Sterek Stories - A Collection - I

D stands for... - Part 1

Stiles woke up with a furnace plastered to his back. Werewolves ran hotter than humans; Alpha or Beta, it didn't make a difference as far as he knew, not for this particular werewolf. He stretched, making his body long between the confines of Derek's arm and chest. It was a good place to be, Stiles knew from ample experience. He never stayed very long, yet he was always happy to come back. Sex with Derek was surprisingly uncomplicated; they did what felt good and Derek was uncharacteristicly communicative when it came to telling Stiles what he wanted and how he wanted it. He was attentive to his partner, though he was also demanding. Stiles chalked it up to the remnants of being an Alpha; even though Derek no longer was the Alpha to his own pack, was now a somewhat reluctant and most often absent Beta in Scott's pack, he still carried traces of that Alpha behaviour in him.
After a night with Derek Stiles always felt recharged. Even when he was sporting a hangover, although this time he'd been completely sober when Derek called him. It happened, every once in a while. Derek called Stiles, or Stiles called Derek. Or they simply ran into each other. They just needed to both be single and D. D stood for Down and / or Dumped with Derek. In Stiles' case it just meant Drunk. Or Dumb, as Lydia put it. Just as long as they both were single, that was the main rule. Derek was very adamant about that. Well, what he didn't know couldn't hurt him. That evening of the anniversary of the Hale fire, almost a year back, Stiles hadn't been single. Technically. He hadn't even been that drunk either. But Derek needed someone who took him apart, made him forget who he was and then put him back together. And Stiles was that someone. He'd called it off with the girl he was dating - only three dates in yet - the next day. It wasn't going anywhere anyway.

Stiles rolled to his back, his side pushing down against Derek's front. "Watch the goods," Derek rumbled sleepily, adjusting his hips so Stiles wouldn't squish his softer parts.

"I'm gonna make breakfast. You want some?"

Derek didn't open his eyes. "Think there's some eggs."

"I'll find something." Stiles patted the arm that was over his chest so Derek would lift it to let him get out of bed. He felt around on the floor for something to wear and came up with his own boxer shorts and a T-shirt of Derek. That would do.

He looked back at the bed, where Derek was hogging the blankets now Stiles had gotten up. They'd been sharing a pillow and Stiles could see why: behind Derek was the other pillow, riddled with deep claw marks. Stiles smiled smugly. He loved it when the claws came out. It meant that Derek wasn't holding back; or, even better: couldn't hold back.
"You'll need a new pillow. Again," he told the snoozing werewolf, unable to hide the amusement in his tone.

"Shut up, Stiles," Derek grumbled, his face mostly hidden in the still intact pillow.

Stiles reached out a hand to ruffle through Derek's hair. The werewolf pretended to hate that, so Stiles loved to do it. "Not so grumpy, big guy. You know I love it when the wolf comes out to play." Not that he would, you know, get down to it with Derek in full wolf mode, Stiles did have some lines he didn't want to cross. But still, the fangs and claws were hot, especially because it meant he got Derek to lose control. He considered it a big feat, getting Derek to let go of the control that was second nature to him. "Now, how do you want your eggs?"

***

Stiles worked as an archivist and researcher for the Supernatural Research Department of the FBI. Halfway during his training as a field officer they'd discovered his talents lay with research rather than in the field. Needless to say, his father was very pleased to hear that. Especially when he heard that Stiles would be stationed in Beacon City, an easy 25 miles away from his old hometown. Fresh of the academy, Stiles wasn't happy to be placed in the dull city. If Beacon Hills was a sleepy town with only the supernatural to shake things up a bit, then Beacon City was even worse, because Stiles had not found a trace of the supernatural there. All things supernatural seemed to take a detour around Beacon City, at least, it seemed that way until he crossed paths with a werewolf from his past. There, in front of the corner coffee shop Stiles always went to for caffeinated fuel, they'd stood awkwardly in front of each other, both not able to say anything other than "Hi". Until Stiles threw all reservations overboard and threw his arms around Derek's shoulders for a firm - and long overdue - hug. "Good to see you, man. When did you come back?"