-The First Time-
The summer sun beats hot in the evenings, leaving Stiles and the rest of the gang lounging miserably over gum infested benches and drooling pathetically over vending machines they can’t afford to buy from.
Community service…wasn’t where Stiles pictured himself to be after graduation. Isn’t where he should be so soon after Scott’s funeral.
But he got caught up with the wrong type of people, and the justice system doesn’t hand out days off for 'fuck ups' like them.
A reverent silence has remained between them, settling across the bay side and over into the small rest stop the lot of them were assigned to clean.
Allison hasn’t said more than a handful of words since it happened, rarely offering more than a curt yes or a faint no. Her inner turmoil is probably more than enough to deal with without having to be tuned in to each of their thoughts as well.
Subtly, Erica has begun to regress back to the way she was before she was capable of manipulating time. Quiet. Suffering in silence. She would never say it, but it doesn’t take Allison’s power of mind reading to know she blames Erica for not saving Scott. Not being able to go back and stop him from dying.
Derek, like always, doesn’t reveal much. He shows up for community service, does his work, keeps his head down and rarely makes eye contact; generally frowning more than anything else. The only indicator that he’s actually effected by the situation is when something flits through his eyes - there and gone, but closely resembling grief - as he stares off into nothing at odd intervals.
And Stiles…Stiles hasn’t been able to figure out what a life without Scott means for him. They’d been together when he got busted; Scott had been trying to get Stiles out before shit went down, but ultimately it ended up landing them both with a hefty amount of community service.
Other than a firm smack to the back of Stiles’ head, Scott hadn’t even seemed the least bit inclined to blame Stiles for it.
Now he’s gone, and there’s no one to keep him from tipping over the knife’s edge between the smart life choices he should make, and the tempting ones that make life riveting.
A thin whiz of air skims his ears, pulling him from his thoughts moments before Allison exclaims in pain.
"Oh, ow - fuck.”
Stiles turns from where he’d been pretend cleaning a drinking fountain for the past hour to see Allison clutching her eye, a slickly folded paper plane resting by her feet.
"The hell..?" Erica sounds from the pillar next to Stiles, lowering her phone to peek over at Allison.
Who just so happens to be hissing and cursing softly, “caught me in the eye,” she shakes her head, a frown of frustration crowding her lips. Stiles can see the 'I can't catch a break' that she isn't voicing.
Derek, being only a handful of feet away from the brunette, frowns and bends to pick it up.
Stiles in turn glances around the area, but they’re the only ones around. There’s a girl talking on the phone down on the boardwalk, but she’s too far away to make out any concrete features, let alone sail a paper plane over to Allison’s face.
"What the fuck is that suppose to mean?" Erica asks, looking down at the paper with Allison and Derek when Stiles turns back around.
His eyebrows crease, and he leans against the pillar Erica had been sitting next to with his arms crossed over his chest. “What’s it say?”
They all look up to meet his gaze, but in the end it’s Derek that speaks over to him, “It says, ‘Go to his grave.’”
The four of them stand in the dreary gray fog that surrounds the whole of the cemetery, fidgeting uncomfortably as they shrink themselves away from the ever presence of death.
"This is a waste of time," Erica whispers from beside Stiles, voice low enough that hopefully Allison can’t hear. That doesn’t stop Stiles from shushing her, though. She rolls her eyes in a huff and crosses her arms over her chest.
In front of them, Allison stands at the forefront of Scott’s grave, head downcast and shoulders giving nothing away as the three of them watch.
Then he hears her soft intake of breath - the beginning to a far louder sob, Stiles feels - and takes it upon himself to move forward.
"Allison," he starts gingerly, heart aching along side her as his eyes flick to the ‘Beloved Son and Friend’ on Scott’s grave, before reaching his hand out to her.
It freezes just above her shoulder when she turns to them with a dazzling smile, the words, “He’s alive,” breathless on her lips.
"What?" Derek says shortly from somewhere behind Stiles. Stiles is inclined to agree with the one worded sentiment.
"He is,” Allison stresses, eyes wide like they’re willing them to believe her.
"I don’t think-" Erica starts, but cuts off when Allison lands her with an icy glare.
"Trust me," she snaps, then turns on her heel to head off somewhere deeper into the cemetery.
"Where are you going?" Stiles calls after her, and Allison waves a hand over her head in response.
"We’re going to need some shovels if we’re going to dig him out!"
Behind her back, three dubious glances are shared in mutual sympathy.
Two hours later finds them finally pulling Scott’s coffin out of the ground, Stiles’ lungs beginning to tingle from being short of breath. Only, the strain to breathe hadn’t come from overworking himself.
Without even a second thought or lick of hesitation, Allison is whipping the coffin open - and Stiles’ breath leaves him completely.
Scott is the image of peaceful sleep, but he’s dead, nonetheless.
Then Allison moves forward and gently shakes Scott’s shoulder, and Stiles loses it.
”Stop it,” he barks, the venom in his voice surprising even him. Allison startles only slightly to look up at him, but he can’t find it in him to care. Not when he allowed it to go this far. Not when they’d just disturbed and disrespected his best friends grave so immensely he’ll be sick with just the thought of it for years to come.
He continues with heaving breaths and clenched fists: “You’re not the only fucking person who lost him, you know. This is hard for all of us.”
At that, Allison’s face hardens, “You think I don’t know that?”
"Do you?" Stiles laughs without mirth. "You haven’t said more than a few words to each of us, like somehow it’s our fault this happened.”
Allison’s eyes narrow before she’s huffing and looking off to the side to avoid his gaze. “Of course I don’t blame you guys -“
"Oh no?" Stiles says meanly. "You really think we haven’t noticed how you’ve been treating Erica?" Allison’s expression falters at the mention of her name, and the action makes Stiles soften. After all, it had been Allison Scott had been in love with, and Scott in turn had been Allison’s love. This might be as hard for her as it is for Stiles.
He sighs, flicking his eyes over to Erica and then Derek as if it’ll help him calm down. Erica gives him a sad little smile while Derek’s looking at him like he’d never seen him before today.
Angry for losing his temper, Stiles drags a hand through his hair and lets it fall to rest at his thigh before looking back at Allison.
His voice is gentle this time when he says, “She couldn’t have saved him, Al, no one could.”
And then Scott groans.
Three simultaneous gasps sound in the cemetery as the world comes to a slamming halt. Allison, on the other hand, smiles as tears begin to well up in her eyes, her gaze on Scott’s waking face.
Because apparently, he had just been sleeping.
"What the fuck,” Erica shouts in a panic, and that’s what finally makes Scott snap his eyes open and bolt into a sitting position.
"Shit," he breathes, like he’d been on the cusp of a nightmare before they’d arrived, and looks at all of them with big, startled eyes. Then he visibly softens, and along with a breath of relief he says, "thank god.”
Stiles falls to his knees at the edge of the open coffin and pulls Scott into a bruising hug, only barely catching himself before touching any skin. “I thought you were dead, dude,” his voice is muffled into the tux they’d put Scott in, and he won’t even deny his obvious tears.
Scott hugs him back, possibly more fiercely, and whispers, “Immortality, dude, told you I had a power.”
And they laugh triumphantly.
-The Second Time-
When Stiles hears Scott shout, “Hey you prick, that’s my best friend,” and then what Stiles assumes is Scott’s fist connecting with someone’s face, he jumps up from where he’d been lounging in the lobby of the community center to follow the noise.
He turns the corner just as Erica starts shouting furiously and shoves Scott back from where he had Derek up against a wall.
"You touch him again and I’ll kick you so hard in the balls your dad will feel it,” Erica says, not two inches from Scott’s face looking entirely genuine in her threat.
Allison enters the scene looking just as confused as Stiles feels.
"What the fuck is going on?" He shouts over the chaos, and just as Derek’s eyes are falling downcast - almost guiltily - Scott is turning to him with wide, surprised eyes.
"Dude, what happened to your face?" Scott asks, and Stiles lifts a single brow. "It was all messed up before! You told me Derek had attacked you!"
"Uh," Stiles flicks his tongue out along his bottom lip, looking over to where Derek is still slumping against the wall, now looking incredibly confused.
His nose is bleeding and he’ll probably have a black eye tomorrow. And while Stiles is oddly grateful to know that Scott is willing to sucker punch some dude on behalf of his honor, there’s no way in hell Derek of all people would hurt him. He knows that for certain.
"Dude, I’m fine," Stiles reassures with his hands up and palms out. “Derek never even touched me -"
“He gave you a blow job?” Allisons exclaims, still in the hallway. When they all look over at her, it’s obvious she hadn’t meant to say that, and she throws an apologetic look in Derek’s direction.
Which in turn draws all of their eyes to Derek.
“What?” Both Scott and Stiles say at the same time.
"Okay, what the fuck is going on?” Stiles shouts, giving Derek a hard look. “Why the hell would you tell someone I gave you a blowjob?”
"I didn’t,” Derek stresses, looking guilty again. “She must have read my thoughts-”
“But I didn’t give you a blow job,” Stiles throws his arms up in the air, if only to emphasize how fucking ridiculous it is that they’re even arguing over this.
Derek fidgets, clearly uncomfortable if his high blush is anything to go by. “In the locker room,” he says almost under his breath, like he’s trying to have a private conversation with Stiles while in the presence of all of their friends. “You said you wanted to thank me, I just thought it was because I got rid of our probation worker.”
"Dude," Stiles says harshly, eyebrows furrowed and mouth set in a hard line. "Even if I had given you a blow job? You wouldn’t have remembered.”
At this, Derek eyebrows crease in confusion, and Stiles sighs.
"I can’t touch anyone nowadays without them coming out of it not having a clue what happened."
Derek’s eyes clear, the unspoken ‘oh, right' as obvious as day.
Which is right around the time that Erica comes out of the bathroom across from them all, stopping short when she spots the Erica that’s still crowding Scott.
"What the-" the Erica frozen in the bathroom doorway says, and the Erica next to Scott bolts down the hallway.
"Seriously, what the fuck is going on today?"
"She heard me say I got rid of our probation worker," Derek says frantically, eyes still watching the exit The Other Erica had taken.
There’s a moment of silence, and then The Real Erica says, “I can’t take a shit without all hell breaking loose, can I?”
"Her name’s Jennifer," Derek says as they all stand around the hole the shape shifting psycho bitch had crawled into after transforming into a mouse.
"She got a thing for you?" Erica asks, and Derek shrugs.
"She was at the same mental institution I was sent to after…after the fire." Out of the corner of Stiles’ eye, he can see Derek shift uncomfortably. It’s nothing new, he never likes to talk about why he’d been assigned community service. "I think she’s obsessed with me."
"She must have been the one that gave you the blow job," Allison says. "At least you know you’re not crazy." Always the optimist.
"Yeah," Derek says dryly, ears tinted pink. Stiles gives him a funny look, but before he can say anything a mouse is running back through the hole and out into the hall, effectively drawing his attention elsewhere.
The lights cut out and Stiles is left in total darkness.
Before they’d been shut off, Scott had been speared on a pipe that stuck out from the wall, and Erica was strangling Jennifer - who’d shifted to look like Allison.
She’d looked too much like the real Allison for Stiles to watch, and moments after he’d turned with a sense of detachment to help Scott, they’d been swallowed up by the darkness.
Then comes the sound of approaching footsteps.
His breath comes out in short gusts as thick, cloying anticipation crawls up his spine - the type you can’t help but fall prey to when walking down a dark hallway, or moving over to your bed after shutting out the lights.
A figure brushes past him, making him go absolutely rigid. Helplessness creeps up into his throat from being able to feel the presence of someone unknown but not being able to see them.
In front of him, he hears Erica call out in confusion, and then a stumble before a bang. His eyes search desperately in the dark, trying to make her out, but his attempts are futile considering the lack of windows - the absolute lack of light - in the dank space.
There’s the shuffling of movement, and he hears Jennifer use Allison’s voice to mumble something incoherent against the gag.
Tension hangs heavy in the air, no one daring to speak or even breathe as Jennifer/Allison starts to call out more frantically, and is finally dragged away.
Farther into the locker room Stiles hears her take a deep breath, and knows whoever it was that had brushed past him has just set her free.
Then the footsteps grow closer once more, but instead of bypassing him again they lead to the door of the locker room. When it’s pushed open, the light from the hallway outlines a masked, hooded person in all black.
The mysterious person takes one last look into the locker room, and then lets the door fall shut.
"It’s me, you assholes,” comes from across the room. The lights flick on and Allison stands by the light switch, the red line around her neck angry as she rubs at it.
By the time the rest of them regain their bearings from the return of the light, Erica - Jennifer it would seem - is gone.
-The Third Time-
Allison dances as though the horrors of the previous day have been forgotten. Stiles is glad for it, glad that she can set aside the memory of fear that lays behind the still angry line tattooed - for the moment - around her neck.
Erica and Scott are right along side her on the dance floor, and Stiles lets himself slip easily into the club atmosphere. He pushes aside the thoughts of the hooded person and the close call with Jennifer that nearly resulted in all of their arrests.
But Derek had finally gotten through to her before she told the police anything, and for now they’re safe.
Distantly, Stiles realizes that Derek doesn’t even seem to be anywhere near by - but then again the pill they’d each taken from Scott and Allison’s friend, Isaac, has already begun to take affect. His thoughts are hazy and detached from reality as his body loosens more and more under the thump of the music.
For a moment he closes his eyes and lets himself float with the weightlessness of the drug - distantly hearing Allison confess to Isaac and Scott about buried feelings and bone deep longing - until the feel of skin on his trip-hammers his heart into racing; effectively depositing him back into his skin.
He turns to face whatever body he’d lured to him by accident, readying himself for frenzied, uncontrollable want and lust blown gazes, and instead receives a furious face pressed close to his own.
“Fucking slut!” The man roars, eyes brimming with fury and disgust.
Stiles throws himself back from the confrontation, and by doing so slams into another person, who in turn broadcasts their repulsion with the contact by nearly spitting at him.
Shakily and wide eyed, Stiles rips himself out of reach, and hightails it for the closest exit. He brushes up against a few more people by accident, and is rewarded for it by angry glances and revulsion.
When he reaches the door leading to outside he practically throws himself at it, barreling into the cool night air with a noise of relief resonating deep in his throat.
Quickly, he pushes the club door closed and leans heavily against it, trying to slow his racing heart and the billowing panic reaching up into his throat.
He lets out a single, shaky breath. Not for the first time, he reflects on how deeply he hates his power. If it can even be called such a thing. The display from inside the club had been the exact opposite of how his touch normally affects people, but their reactions had almost made him feel exactly the same:
Useless, unimportant, unworthy of respect and love.
For a moment he thinks about going back in to find Isaac and giving him a right good punch to the face for giving him that pill; it’s without a doubt what made his power flip-flop like it had.
But before he can, chaos arises up ahead, and when he glances over he catches sight of a car encased in flames.
Outside it, there’s a naked, frantic boy shouting about his girlfriend trapped on the inside, and walking towards the car, is Scott.
Panic flares coldly throughout his body as he thinks about what the pill had done to him - to his power. If it has the same effect on everybody, then Scott’s powers will have been reversed as well, leaving him just as vulnerable to death as any other common person.
“Scott!” shouts Stiles frantically, but he’s too far away to hear him. He looks back towards the car, and knows for certain it’ll blow at any moment - he is a cop’s kid, after all.
He bolts towards his best friend just as the scent of burning gasoline becomes almost unbearable.
He’s still so far away, though, and he’s not going to make it in time, no matter how ferociously he’s pushing himself forward. He shouts out to Scott again, this time verging on the edge of hysterical, when something barreling in from the left catches his eye.
He falters only slightly when he looks towards it, and recognizes the hooded figure as the one from inside the locker room, the one who goes slamming into Scott, knocking the both of them to the ground just as the flaming car erupts in a heavy, deafening explosion.
Stiles comes to a stop and covers his ears against the noise, only uncovering them and opening his eyes when he’s sure it’s over.
Scott is up ahead of him now, lying alone on the floor. He tracks his eyes across the surrounding area and sees the hooded figure slip into a nearby alleyway, a person who he thinks is Derek trailing after him.
In the end, concern outweighs his curiosity, and he rushes to Scott’s side.
“What the fuck were you thinking?” He scolds as he helps his friend up, careful not to touch any skin. The last thing he needs is hostility from his best friend.
“I was going to save them!” Scott says angrily, and then, “who the hell is that masked dude.”
Fondly, Stiles rolls his eyes, and pats his best friend on the back. “Don’t know, dude. But he just saved your life.” At Scott’s curious look, Stiles makes an arbitrary motion with his hand. “The pill that Isaac gave us? Yeah. It reversed our powers.”
At that, realization dawns in Scott’s eyes, and quickly after a look of fear crosses as well. “Shit,” he breathes, and Stiles nods solemnly. Then he screws up his face and says, “Guess that’s why Erica came rushing over to us after disappearing out of the blue to blabber about how she’d gone into the future.”
Stiles lets out a surprised laugh. “No shit?”
“Yeah,” Scott says. “Said that she’d apparently snagged some hot superhero.”
Stiles lifts an eyebrow. “Go her.”
-The Fourth Time-
After Derek had lead them to the apartment he’d watched Superhoodie go into (it turned out to be Boyd's apartment, the superhero hunk Erica saw from the future) it's was a while before they see the mysterious person again.
That is, until Stiles is walking home one night and catches a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye.
Which is how he ends up practically chasing the masked person down, and getting a rather impressive - if he does say so himself, considering how in awe and slack jawed he’d been at the time - video of the man jumping off buildings and generally defying the laws of gravity.
The way he moved with such ease in the face of extreme heights and shallow roof ledges was a thrilling sight to see, to say the least, and Stiles doesn’t hesitate in the slightest before showing it off to the others.
“Damn,” Erica offers emphatically, and Stiles nods in agreement.
“How’d you find them?” Allison asks from over his shoulder. They’d all crowded around him to watch the video off of his phone.
“I didn’t,” Stiles says distractedly, watching as Superhoodie flips off a ledge after they’d met Stiles’ gaze. Or at least, it had felt like they had, but he can’t be sure considering the mask takes over the persons entire face. “They must have been following me or something.”
Only belatedly does he realize that he should probably be more creeped out about the assumption than he is, but if this person’s actions have proved anything, it’s that they don’t intend to hurt any of them.
“We need to find out who he is,” Derek says suddenly.
To his left, Erica says, “or she,” and Stiles throws her a small smile.
“They obviously know a lot about us,” Derek continues adamantly, and Stiles shuts off the video with an eyeroll. “They could be dangerous.”
“They saved Allison from being suffocated and Scott from getting blown up,” Stiles starts dryly, “neither of which really strike me as being ‘dangerous.’”
“And that doesn’t seem weird to you?” Derek bites back, surprising Stiles considering how soft spoken the boy usually is. “That he always shows up at exactly the right time, in exactly the right place?”
“He’s right,” Scott pipes in.
“Look, I’m not saying we shouldn’t find out who this person is, but it’s not like they’re exactly prone to popping in and striking up a conversation whenever they damn well please, either,” Stiles shoves his phone into his pocket and stands, not even sure why he’s upset but feeling heated nonetheless.
“Okay,” Allison starts gingerly. “Then we’ll just keep each other posted if we hear anything, sound good?”
“Yeah,” Stiles says along with the others, before turning back to his work. “Great.”
-The Fifth Time-
Stiles is just rounding the corner to the flight of stairs that lead to his floor when it happens.
A man with harsh eyes and an even harsher odor grabs him by his jacket flaps and shoves him against a nearby wall. He hiccups out a gasp as his back collides, hard, with the wall, and just barely manages to keep his head from the same fate.
The man’s lips are curled back in an ugly sneer, and when he leans close Stiles' heart nearly stops at the prospect of his skin coming into contact with Stiles', of having to fend him off when he's delirious with lust.
But in the end all he does is grab hold of Stiles' backpack, rip it out of his grasp, and take off down the hallway.
He nearly scoffs. A mugging? Really? He doesn't even have anything worth value -
And that's when it occurs to him, and the veins pumping through his body run cold.
His dad's badge.
He pictures the big ugly brute sifting through his backpack and coming across it - one of the few things he has left of his father – and bolts down the hall after the man.
“Hey,” he shouts when he's nearly caught up with the man. He looks over his shoulder at Stiles, like he hadn't expected him to follow, and trips in his haste to go faster.
Only, Stiles is just paces behind him at this point, and before he can build up enough speed Stiles' hands are coming down hard on his shoulders.
Unfortunately that's where his plan comes up short, and the man takes advantage of his faltering by pivoting and knocking him away. The mugger moves to charge at him, and Stiles – out of breath and hardly at all versed in the ways of a fist fight – steadies his stance and prepares himself.
Stiles is knocked to the floor by the wall when Superhoodie appears from seemingly nowhere and shoves the man away. With unsteady footing the mugger stumbles back, and after a hard fist – courtesy of Superhoodie – connects with his jaw, he finally falls to the floor.
“What the fuck -” the man says in a stupor, but Superhoodie is already on him before he can get much more out. They deliver a swift kick to the man’s stomach, then tower over him until he scrambles up onto his hands and feet and finally takes off in the other direction.
For a moment, the masked person stands and watches the direction the mugger had left in. Stiles glances down to see that his fists – men's fists, he notes curiously – are clenched tightly at his sides, so much so that his knuckles are white.
Then he turns to Stiles, and his fists relax completely. He has no words as the man slowly moves towards Stiles, and in all honesty he might have stopped breathing completely.
Never has the masked person - man - stopped to do damage control after a heroic rescue, yet here he is, squatting down to eye level and reaching out for Stiles' hand.
It's then that his blanket of shock shatters, and he's inhaling sharply to match the sudden spike of his heart rate. “No, don't,” he chokes out as the man takes his hand and –
His grip stays firm, but his body remains his own; not drove into a frenetic frenzy of lust and want under Stiles' touch.
It's the first time someone has touched him, really touched him since he got his power, and the thought makes something foreign and curious clench in his chest.
The masked man's touch is unbelievably warm, and incredibly gentle as he helps Stiles stand.
His hand stays clasped on his when Stiles is finally on his feet. Now that they're face to face, Stiles notices that the man isn't much taller than him, if at all.
“Who are you?” He asks on the cusp of a rather breathless laugh, but the masked man simply ducks his head. When he lifts it, he takes his hand back, watches him a beat longer, and then walks to the balcony and dips off the ledge.
Stiles lets out a shaky breath, and is left feeling terribly confused, and vaguely aroused.
-The Sixth Time-
The never ending curiosity Stiles was plagued with in regards to Superhoodie was bad enough before he'd saved him from being mugged, but now it's morphed into this unbearable need to know. He's managed to become an itch under Stiles' skin that he can't help but scratch whenever he has a spare moment to think.
Which is to say, a lot.
And it's reckless, and probably not even going to work, but the suspense of not knowing who's been saving their lives (of not knowing who can actually touch Stiles without being affected) is what brings him to the exact spot he'd been mugged a handful of days before.
When a scary looking dude finally walks by where he's leaning against one of the walls, he knows it's his chance.
Under his breath, but not enough so that the man wouldn't be able to hear, Stiles says, “Fucking bitch.”
It works: the man stops and turns to him, eyes even crazier than Stiles had imagined they'd be. “You talkin' to me?” He spits around a mouthful of tobacco, and Stiles wants to laugh. God, he really does have a death wish, doesn't he?
“Well, there isn't anyone else here, is there? You...pig fucking prick.” It's such a lame insult, but it does the trick.
“I'll show you who's a bitch,” the man snarls, and Stiles must have some self preservation instincts, because he takes down the hall just before the man grabs him.
He's nearly made it to the stairs when his hoodie is grasped in an angry grip, but before he can be pulled back and beaten to death, the hold relents and he goes tumbling down the flight of stairs.
Just before his world blacks out, he sees the masked man rush into view at the top of the stairs.
Stiles wakes in increments, mind only able to absorb small parcels of information as he does. The first thing that registers is that he's laying in a bed that isn't his.
He lifts a hand to his head where his brain is thumping painfully against the confines of his skull. His fingers skirt across an open cut and he hisses, quickly dragging his hand away from the sore area.
Then he slowly pushes himself into a seated position, taking in the dark room just moments before panels of light flicker on – one by one – overhead. He watches the ceiling curiously, not having ever seen anything like it before; the rectangles of pure white light.
He must have hit his head pretty hard, because he can't help but flinch away from them when they sting his eyes. He blinks over to the left and is met with a wall of large, digital clock numbers ticking away towards separate endings. The one farthest down the wall isn't set to hit zero for days, maybe weeks.
In between them all are rows after rows of pictures, all of which are of him, Allison, Derek, Scott, and Erica.
He knows without a doubt in his mind that this, this is the masked man's home, and he was brought to it willingly.
Out of view, a shower is flipped on, and Stiles can hear someone move from underneath the flow.
With his heart practically in his throat, he finally lifts himself fully from the large mattress situated in the middle of what seems to be a loft, and heads towards the direction of the noise.
He glances only barely at the wall of pictures as he walks, too excited at the prospect of finally, finally finding out who's behind the mask to dwell too much on what they mean.
Behind a sharp cutout that's filled by an elevator, Superhoodie's mask lays out on a rack with the rest of his clothes. Heart now beating a frantic, eager rhythm, he drifts a hand over them. It's so odd, seeing them without the person behind them – emphasizing that the man who's been saving their lives for weeks now really is just that...a man. Not a mask.
Stiles turns his attention to where a smooth, bare silhouette moves behind a pane of foggy glass. He can see from here that the shower isn't made of four walls, and thrills at the thought that all he has to do is walk a little closer, and he'll finally be face to face with Superhoodie.
Swallowing audibly, Stiles takes a steadying breath, and walks the last few steps separating him from the man.
The man's head is ducked under the spray when Stiles finally lays eyes on him, but he turns to face him when he hears the soft noise Stiles makes.
And Stiles stops breathing.
Because giving him a dark, intense look is Derek. With water running down his pink lips and holding a stance that's so very unlike Derek; confident, and unashamed.
Heat burns impossibly hot high up on his cheeks as they stare at one another. Then he makes a strangled sort of noise, exasperated and flustered, and turns swiftly from the man.
He doesn't stop him.
It's only moments before Stiles storms out that he realizes it's probably because Stiles can't exactly leave without shoes; which have mysteriously disappeared off of his feet.
He's still searching hopelessly for them when he senses movement behind him. He turns and finds Derek standing paces away, but he's only wearing a towel which rides low on his hips - so he might as well be inches from Stiles considering the effect he's having on him.
“Hows your head?” Derek asks, and fuck – even his voice seems different. Had Stiles really hit his head that hard? Hard enough that Stiles dare describe Derek's voice as sultry?
“What the fuck is going on?” Stiles gets out eventually, terribly confused because this man, this Derek is so not the one who he sees everyday at community service. “When the hell did you start,” he waves his hand at Derek, not entirely sure why but feeling like it encompasses his ever growing confusion with his everything at the moment. Eventually he gets out, “running around, jumping off buildings?”
Derek looks at him from underneath his eyelashes – which Stiles doesn't even understand how that's possible, considering how far away the man is – before lifting his head slowly. “Since I came back from the future.”
Stiles scoffs out a spell of laughter, but trails off when Derek's expression doesn't falter. “Seriously?” He asks, looking him over at being presented the prospect of older Derek. Derek nods, this time something soft warming his expression as the corner of his mouth ticks up in a small smirk. “How does that even work?”
“There's the Derek you know,” he starts, voice soft and patient, “And there's the future Derek, me.”
Stiles swallows, and breathes, “You are so different.” He'd noticed it immediately, but it only makes sense now: why he seems so much bigger, not only in size but in confidence. In the way he stands like he's faced the world and returned carrying all of its secrets in his pockets. With just a look Stiles knows: he's scarred by the things that aren't visible on the surface.
Derek's mouth parts, and his gaze drops to the floor, though his head doesn't move. He says, “a lot happens between now and then.” Then meets Stiles' eyes, and suddenly he feels hot under his gaze.
“You...” He starts, sounding far more vulnerable than he'd meant to. He clears his throat, looks around the room before landing on Derek again, “You can touch me. Why?”
Derek casts a thoughtful look across the room at Stiles, before moving towards him. He has to force himself to stay planted, to not run from Derek Hale, though the way he watches him so intently as he approaches him makes him desperately want to. Or maybe it's not an urge to run at all, or at least – not in the opposite direction.
“Things are different,” his voice is just as low as it had been when he was across the room, but now it rumbles through Stiles like a physical thing. “You won't always have to worry about the simplest of touches.”
“Are you even allowed to tell me that?” Stiles asks, suddenly feeling elated as he smiles shyly up at him.
A smooth, quiet laugh breathes past Derek's lips at that, and something Stiles can't begin to identify twinkles in his eyes as he presses his lips together to contain a smile. “This isn't a sci-fi film, Stiles.”
But it might as well be for all that Stiles understands about this situation. And that thought makes his smile falter, and his thoughts whirl. “I don't understand,” his eyebrows crease and he shakes his head, “Why are you here, what's with all the clocks and the pictures and -”
His frantic words are cut off when Derek's brows crease and his hand comes up to gently brush a thumb along his forehead. It's only when he takes in a sharp inhale that he realizes he's outlining the skin beyond his cut.
“Does it hurt?” He rasps, and something tight flutters up into his chest. Both times Derek has touched him, it's been nothing more than an innocent brush of the hand, but like in the hallway it leaves him just as breathless as any touch of passion might.
“Yes,” he answers quietly, flickering his eyes up to Derek's and then away. He can't decide if the intense way this Derek looks at him is an effect of the future, or something more unique to him.
Maybe the Derek from his time always looks at him like this, he's just not looking back to notice.
Derek's eyebrows crease even further at Stiles admitting to the pain, and all the sudden he can't stand the way he's looking at him without knowing why.
But what comes out of his mouth is, “I should go,” and Derek's hand just barely lingers on his jaw before he's pulling back.
Stiles doesn't give himself nor Derek time to exchange even a parting glance, instead taking the opportunity to rush towards the elevator.
He can feel Derek's gaze hot on his back. The place he'd touched Stiles resonates with the ghost of Derek's body heat.
When the elevator finally opens, he rushes inside, but he should have known he wouldn't get away that easily. He turns back around and Derek is there at the entrance, giving him that intense look once more.
“What ever happens,” he says. “You can't tell Derek I'm him.”
Then he's stepping back and allowing the elevator to close.
It's only when Stiles reaches the bottom floor that he realizes he still doesn't have his shoes.
The next day, Stiles walks into the community center with a weight on his chest. Allison and Erica pass him by in the lobby as he comes in, smiling and greeting him before taking their lunch out to the picnic tables. They've gotten close since they dug Scott out of the grave; Stiles can see it in the way that their smiles come easier in each other's presences, how they can share a turkey club for lunch without asking.
He smiles after them and feels happy for it, that the people who are so important to him are important to each other. His smile fades when he thinks back to how he's often treated present Derek. If he'd been asked to describe his and Derek's relationship before the Derek from the future saved his life, he'd answer without the slightest pause that they were cool. Friends even.
But the way Derek touched him...how he'd looked almost distressed when Stiles started asking frantic questions...that had to have arose from a deeper connection between them, one that couldn't possibly happen if Stiles keeps holding Derek at a distance.
The truth of it is: they're not friends, not really, and that realization has something heavy and closely resembling guilt drop low in his stomach.
It's not for a lack of trying, he knows that. He also knows that the effort put into their 'relationship' hadn't exactly come from Stiles.
“Hey, buddy!” Stiles looks over his shoulder as Scott comes bounding down the hall, automatically wrapping an arm around Stiles' shoulder when he reaches him. “What happened to you last night? You never logged onto Xbox live.” Stiles winces guilty at that, remembering that they were suppose to have bro time.
But that had been before everything that made sense in the world had been flipped on its axis. Like how Derek Hale of all people had made him feel flustered and shy like some young school girl.
“Yeah, sorry dude,” Stiles wraps an arm around his friend and pats him on the back. “I must have forgotten, I was pretty tired so I just crashed.”
Again, a lie. He'd stayed up most of the night trying to wrap his mind around the very real existence of time travel.
“S'cool,” Scott shrugs and looks forward to where Allison is visible through the pane of the front door. His face softens automatically, and a dopey grin starts to form on his lips.
Stiles snorts. “Go, you sappy romantic. I need to find Derek, anyway.”
Scott nods gratefully and gives him a firm clap on the back. “Thanks, bro.” He starts to move towards the door when he makes a thoughtful noise and turns back around. “I saw Derek out back, by the way.” He flashes Stiles a smile, and then he’s gone.
Stiles takes a deep, steadying breath, and moves down the hall.
Derek startles slightly, his eyes wide as he looks over to where Stiles is standing at the door to the roof. It had been propped open when Stiles had reached the top steps, and he pushed it wide to find Derek reading on one of the beat up old sofas they dragged up here so long ago.
He sees the remains of a sandwich by his feet, and frowns guiltily. He'd ask why he doesn't eat downstairs with the others, with them, but he thinks he already knows the answer.
Anger tightens in his chest as he realizes he hadn't once even noticed that Derek didn't eat lunch with them. What the fuck was wrong with him? Or better yet, how could Derek ever forgive him enough to save his life as many times as he has?
Shaking his head, Stiles walks fully out onto the roof. He holds out the second can of soda he'd bought from the vending machine downstairs like it'll keep Derek from sending him away.
The boy ends up eyeing it suspiciously, giving Stiles a dubious look before finally accepting it. “Thanks,” he murmurs, and pushes himself forward on the couch so that he can rest his elbows on his knees.
“No problem,” Stiles says easily, like it isn't weird as hell talking to this Derek when not a day earlier he'd practically been caressed by the older version. He takes a seat in front of Derek on a chair that they had left up there and looks over at him.
“What?” Derek asks, suddenly looking uncomfortable.
“Nothing, I just,” Stiles ducks his head and bites his lip. God, they're both so different, he thinks and shakes his head. He's pretty sure he'd have to try really hard to make Future Derek uncomfortable in the slightest.
An image flashes into Stiles' mind, one of Future Derek watching him with dark, experienced eyes; the remnants of his shower dripping off from his wet hair and dragging down his bare chest.
He clears his throat and hopes Derek doesn't notice his flushed cheeks as he sits up straighter. He meets his gaze and finds that Derek's looking at him with an uncertain look. Stiles sighs.
“I wanted...I wanted to thank you for dealing with Kate.” He meets Derek's eyes steadily, willing him to know he's sincere. “I know you've always looked out for us, protected us, and we haven't exactly treated you that great in return.”
Now Derek's looking at him like he's crazy. “Why are you being so nice to me?” He sounds almost defensive, like he's waiting for the other shoe to drop, and it makes Stiles blink quickly as he grows frustrated with himself.
“Look,” he starts gingerly, looking out over the horizon and then back down at the table in front of him. “If I've ever been a dick to you...I'm sorry.”
Derek is quiet for a moment, long enough that Stiles can't help but peek up at him. Derek is smiling faintly when he does.
“I've never thought you were a dick,” he admits softly, lifting his gaze to meet Stiles'. “I think you're really smart, clever and...none of this has been easy for any of us, but you really did get the short end of the stick when it comes to this whole gaining powers thing.”
It's probably the most Stiles has ever heard Derek speak, and it makes something hopeful and also regretful pull at his heart. He doesn't deserve it, not after how little attention he pays Derek, and yet he'd spoken with such conviction that there's no doubt he believes it himself.
For the first time, Stiles see's the resemblance of this Derek to the one who'd saved him.
“Well,” Stiles coughs, trying to cover up for the emotions swelling inside him. “I should...” he swallows and offers Derek a small smile, “I'll leave you to it then.”
Derek watches him quietly as he leaves, and his eyes burn his skin just like they had when Stiles left the loft.
-The Seventh Time-
“Jesus fu-” Stiles' throws his hand up against his chest, having nearly fallen back against his door when he walked through it to find Derek standing by his desk. He looks up at him now, away from whatever it was he'd been reading.
He frowns, lips parted as he tries to get his breathing under control. Breathing has been a lot more complicated nowadays, ever since he met future Derek.
It's incredibly inconvenient for Stiles' heart.
“Were you reading over my case file?” He doesn't know why he says it, but he'd just brought it home earlier that day, after he'd spoken with his lawyer and snatched it from her. He's not even sure that he left it on the desk actually, but he hasn't told anyone why he got busted. Scott knows, but he hasn't told anyone either.
Derek, straightening and turning to face him fully, lifts a single, unimpressed eyebrow. “You think I risked my life traveling through the dimensions of time so that I could take a peek at your case file?”
Stiles doesn't know why, but the response delights something inside him. He hadn't known that Derek could be such a sarcastic little shit.
“I don't know,” Stiles challenges, eyes dancing. “Did you?”
“I wouldn't have to,” Derek says, amusement clear in the way he tries to contain a smile. “You told me how you got community service yourself.”
“I did not,” says Stiles, but at the lift of Derek's eyebrow, he falters. “Really? I told you?” Then he winces, realizing how rude he must have just sounded. “Sorry I...that's not that hard to believe, actually.” He looks up and meets Derek's gaze, and for some reason unknown to him, he blurts out, “you called me smart today.”
“I know, everything that happens to Derek now has already happened to me.”
Which brings the topic of time travel back into question, and Stiles suddenly feels hard pressed to get to the bottom of it. “What do you want from me?” He asks, eyes searching Derek's as he moves closer to him. Stiles stays planted by his door. “You never told me why you're here.” The last part is said softly, Derek so close now that it would really be a waste of energy to talk any louder.
And Derek, with his eyes that bore into Stiles', says, “I came back for you.”
The statement nearly stops Stiles' heart.
“Are we-?” He swallows, eyes flickering over Derek's face. “Are we together?”
“We will be,” and it's said so surely, so much like an unarguable point that it leaves Stiles reeling.
“How is that ever going to happen?”
And that finally makes Derek hesitate. Makes him take pause. But it's not long until he's whispering, “you fall in love with me.”
“You can't do that,” Stiles says, suddenly angry and confused and uncomfortably vulnerable. “You can't come here and tell me things like that, like I don't have a choice or like I can just carry on while knowing -”
Derek's touch stops him in his tracks once more. It's been so long without a touch beyond the frenzied mask of faux passion that Stiles hadn't even realized how touch starved he'd become.
“You need to leave,” he whispers, pressing into the warm hand cupping his face even as he says it. Then Derek starts brushing his thumb over the apple of his cheek, and he knows that it's not just the fact that he's touch starved that's making him so breathless.
“Just -” Stiles starts, and reaches a quick hand up to still the movement. With his hand on Derek's, he meets his gaze, and the way Derek's looking at him makes him ache to his core. It's not fair. He removes Derek’s hand from his face and moves away from the proximity.
Derek's hand lingers in the air for only a moment before dropping. He moves towards the window and rests something on the pane before chancing a glance over his shoulder at Stiles, and leaving out the way he came.
Once Stiles is sure he's gone, he walks over to see what he had left, and finds his father's badge.
-The Eighth Time-
Stiles finds himself back at Derek's loft the very next day. He'd been tossing and turning all night, a restless state falling over him as his mind whirled over thoughts of Derek. Of his touch. Of their supposed future together.
It made for a strain that only just barely begins to relent when the elevator doors open, and Derek is waiting on the other side.
“Hi,” he says in that soft way of his, and Stiles feels like breaking down right there.
“You can't do this to me,” he says instead, and stumbles away from the elevator and into the loft. Derek's eyebrows crease in concern, and it just makes the ache in Stiles' chest worse.
He doesn't even know if he's angry or sad; with all the emotions twisting around inside him there's only one he can identify: frustration. “You come back and tell me all these things, say I'm meant to fall in love with you, as if I know what to do with that information.”
Derek is close now, and even though he's not more than an inch taller, the vulnerability inside Stiles makes him feel like he has to stare up a great distance into his eyes.
“I'm sorry,” the man says. “Stiles,” his voice is calming, trying to console Stiles even though that's the last thing that he wants. Or perhaps, it's the only thing he wants.
“You-” but he doesn't finish whatever it was he'd been about to say, instead breaking off with a helpless noise.
And then Derek is there.
Soft, always so damn soft; though Stiles knows whatever he's back in this time for, whatever he's not telling him, has cut him deep enough that all that should be left is ragged edges.
Derek holds him like he's something precious, strong hands firm at the back of Stiles' back and head as he breathes warm puffs of air onto Stiles' neck. Goosebumps rise on his skin at the sensation, and suddenly he doesn't know why the hell he was making such a fuss.
Slowly, he brings his hands up to fist in the fabric of Derek's shirt, and when he turns his head to rest his nose in the crook of Derek's neck, he feels the shudder that racks through Derek's frame like it was his own. Hell, it very well might have been.
But then Derek’s pulling away, looking over his shoulder at his wall of clocks. When he looks back, he looks damn near remorseful.
He leans their foreheads together, eyes closed before he opens them reluctantly. “I have to go.”
Stiles almost laughs. “You touch me like that and expect me to let you leave?”
Derek smiles, lifts a hand to brush his thumb over Stiles' chin. “Wait for me?”
And Stiles does.
When Derek gets back, it's as if a dam breaks open.
He opens the doors to the elevator and Stiles turns to look at him over his shoulder. Their eyes meet, and then they're surging forward towards one another.
They meet in the middle and Derek effortlessly lifts Stiles up against his body, grip firm under his thighs. Their lips come together in a desperate mess of tongue that's only slowed when Stiles brings both hands up to star them against Derek's face and neck. He feels like he's shaking apart when he breaths deeply in through his nose, tongue twisting agonizingly slow against Derek's.
He only realizes they've moved at all when Derek gently deposits him on the bed, not allowing enough distance between their bodies for them to part for even a moment. His heart swells as Derek's hold only tightens around him, one hand coming up to brush along his jaw like he can't believe he's allowed to touch.
It begs too many questions, all of which Stiles will get around to asking. But not until later.
“Derek,” his voice is throaty as he pushes up towards Derek's body, and is delighted when he relents enough to allow Stiles to roll them both over. Now straddling Derek's lap, he gazes down at the man with lust filled eyes, and finds he's being treated to a similar look.
When he'd first got his power, he greedily took advantage of it any chance he got. It was great, until the morning after meant waking to a stranger who couldn't remember the night they shared, until the heated looks shared during acts of passion meant the person he was with wasn't really there anymore. Just a vessel. Just a shell of vacant, mindless animal need.
But Derek, Derek watches him like he wouldn't dare even blink if it meant missing a second of this, of him. Watches him intently as he lifts himself so he's sitting – Stiles pressed to his chest – and runs a warm, strong hand up the back of his shirt and along the expanse of his back.
He peels him out of his clothes like one might peel a wrapper off of chocolate, and leans forward to nip and lick wet kisses along his throat. He leans away from the mess he'd made of the skin at Stiles’ throat, and the cool air that hits the still lingering kisses makes Stiles shiver.
Derek watches him as Stiles sits back enough to peel Derek out of his own clothes. He does it slowly, first dragging the fabric gradually up until it bunches at his armpits, admiring the view as more and more is revealed.
Then he pulls it up and over his head, his arms, and leans forward to get his hands in the mess of hair that had been mussed up from the shirt. When his chest presses against Derek's, the feel of warm skin against his makes him dive back in for Derek's mouth.
He's met in earnest, and then he's being twisted back onto his back, pressed into the covers as Derek leans over him.
“You're so beautiful,” Derek whispers against the corner of his mouth as his hands run the length of his sides. He pointedly avoids the area where he's unbearably ticklish, and it highlights the fact that this might be the first time Stiles has touched and kissed Derek, but it certainly isn't the first time Derek's touched him.
His body flares excitedly at the thought of that, at how well Derek must know his body and how exciting it'll be to learn his as well. And as Derek lifts himself to move down his body, he thrills at the idea of a future with him, of quiet nights wrapped together, and less than quiet nights of writhing in ecstasy and pleasure.
Then Derek is meeting his gaze with a heated look in his eye, begins to drag his pants down and off, and Stiles suddenly isn't thinking anymore.
Biting his bottom lip, Stiles reaches his hands above him and parts his thighs; a tease that causes Derek's eyes to flash and mouth to fall open hungrily.
His hands drift with intent over his thighs, eyes never leaving Stiles' as he lifts one of Stiles’ legs to rest on his shoulder. Once there, he turns to nip at the crease of his knee, and Stiles gasps – anticipation heavy in the air.
Derek kisses the spot he'd nipped at and looks back at Stiles, “Would you let me fuck you?” He asks, the words pressed into his skin.
Stiles groans and reaches with his other leg to wrap around Derek's waist, “Fuck, Derek – yes, yes, just -” but his words cut off with a moan as Derek begins to trail biting kisses up his inner thigh. When he reaches where Stiles is achingly hard, he leaves a sweet bite at his hip.
Stiles never knew he had a thing for biting, but it rather makes sense that Derek would know before him.
Then there's hot breath fanning over his length and this time when he groans it's with impatience. “Asshole,” he remarks, and presses himself up on his elbows to peer down at where Derek is pointedly neglecting his cock in favor of kissing and nipping anywhere and everywhere else. Every nerve ending flares excitedly to the surface with every touch Derek leaves, but there's one place in particular that needs his full attention or Stiles might explode.
When he not so subtly nudges at Derek's head with his thigh, trying to push him towards his poor, throbbing cock, Derek laughs and flashes him a mischievous look that Stiles can't help but return with a smile.
Then he's being knocked back onto his back when Derek grips his hips and lifts until Stiles' legs fall forward towards his chest.
His breath knocks out of him like he's been punched as Derek licks a hot, wet stripe along his entrance.
He opens his mouth to say something, he's not sure what, but doesn't get very far. Instead a string of mindless, blubbering noises fall from his lips as Derek drops his jaw open to lick and kiss at him with irrepressible abandon.
When the pleasure becomes too much without something more to press it forward, drive it on until it crests into relief, Stiles begins to make desperate noises.
“God, Derek – c'mon, I need you, need more,” and he's there in an instant. Strong arms bracketing Stiles' face as he dips to capture his lips with his.
Then he leans back on his heels, and finally, finally takes Stiles' cock into his hand. It's with Stiles distracted that he slowly slides a finger into Stiles' kissed-raw hole, and the sensation of them both at the same time has him bowing upwards.
His breathing is strangled as he presses his heels into Derek's lower back, trying to get him closer. He's up to two fingers now, but Stiles knows he's not going to make it when Derek starts talking to him. Mumbling sweet nothings, telling him how beautiful he is, how good he looks like this – how Derek doesn't ever want to let him leave his bed, he's his, he's all his – and Stiles is gone.
Derek meets his orgasm with a soft but insistent kiss, dipping his tongue along his as his fingers never stop moving, now up to three.
He leans his forearm above Stiles' head as he helps him down from his high, kissing his lips – which are bitten raw from all the noises Stiles had attempted to conceal – and running his nose along his as he stares at him with nothing short of adoration.
When his body finally begins to respond again, he only has patience for Derek to secure a condom around his length before he's wrapping himself around him like a vice.
When Derek holds him just as tightly, slowly pushing inside, Stiles never wants him to let go.
Stiles makes a bitten off noise, arms scrambling at Derek's warm, broad back as he pushes deeper still. Stiles’ senses are completely overwhelmed with pleasure when Derek's hips finally line up with the backs of Stiles' thighs.
He lets out a soft breath against Derek's shoulder, receiving sweet, tingling kisses up the length of his neck as he allows Stiles to adjust. He feels Derek brush his nose against and then suck at where his jaw meets his neck, and bows blissfully up into the older man's body.
His hands slide to his biceps as Derek pulls away to peer down at him. He looks absolutely wrecked, mouth parted and eyes glazed over. “Good?” He asks, voice raspy and devastating.
Stiles's eyes close as he laughs, presses his head back into the pillow so he look down his nose at the beautiful man. “So good,” he nods, and is rewarded with a blinding smile that's quickly followed up with a hard first thrust.
His heart thumps erratically along with his punched out gasp, neck arched back as sparks shoot up his spine.
“Fuck,” he breathes and then Derek's wrapping an arm around his back, reaching to grip him firmly at his neck as he starts rocking into him with controlled, precise thrusts. He uses his grip on Stiles' neck to turn his face towards him. Stiles does so obediently, and they make a handful of desperate noises against each other's mouths before Derek's closing the distance once again.
That's when Derek's hips start working fast, nearly knocking Stiles up the mattress. Their bodies are so closely pressed that Stiles' cock rubs against Derek's chest with his every thrust, and the building pleasure cascading down his spine to gather in tangled heaps in his lower abdomen has him throwing his head back to moan openly and unabashedly.
“Derek,” he very nearly whines, shaky hands running down his body before he's digging them into the supple curve of Derek's ass; urging him on. “I need more, I'm so close-”
“You can come like this,” Derek gasps against his collarbone, where he'd been working what's probably to be a nasty hickey into the soft skin there. “Come on,” he encourages. “Come on.”
Stiles has enough coherency to wonder what the hell is with Derek's dedication to ignoring his poor dick, when his hands go fleeting down to Stiles' thighs. He wraps his arms around them to spread his legs farther, and when he starts pounding into Stiles at this angle, pleasure shoots wildly throughout his body and his moans grow more frenzied.
And though he's never come just from this before, from not touching himself while in the act, his chest rises and falls quickly against Derek's as he cries out once, twice, and is coming between them, Derek giving a choked off moan before following soon after.
They lay wrapped in each other's arms afterwards, Derek's touch never leaving Stiles as he once again brushes a thumb across his cheek. With the uncontrollable need and lust sated for now, Stiles is able to look at Derek and feel the weight of what had happened.
“I can't believe I just had sex with you,” he mumbles into the pillow as he turns his head away from Derek, sure that his cheeks are blushing profusely. “Mind blowing sex, I will say, but still – you're Derek.” He lifts his head and smiles despite himself. “The Derek I know is still a virgin.”
At this, Derek laughs, smiling that private smile of his. “Not for much longer.”
Stiles' eyebrows lift and he shifts closer to him, tangling his left leg with Derek’s, like they're about to share trade secrets. “Do you lose it... with me?”
Derek, who'd been looking up at the ceiling, turns to Stiles. He shakes his head no, and it's ridiculous that Stiles' heart clenches tightly.
He ducks his head, trying to go for casual, but must have missed it by a long shot when an incredulous look crosses Derek's face.
“Are you jealous?”
He sounds delighted.
“Shut up,” Stiles says, pouting.
Derek doesn't even try to hide his smile at that. He moves close and leans up on his side, hand cupping Stiles' face. “I like it that your jealous.” And then he leans forward and presses his lips to Stiles', and any retort he might have had is lost to their kisses.
-f i n-