#sterekreversebang2018

***

It’s easier than he expected to get Deaton to loan him the books he needs to start learning to channel his Spark. It seems the man was eager to share his knowledge for a change, and Stiles is too grateful to take the time to be suspicious.

The first thing he masters is creating protection spells. He begins with basic runes and imbues them with the intent to keep beings with ill will from being able to enter his house, and then from the homes of the rest of the pack. The next thing is the high school and the police station. The size of the buildings are a challenge, and he’s drained for hours after, but he feels the power of his magic snap into place and stretch around each place, spreading out over the brick and through the building, wrapping around the people inside, and it leaves a pleasant thrum under his skin. The satisfaction of actually doing something to keep people he cares about safe is intoxicating.

Soon, the runes become more complex. He designs new ones and pushes his will into them with a fierceness he didn’t know he possessed. He crafts a set of runes for Derek’s house that won’t allow anyone to enter that means Derek harm, that strengthens the walls and the foundation; makes it fireproof. Each line of each symbol that he draws--a full set of runes at each of the cardinal directions of Derek’s home--is full of Stiles’ intent. And his love.

That was something he has long been aware of, but since almost losing Derek weeks prior, it has cemented itself deep in his bones. It’s as much a part of him as his heartbeat, and since he’d began putting his Spark to use, he can feel the truth of his feelings for Derek in a palpable way, like he can feel his magic moving through him, he can feel his love pulsing in his veins.

More than that, he can feel it surge when he taps into his power. When he crafts spells to keep his pack safe, he feels his love wrap itself around the runes, feels it twine around his intent and fortify his belief. Loving Derek makes him stronger in a very literal way, and it’s enough to know that, unrequited though they may be, his feelings for the man are nonetheless keeping him safe. As long as his magic could hold Derek close, could offer some security--even if Derek didn’t know it was there--then it doesn’t matter that Stiles himself can’t hold him, can’t offer Derek a place to land and seek comfort. His magic, and his love, will be there where he cannot.

It’s difficult to keep secret, because it’s exciting and fascinating and so freaking cool to be able to make things bend to his will, even if he hasn’t yet learned to actually force bad guys to retreat, or to make them explode or something equally impressive, he is magic.

He wants to shout it from the rooftops, to conjure fireballs or make himself invisible; he wants to show his friends that he’s more than just a font of knowledge. But for now, all there is are complicated lines that he tells to mean safety. He wants to wait until there’s something to show for it. Something more than notebooks full of research, and experimental sketches of runes, and the shaky-high feeling he gets after casting a particularly powerful spell.

That though, was quickly lessening. The magical hangover that accompanied his first major spells had tapered off to not much more than a few stray moments of exhaustion after he finishes Derek’s protection runes, and the specially crafted ones he carved into his dad’s watch, and Scott’s motor bike. Barely noticeable to a guy used to all night research binges and ADHD-fueled insomnia.

It was nice, like his body was expanding to accommodate the magic growing inside him. Like it was really a part of him.

***

It’s only days after he’s completed the runes on Derek’s house that things shift between them. It should be strange, maybe, the way that it isn’t at all strange when Derek settles into the space next to Stiles on the oversized chair he’d sprawled on for their weekly pack movie night. There was an ease to Derek’s movements that was so rare, it puts Stiles on alert for the briefest of moments, but when the warm weight of the man presses against him, Stiles can’t be bothered by anything short of a natural disaster.

The fond smile Derek flashes at him, the way he casually slings his arm over the back of the chair, letting it drape over Stiles’ shoulders, is perfect. It is everything Stiles has ever hoped for; more than Derek’s kisses, or the feel of Derek’s skin under his fingertips, Stiles has wanted this. Wanted Derek close and comfortable and teasing him while they watched terrible movies, surrounded by their friends.

Of course, when their position shifts throughout the evening, and they are decidedly actually cuddling by the end of the first movie, Derek’s fingers tracing aimless patterns along Stiles’ collarbones and sending goosebumps down his arms, that’s pretty nice, too. Nicer still is the way Derek’s breath warms his neck when he whispers random comments in Stiles’ ear through the second movie, and how he trails his nose along Stiles’ jaw, as though he can’t help himself.

And it is extra nice that everyone pretends they don’t smell the way it’s affecting Stiles.

That is, at least until the last movie ends, and everyone starts to rouse themselves to leave. Before Stiles can do the same (and rush home to shamelessly jerk off while pressing his fingers against the places where Derek’s had been all night), Derek is snaking an arm around his waist and pulling him closer, rubbing his face against Stiles’ pulse where it’s beating rabbit-quick against his throat and inhaling his scent with a low, satisfied moan.

“Stay, please,” Derek whispers into the space behind Stiles’ ear, and Stiles is unable to do anything besides tilt his neck so that Derek had more room to explore, and to let his fingers slide into Derek’s hair.

“Der?” Stiles asks breathlessly, not sure what the rest of the question is meant to be, but certain there should be one.

Derek hums against his throat, pressing his lips to the join of Stiles’ shoulder, “‘S this okay?” he asks in between slow, dragging kisses along the skin exposed where he has tugged Stiles’ shirt collar down.

Stiles moans at the nip of Derek’s teeth, his fingers tightening in Derek’s hair. “So much more than okay,” he manages, but after several long moments of delighted squirming and whining under Derek’s deliberate attention, Stiles is desperate to return the favor.

They’re a mess of tangled limbs. Stiles’ arms wrapped around Derek, clinging and holding him as close as possible, Derek’s hands everywhere: under Stiles’ shirt, fingers clawed and grasping and teasing while he all but devours Stiles’ with torturously purposeful kisses and gentle bites. Their hips roll helplessly against nothing. Stiles can hardly take anymore, and he still hasn’t even had a chance to get his mouth on Derek.

“Der, need to taste you. Please,” Stiles whimpers, and when Derek pulls away from him, Stiles whines again at the loss. When their eyes meet, Stiles gasps; Derek’s eyes are glowing, not their normal brilliant blue, but no less breathtaking, like his natural kaleidoscopic color set aflame. His lips are swollen and his face is flushed, and he’s looking at Stiles with nothing short of wonder and need. It’s perfect and overwhelming and perfect.

Stiles cradles Derek’s face in both hands, brings their faces close and they spend a long minute simply staring into each other’s eyes. Stiles’ thumb traces along Derek’s lower lip, and Derek settles his hands on Stiles’ hips, and they just share breath in the scant space between them until Stiles has to know what Derek’s lips felt like against his own.

With as much care as he is capable of--which is considerably more now than it had been before he began exploring his Spark--Stiles brings their lips together, eyes still focused on Derek’s, and lets them rest there briefly, lets them both take in the way they fit together, before he presses them together more firmly with a groan that Derek matches.

Soon, they’re working together to arrange Stiles so that he’s straddling Derek’s lap, and then they are kissing and moving together with intent. It’s all still so careful, like neither can quite believe it’s real, or perhaps like they’re both too grateful for the moment. Stiles is certain he has never felt more precious in his whole life than he does in Derek’s arms, and he only hopes that Derek is able to feel the same.

It wasn’t for a few more days spent in near-delirious happiness that Stiles thinks to question the timing of their coming together and subsequent confessions of mutual feelings.

It’s weeks after that that the mild fear turned into a sour, heavy thing that sunk its claws into his belly.

***

It’s then that Stiles’ magical pursuits take a turn.

Instead of protection and defense, he begins to focus on less... diplomatic applications of his Spark.

It settles the burn of uncertainty inside him that lately only Derek’s teeth in his neck, or his wrists held tight in Stiles’ hands as they moved desperately together--or on some days, though they were fewer and farther between, Derek’s arms wrapped around him, and his soft words against the shell of Stiles’ ear--does.

Stiles is certain now, of two things: his love for Derek, and their pack, and that he will destroy anything that dares to threaten them.

It was barely two weeks before he had a chance to prove the latter.

***

This was not how he wanted his magical coming out to go.

But the… creature--a massive black thing that was more like a void than a visible entity, a mess of darkness that makes Stiles feel a sick sort of emptiness that is also a lead weight of dread--it had thrown Scott into a huge tree, and he was still healing somewhere near where Malia is curled up doing the same; and Stiles feels his magic tingle in his fingertips, accompanied by a rush of hot anger that flashes up his spine.

Then, Isaac and Kira and Lydia are batted aside like ragdolls, screaming in pain as the thing catches them on freaking claws before tossing them away again. A burning rage gathers in his shoulders, and as he rolls them he feels the power rising into something dark; inky like the monster trying to tear his pack apart.

The last straw, the thing that makes his control slip in a spectacularly violent display, is when the void-monster turns its orange-brown, unblinking eyes on Derek. A long, tentacle like arm reaches out to wrap around Derek’s middle, and he goes pale as the row of needle-like protrusions lining its limb sink into him, spots of blood staining his shirt too quickly as his beta-shift falls away while the pain settles into him.

And Stiles can feel his blood boiling, can feel his magic rising up and crackling in the air, the rest of the world seems to fall away, the sounds of the fight and his friends’ pained groans, and the noises of the forest at dusk fading to nothing, and all Stiles knows is that he is more. He is more powerful, more angry, more dangerous, than this thing. There’s a flare of power in his core that feels white hot and boundless, and it makes Stiles dizzy with how good it feels to let his magic go.

Without a thought to a plan of attack, he thrusts his arms outward and shouts No in a too deep voice that doesn’t sound like his own. His cry breaks the silence, sound rushing back in all at once, and Stiles can hear the panicked, awed exclamations of his friends, and the wicked roar of an unnatural wind that seems localized to the area immediately around their fight.

The creature is several feet off the ground, held in place by wispy tendrils emanating from Stiles. Its face is more discernable with the glow of magic around him, and it wears a menacing rictus that should probably fill Stiles with dread, but instead makes his mouth curl into a cruel smirk as the thing remains frozen in place, unable to do more than emit a high, whining wail. Stiles twitches his fingers and the thing’s head snaps to an unnatural angle, the pained sound grows in volume. He’s vaguely aware that his pack is covering their ears and crying out for him, but the steady flow of his magic is still raging hot and oh-so-satisfying, and he can’t stop.

Another sharp wiggle of his fingers, and a wide gash opens on one of the things legs, its blood is viscous and purplish, and it seeps sluggishly from the angry wound. He’s considering where to put the next one when he feels a warm hand settle on his shoulder and squeeze. It’s a familiar gesture, a familiar weight, and it’s accompanied by Derek’s calming voice. “It’s okay, Stiles. You can let go, it’s okay, we can finish this together; it’s okay.”

He continues murmuring soothing words while his thumb strokes Stiles’ shoulder blade, and Stiles feels his control settle back into him. After a moment, he can hold onto the edges of it, rein it back enough to lower the monster, though he lets it fall with a sickening thud that still fills him with a dark sort of pleasure. Derek grabs Stiles’ other shoulder and turns him away from the creature, his eyes searching Stiles’ as though making sure he’s there. Stiles’ magic is still holding the thing imobile; he can feel the lines of power tugging at the corner of his awareness, though it’s a muffled feeling, fuzzy like the sounds of the pack doing… whatever it is they’ve decided to do to “take care of” the threat. Stiles hopes it’s something violent.

“Stiles,” Derek says, a big question in the small space of the sound. It’s so full of worry and love, so warm, and it wraps around him just a moment before Derek’s arms do.

Stiles falls into his embrace gratefully, a desperate noise escaping between his lips. As Derek holds him, exhaustion makes itself comfortable in Stiles’ bones, though he can still feel his magic flashing through his veins like lightning. It isn’t the same drained feeling using his magic used to fill him with; it’s something heavy and dark around the boundary, and it’s trying to reach out to him. Stiles knows if he reaches back, the elation and strength he felt just moments ago will return, but he knows just as well that it could consume him. He knows it wants to.

Derek holds him tightly, as though he’s afraid that if he lets go Stiles will succumb to the pull of his power, as though he knows Stiles is struggling to keep control. When Derek speaks again, it’s quiet and close to Stiles’ ear, and it sends a welcome and familiar whisper of breath--and a brief curl of heat to his belly that he is 100-percent not able to acknowledge just then--and it grounds him. It’s an almost tangible thing, the sensation of being anchored, of being filled up with a pleasant glow that he can practically feel cleaning away the stains his lapse into sadism left inside him.

“How long?” Derek asks gently, there’s no judgment, but Stiles still feels dread sink into the places that were full of power moments ago.

Stiles swallows thickly, and answers “Months, since just before we--” He can’t continue. If he finishes that sentence, he knows that Derek’s arms and his comfort and his love will be gone. Derek stiffens for a moment, and Stiles tries to brace himself for the coming anger, for the rejection, the twisting up of Derek’s face into something that doesn’t resemble the man he loves. Derek shakes his head though, and pulls Stiles back into him, lightly pushing his face into the crook of his neck.

Derek says his name again, but this time it isn’t a question, it’s a disbelieving admonishment, and Stiles is confused even as a bright glimmer of hope is rekindled and burning pleasantly through him. “It’s been years, for me. Years, Stiles,” and that one is definitely a stand-in for “idiot,” but it’s almost unbearably fond.

It takes a full three and a half seconds before Stiles processes what Derek’s said, and when he does, he pulls away just enough to look at him, slightly slack-jawed and full of wonder. “Wha-- You really… For--” Derek gazes at him fondly, nodding a little with his eyebrows in their I’m patiently waiting for you to get your shit together position, and Stiles nearly collapses in relief, his forehead finding its favorite spot on Derek’s shoulder. He sighs and blows out a hard breath, swallowing around a knot of emotion, and the tears gathering in his eyes are audible in the tremble of his voice when he gathers himself enough to reply. “I was so scared I tricked you somehow. That I wished for you so hard my magic made you want me. I didn’t think I could have done it, I was barely strong enough to shake a leaf at first,” he wants to defend himself, even though he thinks it sounds flimsy in the face of his transgressions, but he owes them both better, even if it costs him dearly.

“I never wanted to, but it was right around the time I warded your house that you kissed me the first time, and if I drew my feelings for you into the runes, then maybe I--” Derek cuts off his panic with a finger to his lips and raises him up by his chin so they’re looking at each other.

“Stiles, I have loved you for so long, I almost can’t remember not loving you. Magic or not, I’m gonna keep doing that. I just don’t understand why you didn’t tell me.” He sounds hurt, and it’s so much worse than if he was angry.

Stiles closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. The forest around them is still now, and there’s no more sounds from the direction where the monster was being dealt with, and he’s surprised to realize his magic has all drawn back into him, once again a steady thrum under his skin.

“It’s so stupid, now, and I promise we can have all of the conversations, but right now I really need a bed, and to check that you’re healed, because seeing that thing hurt you, seeing you that hurt… I felt like something broke in me, and I need to see.”

Despite the soft look he’s aiming at Stiles, Derek’s eyes burn with such intensity, so much naked emotion, that Stiles loses his breath for a long moment.

“Let’s go home,” Derek says reverently, and there’s a kick of warmth in Stiles’ belly at hearing Derek say it like it’s a given that his place is Stiles’, too; that it’s theirs. As they turn, arms around one another, towards where they parked earlier--was it really only hours ago they set off to find that thing? Stiles feels like days have passed. Days all spent in a storm--Derek adds, “You owe me at least ten different explanations though.”

Stiles can’t help but almost-laugh. “At least that many, I promise.”

After walking a few minutes in companionable silence, Derek stops suddenly. “Wait, what did you say you did to my house?” That Stiles does laugh at, a quick burst of a thing that makes him feel a hundred times lighter.