Some of you are going to find this exceptionally perverse, but: I just want a post-Nogitsune story where Stiles and Derek go on lots of 1950s style dates and don’t have sex. At the end of every outing, they exchange one closemouthed kiss, smile shyly at one another, and then say goodnight.
(Because Stiles feels like his father has been through a lot, this year, and he really doesn’t want to give him more to worry about. Because Derek still has unresolved Kate issues. Because Stiles is still getting used to being in control of his own body again, being by himself in there. Because it is nice to get to know each other slowly, on quiet evenings where they learn how to make fresh ricotta together and they take a calligraphy class together and they go to the circus when it comes into town and they go to a classical concert at the local conservatory and they split milkshakes and they walk through the local botanical gardens and learn about climbing vines and they spend three hours visiting the railroad museum.
Once, outside the artisinal creamery where they learned about California dairy history, the kiss gets a little more heated than usual, but they both immediately pull away. “I’m sorry,” Derek says, breathlessly. “No, I’m— it was me, I should be,” Stiles says. But it was both of them. Stiles twists his fingers in the sample of cheesecloth he’d been given at the end of the tour, and he smiles before linking their arms together for the walk back to the car.)
And in the week leading up to Stiles’s 18th birthday, everyone is being super annoying with their unsubtle innuendoes, and Isaac is like, “are you going to wait until the actual day of, or just show up naked in a trenchcoat at midnight?” to Stiles, and Peter says lots of gross things to Derek.
But Stiles doesn’t see Derek until 7 PM on the evening of his birthday, which is when Derek normally comes over for their weekly Netflix night. Derek gives him a wrapped present, and they eat mac and cheese and steamed broccoli. The sheriff gets home late, and raises his eyebrows to see them sitting at the kitchen table, playing Monopoly. “I thought you’d…be at Derek’s,” he says, immediately cringing at the thought, and at himself for voicing it.
A slight cloud passes over Stiles’s face. “I’m getting better, Dad. I’m just not— I’m not—”
"We have time, don’t worry about it," Derek says, shaking the dice in his cupped hand. "And you owe me $800. Don’t think you’re getting out of it because it’s your birthday."
"I bet your stupid hotel doesn’t even have wi-fi," Stiles says, digging into his pile of money. His knees are pressed against Derek’s under the table, and his father presses a kiss against his temple before heading upstairs to bed.