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Stiles hobbled over to the couch, hyper aware of Derek’s eyes following him as he made his way from the bedroom to the living room. He ignored his urge to yell at Derek. Ever since he was injured, Derek’s protective nature went from admirable to unbearable. He had accidentally been the one captured by the witches, who planned on sacrificing him for their ritual to end all rituals. The witches had beaten him, leaving him bruised and bloodied, tied up and about to have his throat slit.
Derek had burst out of the shadows of the trees, the pack following his suit. Scott was the one that cut Stiles’ bonds, inspecting him. Stiles wasn’t really surprised when Derek nearly shoved Scott out of the way in order to inspect Stiles for himself. (Scott had become accustomed to Derek always pushing everyone out of the way when it came to Stiles’ safety). He was actually happy when Derek picked him up, carrying him to the car before taking him to the hospital himself, the pack following after them.
Stiles loved Derek. He loved how he doted on him. He loved being the center of Derek’s attention. He loved being the one Derek always drifted towards whenever faced with a crowd. But he was going to kill Derek if he didn’t stop fretting.
Derek had carried him to the bathroom last night, and Stiles was too tired to complain, but that was besides the point. He even made elaborate home cooked meals, inviting the Sheriff over to spend quality family time together, as if Stiles was terminally ill and only had a limited time left on the planet. He even started to bring things to Stiles, ranging from drinks and food to books he didn’t ask for—there was a pile of things by Stiles’ side of the bed and overflowing onto the ottoman next to the couch.
Enough was enough.
Stiles winced as he pressed too much weight on his injured leg, a sharp pain spiking through his body. Derek was immediately next to him, his hands grabbing Stiles’ arms to steady him.
“I’m fine,” Stiles almost snapped as Derek helped him to the couch. ‘Helped him’ was putting it mildly—Derek would have carried him to the couch if Stiles had let him. He grumbled as he plopped down into the couch cushion, waving Derek off.
“You’re not fine,” Derek defiantly stated as he moved to go back to the kitchen. “You almost died.”
“But I’m not dead. I’m still breathing,” Stiles answered, snatching the remote off of the coffee table, flipping through the channels.
“You know that has nothing to do with it,” Derek replied.
“Nothing to do with it, yet I’m here,” Stiles childishly answered.
“You know you don’t heal,” Derek argued.
“And you know I can’t sit back and leave the pack to fight on its own,” Stiles snapped, angrily tossing the remote onto the coffee table. He crossed his arms over his chest, scowling as he tried to get lost in the television of poor reality tv. He acted indifferent when Derek calmly walked over and turned the monitor off.
Derek turned to look at Stiles, his eyes evaluating him. He moved to sit next to Stiles, making a move to kneel in front of him. “I worry,” he finally admitted, rolling his eyes when Stiles scoffed. “You know I do.” He placed his hands on Stiles’ hips as he moved to slot himself between his knees. “I can’t stand seeing you get hurt—knowing that you get hurt because I can’t protect you.”
It was Stiles’ turn to roll his eyes, his body refusing to budge much from its sulking position. “It’s your stupid Alpha spark,” he huffed. “It’s not up to you to protect me, Derek. If I get hurt, it’s my own fault, not yours.” He leaned forward, cupping Derek’s face in his open palms. “God, I love you, Derek, you know I do, but you drive me insane with this. I’m a grown man, and my responsibilities are my own.”
“You’re my husband, I have a right to worry, regardless of you being a grown baby,” Derek’s chest grumbled in response.
Stiles sighed, letting his hands fall to Derek’s chest. His fingertips played with the strands of chest hair peeking out from beneath Derek’s shirt. His nails grazed across the contour of Derek’s collarbone, thinking about how lucky he was to be allowed to touch Derek in such a way, let alone call him his husband. “You know how you always run ahead of the pack, in order to take the brunt of the assault?” He softly asked.
Derek slightly tensed, knowing exactly where Stiles was going with this line of questioning. “Yes,” he reluctantly answered, his body pressing into Stiles’ touch.
“And you and the pack always tell Lydia and I to hang back, and we do,” Stiles stated. “But for those few seconds it takes Scott the others to follow after you, I can’t breathe. Those are the scariest moments of my life.” He looked up at Derek. “For those few seconds, I know that anything could happen. I could lose you. And it takes my everything to hold myself back, but sometimes I get this feeling … And I just can’t let you out of my sight.” He sighed, closing his eyes as he released a small laugh. “So this, Derek,”—he gestured towards the welt on his cheek, accompanied by the split lip the witch had dealt him—“Is something I’ll gladly go through if it means I don’t run that risk of losing you.”
Derek reached a hand up, his thumb gently brushing over the split in Stiles’ lip. “For better, for worse,” he echoed part of their marriage vows, his eyes fixated on the small black veins snaking up his hand as he drew Stiles’ pain away.
Stiles smiled, leaning forward to kiss Derek. “In sickness and in health, Sourwolf,” he quietly stated against Derek’s lips, pushing forward for a kiss. “Are you going to take me to bed, or do you think I’m still too fragile?” He teased through their kisses, almost pushing his body up off of the couch and into Derek’s lap.
“There are a number of things we could do with me still thinking you’re too fragile,” Derek replied, moving to pick Stiles up.
“You’re lucky I’m feeling romantic,” Stiles stated as he held back his protest to Derek carrying him bridal style.
Derek remained silent, smirking when Stiles yelped in response to him dropping him onto the bed. “If you complain,” he started, crawling his way over Stiles’ body as he joined him on the bed. “I won’t ride you.”
“Oh, yes, please,” Stiles stated as his heart fluttered, still helpless to everything Derek. He laughed when Derek made easy work of his own clothes.
Stiles held back his sigh of fondness as he took in Derek’s nude form. Derek was still gorgeous, something he would often adorably blush at being told.
Derek had just turned thirty, something he scowled about for almost a month prior. His body was still as athletically defined as ever, only becoming more attractive with age. His muscles were still impressive, even for a werewolf, his body toned down in his older years. There was a hint of speckled silver accenting his beard, something he was horrified with discovering in the early hours of the morning, but Stiles actually liked.
Stiles always described Derek as looking soft. When Derek had first come back to Beacon Hills, Derek looked as cold and distant as he acted. His features were sharp and terrifying. As the years past, Derek grew to be more of a cuddly teddy bear instead of the agitated grizzly bear he was. Stiles loved to run his fingers through Derek’s hair; to feel Derek’s beard moving across his skin; to play with a few strands of his chest hair as they fell asleep together.
“You’re like a fine wine,” Stiles commented as he pulled his shirt off, tossing it towards the hamper where Derek deposited his own clothes.
“You get drunk off only a little bit of me?” Derek jokingly answered as he kissed his way across Stiles’ torso, his head moving down to place kisses on the curves of Stiles’ hipbones.
“Oh my God, you are so horny right now if you’re actually participating in my bad flirting,” Stiles replied, his hands pushing into Derek’s hair as he pulled his pants the rest of the way down.
“I’m just used to you,” Derek answered, pulling Stiles’ body down the bed, arranging him to sit in the comfortable center of the bed’s wide mattress.
Stiles laughed, leaning his head back to expose his throat, relishing in the way Derek’s eyes zeroed in on the bob of his Adam’s apple. He waited a few moments before uttering, “I love you.”
Derek moved down to cover Stiles’ body with his own, hyper aware of exactly where Stiles hurt. He moved a hand to Stiles’ hip, his fingertips brushing the skin there as he starting draining the pain away. He leaned in, pressing his lips to Stiles as he used what was left of his concentration to pull all the remnants of pain from him.
Stiles gasped into their kiss when the last of his pain disappeared, his hands shaking as he steadied them on Derek’s shoulders.
“And I love you,” Derek stated into their kisses.
“Til death do us part, and then some,” Stiles sighed.
“And then some,” Derek echoed, losing himself in everything Stiles.