WELCOME TO THE UNIVERSE

whateverrrrwhatever:

So @dottie-wan-kenobi and I have decided to work our way through a list of prompts over the next however long, which means I’ll be writing little unedited ficlets periodically and sometimes sharing them here. This one is:

Tucking your head into their neck during a hug. Sterek (Teen Wolf), PG, 443 words

Somewhere between college graduation, the academy, and landing his first case – a seemingly minor interstate drug trafficking incident gone awry that unfolded into a sprawling, arcane enterprise investigation – Stiles hasn’t made it home to Beacon Hills in three years. Trust him to arrive when everyone else is busy, though – his dad called in to cover for two sick deputies, Scott working transport for a suddenly ill beloved family mare, everyone else coincidentally busy with their own lives and scattered to the four winds besides.

Well, he’s pretty sure he knows at least one person with no social life, no job, and nothing to do but entertain Stiles for an afternoon.

“Honey, I’m home,” he yells, jogging up the stairwell to the loft. It’s barely noon on a Wednesday, but the Camaro was parked in the lot, same as ever.

He grins when he gets to the top of the stairs, barely winded (thank you, fitness requirement) and doesn’t even get a chance to knock before the door’s flung open and he’s yanked inside.

Derek’s got him up against the door, hands bracketing Stiles’s head, his face tucked against Stiles’s neck. Just like old times, only… not.

Stiles barks out a loud startled laugh, too abrupt and absolutely humorless. “What the fuck, big guy? What are you…? Are you scenting me?”

“Shut up,” Derek grouses, and rubs the bridge of his nose against the join where Stiles’s neck meets his shoulder. He hasn’t shaved yet, Stiles notices, and immediately, futilely tries to forget.

“What? No way–” he starts and Derek shuts him up with a growl, reaching up to grasp the nape of his neck.

“I told you,” Derek says roughly. “To shut up.”

Stiles does, but it’s entirely due to the swooping in his gut, the way his mouth has gone dry, how difficult it is to catch his breath. Derek’s barely touching him – just his face pressed against Stiles’s throat, fingers digging into his neck – and he feels like he’s been struck by lightning, certain there are flames licking up his shins, or that he’s unconscious – that’s it, he thinks, a little hysterically: he’s dreaming.

Because no way is Derek breathing in against his skin, lips parted and wet against his neck, grabbing Stiles’s hip with his free hand and pulling him closer.

“I missed you,” Derek barely says, mouth moving against Stiles’ throat, sending sparks skittering across his skin, but he ignores it, for now, as best he can.

“Yeah. Yeah,” Stiles says back, just as quiet in the vast apartment, even though it’s just the two of them, almost as close as they could possibly be. “I missed you, too.”