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midday.

Another dead-end; another night in the tent. It’s been a week they’ve been out on the road, a fucking exhausting week. On the first damn day they ran into a coven of witches - sure, they weren’t violent - ancient and creepy, but not violent. It took some convincing for the witches to let them search their land, and then they disappeared in flames. Flames. It was cool, but ultimately a waste of time.

Since then it’s gotten even harder to track Scott. He keeps leaving false leads, and Stiles is sick of screening calls from Melissa and his dad, or the angry voicemails from Lydia. Worst of all, though—camping is just really, really boring.

“I’m bored,” Stiles complains.

“Noted,” Derek replies without turning. He's sitting outside by the fire, tending to the flames whenever they start to die down. Stiles gets to sit comfortably inside the tent on phone-duty, but he’s passing some of the time staring at Derek’s back.

Every now and then Derek sighs heavily and stops poking the fire to run his fingers through his hair. The amount of times he’s done this in the past hour is exactly seventeen. It’s not weird that Stiles is counting - he’s bored.

What’s worrying is that at that exact moment Derek decides to turn around; must be his wolfy senses.

Stiles doesn’t look away in time and Derek sighs. “You shouldn’t have come.” Stiles takes it in stride, Derek says that every time he catches Stiles watching him. It’s not a secret to anyone that Stiles wants to get freaky with Derek, especially not to Derek’s damn wolfy nose.

“You’re a broken record,” Stiles replies, pretending to play on his phone. He flops back onto the sleeping bags and pillows covering the tent’s floor. “By the way, I give you full permission to maul Scott when we find him.”

Derek scoffs. “I don’t need your permission.”

Stiles stares up at the roof of the tent, it’s a puke-ish yellow color with smoke stains bubbling the material, but you can see the moon and some of the stars through it, which is kind of nice.

“I guess there’s gonna be a line,” he muses, and waves his phone at Derek. “Lydia’s not too happy about having to get even more in touch with her inner-banshee.”

Derek is still looking at him over his shoulder. “Hand me Scott’s hoodie,” Derek says.

“Ya know, a “please” every now and then would be nice,” Stiles reprimands him, shaking his head. “Dude what do you want with it anyway? It’s a dead trail, you said so yourself; Scott hasn’t been here in days.”

“There might be other clues, scents that might give us a hint to other places, something, I don’t—I don’t know.” Derek deflates, and rubs his eyes tiredly. Stiles knows he’s blaming himself for Scott's disappearing act. Hell, he's probably blaming himself for Stiles' homicidal stint - the dude has guilt for days.

It’s frustrating because it’s not Derek’s fault that Allison’s dead and Scott’s gone awol. It’s not. This one’s all on Stiles.

Regret and grief wash over him, and it’s hard to shake. He holds the hoodie out to Derek, lost in thought.

Their fingers touch as Derek takes it, maybe for longer than strictly necessary, maybe like he knows what Stiles is thinking. It’s enough that Stiles’ mind gets caught up in another tangent of weird, new emotions. And way too many of them involve “touching” and “Derek” not being a necessarily bad thing.

They’re both quiet for a while. Derek finally turns back to the fire and shifts into his partial form, silhouetted by the orange firelight. Stiles snorts, because the only way you can tell Derek’s shifted from behind are his ears, pointy and sticking out. It’s oddly endearing.

Derek turns to frown at him. “What?”

“Anyone ever tell you that you sort of look like Spock from behind?” Stiles asks, gesturing at his own ears.

Although Stiles likes to believe he’s built a resistance to Derek’s “don’t-fuck-with-me” face, he has to admit the wolfed-out version is still pretty damn effective.

“Whoa okay,” he concedes, still smiling a little as Derek’s nostrils flare and he bares his teeth. “No vulcan jokes, got it.”

It’s odd, then, that Derek seems startled for a second, going wide eyed before shaking his head and looking away. It’s odder still, that Stiles falls asleep so fast he barely registers the dust falling onto his eyes.

 

*

night.

He wakes up to a hard, naked body pressing him down onto the ground. Stiles’ first instinct is, of course, to feel the body; because if this is one of those hyper vivid dreams then he’s going to get the most out of it that he can.

Stiles digs his fingers into the big, muscled shoulders, moving his hands down to bulging biceps. Ah, one of those dreams. Awesome, Stiles is down. The man growls softly in his ear, nipping the skin with sharp, sharp teeth, his pointed ears twitching.

Wait. That last part's not right.

This isn't a dream, Stiles realizes, also he's completely naked, and the other guy's hard dick is rubbing against his bare thigh; real and hot and big. Yeah, Stiles doesn't have dreams this good, nice try brain.

His second instinct is to struggle, but the hold is too strong. Then the guy lifts their head, and, well. Stiles realizes who it is that’s been holding him down—not that he wasn't on the track to figuring it out anyway.

“Derek,” he says, gulping. Stiles feels like he’s staring down a rabid dog - pun intended - one wrong move, and this could go to shit really fast. “Derek,” he repeats hesitantly.

Derek’s wolfed out and obviously hexed, or hypnotised, or something - he is definitely not in the realm of rational thought. Derek tilts his head and his blue beta eyes glow, glinting something yellow and strange, Stiles doesn’t know if that’s car lights flashing through the tent, or a werewolf thing.

“Whatever’s happening here,” Stiles tries, licking his lips nervously, “we can fix it, I can fix it. I think. You just have to let me… let me go.” He pushes at Derek’s bare chest and tries not think about how it feels under his hands. All it gets him is a warning growl and a flash of sharp teeth. “Okay, m-maybe not.”

“Stiles,” Derek snarls, digging clawed fingers into Stiles’ hips. Derek pulls his knees up and apart and, yep, that’s the head of his cock nudging against Stiles’ nuts. He didn't notice it before, but Derek's dick is leaking come like crazy, smearing wetly onto the thin skin of Stiles' balls, dripping onto the sleeping back beneath them. In spite of the circumstances, Stiles’ dick decides to join the party. Of course.

“This can’t be happening,” Stiles utters disbelievingly as Derek ruts against him. Stiles’ own cock is only getting harder as it rubs between their stomachs. “Nope, ah, can’t be.”

Derek rumbles in the back of his throat, baring his teeth when the head of his dick nudges against Stiles’ rim.

“Yes,” Derek growls, his eyes are glazed and his voice is something wild, unnatural. “Yes mine. My Stiles, mine to fuck.”

“What,” Stiles blurts, pushing at Derek's chest and panicking, “No, no!”

The slick head of Derek’s cock slides between his ass cheeks. When Stiles tries to kick at him Derek roars and holds him down, he holds Stiles’ legs apart.

“Stop, God, stop, Derek!” Stiles thrashes, but Derek’s cock is at his hole, and the tip of it is nudging against his rim, hot and so, so wet. “You can’t, we didn’t even — f-fuck!”

The head pops in, and it feels so much bigger than Stiles expected. This'll hurt, Stiles thinks, it'll tear his virgin ass apart. Derek persists anyway, though for a second it doesn’t even seem like the rest of him will even be able to push in. Stiles is too tight, too dry. “It won’t fit, Derek," he sobs, "wait, please.”

But Derek ignores him and keeps pushing, he pulls Stiles cheeks apart with too-sharp fingers, watches as his cock slides slowly in. Stiles' jaw drops. Derek doesn't stop, he pushes in until Stiles is crying out at the stretch of his rectum, the pain, until Derek’s dick is almost halfway in and Stiles already feels so full he can’t take it. He tries to relax his muscles, tries to breathe, but it seems impossible, the stretch is neverending.

And now it’s not just the wideness of Derek's cock that’s terrifying, it’s that it's so, so long. “Please stop,” Stiles whimpers, “It won’t fit, it won’t fit.“ He’s still impossibly, shamefully hard, dribbling come onto his navel any time Derek moves deeper.

It goes on until their hips are nestled snugly together. Stiles can feel it, every inch of it so deeply inside of him. He's stiff and arched back, trying to adjust to the feeling.

Jesus, Derek’s inside of him; there is a cock in Stiles’ ass stretching him open in a way he never has been before, not by anything.

Of course, there were a million ways he imagined this happening, Derek was in most of them. But in his imagination they never skipped so many steps to get here. It was never meant to happen like this. Though Stiles can’t think too much about that right now.

Stiles’ legs are wrapped limply around Derek’s waist, held up by Derek’s strong hands. And yeah, he’s still hard. According to his body: any naked touching must be good naked touching. And Derek growling whilst naked and inside of him just so happens to have been a midnight fantasy favourite.

Great timing, dick.

Stiles starts crying anyway. Derek tilts his head at him again, confused - like this isn’t the most life changing moment of Stiles’ life, like this doesn’t change everything - and he licks up Stiles’ tears.

Figures.

Just as Stiles starts to really get going, sobbing “please” and “stop” again and again until the words lose all meaning, Derek pulls him up by the waist until Stiles is upright and straddling his lap.

The new angle pushes Derek in even further, causing Stiles to gape as he’s forced to grind down onto his cock.

“Stiles,” Derek moans, and then he kisses him, or it’s something like a kiss. The wolfed out ripply face and teeth get in the way, but Stiles will take it. Right now he needs it, so he kisses back. Because it’s Derek, isn’t it? And maybe the werewolf thing has played a bigger part in Stiles’ fantasies than he’d like to admit. Even if it was never like this.

“Mine,” Derek growls into his mouth, his teeth nip at Stiles’ lip and in their next kiss he tastes a little blood.

Derek scrapes his nails painfully down Stiles' naked sides, "Mine," he repeats more pointedly, like he needs an answer.

"Sure," Stiles agrees, panting and scared. "Yeah, yes, just—"

Derek starts thrusting, brutally, deeply, and Stiles’ mouth falls open in a silent scream. Derek holds onto Stiles’ hips and grunts with each thrust. He makes inhuman, guttural noises every time he pushes in and out of Stiles.

One particularly hard slap of hips causes Stiles to fall back until he’s bracing himself on his elbows. But Derek’s still inside him, and he just stretches Stiles’ legs apart and follows him down.

Stiles feels his balls tighten, his cock leaks between them. At least he gets to come, he thinks, his fingers tightening in the sheets.

Derek is thrusting so fast and so hard into him now that he’s pretty sure the tent’s moved a few feet. Stiles wraps his arms around Derek’s shoulders and moves with him, moaning so loud it almost drowns out Derek’s growling. Every now and then he strokes against something inside of Stiles, something awesome, and Stiles wants more damn it.

“Holy fuck, Derek, please,” Stiles begs, “Please, please, please, fuck.” He pushes up, mouth hanging open on a cry of Derek’s name, and he comes, clenching down on Derek's cock through his orgasm.

Derek keeps fucking into him as Stiles’ cock twitches and softens. His face shifts back to human and their mouths are close. But the strange dust settles over Stiles’ eyes, and he’s asleep before he can feel the kiss.

 

*

morning.

Derek wakes up slowly. The pillows and blankets are warm and comfortable, and sunlight filters lightly in through the tent. Everything feels peaceful, perfect. Derek feels more well-rested than he has in weeks, and he’d be content to just lie back and enjoy the morning a while longer.

But then he remembers; Scott’s still missing.

Derek jolts up and shoves away the covers. He frowns as the cold hits him—he doesn’t remember going to bed naked. He normally wouldn’t with Stiles here. Derek shrugs it off and gets dressed.

He wonders where Stiles is, he hasn’t seen him since… yesterday, sometime yesterday. Derek shakes his head, yesterday is oddly fuzzy. Before he can think about it too much he hears Stiles trudging back, and his wolf nearly pushes through in excitement.

Derek pushes it back down, startled at its urgency to claim Stiles now. It hasn’t been this strong since he first found out his wolf had imprinted on Stiles. And this, this is why Stiles shouldn't have come. Because the desire's always there, always pushing at Derek to take what he can't.

It’s a while before Stiles climbs into the tent, “Hey,” he says, toweling at his hair. He smells like lake water. Derek’s wolf wants to make Stiles smell like him, and it’s tempting to give in - it always is - it would just feel so good to mark Stiles up, to fuck him and make him his.

Derek clears his throat and looks away.

Stiles tosses the towel onto the floor and opens up his laptop. He doesn’t speak to Derek for the rest of the day, which is fine; understandable. Scott’s his best friend and he’s worried.

Stiles’ has marks all over his neck and a split lip. Derek is about to say something, when dust settles over his eyes.

Derek shakes his head and focuses his attention on the scent of the hoodie and mapping out a new direction.

 

*

 

two nights later.

Derek glances down, his features are skewed by the shift in an almost monstrous way, which, funny enough, only makes Stiles’ dick harder. And before he can even form the shape of a word his pants are being yanked down and Derek’s sliding between his legs.

“You’re going to hate me so much,” Stiles mutters, and Derek’s pointy wolf-ears twitch at the words. Stiles should stop this, he should at least try, but he won’t; not anymore. He likes it. “I think I already hate me,” he sighs.

Derek ignores him and swallows him down, teeth a terrifying reminder of how dangerous this is. Stiles feels the tease of them at the head when Derek bobs up, he fucking nuzzles his cock, nuzzles, and starts lapping at Stiles’ balls.

Derek pulls away and rubs his thumb over Stiles’ hole. A nail flicks over Stiles’ wet rim and he shudders. When he looks down he finds Derek’s watching him.

“I shouldn’t have come,” Stiles says, mimicking Derek’s usual mantra.

Instead of answering, because Derek’s not the most talkative in this particular state, he grabs Stiles’ hips and forces him to turn over. Stiles buries his face into the pillow, anticipating the pain of Derek pushing in dry, and worse, wanting it.

What he gets, though, is Derek spreading his cheeks apart and licking at his ass. He did notexpect that.

“Derek! What—?” Stiles shivers at the sensation of Derek closing his mouth over his hole and tonguing it. It’s weird, it’s so good. He holds his breath and for a few seconds all he hears are the crickets chirping outside of the tent, and the slurping sound of Derek sucking his ass.

That’s another thing to cross off the list.

“Your mouth, fuck.”

Derek’s sharp nails dig into the soft flesh of Stiles’ ass as he pulls him into the swipes of his tongue. He squirms when Derek finally starts to push it into him, his tongue is thicker and longer than an average human’s would be, and Stiles feels his body give out.

“God, do it,” Stiles mumbles, he’s still hard, his cock leaking down his leg and onto his sleeping bag. “Just—just fuck me with it.”

Derek does, his tongue driving in and out, and Stiles thrusts his hips back to meet it, moaning.

On the last thrust Derek slides it in as far as it can go, until his face is nestled against Stiles’ ass and his tongue squirms inside Stiles. Stiles yells as he comes, rutting into the floor and and against Derek's face.

*

a day.

Stiles won’t meet his eye, it’s frustrating the hell out of Derek. Stiles has been acting strangely, blushing and quiet, he’s not himself, it’s not right. Derek knows there’s something he’s missing, every now and then he catches a scent, or notices the slight limp in Stiles’ walk, and he can’t quite grasp what it is.

It’s like something’s not letting him put it together, even though he’s noticed the marks on Stiles’ neck. He’s noticed...

That’s as far as he gets before the dust settles over his eyes and he forgets what he was thinking about.

 

*

that night.

It happens again. And again, and again. Some nights Stiles will wake up to Derek’s sharp kisses, on a few he’s woken up to Derek already inside of him, tonight it’s to Derek rubbing the head of his cock against his lips, come leaking down to Stiles’ chin before Derek thrusts it into his mouth.

Stiles has been taking notes, trying to match it up with similar werewolf behaviour or spells. A pattern becomes clear. Derek’s always wolfed-out, he never remembers, and Stiles always falls asleep as soon as he comes and wakes up every morning at exactly five a.m. He’s had luck with always finding somewhere to get clean.

It wasn’t easy figuring out it was the dust knocking him out and making him forget it. Stiles was being fucked into oblivion, so it took a hell of a lot of concentration to scribble out “DUST” onto an old receipt before he blacked out from orgasm. Then it took a hell of a lot of squinting to read his own writing the next day.

He suspects witches, but he’s not going to tell Derek just yet. Not until he’s sure, or they find Scott. Whatever comes first.

For now he pulls Derek’s hips forward and sucks his cock in deeper, and pretends he doesn’t just want to keep this a while longer.

 

*

three days later.

Derek found the bag of wolfsbane when he was looking for some paper to write on. It’s in the glove compartment. He can’t touch it without burning his fingertips.

As soon as he found it all the things he noticed came roaring to the front of his mind, and it’s clear, so clear. But he doesn’t know what to believe, so he’ll wait till they’re on the road, he’ll give Stiles the chance to explain.

*

on the road.

“You’ve been quiet,” Derek says, fingers clenching around the wheel.

Stiles shrugs, looking out the car window. Another bruise is exposed just under his ear, and it pisses Derek off.

“Stiles,” he barks.

“I’m fine,” Stiles says, not turning to look at him.

“We need to talk, Stiles,” Derek grits out, he clenches his jaw and shuts his eyes. “I’ve noticed the… the marks.”

Stiles tenses, he glances at Derek from the corner of his eye, and after days of subdued silence there it is. There he is.

Derek swallows. “I noticed the wolfsbane too. It’s in the back of the glove compartment, sealed in a paper bag with sex runes all over it.”

Stiles eyes widen then, in surprise, he opens the compartment and grabs the paper bag. “So that’s what… look, Derek, I don’t know what you’re thinking but—”

“You smell like me, Stiles! Always, all the time, and not just…” Not just because you’re mine. Not just because my wolf imprinted on you forever ago without my permission, without yours. Derek shakes his head. “Damn it, just tell me!,” Derek demands, “tell me what that’s for, tell me what you did, Stiles.”

Stiles turns to him, eyes gone even wider at the accusation. “You think I would… that just because I want you, you--you fucking think—”

“I’m thinking of what’s right in front of me!” Derek yells, and feels doubt claw at him from the inside. Maybe Stiles didn’t do this. Maybe, maybe. “I know those runes, I know that smell, Stiles. But I don’t know why.”

Stiles stares at him for a long time, watery eyed and pale, he shakes his head and looks away. “Just drive the fucking car and you’ll get an answer, you monumental asshole.”

 

*

 

They don’t speak until they reach the nearest motel. Derek is shaking when he gets out of the jeep, fists clenching as he goes around to the other side to. To what? To confront Stiles? Beat him, ask him why, why not for real, why not with him. But Stiles is already out and swinging at him.

He gets one punch in, Derek’s cheek hurts for maybe a second, but Stiles stumbles back, cradling his hand. “Jesus Christ, is your face made of steel?”

They back away from each other, panting, and Stiles throws a notebook at Derek’s chest. Derek catches it and frowns, it’s the new one Stiles has been writing in. Paper ends stick out of the edges, there’s a yellow bookmark near the middle.

“I’m going for a drive. Read that,” Stiles says as he climbs back into the jeep, and adds, “Asshole.” He flexes his fingers before closing them on the steering wheel.

Speechless, Derek watches him drive away, then checks into the motel.

 

*

 

Stiles speeds down the dirt road, blinking away tears and rubbing at his eyes. It’s stupid, the whole thing, and him most of all. God, what did he think Derek was going to say when he found out? How could any of this be alright? Stiles wanted it to happen. He let it, over and over.

He sniffs and wipes at his eyes with his sleeve, and so doesn’t see the man on the road until he drops his arm down.

Stiles exclaims, “Shit!” and swerves too late, crashing right into him.

The jeep screeches to a halt, Stiles jumps out and runs over. “Oh my God, no, no, no.”

The man is lying face down, groaning and scrabbling at the ground.

Stiles crouches down beside him, hands hovering over him. “God, please be okay.” He turns the man over, and, and it’s—Scott. It’s Scott.

“Ugh, I guess you’re not too happy to see me,” Scott mumbles, wincing up at Stiles.

Stiles blinks at him a couple of time, then he grabs Scott up and hugs the life out of him and just laughs and laughs for the first time in weeks.

 

*

a month.

Scott attends therapy now. It seems to help, at the very least he isn’t disappearing for weeks at a time anymore. They talk about Allison—a lot, and it's not easy but Scott's getting better at dealing with it. Stiles counts it as a win.

The other thing stopped happening the night Stiles found Scott. That’s not as coincidental as it sounds, since Stiles burned the bag of wolfsbane that night in the motel parking lot.

Fire witches danced in the embers. They laughed at him, at them, “You’re each other’s already,” one said, flickering in the flames. “We just gave you what you already had.”

Unsurprisingly, Derek’s been avoiding him since they got back, which Stiles has no problem with. It wasn’t real and it would be too messed up to consider anything after it.

That doesn’t mean Stiles can’t jerk off to the memory.

 

*

seven days.

At around midnight, Derek climbs in through his window.

“You coming to me in the middle of the night - I think I know how this plays out,” Stiles murmurs tiredly, and Derek’s so surprised he hits his knee on the window frame.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles says quickly, turning over and looking surprised to find Derek's actually there, “I didn't think... that wasn't funny, it’s not—”

"Shh." Derek interrupts him, holding up a hand, “It’s okay”. He pulls the notebook out of his jacket and tosses it onto the bed next to Stiles. “I wanted to bring that back. I, uh, I read it.”

“Oh.” Stiles sits up and looks down at it, he traces his fingers over the cover. “I’m still sorry,” he says softly.

Derek sighs and sits at the edge of the bed. “I know you are."

"I don't think you do," Stiles says brokenly, "I think if you knew, you wouldn't be here now. I'm not a good person, Derek."

Derek looks at him then, sees so many of the same things he's feeling in Stiles' eyes, most of them helpless.

"I'm here," Derek starts hoarsley, "because I'm not a good person, Stiles. Because I'm sorry, but not - not because of you."

Stiles' eyes are wide glassy, and he's biting his lip. He probably can’t see Derek too well in the darkness of his room, but Derek can see him.

Stiles lets out a shuddery breath. “I wanted it,” he confesses, voice shaky and low. “God, I-I provoked it some nights. What’s wrong with me? Derek, I should’ve told you, I should’ve stopped it but I couldn’t—I just.” Tears streak down his face, and drop onto the mattress.

Derek doesn’t want to hear anymore, is suffocated by the heavy scent of guilt and shame and desire between them. He doesn't know how much of it's his or Stiles'. "God I'm sorry. I'm so sorry Stiles, I..." He shakes his head, reaches for Stiles’ hand and laces their fingers. “Look, look Stiles, I have to tell you—”

Stiles shakes his head, eyes wide and terrified. “Please don’t.”

“I have to,” Derek whispers. “You need to know. Shit, this wouldn't hand happened if it wasn't for me, ok?”

Stiles scoffs and lets go of his hand. “Derek you weren't you, alright? But I," Stiles gulps, closes his eyes, holds out his hands, "I was all me.”

“Stiles, no, I imprinted on you,” Derek tells him in a rush, and Stiles goes still. Derek rubs a hand down his face and goes on, “We’re bonded, that's why we—the witches read that connection and used it to play with us, do you understand? They brought the side out of me that wanted to take - to..." mate you. He can't say the word, feels the wolf inside him howl happily that the deed is long since done. "Stiles, it’s my fault.

There’s a lapse of silence between them, Stiles' heart is racing and Derek focuses on it. Eventually Stiles squeezes his fingers and sniffs, rubbing his nose with his sleeve. “This, uh,” he starts, his voice nasally from crying, and he sniffs again, huffs a small laugh. “Please God, tell me this isn’t like a Twilight thing.”

Derek smiles weakly and hangs his head. “No, it’s not like that.”

“What is it? Like, you’ll die without me? Will I die without you? Is it some kind of werewolf marriage?” Stiles asks, and his eyes go wide. “Do I need to tell my Dad?”

“Sort of the latter, it’s…” Derek frowns, wracking his brain for an explanation. “It’s just finding someone and knowing they’re right for you, that you’re not complete without them. It’s like human love but more profound, more permanent… at least for me.”

“…Love?” Stiles asks hesitantly.

Derek meets his eyes, the urge to protect himself and deny it is strong. It won’t fix anything, it won’t erase the things that happened or change the order. But he owes this to Stiles. He owes it to himself. So. “Yeah,” Derek admits finally, “Yeah, love.”

Stiles grabs him by the lapels of his jacket and pulls him down, Derek's startled enough that he lets him. He straddles Stiles leg, holding his weight up. Their foreheads meet and for a while they just breathe against each other, hot and close and intimate, and Derek hates knowing that they could’ve been this all along. That it was stolen from them, in one way or another.

“I never did any of that before,” Stiles admits quietly after a while, his eyes fluttering open, “not with anybody… not ever.”

“I know,” Derek says solemnly, he’d know even if he couldn’t hear Stiles’ heartbeat. “I’m so sorry.”

“I am too, I really am… and I’m also… not, ” Stiles says, shuddering out a breath. “You can hear that, right?” His heartbeat remains steady, he’s not lying. “God, I know it’s sick, I know it wasn’t right but—but all I ever wanted was for it to be you, Derek. To be us.”

Derek traces Stiles' bottom lip with his thumb, and desperately wants the same thing. “We can,” he says resolutely, and tilts up Stiles’ chin. “We’ll do it right this time, Stiles.”

He hovers carefully over Stiles’ body until Stiles makes an annoyed sound and tugs him down onto him. Derek can’t help but think it feels familiar, and there’s more good to that thought than bad.

“Dude,” Stiles chuckles sadly when they part, “I just realized I never kissed you while you were human before.” His eyes dart over Derek’s face and linger on his mouth.

Derek wishes he could remember, and maybe someday he will, but for now he just kisses Stiles again, and pretends this is their first.

 

fin.

 

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