The dull light of too-early morning is what drags Derek from a light doze for the second time. He rolls over, intending to go back to sleep, but now his nose is buried in the delicate skin along the back of Stiles’ neck and his mind and body go from ‘barely awake’ to ‘attentive.’
Stiles’ scent has been slowly changing, becoming more pronounced each time his T levels are adjusted, and now, a year and a half later, it’s become settled. Derek has always liked the way Stiles smells – even more so now that Stiles seems a bit more comfortable with who he is - but it’s the patch of skin low on his belly, between his bellybutton and his pubic bone, that smells the best. It's the slightly spicy scent that is Stiles mixed with the scent of his sex, musky and heavy; pure boy. This part of his stomach is warm and vulnerably soft, and Derek likes to press his face there whenever the chance arises.
He knows it used to make Stiles uncomfortable when he originally started doing this, the first time he noticed the change in Stiles’ scent. Could tell by the way Stiles would tense, his heart rate picking up as his anxiety rose. Now, though...now he seems to get it. Now he relaxes into the hot fan of Derek’s breath against his skin and when he squirms, it’s not out of self-consciousness, but because he’s so sensitive. Derek wishes he could forget the promise he made to himself about waiting until Stiles is older before taking things any further. He wants this ridiculous, irritating, amazing boy to at least have an option of exploring his sexuality before Derek lays his claim, but the wait is driving him insane.
Where Derek had thought he would hide the scars from his surgery, Stiles flaunts them, preens under the strokes of Derek’s fingers because finally, finally his body is taking the shape it’s supposed to have. Stiles no longer seems to hate his body, the constant reek of shame fading until it’s just discomfort he occasionally feels when he’s reminded he’s not quite there yet.
At the moment, Stiles is a sleepy mass of boy limbs, starfished out in the middle of his bed, a pair of sleep pants riding low on his hips. His chest is bare, the scars from his surgery not yet faded, and Derek brushes his fingers over them, pleased at how well everything is turning out. Dr. G had come highly recommended, though seeing him had required flying out to Florida. Both the sheriff and Derek had gone with Stiles, Derek staying for the post-op visit and the fly home while Sheriff Stilinski had returned the day after the surgery, assured that his son was doing well.
The early spring rain picks up, tapping against the windows, the street and the cars parked along the curb. He can hear the soft pattering sound it makes as it bounces off the umbrella of the person unfortunate enough to be out walking so early. He can smell the sharp tang of wet asphalt, the headiness of clouds close to bursting. He can taste the heaviness in the air and he wants nothing more than to spend the day like this, wrapped up in Stiles’ body and scent. He knows what he should do is get up, go downstairs and make them some coffee. Sheriff Stilinski left earlier, the sounds of him getting ready having pulled Derek out of a light doze, which means the pot is still on and mostly full.
Instead he stretches a little and scoots down the bed until he can push his face into the warmth of Stiles’ belly. For all that his doctor and therapist warned that being on testosterone might make him gain weight, and despite the ridiculous amount of his food he consumes daily, Stiles is still lean and taut. Benefits of a high metabolism, Adderall and the off-season lacrosse practices their coach holds.
Derek nips at the curve of a hipbone poking up, then laves his tongue over it, nose still pressed against Stiles’ abdomen. The wolf is close to the surface, sleepy and content, but aware. He let’s it out, just a little, so they can share in this moment. He worries his teeth where the skin is at its most delicate, sucks a bruise there, and then pulls back to study his handiwork. The wolf is pleased; they both like seeing their marks on Stiles’ flesh, and he wears them so readily. This is how they know they’ve chosen a good mate.
Stiles twitches in his sleep, still exhausted from the long day yesterday. It was the full moon last night, and Stiles had chosen to join the pack in the woods, running as fast as his human legs would carry him, tripping, slipping and sliding through wet leaves, laughing and shouting as the wolves sang to the moon. Derek hadn’t noticed right away when Stiles fell behind, and there had been a moment of panic, the span between one heart beat and the next where the wolf had been on the verge of howling for the pack. Then Derek had spotted him, curled up next to a log, sound asleep and oblivious to the rest of the world.
It’s a sign of amazing trust, to fall asleep while surrounded by predators. Derek wonders just what he’s done to deserve this.
“It’s kinda creepy when you do that,” Stiles says, voice sleep-rough. He’s staring blearily down the length of his body almost accusingly, and it takes Derek a moment to realize he said that last bit aloud. “I’m pretty sure my stomach can’t talk back.”
His stomach chooses that moment to growl and Derek laughs. “I don’t think there’s a single part of you that doesn’t talk back, given the opportunity. Silent really isn’t in your vocabulary.”
“Shuddup. I’m starving. You should bring me food.” Stiles shoves at his shoulder until Derek huffs and rolls out of bed. “And coffee,” he adds as Derek opens the door.
The house is still, quiet in a way that would feel lonely if Derek couldn’t still hear Stiles’ heart beat a floor away. It’s one of the reasons he hasn’t even attempted to move back into his house. He likes this, the sense of family and belonging that comes from living in the Stilinski household. But there’s still something missing, something incomplete. As he pads into the kitchen, he thinks maybe he’ll start making noise again about Stiles getting a pet. Something to keep him company on the nights when Derek is out with just the wolves, something to chase away the loneliness that still lingers in the shadows and behind the curtains. Knowing Stiles, though, he’ll pick a cat, which means Derek will have to supervise the shelter visit.
Breakfast is easy to put together: an entire package of bacon, scrambled eggs with cheese and spinach and a couple slices of toast. Just as Derek is loading the last of the dishes from making breakfast into the dishwasher, the front door opens. He can smell the sheriff’s exhaustion from where he is, and he reaches for a mug, pouring the older man the last of the coffee even before he enters the room. The sheriff gives him a tired but grateful smile.
“Stiles asleep still?”
“He’s pretty wiped out. He lasted longer than I thought he would, though.” He can’t help the pride curling around the edges of his tone. Derek glances toward the stairs, listens for the steady in-out of Stiles’ breathing, and...doesn’t quite smile, but it’s close. Stiles relaxes not just him, but his wolf as well, and for the first time ever, he feels settled.
“Mm. Well, don’t let him waste the whole day. He still has an essay to write. I’ll be back around two o’clock.”
Sheriff Stilinski drains the last of his coffee, then opens the refrigerator and retrieves his forgotten lunch. On his way out of the room, he snags a strip of bacon. Derek grabs the plate of food and the over-sized mug of coffee and makes his way upstairs to where Stiles is sprawled out across the bed. He deposits everything on the bedside table, then shoves Stiles over until there’s enough room for Derek to slide back under the covers. The moment he does, Stiles is there, pressing against, mumbling into Derek’s chest.
“Food. I smell food. And coffee.”
“Yes, and both require that you be sitting up to receive them. Come on. And when you’re done, your dad says you have an essay to write.”
“Dude, I did it yesterday before we went out. Knew I’d be too exhausted to move today.” Stiles pushes up and leans back against the wall, humming happily as Derek hands him the plate of food. “You are my hero. A god among werewolves everywhere.” He takes a bite of the eggs and groans, then offers the next to Derek.
They take turns eating—and yeah, maybe Derek very deliberately only brought one set of silverware up—and when all the food is gone, he sets the plates aside. Stiles is blissed out on food and allows himself to be manhandled back down the bed, where Derek lays him out. He’s lazy-full, which means he doesn’t protest when Derek shoves his nose into Stiles’ armpit, breathing him in.
Here he smells sharper, his personal scent partially masked by his deodorant. He’s ticklish under his arms, and he makes a half-assed attempt to wiggle away, but relaxes again when Derek moves down, nipping across his ribs. There’s a bruise there, and it smells of the woods surrounding the Hale house and damp earth; Stiles must have gotten it during the night. Derek laves it with his tongue, then moves on, biting his way down to the waistband of Stiles’ sleep pants. He noses at them, pushing them down just far enough to expose the edge of the dark thatch of hair there. Derek’s eyes close as he breathes in the scent of Stiles’ sex and he knows he won’t be able to deny himself this much longer. Not when he can tell how very much Stiles wants it as well.
Derek’s not selfless enough to not take what’s being offered, even though he knows, knows, that he should wait.
So he slides the pants all the way down and bites back a groan at how readily Stiles’ thighs part. Derek can feel his wolf’s eagerness and has to fight not to just dive in and take. He presses his face into the place between Stiles’ groin and thigh and nearly howls at how good that feels. When he licks across the expanse of skin and coarse hair there, Stiles shivers. His heart is already beating fast, and Derek can taste and smell how aroused he is. He’s glad for it, too, because it means that Stiles is closer to being ready for this, for everything.
Derek noses lower, not at the place where Stiles is slick and open, but higher, where his body has changed and grown. Stiles is sensitive all over, and when Derek presses his nose just to the side of his clit, he gasps, then groans, body shaking. Derek doesn’t do more than that, not yet, but it’s enough because Stiles is still young and has the same hair trigger Derek remembers from his own youth. When he comes, the scent is rich, heady, and it’s all Derek can do not to push his face down to where the smell is coming from. He settles for rubbing his fingers through the slickness dripping down onto the sheets and he brings his fingers to his nose, then sucks them into his mouth.
Stiles, impossibly, gasps and comes again.
“Oh, Jesus.” Stiles’ hand shakes as he reaches out, stopping just short of actually touching Derek’s mouth.
“One day,” Derek murmurs, sliding up until his lips are hovering just over Stiles’. “One day, I’m going to taste all of you. Every inch of your skin.”
“You should shut up and kiss me,” Stiles replies after a beat.
Derek complies. They’ve only got a few hours left before the sheriff returns and he’d rather not waste them.