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Derek stares up at the ceiling trying his hardest not to reach out and touch the naked, lithe body tucked under his arm. He keeps both hands firmly beneath his head with his eyes on the exposed beams and pipes running the length of his roof.
A warm breath brushes against his left nipple as spindly fingers comb through his chest hair as the body snuggles closer to him.
Derek remembers everything.
He remembers running through the woods at the wistful, earthy smell of magic and happening upon her. She's tall, with violet eyes the color of irises, and blood red lips. The tips of her long, black hair kiss her breasts, and a silver streak cascades across her alabaster face.
She's pretty, and it throws him for a beat. He had always thought witches were old, miserable hags covered in warts, with scratchy voices and floated around on broomsticks. Growing up a werewolf has unfortunately never allowed him the benefit of shaking off the cosmetic stereotype he’s grown accustomed to it seems.
She is, however, hovered over a bubbling cauldron of foggy purple mist. She smiles at him as he snarls and tells her to “leave before I sink my teeth into your neck.”
She tells him that won’t be necessary; she's well on her way, having stirred up enough magic on Halloween night to last until sunrise. She looks pleased with herself, as though the mischief she's created is all she wanted; her mission complete.
And truth be told, she hasn’t really cause much damage. Just a few pranks: turning a few kids into the harmless costumes they're wearing, making the mystery dinner theater Scott and Kira are at into an actual Hitchcockian murder mystery. She gives all the deputies and the sheriff their twenty year old personalities, makes a few inanimate objects come to life, and a handful of cats and dogs are given the ability to speak. Teenage troublemakers are suddenly narcoleptic while the rest of Beacon Hills cuts loose, including the adults-only party at the Whittemore mansion, that has gone from boring, rich snobs drinking cocktails and wearing cat ears, to naughty, middle-aged swingers within minutes.
Derek decided to stay inside like he does every year, and patrol around the neighborhood once it had gotten dark, because there’s always something on Halloween in this town.
He realizes he's too late when Parrish, Chris Argent, and the Sheriff showed up at his door, grinning like idiots, wearing all black and evil clown masks. They're going to egg Eichen House then pick Deaton up so they can “crash the Whittemore party and Chris can do an upper decker in all their toilets.” They want Derek to come with them. Apparently, they've just gotten done crank calling Melissa then sending 100 pizzas to her house.
Derek is out the door and following the scent of magic into the preserve as fast as he can, where he finds the enchanting witch:
“It’s just a little harmless fun. It seems this cursed town needs it. You’re not doing a very good job of keeping things on the up and up, Alpha.”
“I’m not the Alpha,” Derek tells her.
“Oh, no? I can fix that. I can see you’d like to be.” Her eyes peer at him a little harder, like she’s reading something on him. “Again, it seems…”
Derek’s never lied to himself about wanting a do-over with most things in his life. Being Alpha is one. He doesn’t crave the power, but the chance to right his wrongs. The chance to have been better with Isaac, Erica, and Boyd. Even Jackson. Even Scott. But he doesn’t want it like this. He wants it earned, not given. Then it would truly be worth something.
“No. Just… Just turn everything back to normal and go.”
“No need. The spells wear off at sunrise. And there’s no damage being done. Just a little silliness.”
“How do I know that’s true?”
“Why would I lie,” she asks. And he can’t think of a single reason she would. With a wave of her hand the cauldron stops bellowing its alluring smoke. “You deserve a little fun, too, Mr. Wolf.”
“I’m good without it. Halloween’s for kids. And drunk twentysomethings.”
“You’re a twentysomething,” she says, lifting her dark cloak as she steps toward him.
“I’m a different kind of twentysomething.”
“Yes. I see that,” she says with both understanding and pity in her eyes. “You’re very lonely.”
“…You really should go,” he says, feeling uneasy, like a sudden weight has landed on his chest.
“You don’t have to be, Mr. Wolf.”
“Look, I don’t—”
He’s silenced by a waft of sparking mist thrown into his face, knocking him over! He blinks, eyes like sapphires, and she’s gone. Not a trace of her. Derek gets to his feet, ready to give chase, when he quickly forgets who, or what it is he’s supposed to be after. He can’t remember. He just… He just…
Stiles.
He’s suddenly hungry with the uncontrollable desire to see him. To find Stiles. To know he’s safe and unhurt and kiss away whatever does hurt if he is.
The burning ache in him grows wild throughout his whole body, screaming for the sight of the tawny-eyed boy and his long lashes.
His heartbeat. Derek needs to heart it. Derek needs to hear the rapid beat of it. He needs to put his hand over it and feel it pulse over his fingertips.
He’s running. Running like hell.
He’s on Main Street when he thinks shifting to his wolf might be better. He’s always faster as his wolf.
He’s in beta form, ready to turn, when he catches it on the crisp, night air. That scent. The one he’s been thinking about for years now. The one that’s pure sense memory. The one that clogs his nose and his thoughts before bed every night.
He stops, and his shifted eyes wander over the playful chaos that’s become the center of Beacon Hills.
“Derek!”
Stiles, dressed like Spiderman, his mask in his hand.
They rush to one another, meeting in the middle of the road.
“What happened,” Stiles asks, eyes wide and nervous.
“Where were you?! If felt like… It felt like something happened to you!”
“No. I’m here. I was at this stupid party with Malia and I left. I’m here now," Stiles tells him.
Derek’s mouth is on his, hard and desperate, hands gripping dark brown hair as his tongue breaches Stiles' lips.
Stiles is just as greedy, fisting Derek’s leather jacket and moaning like a man taken.
Behind Derek's eyes there’s quick flashes of claws ripping away red and blue lycra. His jacket was thrown somewhere into a corner but he couldn’t care less.
Stiles nearly tripped over his own shoes as they fumbled to the couch kissing. He landed on top of Derek, yanking off his belt. Derek bit at Stiles’ neck, leaving teeth marks and hickeys to be found in the morning.
Stiles was all long torso and hairy, long limbs of taut muscle from years of fighting off monsters with wolves, Derek admired. And his oral fixation happen to be worse than Derek’s. The werewolf nearly had to rip Stiles' mouth off his cock to keep from coming too quickly. Stiles whimpered about it until Derek threw him on the bed and rimmed him until he cried.
Derek’s not his first. Not his first time with a man or a werewolf for that matter. Derek lost those privileges 4 years ago. It made him angry, desperate, with the desire to bury himself deep within Stiles, and rid him of all traces of the others he’s gone to bed with.
Stiles was wordless but noisy nonetheless; of loud moans and bated breaths. His hands grabbed at the headboard for purchase as he felt the long, hard drag of Derek’s cock pound into him.
An ‘I love you’ slipped from Derek’s lips with nothing but purpose, and he felt freer than he’s been in a long, long time.
Stiles pulled him closer. They were hugging, holding one another as Derek continued to rock into him, steady and easy then, looking right into amber-colored eyes and kissing soft, pink lips the color of bubblegum.
“I love you, too,” Stiles said, and they both lost their breath coming together in a hot, sticky climax.
They slept for a bit and then woke in the dead of night to make love two more times before Derek’s eyes drew closed with Stiles’ head on his chest and cupped under his arm.
The bright morning sun beamed through the industrial windows of the loft, waking the werewolf, and stunning him to the feel of Stiles’ warm body against his.
Stiles stretches awake, groaning into Derek’s ribs and nearly punching him in the nose with his outstretched fist. He yawns big and wide against Derek’s side and the older man waits for the inevitable panic.
Stiles is known for his conniptions, and Derek is sure a witch casting a spell on them, getting them here, in bed, together, is one of those times hysterics would be called for.
He just wanted a few quiet moments to enjoy what could be...
Stiles’ fingers scratch affectionately at Derek’s beard, taking the werewolf by surprise.
“Morning, sourwolf,” he says sleepily.
What?
“Waffles or pancakes? I’m not eating none of that chalky, protein shake shit you have in your fridge.”
Derek sits up, looking down at the half-sleepy boy beside him, and the shy smile on his lips.
He’s perfect, Derek thinks. It’d be such a shame to ruin it, but he has to. He can’t have Stiles like this. He wouldn’t want him like this, doped up on magic and blanking on the effects of it from last night.
“Stiles, do you remember what happened last night?”
Stiles snorts. “How could I not?” He reaches up and runs his fingers through the hair at the nape of Derek’s neck, drawing him down to meet his waiting mouth in a chaste kiss.
This isn’t real. “I can’t have this,” he whispers.
“What?”
Derek pulls away. “…You don’t want me, Stiles.”
“Well, no, not right now. Right now I want breakfast. I can cook or we can go out—”
“There was a witch last night. She cast a spell on the whole town and… This is a spell, Stiles. She said it would only last until dawn, but I think it’s still… I don’t know. We’ll go talk to Deaton or something.”
Stiles is quiet. His eyes dart back and forth as he stares at Derek, at a loss for words, and confused about what exactly is going on.
“A spell. This,” he gestures between them, “is a spell?”
Derek nods slowly.
Stiles takes a shuttering breath and suddenly the air is tart, like fermented tea. His eyes turn to watery glass and Derek feels like vomiting.
He laughs. A wryly, broken sort of laugh. “I should have known. I really should have…” Stiles fumbles out of the bed, wrapping the bedsheet around his nakedness, looking around the floor for his scattered clothes.
“Stiles, I’m sorry.”
“What the hell do you have to be sorry about? Not your fault. Some asshole witch made you go to bed with me,” he says, slicing the tart, bitter smell from his scent into something earthy, and spicy like thyme.
Shame.
“You don’t have to be sorry. I’m sorry.” He stops grabbing at his clothes and looks directly at Derek. “I’m sorry that that witch did this to you. I’m sorry that she used our friendship and… I’m sorry I’m now added to the list of people who’ve used you in the worst way possible. I’m sorry I’m so…so fucking stupid,” he says low, fighting back tears.
“You didn’t do anything wrong, Stiles.”
“Doesn’t feel that way. She must’ve picked up on something from me and…exploited it.” He scoffs. “This goddamn town and its bullshit... Like an hour of peace or happiness is just too fucking much,” he grumbles. “I didn’t want this! I didn’t want it like this with us,” he snaps suddenly, sounding both exhausted and angry.
He slides on his underwear and Derek takes note of the tears staining his face. Derek comes off the bed and reaches out, grabbing Stiles’ arm as he tries to step back into his torn costume. “…What did you want?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“To me it does. What did you want, Stiles?”
Stiles has been posted in the corner since Malia dragged him through the door and handed him a red plastic cup of warm beer. His eyes has shifted and tracked all over the room half a dozen of times in the last hour. He’s pretty sure the couple dressed as Superman and Wonder Woman are 5 minutes from breaking up, and the guy dressed as Pinhead from Hellraiser has officially creeped out every girl here.
“Can someone tell that guy to get a clue?”
Stiles turns to a pretty woman cloaked in all black with an attractive grey streak running down her hair, and bright, red lipstick. She’s older than everyone else there, but just as alluring as the nineteen year old dressed as the sexy nurse. She’s wearing what looks like a Dollar Store witch’s cap, and holding an antique broom with a crooked handle in her hand.
“Well, that Marilyn Monroe girl has been sulking on the couch way before I got here I think, and she may be the only girl he hasn’t hit on yet,” he says.
They watch as Pinhead makes his way over toward Marilyn.
“Bet you a nickel she slaps him," the woman wagers.
“No. I think she’s a drink-throwing kind of girl,” Stiles muses.
They watch curiously as the man chats up the bored looking woman. His places his hand on her knee and she flicks it off. The man keeps at it, talking and inching closer to her. She’s given every signal she can to indicate she’s not interested, but he’s still being a pest. He touches her again, running his knuckles down her cheek like a weirdo, and she snaps, grabbing him by the balls! “I said don’t touch me, jerk,” she shouts over the song “Monster Mash,” then stomps away.
“That. Was. Fucking. Amazing,” Stiles marvels.
“It truly was,” the woman laughs. “About time this dull party got a little exciting.”
“Tell me about it. Stiles,” he says, extending his hand.
“Beatrix,” she replies, shaking his hand. “So, Stiles, why are you holding up this particular wall?”
“I didn’t really want to come here, but my ex dragged me out tonight.”
“Your ex?”
“We dated in high school, but we’re just friends now.”
“Ah, I see. Where would you rather be?”
“Come again?”
“Well, if you don’t want to be here, where would you rather be?”
He hesitates in his answer, catching himself before it falls from his mouth, but she grins at him as though she already knows the answer. Like she can see it right in front of her, clear as day.
“Home,” he lies though. “I just want to be in bed.” He doesn’t know why but he senses she knows he isn't telling the truth and is a little embarrassed of himself for doing so.
“Well, not me. I have every intention of cranking up the volume on this sleepy town.”
“’Sleepy’ is not the word I’d use to describe Beacon Hills.”
“No. Not tonight,” she smiles like she has a secret.
“Why? What happens tonight,” he asks.
“Tonight fantasies come alive.”
“You sound more like a Christmas angel than a spooky witch.”
She shrugs. “I said fantasies, not dreams. The rest is up to you,” she smiles at him with a wink. He can’t help but to smile back at her perceived silliness. “Enjoy your night, Stiles.”
“Hold on. You’re not really going to leave me here, hating this party all alone, are you?”
“You won’t be alone. For long,” she smiles secretively again.
He opens his mouth to ask her what exactly she means when he’s distracted by a woman dressed as a zombie throwing her punch into Pinhead’s face!
“Oh, my God! Did you see that,” he snickers.
But the woman, Beatrix, is gone.
He sighs, having lost what could have been his kindred spirit for the night and puts down his beer. It’s a shame, too. Beatrix seemed like fun. They could have commiserated together.
He should go find Malia and tell her he’s going home. He doesn’t see any reason he should stay. He grabs his mask off the fireplace mantle and finds Malia out back, flirting with a guy dressed like a vampire. “Hey, Malia, I think I’m going to go home.”
“What? We just got here.”
“I know. You stay. I really just want to watch scary movies all night and eat Halloween candy until I puke.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. Stay. Be safe.”
“Don’t worry, dude. I’ll look out for her,” says the vampire.
“Malia’s pretty good with looking out for herself, but you’re more than welcome to try and help her if shit gets weird,” Stiles smarts, making Malia smile. He pecks her cheek and says ‘goodnight’.
As he walks out the front door he passes by a guy in a werewolf costume who drunkenly screeches “HAPPY HALLOWEEN” to him through his mask.
“Jesus, dude. It’s just Halloween, not Christmas,” Stiles snaps, annoyed.
“Wishes come true on Halloween, too, bro,” the “werewolf” says.
“I think you mean nightmares, man,” Stiles says, jumping down the porch steps.
He wanders down the street weaving through screaming Trick-or-Treaters hopped up on sugar, and thinks about just how wrong Beatrix and the "werewolf" are. A lot happens in Beacon Hills, but fantasies, dreams, or good, harmless desire? Nope. Never. That’s for Dorothy and the Tin Man. The cesspool that is this town has never given back an ounce of what it’s taken from the people in it, and Stiles doesn’t expect that to change. Ever.
He’s halfway to his dad's house when a wild-looking man comes barreling out of the trees and onto Main Street!
Derek. Beta form shifted and panicked.
“Derek!”
The (real) werewolf turns around and spots him through the sea of rowdy, costumed children between them. They rush to one another, meeting in the middle of the road.
“What happened?!”
“Where were you?! If felt like… It felt like something happened to you!”
Derek was worried about him. He was scared for some reason.“No. I’m here. I was at this stupid party with Malia and I left. I’m here now.”
Derek’s mouth is on his, hard and desperate. Stiles tries to protest, to scream, to ask Derek what the hell he’s doing, but the werewolf seizes the opportunity to slide his tongue inside and take.
Stiles’ mask slips from his fingers and drops to the asphalt.
He gives in, just as needy and as wrecked, fisting Derek’s leather jacket and melding them together.
“Come home with me,” Derek says, out-of-breath and wrecked.
“This isn’t real,” Stiles says, but Derek isn’t listening. It’s not the answer he’s looking for, so Stiles says— “Yes,” nodding dumbly. “Yes.” Because Derek Hale taste far better than he’s ever imagined, and maybe Beatrix is right and now the rest is up to him.
It’s real. This is real. It has to be. He wants it to be. He needs it to be. So it must be...
Wet, whiskey-colored eyes hesitantly turn upward and meet his. “…I wanted you to be in love with me, and not because some witch thinks practical jokes on werewolves are funny. But like I said, it doesn’t matter.”
“Did you feel that way before last night?”
Stiles shakes his head deprecatingly. “I’ve felt that way since you decided to bring your ass back to Beacon Hills. And in case I didn’t make it clear to you 4 years ago, it really did suck that you bailed after Mexico in the first place.”
Derek could crumble. His knees could give out this very second and he could fall to the floor shaking and in tears, because Stiles wants him. Has wanted him. Spell be damned. She didn’t make them fall in love for a night. They’ve been in love. She just gave them a boost, a push. She gave them the start they needed.
“Waffles.”
It’s such a non-sequitar, even for a rambler like Stiles. “What?”
“Waffles," Derek repeats. "I want waffles. And I don’t want to leave the loft all day.” He grabs Stiles arms and pulls him back toward the bed.
“Wait. I don’t understand.”
Derek brings Stiles onto the bed and takes his underwear off.
“Wait. I don’t know what’s going on, Derek.”
Derek loves him. Loves. Him. Because Stiles wants to know, wants to make sure, Derek is thinking clearly, thinking for himself and not being used. He wants Derek to want him for all the right reasons, and not the ones conjured up by parlor magic. The werewolf runs his thumb gently along Stiles' bottom lip, gliding it down smoothly to the playful bruises on his neck where Derek etched his name with his fangs, claiming Stiles as forever his. “There was a witch. And there was a spell. But it’s over now. And I want you to make me waffles...when I'm done with you.”
“...So this is you? Really you,” Stiles voice shakes, terrified of the pending answer.
Derek nods. “And it’s really you.”
“You swear? Fucking swear to me, Derek.”
“I swear.”
Stiles breathes, finally. Letting out the hard, crippling breath he’s been holding since Derek pulled him back into bed. “Derek?”
“Hm," the werewolf hums with his lips at Stiles' chin.
“I fucking hate Halloween.”
Derek smiles against Stiles’ skin, knowing what he means. “Me, too.”