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Gale is a human colored by a disdain for his humanity. He goes into detail multiple times about how his humanity is a dissatisfaction. He wants to go further into the Weave, to know divinity completely.
Mystra is the Weave. She is magic, full stop. This is explicitly stated.
But when Gale held her, kissed her, there was nothing there to touch. Skin more like marble in its flawlessness. Eyes more like crystal in their luminance. She always smelled of sharp rosewater, always tasted of mild sweetness. Never a hint of sweat, of saliva, of any of the unclear oils and bacterias that infest the mortal form.
Somehow, I can't imagine Mystra ever laid with him as a man. Why would she bring herself low, to get in a human's actual bed? What would even be the point, when an ocean of cosmic perfection lay above?
Did it disgust him, then, to travel so high, lay with the very form of Magic, only to return to his meager human body? To be the owner of skin that smelled of sweat, skin that had scars and wrinkles and marks, skin that aged?
When Mystra cast his aside for his folly, did he long for the divine from the confines of his humanity? Did he hate the needs and limits of his body, the various hungers that cried out to be sated, when all his mind craved was that glittering perfection?
Mystra loved Gale's magic. Mystra loved him as a tiny expression of her own self.
Gale is his mind, certainly. His mind is where the magic is. His mind is remarkable. His mind is worthy of love. But this human thing, this temporary human thing that is a body, is not him in the same way. It's needy, and he wants so badly to escape from it into the divine.
And maybe that's what surprises him so much about being loved by a mortal. That someone would lay with him, Gale the man. Would bury their nose into his neck and breathe deeply the scent of him, would kiss the crows feet at his eyes and relish in the taste of his mouth.
Gale knows the touch of perfection, but the embrace of humanity has a deeper flavor, one that grounds him to the earth. One that makes him realize that flawless, perfect love is a distant thing, an inhumane thing.
the stupidest thing to come out of the internet is the idea that you have to censor any glimpse of your feet lest the feral hoards of foot fetishists come and jerk off to it. i hate to break it to you but there’s not a single part of the human body that isn’t a fetish and if you genuinely can’t compartmentalise that fact you should not be posting picture of yourself online lol!
tags/warnings: thigh riding, eden is kinda mean but in a hot way, submissive reader, no genitals explicitly mentioned for reader, idk what else to put here i luv eden
Cozy nights like these were your favorites. The rain was pouring down outside, but in the safety of Eden’s cabin, fireplace crackling, snuggled up with your man, everything felt perfect. You weren’t sure what time it was, but you knew it was getting late.
Deciding you could be even comfier, you pulled Eden’s hand away from his book to settle into his lap right between his legs, replacing the hand as soon as you were in the perfect position. You sighed happily and Eden chuckled in response, the rumble vibrating against your body.
“Satisfied?” He said, petting your hair. You nodded and buried your face in his chest. His heartbeat was quick, but steady. You breathed in, absorbing the smell of the soap you had made for him, the fresh outdoor scent that always lingered on him, and something else that you could only describe as Eden’s smell. This blend of scents always comforted you and reminded you that you would always be safe with the hunter by your side.
Tonight, however, the smell was serving an additional purpose. You had been away from Eden for a few days, working hard at school and getting money to pay Bailey, so you hadn’t spent the night at the cabin for a minute. This also meant that you were getting rather…pent up. And Eden’s scent triggered memories in you, memories of passionate nights you had spent together, making love all around the cabin until the early hours of the morning.
You gazed up at the man, his face soft under the firelight, back focused on his book. That’s when your hands started wandering, touching every inch of skin you could reach, as you nuzzled your nose against his neck. Eden chuckled again, and this time, the rumble went straight to your core.
“Someone’s feeling frisky, mm?” He smiled and you looked up at him with wide eyes. But maddeningly, he went right back to his book.
“Hey,” you grumbled, nudging his hand. But Eden refused to look away from his book.
“Let me finish this chapter,” he said, which was just about the most annoying thing he could have replied with. With someone hot and young literally in his lap, how could he say no? Then he glanced up and made eye contact with you, and you noticed a glint in his eye. “Of course…you could always entertain yourself instead.”
And with one large hand, Eden pushed you so you were straddling his meaty thigh instead. You looked up and down in wonder, and Eden shrugged. “Knock yourself out.”
Was he being serious? You opened your mouth to complain, but closed it again when you realized Eden wasn’t even looking at you as he turned a page. You were, however, incredibly horny. And when you tried to shift positions, you inadvertently grinded yourself against Eden’s thigh, and let out a soft whimper in the process.
“Please,” you murmured, but if Eden was listening, he showed no signs of it. So you sighed and placed your hands on Eden’s shoulders. For his part, he wrapped one arm around your waist to help you balance, still focusing on his book.
You started slowly humping Eden’s thigh, rubbing back and forth. And admittedly, you were so pent up and horny, that it felt really good. You could feel a wet patch forming on your pants as your arousal grew. “F-fuck,” you moaned. How pathetic was this? Literally riding Eden’s thigh because he decided his story was more important than fucking his partner.
Yes, it certainly was pathetic. But the existing dynamic between you and Eden - he the “man” of the household, and you his subservient “spouse” - meant that debasing yourself in this way was actually a little hot, though you were loath to admit it. The sort of traditional gender role thing you had, where you were forced to submit to him…okay, yeah, it was pretty hot.
“Eden,” you whined, as you now were full-on riding Eden’s thick, beefy thigh. “Please. I want you so bad.”
He made a noncommittal noise as he turned another page. It was equally infuriating and arousing.
“Please, Eden,” your fingers were digging into his shoulders as you grinded down on his leg, trying to hit the perfect angle that would make you squeal. One more adjustment and - there it was. Your breath caught in your throat as you kept hitting that sweet spot. “I need you to fuck me. I wanna feel your fat cock inside of me, instead of your thigh.”
He still didn’t answer, though you were pretty sure the tips of his ears were turning pink.
You needed to do something more. You pressed your face to Eden’s neck, tracing his jugular with your tongue. You thought you heard a sharp intake of breath from him. But he was as stoic as ever. You moved your lips up to nibble on his ear, and then back down to his throat, pressing soft, wet kisses along the way, hips moving as fast as ever.
“Eden, I need you. I’ve been so lonely without you. Won’t you let me feel good?” You were practically begging at this point. Still no response, but his arm around your waist felt tighter, and the hand holding the book was trembling slightly. And when you looked down, there was a fat bulge in his pants.
“Oh, god,” you moaned at just the sight of his clothed erection. “I need you inside of me. Please, Eden! Please.”
You were rocking back and forth on his thigh, and you were so close to orgasm. You were too far gone to feel shame at this point. “Eden, p-please,” you sobbed. “I-I’m gonna cum.”
A low growl came from Eden’s throat, and while he didn’t set his book down, he looked you directly in the eye. “Cum for me,” he said simply.
You let go, crying out as you came, rather pathetically, in your pants, soaking your crotch and leaking onto Eden’s thigh. Neatly, Eden set his book down and steadied your waist with his big hands, bringing your still-thrusting hips to a stop.
“T-that was mean,” you muttered, looking away. “I missed you so bad and that’s how you treat me when I come back…”
Eden snorted and brushed away a tendril of hair from your face. His eyes sparkled in the light and he gazed at you adoringly. “Well, maybe next time, you won’t leave me for so long.”
You blushed. He had you there. “Okay…” you mumbled shyly.
Suddenly, you were flipped onto your back, Eden looming above you like a predator.
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Content: Established relationship, Morning Sex, Top Muriel (positioning, not necessarily control dynamics) gender neutral reader, gender neutral genitalia descriptors, Muriel penetrates Reader, Confident Muriel (kinda lol)
Summary: Waking up after a night of pleasure, Muriel meditates on what it means for you and him to belong to each other. At the very least it means he can hold you just a little bit longer in the mornings, right?
[A/N]:I have quite the arsenal of smutfics I'm slowly writing in the background but for now, I found this one that was pretty much finished at this point! Surprising that i hadn't even posted it yet!
The word echoed in his mind, making him sigh into the warmth of your body pressed against him. You had said it, you had pleaded it. That you were his, that you belonged to him. The thought of it clung to his mind like a leech, draining him of all other coherent thoughts.
His. You were his.
You had cried it out when you came on his tongue, around his fingers. You sobbed it out when he pushed in, and you drooled the word all over the bed sheets when he filled you. It drove him mad each time. His, you were his, you gave yourself up to him. Sure, he was yours, that was a given, but you? His? You were the loveliest gift he's ever received. He wanted—he had—to give you something as thanks.
There's a little bit of shuffling around the bed, a gaping coldness crawling up his once warm arms and chest. He reaches out, thinking that maybe you simply rolled over in your sleep, but only the echo of your warmth against the bed sheets greets him. Discomfort laced up his arms and into his chest, slicing through his previous calm. Plenty enough to make him open his eyes. Make him brush aside the warm welcoming darkness and face the glaring sunlight.
That bitter twinge of cold left as quickly as it came. Evaporated in the warmth of you, gracing him with such a sight so lovely that he had never really considered before. Still naked, you presented to him your back bare and soft in all it's glory. Golden beams of light streak against your skin like a spotlight of sorts, letting him trail his eyes down the various marks that litter your skin all the way down to your ass against the bed, barely hidden by the blankets. Soft marks mar your softer skin, reminding him of how tightly he had held you, and how he had bit you oh-so sweetly the night before. "Evidence of your love" you called it once, when he was less sure, when he was far less selfish.
But you were his. Wasn't he allowed to admire you? Allowed to mark you?
Wasn't he allowed to have you?
You stood from the bed. Stood, left. Oh the audacity of it all. How could you leave when he hadn't given you his gift yet? As quickly as he could, he reached out, careful not to accidentally shove you away, and slipped his arm around your waist pressing his hand against your stomach. He gave you a moment, let you gasp in shock at being grabbed, let you realize it was him, let you realize he was holding you and not intent on letting you go.
And then, when you began to giggle, about to comment on something coy, he pulled you—yanked you—right back into bed. Back to his awaiting embrace and his very, very hard cock.
Gods, the temptation to just take you right then and there makes his stomach flip. He doesn't of course. There are other things to do first. It didn’t matter how much he wanted you—how much he longed for you. Muriel still had some decency.
“Morning,” he hummed, a little rough around his tired voice.
Held so tight to him, Muriel felt it. The shiver that raked you from head to toe, made your rear quiver ever so slightly against his too hard cock. You reply in a strained gasping voice. So soft, so sweet, so hungry.
"Good Morning."
And a good morning indeed. You, warm in his arms, squirming against him, the soft sunlight pouring through the window, your soft rear pressed right against him. His fingers begin their trek up and down your hips torn between the many places he could dig his fingers in to hold you. Did he want to go for your chest? Oh so gently rub at your nipples like you so teasingly did to him last night? Did he want to refresh the marks at your hips or squeeze the flesh of your thighs? Did he want to spread you open and just— no. Not yet. This was your gift, wasn't it? Perhaps you should decide these things...
"Do you need something?" He asks, as if everything's just fine and he isn't currently seconds away from combusting. "Are you hungry? Do you want some water?" If you really did need something... He didn't want to be stealing you away from your own health.
Softly, still a little strained, you chuckle. Giggle actually. The sound alone makes him smile. Grin from ear to ear, burry his face against the warmth of your back and neck.
"Just you, I suppose."
Him? You need him? You have him. He was yours as much as you were his.
And fuck, how did that rile him up more than you being his? He was yours and you were his? That felt so... right. So safe. As if, between the both of you, these two truths held an entire universe. And he supposed there was. He was yours, you were his. Six words felt so feeble in the expanse of your love.
"But you have me," he taunts, just a little. "I'm right here. What do you want?"
And if only to drive you more insane, he kisses your shoulders and your back, biting fresh marks against your spine. Though his arms are wrapped securely around you, his hands find purchase on your hips and he squeezes in that possessive way that could almost leave bruises behind, in the way that makes you instantly melt against his skin.
The sounds you make, soft whines and whimpers as he squeezes you only ever spur him to keep going. To give you more and make you even more pleased with the predicament he's trapped you in. His fingers digging into the flesh of your ass, spreading your cheeks a little as he does. It taunts him just as cruelly as he does to you, letting him push his cock between your lovely cheeks, but he holds back form all but shoving himself inside of you. After all, he has yet to hear a reply. One hand pulls back a little to settle on your hip where he pinches you, just a little. Just enough to pull your focus back in.
You yelp, and for a moment he isn’t really sure if you even remember his comment at this point. “Please, please Muri. Want your cock. Please. Wanna be spread wide…please? Wanna make you feel good.” And he moans at that, burying his face in your neck once more.
Didn’t you know? You always made him feel good. Even while rutting into your rear you made him feel so good. Everywhere you touched would suddenly turn into a place of pleasure for him. Dragging your fingers along the inside of his wrist, raking your nails against the back of his thighs, tracing patterns on his muscles, spattering kisses along his spine… anywhere—everywhere—you touched, was surrendered to you. He surrendered to you. He bowed at your feet as you laid claim in kisses, soft trailing patterns, and little dents raked in by your teeth or your nails.
And so rather than reply, Muriel abides by your wishes. Flipping you over, so he can see all your pretty expressions, he leans back enough to grab his cock, he stroking himself as he lines up to your drippy core. He hasn't even pushed in yet when a fat white glob of cum drips from your fluttering hole and Muriel all but trembles at the sight. Cum from last night, still dripping down your legs… oh you were far too kind to him.
Selfishly—hungrily—he wants to keep you stuffed like that. Filled to the brim and then some. Have you leaking out hours later— days later. He wants you to feel how much he loves you. How obsessed he is with being with you. Because, you surely can't know can you? Not to it's fullest extent.
His words hardly scratch the surface of his love, all those hours he always wants to spend with you, all of the sweet domestic activities like bathing and cooking, the smiles and hugs and kisses, none of that could truly tell you how much he loved you.
Then again, he supposed fucking you to an inch of your life couldn't exactly explain it in all it's grandness either.
It was just one aspect of love, just like all the others. But it was a part that he reveled in. A physical way for him to profess how much he loved you, all without needing to talk too much, or if he did, he wouldn't need to worry too much about what he was going to say.
All he needed to do was push, and be honest.
A sputtered gasp tore past his lips as he slipped back into your warm wet heat. Amazing. You felt amazing. He felt like he was flying, like nothing in the universe could ever be better, he felt on the verge of collapsing, like he was a single step away from falling off a cliff.
You felt so good….
you felt so good.
How else could he say it? You clenched around him nice and tight, moaning and whimpering his name…
It was safety. It was connection.
It was peace.
It was torture.
He's just pushed in and already, he felt as if he were on the verge of cumming. Gods, could he be any more selfish? This was why he had learned to pleasure you first and foremost. Get you to cum on his fingers, cum in his mouth, on his tongue. He could hardly ever survive a minute inside of you.
And yet, longing and starved, faced with the look of pure unbridled love on your face, a dollop of drool dripping from your lips only adding to your beauty—the sight of you, already fucked stupid, had him thrusting away, chasing his release like you were little else than a toy to help him cum. As if he weren't hyper-focused on your expression—on your eyes. Tracking when they'd swivel up into your head, when your lashes would flutter helplessly shut as you braced yourself for that pleasure.
He wanted to give you so much pleasure… give back everything you were giving him.
So focused on your eyes, on your face, on your moans—so focused on your expression, he ignored your hands up until it was too late, until they were tangled in his hair yanking him down to your lips for a life-ending kiss.
It was as if the world had flickered suddenly from day to night, like everything good and soft, and warm and kind poured down from your lips and into his lungs, leaving him to both burst and bloom under the gentle caress of your lips.
He would never get used to kissing you, especially during this. It always felt like his whole world was being flipped, pleasure being granted a new indescribable depth. His dick inside of you and his lips against yours. It was the purest form of pleasure imaginable. Only made so much stronger by the emotions attached to it. The emotions you elicited in him.
He loved you.
He loved you so, so much. You were everything soft and kind and beautiful and tender, and when he was tender too—sensitive, hurt and raw—you'd simply trace your fingers over his seams, and kiss him. You'd kiss him stupid, kiss him until all the world fell away, and Muriel knew nothing else but tender softness, found between your lips. You’d kiss him until he was healed through, or until he was okay with the soft spots.
His hips slowed, and he leaned further into your kiss, chasing a completely different high.
He'd kiss you forever if he could. Kiss you so hard and thoroughly that you'd become addicted to him, just as much as he was to you. He’d kiss you until you could feel just how much he loved you, how much he wanted you here, with him. He’d kiss you forever
Your hips shift a little under him twin moans bursting past the edges of your kiss as you’re both drawn back to that other hunger that consumes you.
And yet Muriel can’t bear to leave your lips.
He whines like a child when you pull away to try and calm your breathing and whines again, even louder as your hips grind back onto him.
“Please…please… wanna… gonna….” You're panting out the words, chest heaving as you stare up at him with those lovely lust-blown eyes.
Gods you look divine. Swollen, kiss bitten lips glossed over with drool, your face pleasantly warm from all the exertion. And that unchangeable look of pure love.
Whatever you wanted. If he could give it to you he would.
And this? This? This he could give to you.
It’s your gift after all.
And yet, because he’s selfish, he cups your cheek with his hand and leads you back to take another kiss.
Slowly, he resumes thrusting into you.
It’s so much better and yet so much worse than before, getting the taste of your lips and hearing those deep and guttural moans pressed against his tongue like a treat, feeling you squeeze down on him tighter somehow, fluttering wildly when he hits that sweet spot deep within you. One of your hands falls from its hold on his hair, dropping instead to clutch his back, dig your nails into his skin. Hold him closer, closer, closer. Close enough for him to melt into you and never let go.
He has to lean back. As much as it pains him to tear himself from you he has to lean back. It's only a moment and yet the cold air seems so stark against his warmed skin. In any other case he could have called it relief. Now? It’s heartbreaking. But he needs to see you. Needs to watch as you fall apart. He doesn't pull back far enough that you'd need to release your claws from his skin—he wouldn't dare—but you still whine as if he had pulled out entirely, as if he had left you, abandoned you.
A deep thrust back into your welcoming hole. Oh he hoped you didn't believe that. Your nails dug deeper into his skin, a silent demand for him to return to his place pressed flush against you.
He cradles a hand to your cheek, hoping it'd satiate you, hoping it would draw your attention back to him—keep your attention on him, so that he could see you, so that he could meet your eyes as you fell. And you did, you met his eyes, struggling to keep focus as his hips still rocked into you, but pressing him into the same predicament, as you wrapped a hand over his own, and guided it to your lips, kissing and licking at the palm of his hand.
Ahh, how cruel you were. He was supposed to be thanking you. Show off how he was yours just as much as you were his... But how was he supposed to do that when you were so.... So kind? So generous? So giving? So, so, so....Wonderful.
Then again, maybe this showed that he was yours too, how you could push him right off the edge with a mere kiss to his hand.
The sound that escapes him then is a strangled mess of whimpers and whining, like some sort of kicked puppy sobbing out in the rain. Only he wasn't exactly sad; suffering maybe, but he loved every second of it. Squeezing him for every drop he was worth, the tightness began to grow overwhelming as rope after rope of his sticky release filled you, and dribbled onto the bed, but even then he wouldn't stop thrusting. A part of him swelled in delighted pride at his determination to keep filling you with his cock—with his cum—but another part knew full well that he was just stuck on the pleasure at this point, unable to do anything but press himself into you because you felt so, so, so good around him, and he just couldn't get enough. He could never get enough...
His arms collapse from the crash of his release, and though he does his best not to crush you as he retakes his place against your skin, you welcome him eagerly, with your open arms, your face already pressing itself against his skin as soon as he was close enough.
Your breath comes in deep heaves, gasping gulps that Muriel finds himself copying as he tries to regain his sanity, his mind, his anything, from the mess of fluids on the bed. Maybe if he looked close enough he could find the patch of bed that absorbed the sanity he had been drooling out mere moments ago.
But to do that, he'd have to get up. To do that, his legs would have to work.
To do that, he'd have to pull away from you.
Even if he wasn't weak with pleasure, he doubted he'd be able to muster the strength for that.
From the little window of the hut, golden sunlight begins to pour into the room. The day already long since begun uncaring of any bodies that linger in bed. Eventually, hunger will follow the daylight, and he'll be spurred from bed, to prepare breakfast. And after that, there's work on the garden that needs to be done, and chopping some firewood won't hurt to ensure a healthy supply through the next cold night. There was a whole day waiting just outside the confines of your bed.
But the day could wait just a little longer.
And maybe you'd join him in the call for your chores, in the need to get things done, you could stand up beside him cuddle right up to his side, as you worked on your own chores by his side.
Or maybe, just maybe, with a longing hunger still lingering on your tongue, you'd pull him right back in.
PT II Accidental Fake Dating
(for context, it's summer. Stiles is 17, Derek's 19.) (Pt I here)
After his shower Stiles feels better, but hates there's still a twinge of hurt from the fight he had with Derek earlier. To think he really thought he'd started to be seen as something other than the weak human in the group... he was stupid to ever believe that.
As Stiles is in his room, ruffling through his drawers to find clothes there's a knock at the door.
"I'll be out in a minute dad, just getting dressed," he says as he pulls out some boxers and an oversized, long sleeved, beige shirt.
Oh shit... this is Derek's shirt. Blood free! He wonders if Derek will ever ask for this back... though, Stiles never did get his grey one back so, he guesses they're even.
"Put a hustle on it. Dinner's about done," His father says from the other side. "And.. there's something I need to talk to you about."
Before Stiles can ask what about, he hears him walking away and his dad's footsteps retreating down the stairs.
Confused at the tone of his dad's voice, Stiles hurries to get dressed throwing on Derek's shirt (his now) and grey plaid pajama pants.
He wonders what could have happened in the fifteen minutes that it took for him to shower for his dad to go from happy to be back to... sounding somewhat serious.
It'd been a surprise for Stiles coming home after the pack meeting to find his dad already back. Apparently the out-of-town trip ended earlier than his dad thought it would and was happy to be home, making a late frozen pizza dinner with his son.
Stiles thinks about the cheerful mood his dad had been in before Stiles went upstairs. What could have possibly happened in that time span?
Stiles reaches the last step and turns into the living room and sees--
"Derek?"
Oh that's what happened.
Stiles' eyes go wide seeing Derek Hale sitting at the kitchen table with a strained smile as his father stands next to Derek, in an intimidating pose.
"Ah, you know Derek Hale," his dad says with his arms crossed.
"Yes?" Stiles admits, because what else is he meant to say?
"You've never mentioned this to me."
Well, this is bad. Worse than Stiles ever could have thought possible. Why the hell was Derek even here? Wasn't he meant to be at his home?
"Haven't I?" Stiles says, aiming for nonchalance although he knows his dad is seeing right through it. "No I have. Like I've definitely said it before. Your memory ain't what it used to be, huh?
His father challenges him, "Really? You've mentioned knowing Derek before?"
Stiles nods, "Yeah. Like, yeah. You know 'hey dad, me and Scott are going to the game. Derek's gonna be there.' 'Derek was at... the shop' 'woah, saw Derek at the movies with Scotty' No, yeah, I've mentioned it before."
"Really? Hmm, must have missed you two becoming friends. Like how I'm missing why Mr. Hale would be here so late at night, walking in like he's familiar with our home because to my knowledge, Derek's never been here before. Or has he?"
Stiles thinks about what he could possibly say. Remember when you tried to arrest him for nearly murdering us in the school, well, I was sort of harboring him when he was a fugitive. So no dad, this isn't the first time he's been here.
Instead he lands on, "Scott's been over too."
His father isn't amused. "I'm not asking about Scott. I'm asking you if tonight is the first time Derek's been inside of this house."
"He's come over a few times."
"Has he? Why?"
"To watch... the game?"
"Which game?"
"The--" Stiles starts not knowing what he's going to say, "--basketball game. Really entertaining stuff."
"You hate basketball."
Right. Stiles does hate basketball. He somehow forgot about that...
"Well, widen my horizons and all that. Get more cultured. Might find I like basketball more than lacrosse one day, who knows?"
"Okay well, he's not over here to watch basketball tonight because it's the wrong season. So tell me exactly why he's here tonight."
"That is an excellent question. He's here because I-- lent him a book. Yeah, a book and ugh-- Derek!" Stiles says, clapping his hands and hoping to God he can end this horrible situation. "Looks like you forgot it, so you really should just head home and try again tomorrow."
Nobody moves. Of course, Stiles knew it would have been too easy had that worked.
Stiles looks at Derek, who hasn't said a word throughout but does look as uncomfortable as Stiles is. So at least he's not alone in that.
"It's funny, Derek told me it was a matter of money."
"Right... right," Stiles says, feeling stupid because he should have realized Derek tried to make up his own lie. "I owe you what-- ten bucks?"
"He said he owed you money."
Stiles again nods, because frankly, he doesn't know what else to do. God, this is awful.
"Well, now I'm just confused as to who owes what. So Derek, you're officially off the hook for paying me back. Ever. See, everything is clear and now there's really now reason for Derek to be here so he should just head home--"
"Stiles?"
"Yeah pops?"
"Sit. Now," his dad tells him and there's no room for arguing.
His father sits at the head of the table, pulling the chair out directly across from Derek and pointing for Stiles to sit.
Stiles does and avoids looking at Derek. If Derek didn't hate him before tonight, he definitely will now.
"Look," his dad starts, rubbing a hand down his face which Stiles knows as a sign that his dad is exhausted, "if I don't get a straight answer from you about why Mr. Hale is here, when he thought I was out of town, then you my dear son-- are grounded. For two months. Meaning your car keys are mine for two months. So tell me the truth, now."
Stiles tries to think of what to say. He's coming up with blanks on what to tell his dad.
His hands are fidgeting where they lay on the table in front of him, thinking what to say. He can't really tell his dad that it's because werewolves actually exist.
Stiles is weighing through the pros and cons of staying silent or trying to come up with a lie his father will never believe when Derek's voice interrupts his thoughts.
In a much kinder voice than Stiles has ever heard before, Derek says, "Let's just tell him the truth Stiles."
And then Derek is taking Stiles' hand into his own, holding it across the table. Stiles briefly wonders if he's starting hallucinating because--
Derek Hale is holding Stiles' hand.
He looks at Derek like he's crazy and it takes until Derek starts squeezing his hand really hard-- okay ouch that's hurting, ow-- for him to catch onto what Derek is trying to get Stiles to say.
Because what else is his dad going to believe at this point as to why anyone would be showing up to the house so late? Or why Stiles would never mention befriending someone?
"We're dating," Stiles eventually says and immediately Derek's grip eases. Huh, now the pain in Stiles hand is receding as well. Weird.
"You're dating?" His father asks and Stiles looks at him. His dad looks... conflicted. Stiles knows his dad knows Stiles could lie, but-- what would Derek have to gain from lying about dating the Sheriff's son?
"Yes, we are."
Stiles is nervous, so nervous that he sees the moment his dad's eyes go from hesitation, to anger because-- oh yeah, he believes it now.
"Stiles-- why the hell am I finding out about this now?"
Shit.
Before Stiles can respond, Derek speaks up.
"If I may speak... it was because I didn't want you to know."
Stiles looks at Derek. He cannot believe Derek is taking the fall for this. Even though it's fake, he can't believe Derek's willing to take the brunt of it.
"It's my fault. I didn't want to cause trouble since I know I've had some run ins with the law given everything with my sister's murder. Despite being exonerated, I didn't want to cause friction between you and your son. I thought if we introduced the idea slowly, maybe it would be better. I was wrong and I'm sorry and I'm sorry you're finding out this way."
Stiles is a bit gob smacked at how well thought out the lie is. It sounded so real. Derek should be an actor, Stiles thinks.
His father takes a deep breath. "I can understand the hesitation. What I can't understand is you coming over to my home when you thought I was gone."
Stiles is immediately embarrassed by the implication. And realizes he's still holding Derek's hand. And that Derek's thumb has been making soothing motions on the top of his hand.
He tries to focus on the first thing.
"Dad! We weren't--"
"Mr-- Sheriff Stilinski, I promise you I wouldn't have ever disrespected you or your home or... or your son like that. I only came over to apologize to Stiles after a fight we had earlier."
Oh, he hadn't thought about why Derek actually was here.
"We got into a fight earlier. I couldn't sleep and I came over to apologize because I didn't like that Stiles left upset. I swear I was never intending to stay longer than that and-- can I please have a moment alone with Stiles to apologize?"
Stiles can't believe how sincere Derek sounds. Was he really so upset over their fight?
"Sure", his dad says. "Stiles, if he's not down in ten minutes, I'm throwing you in a holding cell over the weekend"
"Yes sir."
--
Once safely in his bedroom, Stiles turns around to Derek. "I cannot believe my dad thinks we're dating now."
"It's all he was thinking before you even came downstairs. He wasn't going to believe anything else. No matter what lie you would have come up with, he would have assumed it was a lie to cover up us being together."
"This is bad."
"Tell me abut it-- your dad probably hates me now."
"That's what you're concerned about?"
"He thinks I came over here to sleep with you!"
"What-- no, he totally bought the apology thing. If he didn't, he would've threatened you with a gun or throwing you in jail, not me."
And yeah, the apology thing...
"Did you really come over here to say sorry?" Stiles asks, a bit unsure.
Derek looks at him and nods, "Yes. I... I was too angry before and I went over the line. I'm sorry and I didn't mean it, alright?"
Stiles nods, accepting the apology.
"And I'm sorry that I just got us into... this."
"Hey, it could have been worse."
"How could it have possibly been worse?"
"You could have been shirtless if you ran over here, which would have looked much worse."
Derek actually laughs at that, "I didn't even think of that."
"See! Could have been worse."
Then Derek's brow furrows, "Actually, speaking of shirts-- are you wearing mine?"
---
Sorry this is so long and a lot of dialogue! Hope y'all enjoy anyways: @sterekshipperforever @juliatwolf-sterekforever @blairkaramell @lemonhoarddragoness @queenofosm
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@kkobweek day 6: Uchiha clan! With some implied narusasu again hehe. They are supportive, in their own way! Kakashi-kun, you're basically already one of us!
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