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Stiles has to hand it to Isaac—he looks a little like one of those baby angels in an Anne Geddes photo, but he can be freaking terrifying when he wants to be.
“What did you do to him,” Isaac snarls again, jostling the kid violently against the shelves. A crystal ball rolls off and shatters against the floor, and Stiles winces. Isaac won’t bother paying for it, probably, and Stiles needs all his extra cash for textbooks, so he just hopes it wasn’t actual crystal.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” the kid squeaks. “This isn’t even a real magic shop! There’s no such thing as magic!”
“There’s no such thing as werewolves either,” Isaac points out, tapping the kid’s name-tag with a single extended claw. “Right, Vinnie? And yet.”
“Just let me go, man! It was just supposed to be for practice, I never—”
“Ah.” Isaac lets him up and gives him a few condescending pats on the chest. “Now we’re getting somewhere. Sixty seconds or less: tell me why my Alpha texted me this morning and informed me that some teenaged hoodlum hit him with a half-baked hoodoo curse while he was innocently browsing your wolfsbane stock.”
Vinnie snorts. “Innocently.”
“The kid’s got a point,” Stiles says, shrugging. Isaac snarls at him too, because Isaac cannot take a joke.
“The point is,” Isaac continues through clenched teeth, “that you hit one of the most well-known alphas in California with a curse so dangerous that he’s quarantined himself from his pack. I haven’t heard anything from him since that text. So you’re going to tell me right now—what did you do to him?”
“Nothing dangerous, oh my god, man; I’m not even that powerful, hoodoo is just a hobby!” Vinnie drags his hands through his hair, swallowing hard when Isaac’s unbroken, subvocal growl starts to get louder. “Okay, so maybe the effects are augmented on werewolves, how was I supposed to know?”
“Start talking or Isaac will start pulling out your molars,” Stiles says cheerfully. (It’s not even a little bit true, but this kid is rubbing him the wrong way and besides, it’s not fair that the wolves get to be the only ones terrifying the witnesses.)
“Okay, okay!” Vinnie yelps, cupping his own jaw protectively. “I designed the curse myself; I was gonna use it on my Screenwriting professor, for giving me a C on my final. He’s a postmodernist snob—no respect for the classic genres, you know?”
Isaac arches an eyebrow. “And you threw it at Derek because…”
Vinnie coughs. “He… startled me. I dropped it on him.”
“Oh my god,” Stiles groans. “I told him he had to stop with that ‘melting out of the shadows’ fuckery in public places! It’s like he’s allergic to being normal.”
“It’ll wear off in a few days,” Vinnie insists, eyeing Isaac’s claws. “A week at the most, I promise. It won’t hurt him. It’s just a little… potentially embarrassing. Revealing.”
Stiles whirls on him so fast that he destroys another crystal ball. “Revealing. How so?”
Vinnie tells them.
*
Stiles tries calling Derek at least ten times after he finds out about the alleged effects of the curse. He can’t be blamed for his curiosity, he thinks; and anyway, he’s just concerned. Derek’s his Alpha, has been for almost five years now; it’s natural that Stiles would want to check on him. His motives are entirely beyond reproach.
“Stop calling me, Stiles,” Derek grunts at him when he finally picks up the phone a few days later.
“Can I come over?” Stiles says eagerly. “I made you those snickerdoodles!”
“I hadn’t heard his voice in days,” Derek says, seemingly to nobody. “Even soaked as it was in suspect intentions, it bombarded me with the same sweetness and seductive spice of those damned delicious cookies of his. It was a ploy, a trap—and I knew better than to get caught.”
“Oh my god, oh my god, it’s true,” Stiles breathes, and Derek makes a horrified sound and hangs up on him. Stiles is too awestruck to care.
Until the curse fades, Derek will be forced to narrate his own life. In exaggerated, film-noir levels of detail.
(And fuck yes, Stiles always knew that Derek secretly loved his cookies.)
*
That night, Stiles is pulling up outside Derek’s apartment building (because Derek never actually said no to a visit, after all) when something drops down onto the hood of his Jeep with a heart-attack-inducing thud.
“Ugh,” Stiles says as the thing punches through his windshield and grabs the front of his shirt—because he’s been dealing with this shit since he was sixteen years old, and it’s more annoying than terrifying at this point. “What. What do you want.”
“Where’s the Alpha,” says the unfamiliar werewolf, getting right in his face. Lank strands of his long, greasy hair are brushing Stiles’ neck, and he wrinkles his nose in revulsion. “Heard he’s not doing so hot.”
“Derek’s great. He’s dandy. Fit as a fiddle and ready for love!”
The beta furrows his eyebrow-ridges at him. “What?”
“It’s a song,” explains Derek—who’s suddenly appeared on the fire escape outside his second-floor window. “Gene Kelly and Donald O’Connor. Let go of him. Right now.”
“Word is you’ve been laid up, Hale. Not going outside, not looking after your territory, nothing. You’ve even stopped keeping track of your pets.” He reaches down and runs the back of his hand down Stiles’ cheek, and then presses two fingers gently against his mouth. “Little lamb, out all alone. Don’t you know there are wolves in these woods?”
“Oh for the love of god,” Stiles mutters from behind the fingers. He actually can’t tell which thing is making him more uncomfortable: the beta’s proximity, or his hugely embarrassing supervillain dramatics.
“The grimy son of a bitch was at a disadvantage,” Derek announces, leaping down from the fire escape and landing in a fancy crouch. “He thought I’d been hiding an injury, or an illness—a physical weakness." He rises to his feet and saunters over, slow and predatory. “He didn’t know that I was stronger than ever. He didn’t know that I’d be able to rip his arms out of their sockets without breaking a sweat.”
“Whaaaat the hell,” says the beta, and Stiles would agree except that he’s busy fighting back hysterical laughter.
“You’re so fucked,” Stiles says, knocking the beta’s hand away from his face.
“Stiles was right, as usual,” Derek says—and then he makes a pained face.“Oh god, I hate this so much. Why are you here, Stiles? I asked, I told you not to—”
“Come on, champ, just maim him a little bit for me and I’ll give you your cookies and leave,” Stiles says, because he feels massively guilty now. Forcing himself on Derek during this whole ordeal is an invasion; he gets that now. “I promise I won’t tell anyone you said they were ‘seductively sweet,’ or whatever. I’ll keep that awesomeness to myself.”
“He clearly had no idea,” Derek says, rolling his eyes at himself while he pulls the yelping beta away from Stiles’ car by the back of his neck. “He had all those brains and every piece of the jigsaw puzzle, and he still couldn’t shut up long enough to put the damn thing together.”
“I would really like to know what’s going on with you, because you’re freaking me out, man,” says the beta, and Derek groans in exasperation and breaks both his arms.
“Come sniffing after my power and my territory again, and you’ll really find out what it means to underestimate me.”
“That was overkill, but really fucking awesome,” Stiles says, stepping over the prone, whimpering beta to hand Derek his plate of cookies.
“I wondered if he knew what I’d do, to keep him safe,” Derek says, snatching the cookies and backing away with panicking eyes. “I could have made the beta submit; I could have sent him away terrified and unhurt. Earned himself some broken bones the minute he decided to put his hands all over—he—UUGH. Stiles. Go. Home.”
Derek vaults back up onto the fire escape without upending the cookie tray, which is without exaggeration one of the most impressive things he’s ever done. Stiles resolves to leave him alone—and also to ignore the flicker of warmth in his chest over Derek’s fierce protectiveness, because nope, he flat-out refuses to be the Lauren Bacall to Derek’s Humphrey Bogart.
(That night, Stiles has a black-and-white, dramatically-lit dream. Derek’s there, wearing a beige trenchcoat and a felt fedora; Stiles has on heels and vampy-red lipstick, and Derek is crowding him up against an old-fashioned writing-desk and murmuring angel-face in his ear. It’s the most confusing boner Stiles has ever woken up with.)
*
“Oh, watch out,” calls the Sheriff while Stiles is running up the stairs the next afternoon. “Derek’s in your room.”
“Ha, ha,” Stiles yells back, because his dad has been keeping the same running joke going ever since finding Derek hiding in Stiles’ closet a few years back. “Just for that, no iceburg lettuce in your salads. I’m getting you all kale.”
“Kale’s good for you,” Derek says. He’s sitting on Stiles’ bed, leafing through his thesaurus. “Power greens.”
“Aaaah, oh my god,” Stiles says, clutching his heart and falling back against the doorframe. “Why are you here?!”
“Your dad let me in,” Derek says, smirking a little as he tosses the book aside.
“Sooooooooo much kale,” Stiles mutters darkly, sliding down the wall to sit on the floor.
“He spilled in, same as always, all motion and long, skinny limbs like a spider on the edge of a water-glass,” Derek says, and Stiles moans from the depths of his soul.
“Go away if you’re going to describe me, please,” he says, gazing unhappily up at the ceiling. “I’m not really feeling up to having my oddities explained in vivid detail right now.”
“He melted to the floor and sprawled there, boneless, head thrown back to show me the pale, unmarked flesh of his throat.” Derek clears his own throat, and Stiles slowly lowers his head to look at him.
“Do you think you can manage to tell me why you’re here without accidentally painting a word-picture of my skinny ass? Because I will start blasting Alkaline Trio to drown you out, sensitive wolf-hearing be damned.”
“Beta with the broken arms,” Derek says, quickly. He’s got his hands in Stiles’ comforter, clenching like he can keep the curse at bay through the sheer tension in his body. “Tracked him back to his den. He’s got family, brothers. They were talking about coming after you. I’m here just in case.”
“Me?” Stiles reaches up and rubs at his neck where the beta touched it, digging in a bit with his fingers. “Why me?”
“I… I can’t…” Derek wrinkles up his face, like he’s holding back a sneeze, and then drops his head into his hands with a defeated sigh. “His fingers were like sin; I couldn’t focus.”
The narration is muffled, but audible enough. Stiles leans closer to hear it.
“He was a menace, my weakness, my own personal Helen of Troy, the enemy of my sanity. I was afraid—afraid of the things I’d do for him, the things I’d do to him, if he just blinked those huge ridiculous honey-gold eyes at me and asked for it, if he just let me… I’d strip him slow, take him… make him take me until I forgot what it felt like to not have him inside—”
“Holy fuck, Derek.” Stiles can’t move, paralyzed with shock and almost gasping with how much he wants. “Yes, please, absolutely yes, let’s—”
“I’ll stay in your yard; guard you ‘til morning,” Derek says, his voice raw and cut-open. “Please don’t follow me.”
“But—” Derek wrenches the window open and vaults through it, and Stiles is left reaching out to empty air.
*
“Look what I found on the porch,” Stiles dad says the next morning, dragging a timid-looking Derek into the kitchen.
“Just standing guard; rogue wolves in town,” Stiles explains, keeping his voice as cold as he can. “Leave him alone, Dad, he has to go home now.”
“Too bad, I invited him for breakfast,” says his dad, patting Derek on the shoulder.
“The sheriff was, in so many ways, the closest thing I had to a father,” Derek says, his eyes going wide and mortified. “I could feel his expectations, heavy and unwieldy and balanced precariously on my unworthy shoulders. I could only disappoint him, especially once he found out how badly I wanted to—”
“WHO WANTS PANCAKES,” Stiles yells, clattering some pans for good measure.
“I don’t need to know,” the sheriff says, putting his hands up. “I don’t want to know, and I think I’ll have breakfast at the diner instead. A long breakfast. Stiles, this isn’t life-or-death, is it?”
“Not unless you can die of humiliation and frustration,” Stiles says, sulkily flipping a pancake.
“Good, then the maple syrup is in the upper right cabinet. See you later, Derek.”
“He left as urgently as a guilty perp fleeing the scene of a crime,” Derek says helpfully as he goes. “The redness of his neck suggested that he actually did hear everything, despite Stiles’ clumsy attempts at distraction.”
“Don’t need to know!” Stiles’ dad yells firmly before slamming the front door.
“You don’t get any pancakes,” Stiles tells Derek once they’re alone.
“I don’t want pancakes.”
“Well, let’s just add that to the ever-increasing list of things you don’t want, then, shall we?” Stiles ruins the second pancake trying to flip it, and he lets out an inarticulate sound of rage and chops it into little gooey pieces on the griddle. “I don’t know what this curse is doing to your brain, but I thought you actually… I thought you meant—”
“I, Stiles, come on—”
“Well at least this ended up being exactly as embarrassing for me, right? Now you know I want you so bad I’ll beg for it. Devastatingly attractive, right?”
“Right,” says Derek, and then shakes his head drunkenly. “I mean.”
“Damn it!” Stiles throws himself backwards and clenches the edge of the counter to keep himself from throwing things. “Will you contain your stupid curse from giving me mixed messages for just three seconds please.”
“He couldn’t know how bad it was,” Derek says, surging in suddenly and pressing him against the counter. “He couldn’t know how deep it ran, how strong, how steady—this kid with his innocent eyes and his wicked mouth; a million excuses for everything, but not one good reason to love me back.”
“Oh, you are kidding me.” Stiles thwaps him hard on the shoulder. “Is that all you’re worried about? I’ve been in love with you since like, senior year of high school—that night you came to my lacrosse game and sassed Finstock for benching me.”
“What—really?” Derek puts his hand on Stiles chest—checking for a lie, Stiles realizes, rolling his eyes.
“Yes, really, oh my god. Just because I immediately jumped at the chance to fuck you stupid doesn’t mean I don’t actually care about you. You unbelievable asshole.”
“Now I’m getting mixed messages, I think,” Derek says, smiling at him.
“If I kiss you,” Stiles says, hooking his fingers into Derek’s belt, “will that keep you from doing your whole narration thing?”
“I think so.” Derek wraps his fingers around Stiles’ wrists, and then slides his palms over his arms and up to his shoulders. “I’ll probably just start talking as soon as you stop, though.”
“Who said anything about stopping,” Stiles says, pulling him in.
*
“He was like the moon, and I was the tide, surging and swelling with every pull —”
“I have to say,” Stiles pants, grinning and tightening his grip on Derek’s cock, “this is more fun that the most fun handjob I have ever imagined, and I’m really going to miss your corny voiceover imagery when it’s gone, dude.”
“This isn’t fair, you promised you’d keep kissing me,” Derek whines, and then hisses and arches his neck when Stiles leans down to mouth at his nipple.
“I lied, obviously.” Stiles moves his other hand from Derek’s hip down to play with his balls, and then presses behind them with one finger, gently. Derek heaves a deep, shaky sigh and melts into the mattress. “I do that sometimes. With my wicked mouth.”
“You’re never going to, aah, forget any of that, are you?”
“Definitely not the part about fucking you. Speaking of—”
“Please,” Derek groans, and Stiles has to take a moment to appreciate being here, to gaze at Derek’s face and run his hands over Derek’s body and adore Derek’s stupid awesome grumpy self, because he just—
“If he didn’t get the lube and get inside me soon, I was planning to rip up his bedsheets with my claws out of sheer spite,” Derek says, pushing Stiles off the bed.
“You’re amazing,” Stiles says, smiling dopily while he scrambles to the bathroom.
“He was such an idiot,” Derek narrates.
*
“Oh god.” Stiles thrusts in harder, one hand braced right over Derek’s tattoo and the other clutching his hip. “Oooohh, you’re so, this is… help me out, wordsmith, I’ve got nothing here.”
Derek opens his mouth obligingly. “Aaagh,” he says, and then slowly falls forward until his shoulders hit the mattress. “Can’t,” he moans, reaching down to jerk himself in desperate pulls. “Harder.”
“Holy shit, are you cured?” Stiles leans in, fits himself against the straining curve of Derek’s body and wraps an arm around his chest. “Did I fuck the curse out of you?”
“Don’t know,” Derek breathes. “Can’t think. Can’t… adjectives.”
“Mmph,” Stiles agrees passionately. Derek comes when Stiles bites his shoulder, trembling and gasping and not managing to produce a single coherent sentence.
Then Derek reaches for him and cups the back of his neck, silent and affectionate, and Stiles follows him.
*
“His skin was soft and smooth under my fingers, like a well-worn silk tie,” Derek says later when they’re lying on their stomachs, heads turned toward each other on the pillow.
“Guess my dick isn’t as magical as we hoped,” Stiles sighs, arching into Derek’s hand where it’s stroking slowly up and down his back. “Mm. More please.”
“He was going to be even more of a demanding little shit, now; I could tell.” Derek slides his hand up into Stiles’ hair and tugs a little. “I was frighteningly, overwhelmingly happy.”
“So was I,” Stiles says, yawning. “Now shhhhh. Nap time.”
“The late-morning light streamed through the window and kissed his eyelashes like a devoted lover,” Derek continues undeterred, and Stiles groans and hits him with a pillow.