Please tell me our lives aren’t about to become a werebaby rom-com," Stiles groans, and Derek looks over at him, stricken, from where he was discussing feeding schedules with Deaton.
'Don't get too attached,' is what Stiles wants to say to Derek, but he can't, he just can't. He's the most terrified he's ever been in his entire life as he swallows hard and says, “He is…kinda cute.”
Stiles hasn’t seen that wide-eyed, vulnerable look on Derek’s face in a long time.
"Yes," Stiles says as he looks up from his book and smiles over to where Derek and Joey (4 years old now) are waiting, jackets on, "I’m ready."
Look at us go
Look at us go
summary: A figure crests the edge of the house. Stiles squints in the sparse light of the half-moon, and is shocked when he sees that it’s Derek.
“What are you doing?” Stiles asks quietly.
Derek finishes climbing up onto the roof in one graceful swoop,…