laography | i've drowned and dreamt this moment

And any of it's synonyms.

[His fingers curl just a little against the triskele; Stiles wears his heart on his sleeve to say the least. Like most things about him, his emotions are loud and out there, and when he's feeling guilty you can practically sense it, the way his anxiety claws at his stomach and sucks him inwards. It's a tiny movement, but it's enough to give him away, and he exhales through his nose, letting the kisses make the tension sag from his shoulders a little more.

As many times as anyone could tell him otherwise, there will always be an inkling of doubt in the back of Stiles' mind. I could have done this. I should have been there. If I'd only done that. It's a constant in his life, and it makes him wish he had a damn reset button. The presses are comforting, though, and he leans backwards just slightly into his hands.]

Could have given you better gadgets. Or better guidance. Or better a lot of things. [It's softly, though, like his resolve on it is weakening. His fingers touch stitches and he brushes them again, getting goosebumps from the familiar feel of the thread against his own skin.]

Hey.

[ Drawing back from the kisses and where his hands have settled, Derek brings them up to frame Stiles' face again. The familiar touch across the triskele only steels him further, the brush on stitches that knit together wounds that are so close to healing. After a month, he's still a righteous mess, but it was such a thrashing that it's so obviously lingering. But Stiles is there, now. It's going to get better.

He's going to get better.

Thumbs brushing up from the corners of Stiles' mouth, he scans his face, as if searching him. But he doesn't need to, not when he knows this boy with a wolf's heart. Fierce and protective and caring, smart and sharp. His touch continues up, following the shape of his cheeks. ]

I'm here, and I'm going to do what you did for me. I'm not letting you linger on a could have, or should have. [ His fingers slip back further, to settle his palms at either side of his jaw, overlapping his neck. ] You can't blame yourself for any of this.

I didn't really do anything for you. [It's quiet when he says it, as Stiles finally opens his mouth again, meeting Derek's eyes for just a second before pulling them away, looking to the side. There had to have been something else he could have done--literally all he could do was watch as Derek fell to what should have been his death.

He tilts along with his thumbs, the guilt crowding his brow softening just a little, and brings his back to lace gently around his neck, mirroring him. It's a calm, reassuring thing, to feel the steady thump of Derek's heart instead of the erratic jackrabbit of his own, and his fingers twitch a little until he can feel the soft beginnings of his hair underneath his index fingers, the scrape of stubble at the heel of his palm. It's something he's felt a million times now, whether in fake kisses or at the junction of his neck and shoulder when it's ten minutes before the alarm goes off and Stiles acts like he's still asleep, and it's probably really weird to think he missed it. He missed everything. ]

You stopped me from wallowing in misery. [ Though Stiles looks away from him after the fleeting second, Derek keeps looking at him. There's a determination to his gaze, the set of his jaw, but a softness that's never been paired with it before. Because Stiles needs to know this, to hear it and to remember it. ] You gave me something to actually come back to.

[ How they went from fake pleasantries and affection, accidental mornings waking up tangled together, to where it was honest and intentional is beyond him. But he's spent a month missing the way Stiles fits against him in the mornings, where they're both pretending to be asleep for a little longer. Missing off-key humming and absentminded chatter, whether it was to himself or Derek or Laura. The way his hair is soft and thick, how he can tangle his fingers in it-- and he does that, slipping his fingers so that the heel of his palms are at the hinge of his jaw, curling into his dark hair. ]

When I woke up in the morning, I didn't taste ash anymore. It was just you.

[ The guilt still lingers, the pain of missing his family. Missing what he used to have. But Kate is gone, has been gone, and she stopped having a sway over him when Stiles kept him anchored in place. ]

[Stiles keeps his gaze down for a little while as he speaks. It's strange having this much attention on him and it makes him squirm a little, for a minute, wanting to escape--usually it's Derek's silences that put him on edge, but this isn't exactly on edge, now is it? It's...just something that needs getting used to, his lack of self-confidence and general first instinct for doubt clouding his ability to sit here and stay.

But it's the last sentence that gets him, and he inhales quietly, turning his gaze back up to meet Derek's, the thick black of his lashes, the curve of his nose. It's a familiar face now, one whose features he could find across a room, one that he'd seen happy over his dog, soft and muted, and angry beyond belief over Kate Argent.

Kate Argent, who killed his family in fire and cold blood, Kate Argent who kidnapped Stiles (really, uncalled for) and tased Derek's dog (seriously uncalled for), who seduced him and ruined his life. Stiles heard every word of it when she had him in captivity, and the phrase "tasting ash" conjures up her face, and the way Derek would sometimes be awake in the middle of the night, gasping like he was drowning.

Stiles brings a hand up to rest on Derek's, tilting his head forward as he feels familiar fingers curling in his hair. It's nice to have it back. It's nice to have Derek back, and he mumurs.] Well, jeez, its not every day you get someone to quit smoking, too.

[Yes, okay, humor is usually how he wiggles out of these situations. But he sighs.] I didn't mean that, I meant...

[The last mission. The one Stiles didn't go on the field with him. Not that he was ever much help anyway, always tripping over things and pulling trip wires and generally being a nuisance.]

[ Derek watches his reaction closely as he speaks, taking everything in-- from the set of his brow to the curve of his lips, the way he breathes in as he looks up at him-- and memorizes it. Remembers everything about the moment. Because he could've lost this, more than once.

He lost his entire family, lost his sister not long after. Lost everything that he knew before, and so it wasn't hard for him to accept the life of an agent. Without something to lose, Derek could easily go into missions with his all, complete them in ways that some agents were afraid of doing.

And then in came Stiles, barreling into his life and cementing himself there with steadfast stubbornness and a quick tongue.

And he could've lost him, when Kate kidnapped him. Derek had felt the dread settle tight in the pit of his stomach, seeping into his entire being, seizing his heart. Because that was how Kate Argent played-- find a weak point, and destroy it completely in the worst way possible. In five, six months, Stiles had become Derek's weak point just as he'd become his anchor. It would've been a lie if he hadn't gone in, fueled by fear and anger both, to get him before it was too late.

Just like that, though, he could've lost him again with that mission. With a stupid slip up that lead to so many other problems, marked in bruises and stitches and angry scars.

Derek huffs at the awful joke, brushing his thumbs along his cheeks and looking at him still, green to brown. ]

I know. [ Despite the joking, he's not letting Stiles go anywhere this time. Not letting him wiggle his way out now. ] I know you wish you could've been there, or done something. And I can't tell you to stop, not really.

But you're here, now. You found me. That's what matters most. [ His nose brushes against Stiles', briefly. ] You wouldn't let me hold onto my guilt, so I'm not going to let you hold onto yours.

[ It's such a simple concept--"I won't let you hold onto your guilt". But it's different, different than what he'd been told so many times before, what his head has told him at least a thousand times. But Derek had this way of taking the things that Stiles felt were wrong and dropping them on their heads and shaking them until they were so upside down he'd forgotten what the problem was in the first place. It was immensely frustrating and relieving at the same time, much like the person behind the words.

He's quiet again, wrinkling his nose as Derek comes close and returning the favor, his fingers sliding across his back and finding purchase across his shoulders once more. It's a familiar grip, from dancing lessons and new years kisses, to the tight squeeze when he'd gotten out of Kate's trap and tucked his face into Derek's neck, his fingers gripping so tight at his jacket they might have turned white.

It had been such a low blow. He'd been furious with himself for letting himself get captured, and his own stubbornness combined with his already intense hatred for Kate had made him a tough nut to crack--as such, he got his ass kicked for it. Stiles his own scars now, small ones on his chest, a razor thin line across his throat, and they're kind of badges of honor. Kate never got a word out of him, just the retribution she so deserved.

Pressing forward, he kisses Derek, barely there for a second before retreating back as he considers everything; the smile on his face is small, crooked, but genuine.]

I always find you.

[ The concept is new and different to Derek, but Stiles was the one to teach it to him. Over time and with words that had started out sharp and biting, before they turned into quiet and searching. Before he got to carry out the justice that Kate had brought upon herself with the crimes she'd committed. Maybe not all of them, but at least the ones done against the Hale family, against Stiles. And he's always sought the right things to say, in these dark-lit moments where everything slows to just the two of them, and nothing else. He's never been afraid to be honest where it counts, so he says what he means here.

His familiar touch seeps into him, muscle and bone, and he sighs softly as he watches Stiles in their close space. Basks in all of it still, as he slowly lowers his grip enough that his hands feel the steady pulse beneath them, his thumbs can trace the sliver of a scar. He knows where each of them are, has touched bandage and stitch and skin over each, and felt anger and regret well up in him every time.

But they're part of Stiles, much like his own scars are. They are like every freckle and mole that he could track and trace with his eyes closed.

Much as it hurts, much as it terrified him, Derek is proud of Stiles. Proud and a little in over his head, but he doesn't feel like a man drowning. Not anymore. ]

You will. [ The smile on his face mirrors his, small and quiet but warm, turned up just barely at the edges. He tips towards him, presses it to Stiles' lips. He doesn't really pull back when he speaks again. ] Same way I'll always find you.

[He can't help the snort that escapes him-it's quiet and amused, and the kiss breaks as his mouth spreads into a wide grin, unable to contain it.] Sniff me out with that supposed nose of yours, huh.

[It's kind of silly but it's not taking away the meaning from anything--he's happy. Hell, he's kind of ridiculously happy to have this back again. The dumb banter, the playful chatter, the way Derek seems to practically rumble instead of his own jittery vibration. They fit together like a couple of puzzle pieces, the way Derek's hands cup at his neck and his own long, awkward fingers are enough to spread neatly over the muscle of Derek's shoulders. It was something that was going to be irreplaceable, something that had left a hole in his heart as he walked on without his partner.

Stiles' grin finally drops a little, enough to a plain lipped smile, and when he presses words to Derek's mouth, they're so soft barely anyone could hear them. An I, maybe. And a you, at the end. The middle word is Derek's alone, and he drops his hands back down to press firmly over his heart, fingers spreading across a bruise and leaning his weight forward just enough, spreading his legs a little wider to redistribute.]

Every time. [ His own expression breaks into a wider smile, in response to Stiles' grin. But he can't help it, not when it's so bright and alive and there. A month without it has been completely lacking.

A month without Stiles, without the banter and chatter and jittering. Without being able to hold him, a perfect fit regardless of what position they find themselves settled in. Broad hands settle a little further down, thumbs pressed against Stiles' pulse in a gentle, claiming pressure as he takes it in. After having him at his side, covering his back, under his watch, it was bizarre to suddenly find himself going into a mission without him. But he knows, deep down, that it would have gone worse for the two of them if they were both there. Derek might have given up his reckless missions once Stiles became so integral to his life, but he can't lie and say that he wouldn't risk everything to make sure Stiles got out of that mission alive.

But in that moment, it doesn't matter. They're together again, and suddenly something tightens in Derek's chest. It constricts his heart and spreads warm through the rest of him, starting at his lips and traveling in a way that he's never really felt before. Not even with Kate, during the time that he was hanging on every word she said. His shoulders relax further, though his fingers curl at the base of Stiles' skull, securing.

There's something quiet, then. Quiet and soft and barely a whisper back, an echo but with a twist. But he means it, with everything in him, to the point that it's almost painful. ]

I'm counting on it.

[ When Stiles kisses him again, his teeth clack against Derek's front ones, and he snorts a little stupidly, his fingers splayed out against the familiar burn of his stubble. It's going to be okay. Tomorrow, there could be a mission call from Deaton. Tomorrow, there could be a new emergency or new criminal mastermind that demanded the attention of Agent Alpha and his quartermaster. And while Stiles was staying out of the field for a while--part his dad's insistence, part his own knowledge of his abilities with the weaponry he could dream up, and part Derek's insistence--he'd still be there, making comments in Derek's earpiece and supplying him with an inexhaustible amount of tools and information, so that whatever missions he went on could never go that wrong again.

But that was for tomorrow. Next week, maybe. Next month. He had a lot of catching up to do. Speaking of which... ]

I hope you cleared your schedule. [That comes out of his mouth airily, and Stiles tilts his head away from him just enough to wiggle his eyebrows, mouth sliding into a lazy smirk. It's easy to mess around, to ignore the gravity of what's happening, what's about to happen--but it's not like he's really ignoring it, either. It's there, it's out in the open (sort of), and that's really all they need, isn't it? ]

[ There's stupid, soft affection in the chuff that escapes Derek with the clack of teeth, and he shifts his hands to thread his fingers through dark, thick hair with a crooked smile. Though there isn't a doubt in his mind that he will, eventually, be asked to reenter the field, it's not going to be without Stiles there. Whether it's out on the field-- considering his initial insistence that he stay on the other side of the earpiece for a while, he doubts that'll happen for a long time yet either-- or guiding him through missions, there's no one else he'd trust to get him in and out of trouble. This is his quartermaster, and he never wants a different one for as long as he's an agent.

Cocking an eyebrow at the comment, he leans into Stiles' touch, slowly sliding his hands down along his neck-- feather light, there-- and trailing down his spine. When he gets to the small of his back, his fingers dip down a little further so he can tuck them underneath the numerous layers Stiles stacks. ] I think I can manage some vacancies for the next, oh... couple weeks.

[Which is to say, Stiles'd never trade his agent for anyone else, either. Sure, Derek's frustrating on his best days, but he's also brave, quick witted, tenaciously loyal, and not to mention kind of ridiculously good looking. Truth be told, he wouldn't have said those three little words to just anyone. Besides, no other agent in the force really laughed at his jokes.

The fingers at his neck make him shiver, just enough for goosebumps, and Stiles squirms a little from his place on Derek's knees. His hands come up and press onto his bare chest, fingers spreading out across a long, jagged stitch and tan skin, and he gladly shifts forward a little to allow Derek more room.]

I dunno if that's enough time.

Could always play it by ear.

[ To be fair, both of them are frustrating as all hell on some of their best days. Derek still finds moments where he wants to grab Stiles by the scruff of his shirts and haul him around, and yet other times he moves past the annoyances that he causes. Because for all their faults, he knows where Stiles shines-- his sense of humor, his sharp focus and mind, his determination and own loyalty. His heart. And he doesn't even give himself enough credit in some fields. (Especially when it comes to looks, which he's still trying to figure out.)

The corners of his mouth quirk up higher at the shiver, and he spreads his fingers wide, broad hands mapping the line his spine is resting at. It hikes the shirts up a little as he goes, but he plans on taking those off in a moment anyways, once he's not enjoying Stiles' own touch. ]

Planning's not exactly our thing.

[And it never really had been. God knows half of their "kisses" hadn't been planned--by the third or fourth one, they were winging it, and then there were a lot of feelings involved, and the whole thing escalated from there, escalated being kind of an understatement. Everything changed so fast, but they'd fallen into step as naturally as breathing, and now that he had his hands around that, Stiles wasn't planning on letting it go anytime soon.

He's not exactly complaining at the shirts; in fact, when Stiles pulls his hands off it's after he's pressed a kiss to his mouth and to work at one of his three layers of the day, shucking his red sweatshirt and letting it hit the floor. The quicker work made of this part? Definitely the better.]

Not really, no.

[ Watching Stiles work off the familiar sweatshirt with unveiled interest, Derek regards him thoughtfully. No, they never were much for planning. And that was fine by him, all things considered. Groundwork could be laid out, sure, but a lot of planning resulted in backfires for him, for both of them. It started with missions, but lead into the kisses, and then into this. He's not complaining, not in the least, but it's interesting.

Quickly tired of Stiles' layers, he adjusts his hands so that he can grab at the other two shirts and simply pull them up so he can take them off. ]

Regardless of how long my schedule is cleared, you're not allowed to wear more than one shirt for a while.

What! It's part of my look. Tragic lesbian plaid. [That last word comes out muffled as he lifts his arms, more than pleased with Derek's course of action, wiggling out of his shirt. The banter makes things so much easier, make him focus less on the fact that A) dear god, he's like a small cat compared to a mountain lion when it comes to Derek and B) he's overall not nearly attractive enough for the man he fell in love with. And it's not like it's the first time (or the second, or the third, or the fourth...) but there's something about this that makes his self-doubt flare up.

But of course, it's Stiles, and he continues talking, shirts and all.] I am pret-ty sure you don't get to dedicate my state of dress unless it's an equivalency thing. In which case I'm banning shirts for you period.

It's like unwrapping a Christmas present. [ As he pulls the shirts up along Stiles' arms, Derek twists his grip and tightens them around his raised wrists. Regardless of whatever self-doubt that Stiles has, or how he compares them, there's nothing to indicate that Derek agrees in the least bit with Stiles' thought process.

On the contrary, he keeps the shirts secured with one hand, dropping the other down to slide up from Stiles' hip and along his side. He's obviously looking down, following his hand up before he leans in to scrape his teeth across the line of Stiles' collarbone. ]

All right. No shirts.

You would be the guy who meticulously unwraps everything. [Spoilers; Stiles is not that guy. He makes a noise of protest when he's suddenly deprived of the thing that he communicates with the most--if Stiles' mouth is a jumbled mess of ideas, then his hands are the concrete and cement that build them into skyscrapers--but that pretty much dies out at his freakin' teeth, and Stiles drops his head back, his shoulders arching back in a natural reaction.

He comes up with a little grin, though.]

Shake on it?

[ Nice try. ]

Less of a chance of finding the wrapping months later. [ No, Stiles definitely is not that guy. Derek hums his amusement at the noise of protest, and presses a grin against pale skin at the reaction that the mock-bite gets. But rather than linger there, his mouth works its way up from his collar, towards his neck. All the while, his free hand moves as well, spanning across his ribs and memorizing breath and heartbeat. ]

Mm... [ He nips at the base of his neck. ] No.

There's no fun in that. Seriously disrupting my theories of you burying bones in the yard. [ Okay, he can totally see your shit eating grin, thank you. He's more than happy to respond, rolling his hips down-but it pretty much backfires as Derek mouths over his neck, and Stiles bites down on his lower lip, obviously not protesting much as he shifts his head back out of the way for more room. His hand is warm and familiar as well, and he can't help the way he twists gently into the touch.]

Damn. [Well he tried.]

You're an unstoppable force, [ His tone is dry, as he speaks, fingers curling tight against skin and in the shirt as Stiles rolls his hips. ] of course you tear wrapping paper to shreds. [ Mouth shifting higher as Stiles tips his head back, Derek presses a kiss against the warm span of his throat, over his pulse. He does not argue against there being bones buried anywhere, considering the grim truth of that. ]

In a minute, maybe. [ Almost absently, he drags blunt nails across the shape of Stiles' ribs, making his way back down as his own hips shift up, briefly. ]

It's therapeutic. [ The nails brushing on his ribs garner Derek a reaction almost immediately; Stiles' back arches forward and his hips push down, meeting Derek's. He's holding surprisingly still as he keeps his hands trapped, but you can feel him jittering just a little, like he's on the edge of some sort of movement. It's a common feeling for Stiles; an unstoppable force is a perfect descriptor. ] If that's the case you're an immovable object. Literally, I've tried to drag you out of the house before and it's like trying to move bedrock.

Something like that. [ That comes out as more of a growl that spoken, as Stiles' hips come down against his. But he remains focused on what he's doing, hand coming down to the front of his pants with an idle sort of purpose. His thumb flicks over the button, undoing it as he presses an open-mouthed kiss to his throat this time. He can feel the way that Stiles practically vibrates in his lap, and it's an even greater motivator for him taking his time. ] I recall, yes. Funny how we still meet in the middle every time, though.

[ Derek, you're an ass. For the record. As someone who typically doesn't take the time to slow down, it drives him crazy in the worst and best sort of ways, and the look he shoots Derek definitely shows it, flat and dry.

It's the weirdest feeling to have someone talking against your neck, particularly when it's sensitive, and Stiles shifts his head just enough that the line of spots off the side of his ear arch down along with his neck, starting to move his hands around in their makeshift prison, damn it.] Something like that. [...that was a little mockingly. Rude, Stiles.]


	Let the sky fall When it crumbles We will stand tall Face it all together

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god i fucking love that icon

I do too buh.

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