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fairytales-and-folklore · 13 days ago

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What To Do When Your Emotionally Constipated Werewolf Boyfriend Gets Cursed By A Witch: A Guide

Teen Wolf » Sterek

Title: What To Do When Your Emotionally Constipated Werewolf Boyfriend Gets Cursed By A Witch: A Guide

Author: fairytalesandfolklore

Fandom: Teen Wolf (Masterlist)

Relationship: Derek Hale x Stiles Stilinski

AO3 Rating: Teen & Up (a complete collection of author's notes, inspiration credits, content warnings and tags can be found on AO3)

Summary: Derek gets cursed by a coven of witches with an inability to lie and a compulsion to blurt out whatever he's thinking and feeling at any given moment. The ironic thing is, everything he says is incredibly nice, heartfelt, and affectionate, leaving his packmates wondering: who are you and what have you done with our emotionally constipated surly alpha?

"Hey, maybe true love's kiss will break your curse," Stiles jokes one night when they're all crowded around the dinner table sharing Italian takeaway. Derek practically shoves his entire fist into his mouth to stop himself from blurting out, maybe you should give it a try. Luckily, Stiles is too busy screeching about burning his tongue on a scalding mouthful of mozzarella to notice.

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Derek heaves a long-suffering sigh as he approaches the clearing along the mountainside, home to one of the most powerful covens Beacon Hills has ever seen, swathed in protection spells so thick it's a wonder he'd been able to track them down at all. He hopes like hell they'll be able to fix this, because otherwise, he is so, so screwed.

Mother.

Fucking.

Witches.

• • •

It starts at a pack meeting late one night in mid-October, all twelve of them crowded around the living room of the reconstructed Hale house in varying states of worry and boredom, half-empty pizza boxes scattered across coffee tables and couch cushions, trying to figure out how to solve the recent problem of witches in Beacon Hills.

According to Derek, a powerful coven has encroached upon their territory, stirring up mayhem all over town — people disappearing and reappearing at random, animals transfigured into objects and vice versa (that was a wild day at the cat café), townsfolk spontaneously sprouting mythical appendages (unicorn horns, fairy wings, mermaid scales, the works) and not taking any notice until they pass by a shop window and everyone rushes out to compliment them on their SFX skills, and, of course, the occasional body-swap. All in all, it's been relatively harmless, more like practical jokes in the spirit of the season than anything truly nefarious, but Scott figures it's best they put a stop to it before someone gets hurt.

Derek and Scott had been reluctant when Stiles first pitched the idea of a co-alpha blended pack dynamic, but so far, it's been working out surprisingly well. They've been seeing eye to eye on things a lot more lately, the pack growing stronger, learning to trust and rely on one another, now that they're one united front. And on the days where they clash, Stiles, self-appointed emissary, is quick to jump in and mediate. Derek had always assumed that Stiles would be biased and favor Scott, but he's actually quite good at balancing between the two of them, seeing the merit of both of their sides, translating miscommunications in a way both Derek and Scott can understand.

Today, however, is not one of those days. Scott's arguing for one plan of attack, Derek for another — one of them says something monumentally stupid just to bruise the other's ego, and just like that, all hell breaks loose, tempers flaring, insults flying. Stiles, bless him, makes a valiant attempt to intervene, but he's so overwhelmed by the looming threat of mercurial magic-wielders that he ends up interjecting his own panic into the situation, and suddenly it's the lacrosse locker room all over again, pacing back and forth until he's just an anxiety-ridden blur, freaking out over what horrible thing the witches might be planning.

"The full moon falls on Halloween this year, and a whole-ass coven of powerful witches just happens to show up in Beacon Hills?" he frets, words tumbling out of his mouth so fast it's a wonder he doesn't run out of breath. "You can't tell me that's just a coincidence. What if they're planning some kind of ritualistic sacrifice?"

"Stiles, I highly doubt that could happen twice in the same—" Allison interjects in an attempt to soothe his nerves, but Stiles just barrels on like he hadn't heard her.

"I've seen Hocus Pocus! I know what they're after!" he practically shouts. "It's the virgin thing all over again, and in case it isn't obvious, I still haven't fixed that particular problem. Seriously, how many times is my life going to become a fuck or die trope?"

Derek blinks a couple of times, lips parting slightly as he watches Stiles's frantic pacing come to a sudden halt.

"That settles it," Stiles declares with a decisive nod. "I need to have sex. Right now. Someone needs to sex me right fucking now."

There's a scuffle of laughter from the far side of the room, and then Erica's shouting, "Derek will do it!" at the same time Jackson snickers, "Derek, that's your cue."

Derek closes his eyes and lets out a weary sigh. Of course they'd jump all over that. Of course. Because somehow, over the span of the past couple of years, nearly everyone in the pack has gotten it into their heads that Stiles and Derek have got a thing for each other, and apparently, they're feeling particularly cocky today.

He supposes he should be used to it by now. Derek has lost count of the amount of times he's caught them all muttering things like Jesus Christ, just fuck each other already and get a goddamn room under their breath every time the two of them start going at it, throwing empty threats and half-hearted insults at each other in the weirdest brand of flirting anyone has ever seen, or the way they all make gagging noises claiming they're choking on the thick layer of sexual tension permeating the air every time Stiles and Derek so much as glance in each other's direction.

Or the way Erica had full-on cackled that one time she'd caught Derek burying his face into a pillow that Stiles had spent the entire pack meeting holding, fidgeting with it until he'd unraveled the threading in one of the corners.

It's fine, Derek thinks. He's got a sewing kit around here somewhere, he can mend it later. He is a little concerned, though. He thinks maybe Stiles had just been nervous about the topics addressed during the meeting, scared for his father's safety at the idea of yet another potential threat, but he doesn't smell any hint of fear on the fabric. It just smells good. Like Stiles. Like pack. Like home.

And— there's a hint of something else there too, something that Derek can't quite place, but it's making his heart do this funny flipping thing inside his chest.

"Oh my god, you guys are so stupid for each other, it's sickening," Erica says, but her tone is playful, almost fond.

"What?" Derek says distractedly, like he's genuinely surprised to find himself with company.

Erica rolls her eyes.

"The pillow, Derek," she says, pointing at it like it's incriminating evidence. Derek wraps his arms around it and pulls it closer to his chest, tucking it under his chin.

"The fucking pillow Stiles used as a goddamn boner shield all meeting," Erica smirks. "You do know why he had it, don't you? Come on, you can't tell me you didn't do it on purpose."

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Derek snaps, but it's less heated and more defensive than anything else, and suddenly he won't look her in the eye.

Erica heaves a theatrical sigh.

"Next time you show up for a pack meeting straight after a workout, make sure you remember to put on a fucking shirt so Stiles doesn't have a heart attack, will you?"

And then she's laughing again, whipping around the corner and strolling up the stairs to her and Boyd's room, before Derek can do more than splutter.

Derek pushes the memory out of his mind, filing it away under things we refuse to talk about, along with the rest of the ever-growing mountain of Stiles-related incidents.

He's about to laugh it off, roll his eyes and tell them all to shut the fuck up as usual, but instead, what comes out of his mouth is—

"Okay."

Spoken in the softest fucking cadence he didn't even know he possessed.

The room falls dead silent. Everyone stops what they're doing and just stares at him. Derek's heart picks up speed as his brain catches up with his stupid, stupid mouth. His eyes widen like he can't believe he just said that out loud, like he had absolutely no control over it. Because truthfully, he hadn't. He chances a look over at Stiles, and— if he wasn't so shocked and terrified by what had just happened, he'd have laughed, because Stiles has got his mouth hanging open comically wide, eyebrows practically disappearing into his hairline as he fixes Derek with an incredulous stare.

And then Stiles bursts out laughing.

"Oh my god," he says, practically wheezing, hand clutched over his heart. "You really had me going there for a minute. You're messing with me, just like Danny. I've never heard you joke like that before."

And then everyone else starts laughing, and Derek forces himself to join in, pointedly avoiding the looks of what the fuck plastered all over Boyd, Isaac, and Erica's faces, internally screaming his own chorus of what the ever-loving fuck because that definitely hadn't been a joke and Derek definitely hadn't mean to say that out loud.

Amidst his panic, the query who the fuck is Danny? nettles at the back of his mind, and he can't decide if he's more offended by the fact that someone else propositioned Stiles for sex, or that the fact that they weren't actually serious about it.

• • •

At first, Stiles assumes it's a practical joke, or some kind of bizarre six-months-late April Fool's prank. It has to be, because over the course of the week that follows, Derek stops being a sarcastic asshole toward Stiles, and instead, starts showering him in compliments. Stiles is just going about his life, cracking self-deprecating jokes, but instead of smirking and adding an insulting quip of his own, Derek has started to become like, aggressively nice, getting almost angry whenever Stiles insults himself.

"God, I'm so stupid," Stiles sighs as he crosses out the wrong answer to a math problem he'd been working on at Derek's kitchen table.

"Hey, don't talk about yourself like that," Derek growls, brow furrowed like he's genuinely offended by Stiles's offhand remark. "You're one of the smartest people I've ever met."

Stiles stares at him, highlighter cap falling out of his open mouth.

Derek blinks a few times in rapid succession, dropping the stack of playing cards he'd been shuffling for their upcoming game night onto the kitchen counter with a deafening clatter. He looks just as surprised as Stiles feels.

"Uh…thanks, man," Stiles manages, a tell-tale blush prickling the back of his neck as he buries his nose in his textbook and doesn't resurface for several minutes straight, having retained absolutely nothing on the page.

A few days later finds Lydia, Cora, and Malia all roaring with laughter as Stiles walks them through his intricate twenty-five step plan to get someone to want to sleep with him before the next full moon. Mock-insulted and mostly joking, he says, "What, you don't think there's at least one person out there who wants to get with all of this? I'm a goddamn snack, I'll have you know."

"Shut up. No you're not," Derek snaps, glancing up from the book he'd been pretending to read in the far corner of the living room. And then, like he just can't help himself, immediately follows it up with, "You're a full course meal."

Stiles pauses, staring at him in disbelief.

Derek suddenly goes very rigid, eyes widening ever so slightly in alarm. He slaps a hand over his mouth, like he's physically restraining himself from saying anything more.

And then Stiles bursts out laughing.

"Dude, that's funny. I'm gonna have to start using that," he says, penciling in the pick-up line as step twenty-six.

The thing is, it isn't just compliments. Derek has also started to become, like, weirdly affectionate, in his own gruff, sourwolf way. He's started talking more — Stiles is fairly certain Derek has spoken more over the past week than he has in the past two years — his expressions becoming softer, a wider range of emotions smoothing away the frown lines as he opens up about his past, sharing pieces of family history, little anecdotes and personal stories and random facts about himself.

Stiles collects them like a memory magpie.

Derek prefers pancakes over waffles.

Derek likes the color red.

Derek has the entire Harry Potter series in pristine hardcover.

Derek used to sit at his grandmother's feet and untangle yarn for her while she knitted him and his siblings cozy winter hats and sweaters.

And it'd be really endearing if it didn't make Stiles wildly uncomfortable, because this is Derek we're talking about — a guy so emotionally constipated, it looks like it's causing him physical pain. Over the years, Stiles has come to expect a certain dynamic between the two of them, one that straddles the line between half-hearted insults and playful banter, and this whole weird new nice guy routine that Derek has suddenly got going on is starting to make Stiles suspicious.

He starts to get really paranoid, thinking Derek must have somehow found out about his — well, he wouldn't call it a crush, exactly — and is just fucking with him, just to be a dick. Like, maybe he caught Stiles staring at him during pack meetings one too many times, or— oh god, what if he can smell the arousal coming off of him in waves whenever they lock eyes, and he's finally put two and two together after all these years and figured out that the reason Stiles's heartbeat goes haywire every time Derek so much as glances in his direction isn't because he's scared of him, or because he's had too much caffeine.

Or— oh fuck. Maybe Derek had heard him that one time he'd jerked off in the shower to the thought of Derek pressing him up against his bedroom wall, and gasped out Derek's name as he'd, uh, crescendoed, before strolling back into his room wearing nothing but a sated, shit-eating grin and a towel wrapped around his waist, only to find the real Derek sitting on the edge of his bed, waiting for him.

Stiles nearly jumps out of his skin and drops the towel, shouting all manner of colorful obscenities. The look on Derek's face is…interesting. Stiles can practically feel Derek's eyes boring into him, trailing over every inch of him, lingering on the border where his towel meets his hipbones and swallowing thickly, and Stiles can't help but follow the movements, entranced, watching his Adam's apple bob up and down and wondering how it would taste under his tongue, and oh god, now his body thinks it's time for round two and he's tenting his towel and fuck fuck fuck oh no—

And then Derek clears his throat a little louder and more aggressively than normal, and they both avert their eyes, and Stiles controls himself long enough to ask why Derek is here, and then Derek slowly turns his back so that Stiles can hastily get dressed, handing him a slip of paper with a weird symbol on it that he's hoping Stiles can decipher for him.

"So, uh…out of curiosity…exactly how long were you here before I stepped out of the shower?" Stiles asks as Derek grips the frame of his bedroom window, one foot already out on the roof. The crack in his voice is hard to miss.

"Long enough," Derek says cryptically, which could either mean "I heard you" or "you kept me waiting," and Stiles is honestly not sure which one is worse.

A loud crash snaps Stiles back to the present and he looks up to find Erica climbing through his bedroom window, followed swiftly by Boyd and Isaac, tumbling into a heap onto his bedroom floor. Try as they might, the leather-clad trio have never quite managed to replicate Derek's finesse when it comes to breaking and entering.

Before Stiles can get out even so much as a what the fuck, they're rounding on him, talking over each other in a worried frenzy, insisting that there's something very very wrong with Derek. Stiles's heart starts to race, mouth going dry, and he's already going through his mental rolodex of potential cures and fix-its, when they say the most ludicrous thing he's ever heard in his life.

"We think that Derek's been cursed," Erica says.

"By a witch," Isaac clarifies.

"And now he can only say really nice things," Boyd finishes.

"What," Stiles says flatly, and then he's snorting with incredulous laughter.

"I'm sorry, run that by me again. You think Derek's been hit with a…what, a nice guy curse?" he snickers. "Do you have any idea how ridiculous that sounds?"

"You don't understand," Erica says seriously, bracing her hands on either side of Stiles's shoulders. "Tonight, he told us that he's proud of us and that he loves us."

Stiles's mouth drops open in shock.

"And that's not all," Isaac chimes in. "We tested it out. Asked him to tell us how he really feels about Scott, and do you know what he said?"

"What?" Stiles eyes him warily, preparing to launch into a one-man Scott McCall defense party.

"That Scott's a good kid with a heart of gold," Erica scoffs, like it's physically painful for her to recall. "Can you believe that?"

"Holy shit," Stiles says, genuinely stunned.

And suddenly it all clicks into place, the reason Derek has been so unnervingly kind to him these past few days. He's been cursed. Stupid as it sounds, there's no other explanation for it.

"Yeah, so…as you can see, Derek needs help," Erica says, like being nice is some kind of terminal illness.

"And what makes you think I can fix this?" Stiles asks.

"Duh, you're the brains of the pack," Erica grins at him, like it's obvious.

"Derek said that if anyone is clever enough to find the answer, it's you," Boyd tells him. And that's…well, weirdly nice.

• • •

So he researches, and he researches, and he researches, and he doesn't come up with a single damn thing, because never, in the history of witchcraft and wizarding lore, has there ever been a curse that made someone say nice things.

Still, it keeps happening. Derek keeps dropping nice bombs fucking everywhere, every single time he opens his mouth. And it sucks, because it's really starting to have an effect on Stiles. Derek will say something really sweet to him, and he'll find himself starting to give in to that hope he's been harboring for years, and then he has to shake himself really hard and remind himself that it's just the curse talking, that Derek doesn't actually mean anything he's saying.

Except—

Well…lately, it's like all of their interactions have this weird sort of romantic, sexually charged undercurrent to them, and Stiles can't help but notice that Derek doesn't act like that with anyone else but him.

He'll compliment Lydia on her intellect. Kira on her katana wielding skills. Allison on her archery. He'll tell Cora and Malia how grateful he is to call them family, how brave and strong and resilient they are. He'll tell Isaac, Erica, and Boyd how proud he is that they've come so far and learned so much, not just from him, but from Scott as well, who makes a great leader. He even tells Jackson that he thinks he could go pro in lacrosse, if he wanted to.

But with Stiles, it's much more frequent, much more specific. Little details he shouldn't notice about him. If Stiles didn't know any better, he'd think Derek was flirting with him.

"Red is a great color on you."

"You smell like the forest after it rains."

"Your moles and freckles remind me of star maps."

"I like the way your smile lights up your eyes."

"You have really soft hands."

One time, he literally just said the word, "forearms," with a wide-eyed expression on his face before bolting out of the room, leaving Stiles standing alone in the middle of the living room with his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, and a paintbrush held aloft in one hand.

And it all just keeps tumbling out of his mouth like dulcet word vomit, like he's physically incapable of restraining himself.

Not only that, but Stiles could almost swear he keeps catching Derek just staring at him at random intervals, but whenever he looks up, Derek's gaze quickly shifts away and the tips of his ears redden a little bit like he's embarrassed at having been caught looking at Stiles, and it's like they've switched places, because out of the two of them, Stiles is supposed to be the blushing idiot, the one saying all of these stupidly candid schmaltzy things. Stiles is the one who notices all of Derek's little details, not the other way around.

It's so unnerving that Stiles starts to wonder whether Derek has been spiked with something even worse, like a love potion. Stiles buckles down and hits the books even harder, losing sleep as he continues to search for a cure.

• • •

They're crowded around the kitchen table one afternoon after classes let out, shooting the shit about what they think the coven could possibly be up to, when talk turns to childhood nostalgia and they all start arguing over which Hogwarts house they'd each get sorted into if they were witches.

Scott gets a unanimous vote for Gryffindor, but his triumphant smile fades when Erica insists that Stiles belongs in Slytherin with her and Lydia, and that Derek is some kind of Gryffindor/Slytherin hybrid. Isaac thinks they're all squibs. Boyd says that Stiles would get eaten by the giant squid before he even had a chance to be sorted. Stiles gets heated, slapping the table and arguing that Derek is obviously a Hufflepuff.

"Think about it," he says. "He's all about family, incredibly loyal, selfless to a fault, patient to a fault when it comes to that creepy uncle of his, believes in hard work and fair play, strong sense of upholding justice. Case in point, Derek is the perfect Hufflepuff."

"What the hell is a Hufflepuff?" Derek's sudden interjection makes them all jump, and Stiles chokes on air because there's no way in hell Derek just quoted A Very Potter Musical. Eleven pairs of eyes whip to the doorframe where Derek is standing, balancing half a dozen pizza boxes in one hand, one eyebrow arched like he's seriously reconsidering his choice in packmates. And then his entire frame relaxes, broad smile spreading across his face as he strides toward the kitchen table and sets the stack of boxes down.

"Just kidding. I've got a prefect badge with a black and yellow badger crest on it hidden in my sock drawer," he says, and Stiles doesn't miss the way the tips of his ears burn scarlet after he drops that little anecdote.

"You're all wrong, by the way," he adds, almost as if compelled to keep talking. "If anything, Stiles is a Ravenclaw. Naturally curious, avid learner and researcher, creative and clever. And I mean, sure, he's got some positive Gryffindor and Slytherin qualities, too. We all do. Bravery and cunning kind of comes with the territory. But Stiles is a textbook Ravenclaw. Plus, he looks good in blue."

Derek pauses for a moment, wide-eyed expression fixed to the kitchen floor as he sucks in a steady breath and then very slowly releases it back out through his nostrils. He shakes his head as if to clear it, and then promptly walks out of the kitchen at a quick stride, leaving Stiles staring after him, open-mouthed.

(And if Stiles winds up at the local craft store the following morning, picking out the softest black and yellow yarn he can find and cramming a copy of Knitting For Dummies under his arm so that he can maybe learn how to knit Derek a Hufflepuff scarf for his birthday this year…well, what of it?)

• • •

"Hey, maybe true love's kiss will break your curse," Stiles jokes one night when they're all crowded around the dinner table sharing Italian takeaway.

Derek practically shoves his entire fist into his mouth to stop himself from blurting out, maybe you should give it a try.

Luckily, Stiles is too busy screeching about burning his tongue on a scalding mouthful of mozzarella to notice.

• • •

They're in Derek's living room late one evening, nearly a fortnight after the initial incident. Everyone else has gone home, or gone up to their respective rooms. Everyone except for Stiles, who had opted to stay behind to do a bit more reading in an effort to find a way to cure Derek of what Stiles has been affectionately referring to as the curse of the compliments, tucked away into a leather armchair in the far corner of the room, while Derek sprawls out on the couch, exhausted after a run through the woods.

He doesn't know when he had gotten so comfortable around Stiles, allowed himself to become so vulnerable and unguarded, but he ends up falling asleep, lulled by the sound of Stiles's steady scribbling as he takes notes and hums thoughtfully to himself, altogether missing the affectionate smile that spreads across Stiles's face as he glances up in Derek's direction and falters mid-sentence around a half-formed question. A little shiver winds its way down Derek's spine, and Stiles immediately bolts upright, scattering notes and highlighters everywhere as he moves to wrap Derek in a patchwork quilt draped over the back of the couch.

As Derek drifts into an easy slumber, he dreams about Stiles. It's that same dream he's had countless times before, only this time, there's no impending danger, no kanima stalking around the edges of the swimming pool — just the two of them, clutching one another, breath coming out in heated gusts that spiral over the top of their heads.

It's all so vivid, like he's reliving it, only through a different lens. He can feel the bruising grip of Stiles's arms as they wind around his torso, the way Stiles's heartbeat crashes against his ribcage, reverberating against his back. In this memory, Stiles isn't holding him up because he has to — because this time, Derek has full control over his body. He twists around in Stiles's arms until they're facing one another, breath ghosting over each other's lips, and then he's backing him up against the edge of the pool, fingertips tracing the curves of his reddened lips before surging forward and capturing him in a kiss.

He can feel everything, the press of Stiles's body against his own as Stiles arches into him, writhes against him, like he can't get close enough. The feel of Stiles's lips and teeth and tongue against his throat as he buries his face into the curve of Derek's shoulder. The way Stiles whispers his name against Derek's ear, desperate and longing, with a soft affection that makes him want to weep.

And it's all too much, too much, too cruel because it isn't real.

Derek wakes with a gasp and Stiles's name on the tip of his tongue, only to find the real Stiles hovering over him with a blanket grasped in his outstretched hands, staring down at him with wide eyes, mouth hanging open.

"Sorry, I was just—" Stiles falters, taking a cautionary step backward and averting his eyes. "You were shivering. I thought you were cold."

He holds out the blanket like it's a peace offering.

"Oh…uh…thank you," Derek says softly, reaching out to take it and tampering down the electric shock that jolts through his chest as his hand brushes against Stiles's fingertips.

"And um…you were kind of talking in your sleep?" Stiles poses this next statement as a question, like he's giving Derek an out, eyes cast toward the ceiling as he attacks a phantom itch on the back of his neck.

Derek bolts upright, alarmed.

"What did I say?" he asks, fully aware of how frantic he sounds.

"You, uh…well, you sort of said my name. And you were kind of like, breathing really heavily," Stiles offers, chancing a glance over at Derek.

"Is everything okay?" he asks, shifting into concerned pack dad mode, leaning in closer and placing a comforting hand on Derek's shoulder.

"Whoah, your heart's beating really fast," he breathes, brows narrowed in concern as he searches Derek's face for a fault line, no doubt feeling the erratic thrumming as he presses his fingertips against Derek's collarbone. "You okay? Nervous about something?"

Without missing a beat, and absolutely hating it, Derek says, "Yes."

"You want to talk about it?" Stiles asks softly. "What's got you so worked up?"

You, Derek muses with something caught between a smirk and a grimace. Seconds pass before he comes to the horrifying realization that he's just said that out loud. Stiles pales, absentmindedly digging his fingertips into Derek's shoulder, where he seems to be fused.

"I make you nervous?" he asks, his voice soft, disbelieving.

"Yes," Derek grits out against his will.

"Why—" Stiles pauses, swallowing thickly. "Why do I make you nervous?"

Derek stares at him, eyes wide, wondering how in the hell he's going to get himself out of this one without revealing too much.

"I was dreaming about that night at the pool," he says slowly, choosing his words very carefully. "That's why I said your name."

And technically, technically, it's the truth. Just not all of it.

"Oh," Stiles visibly deflates, a gust of breath he didn't realize he'd been holding rushing out of him. He quickly shakes it off. "Yeah, that's gotta leave you with some pretty heavy PTSD, huh?"

Derek nods, pressing his lips together to keep the truth from spilling out.

"Hey, Derek?" Stiles says suddenly, a heart-clenching combination of guilt, sadness, and determination in his eyes. "You know I wouldn't have just left you there, right? Despite what you might think, I wasn't just looking out for myself that night. Literally the only reason I let you go was because I thought if I could get a hold of Scott, we'd both have more of a fighting chance. And if Scott hadn't showed— I would've held you up all night, if I had to. After everything we've been through, I just…I hope you know that by now."

And honestly, Derek might as well be back at the bottom of that pool, because right now, he feels like he's drowning. He just stares up at Stiles, not trusting himself to speak, his throat uncomfortably tight, the corners of his eyes prickling.

"And I'm not just saying that to be nice," Stiles continues, cutting through the tension just as easily as he'd created it. "I'm not the one who's under some weird kind of nice guy curse, or anything. Which I know must be an absolute pain in the ass for you, but don't worry, I'm doing everything I can to find a cure, and then you'll be back to the surly, grumpy Sourwolf we all know and love."

Stiles gives Derek's shoulder a reassuring little squeeze, fixing him with an affectionate half-smile before slinging his backpack over his shoulder and slipping out the front door. Derek stares at the leather armchair scattered with books and leaflets and highlighters until the Stiles-shaped imprint in its cushions fades away, and then he's stalking up to his bedroom, dragging the quilt and the pillow that always smells like Stiles with him and wrapping himself up in it like a burrito.

• • •

Stiles nearly has a heart attack when his bedroom window slides open at a quarter to midnight on the full moon, and Derek comes tumbling inside, a little breathless, but looking determined and resolute. He squares his shoulders, looks Stiles directly in the eye, and says, "Now that I'm no longer cursed and can say this without being compelled to, I've got something I need to tell you."

Stiles prepares for an onslaught of…well, something bad, because that's just his life now, isn't it? That's just been his life for the past several years, ever since the night he decided, hey, looking for half a dead body in the woods sounds like fun and next thing he knows, his best friend is a werewolf, and then everyone around him is a werewolf, or a kanima, or a kitsune, or a banshee, or a darach, or—

What he isn't prepared for is for Derek to start waxing poetic about all the things he likes about Stiles. Because oh right, on top of everything else, there's also witches and Derek has been cursed. Only it's weird, because it's not quite as nice as it has been over the past couple of weeks — in fact, he's pretty sure there's a couple of insults disguised as compliments thrown in there that Stiles doesn't even have time to register because he's just so shocked by what Derek says next.

And I think I might be in love with you.

I think I have been for a while now, I just didn't realize it.

Or maybe I just wasn't willing to admit it.

I guess it took being cursed to finally admit the truth.

And that nervous little laugh he huffs out afterward. Sweet Jesus.

Every inch of Stiles is on fire.

"Oh fuck," he says, a surge of adrenaline burning through his veins like the world's worst shot of fireball whiskey. Derek's smile withers, because yeah, oh fuck isn't exactly at the top of the list of things you want to hear after you've just poured your heart out, and the look Stiles gives him is nothing short of devastating.

"Oh fuck, I was right," Stiles groans, burying his face into the palms of his hands like he's about to cry. "It's gotten so much worse. You're not just cursed, you're delusional."

It hits Derek like a punch to the gut. He barely registers the blur of red and blue as Stiles bounds off the bed and bolts to his desk, rummaging through haphazard stacks of journals and leather-bound books with spiderwebbed spines. Derek watches him with a kind of cautious curiosity, trying to figure out what the fuck is going on.

"Don't worry, Derek," Stiles reassures him in a tone that's anything but, shoving the cap of a highlighter off with his teeth and circling a passage in one of the many, many pages of his chicken-scratch notes. "I promise we'll fix this. There's got to be something in here about love potions, because it's clear to me now that you've been spiked with one. We'll catch the witch that did this to you and make them pay."

And just like that, it all clicks into place. The knot coiling in Derek's stomach unclenches, and then he's laughing unabashedly.

"You're such a fucking dumbass sometimes, you know that?" Derek says as his laughter subsides, the gentle fondness of his tone clashing with the bite of his words. "I haven't been spiked with love potion, Stiles. And I told you, I'm not cursed anymore."

Stiles freezes, caught off guard, because it's the first time he's heard Derek's sarcasm in over two weeks, and he kind of hates how much he'd missed it.

"Are…are you sure?" he asks, wincing at how small he sounds.

"Dead certain," Derek replies with a shit-eating grin that shows all of his teeth, looking for all the world like he's physically struggling to hold back his amusement.

And that's when it hits him. If Derek was still cursed, if he'd been poisoned with some kind of love potion, he wouldn't be able to throw insults and sarcastic quips at Stiles. It would go against the very nature of the spell.

Which can only mean one thing: Derek isn't cursed. He's perfectly fine, and he's fucking with him.

Stiles can't believe he learned two-color brioche for this asshole.

"Fuck you," Stiles says harshly, watching with a sick sort of satisfaction as it wipes the smirk right off of Derek's stupidly handsome face.

"Wait, what?" Derek balks, blinking rapidly like he'd just been struck over the head.

"Fuck you for thinking it's funny to mess with a guy's feelings like this," Stiles spits, hating the pathetic tremor in his voice.

"Stiles, what are you talking about?" Derek asks, eyes wide with worry, like Stiles is the one who's delusional.

"The way I see it, there's only two options here," Stiles barrels on in spite of the anxiety-fueled adrenaline twisting through his veins, heat rising in his cheeks. "Either you've been cursed or spiked with amortentia or — I don't fucking know, some kind of spell that makes you think you have feelings for me, or you were never actually cursed at all, you've figured out that I'm the one who's in love with you, and you've just been saying all of this nice shit to me to…I don't know, wind me up? Make me look like a jackass? Or maybe you just like hurting people."

That last one stings, lends venom to the bite in Derek's voice.

"Option C," Derek grits out, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation. "Fucking Peter got involved with not one, not two, but seven witches from the same coven, and started a civil war — which explains all of the weird shit that's been happening around town lately, apparently they've been trying to curse him and each other — got caught in his own web of lies and fled the scene, but not before hitting my house to pack supplies so he could skip town. The coven tracked him down, but couldn't follow him inside because of Deaton's protection spells, so they just assumed he was hiding out in there, and placed a curse on the sole proprietor. Little did they know, the house is in my name. So, lucky me, I got the full blast of it."

Stiles gapes at him for a few moments, eyes trained on the rapid rise and fall of Derek's chest as he struggles to recompose himself. Anything involving his creepy, murderous, and now apparently two-timing (seven-timing?) uncle always gets him so riled up.

"So, what? You actually were cursed and that's the reason you've been saying nice shit for the past two weeks?" Stiles asks with crossed arms and narrowed eyes, but his tone is several shades softer than it had been a few moments ago, curiosity piqued.

Derek heaves a long-suffering sigh, but he can't help the small smile that tugs at the corner of his lips.

"You still don't get it, do you?" he says with the tone of someone trying to explain something obvious to someone who's very, very stupid. "It didn't make me say nice shit, Stiles. It made me incapable of lying, like Peter lied to all of them. It made me more open and vulnerable and vocal about the things I already felt, stuff I tried to keep hidden. And it made me realize just how much I hated doing that. Because yeah, it was definitely embarrassing at times, but it was also kind of nice, not having to keep it in anymore. And I realized that everyone around me seemed happier for it, that I was able to make the people I care about feel good, just by being honest with them about how I really felt about them."

"Which is why," Derek sighs, pausing to glance up from the floor and lock eyes with Stiles. "As soon as they broke the curse, I came here…to see you…to tell you that I— what I told you."

All of the air rushes out of Stiles's lungs.

"So everything…" he manages, just barely, to keep the choked disbelief out of his voice. "Everything you've been saying to me these past few weeks…and everything you said to me just now…that was real?"

Derek offers him a small, affectionate smile that nearly breaks him in two.

"Yeah, dumbass. I meant every word."

Stiles stares at him for a moment, rooted to the spot, and Derek can practically hear the cogs turning inside his head as he processes it all and plays catch-up. And then he's smiling, this big, goofy grin spreading across his face as he bounds across the room and throws his arms around Derek's neck with such gusto that he knocks them both backward onto Stiles's bed, swallowing Derek's surprised huff of laughter in a kiss.

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