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Stiles is no stranger to coming back at one in the morning covered in bruises and dubious substances, trailing the smell of dead bodies and bad decisions. He accepted all of that once Scott turned into a werewolf. Scott, being a werewolf, doesn't have to worry about bruises, though there is the occasional surprise evisceration that can still put a crimp in his day. Allison comes from a family of hunters. Jackson's recent history is a whole mess of mental trauma and horrible injuries (a few of which they'd given to him.) Even Lydia has had her fair share of last-minute escapes from open graves and angry werewolves. She'd yelled at Scott for twenty minutes just last week when the strap had broken on one of her favourite shoes. The sprained wrist she hadn't care about. The shoes, she had protested, couldn't be bandaged.

But this is just wrong. This is wrong in some sort of important way.

Danny's sitting at Stiles's desk, one hand still balanced on his laptop (which had miraculously survived intact after having been used as an impromptu werewolf-battering device.) He looks tired and muddy, and every so often he'll touch his fingers carefully to the edge of his eye socket, which is already colouring. Danny is bruised. Their werewolf drama has officially bruised Danny. This is the worst day ever.

"Don't worry about it," Danny says, in reaction to whatever Stiles's face is doing. Which is apparently something bad. Danny seems to be more weirded out by Stiles fussing over him than about the fact that he now has a long, werewolf-inflicted bruise above his left eye. Because, oh yeah, there are werewolves, and now Danny knows there are werewolves, due to being hit by one. But Danny has always been cool about everything. That's Danny's thing, it's always been his thing, so much so that it's probably written down somewhere in a file next to his name. 'Danny is cool about everything.' Danny can be peeved, and annoyed, and upset, but he keeps it together under pressure, he's unflappable. So even while Stiles is quietly panicking about what's going to happen now, in the back of his head there's still a part of him that's pretty sure Danny has this covered.

Danny doesn't disappoint him.

"So, werewolves," he says, in a careful sort of way, as if he's not quite sure yet if they're supposed to talk about it.

Stiles nods. "Yeah." He blows out a relieved breath and nods again. He has no idea what to do with his arms so he just sort of swings them, in a way that he hopes doesn't look awkward but almost certainly does. He doesn't really know where to go from there. What do you say to someone you've just sprung werewolves on? But Danny has known him long enough to sense that Stiles's mouth is in danger of just filling the silence up with words.

"I guess you were dealing with a lot of crazy tonight. Since you guys have been kind of secretive for ages but this is the first time I've nearly been eaten." Danny stops poking his face, possibly because he can tell it's freaking Stiles out.

"No, no, it's pretty much like this all the time," Stiles admits. Which sounds kind of awful now he says it out loud. No one's life should be like this all the time, and even if it is you're probably not supposed to sound so casual about it. He wonders if he should take that back, play it off as a joke. Danny doesn't deserve to be thrown in the deep end. Danny deserves to be eased into this gently, almost being eaten by a werewolf aside. But Stiles knows he's been staring for too long without using words, words of denial, or vague explanations that maybe involve hallucinogens or mental collapse. There's no putting the werewolves back in the closet. Danny's already blinking and watching him from under his eyebrows. In what Stiles likes to think of as a 'I can see you're thinking up some way to bullshit me, and I will absolutely call you on it,' sort of way. Yeah, they're clearly at the accepting and moving on part of the conversation.

Stiles tries for a reassuring expression.

"Though usually we don't try to actively murder anyone. We may threaten murder fairly often, but the actual murdering, there's only been a few actual murders - and I'm going to stop talking because this all sounds really bad without context."

Danny's face does look briefly horrified, but then he sighs, like he's going to give Stiles that one rather than ask any more questions, which may lead to disturbing answers. Which Stiles thinks is overly generous, because if he was in Danny's place he would question the hell out of this. He wouldn't stop questioning until he ran out of air, or someone knocked him out. Because he remembers that whole 'fuck, werewolves' moment. But Danny just shakes his head like he's annoyed at himself for not working it all out. He does look like he wants to poke his face again, and that's still making Stiles feel oddly guilty, so he's relieved when he doesn't.

Danny's eyeing Stiles's bruise now, which is darkening across his jaw. He'd forgotten he even had it, to be honest. Everything tends to happen in a rush of panic and running and shouting, and he usually doesn't notice the bruises until later, when he leans on them in an over-enthusiastic way.

"I should probably go home. Are you going to be -" Danny stops and shakes his head, gives a strange little laugh. "Of course you're going to be ok, you do this all the time now, don't you?"

Stiles is saved from having to actually admit that by Derek, who's apparently upgraded from 'appearing in the corner of his room' to 'appearing in doorways.' Which if nothing else is proof that he knows how doorways work.

"Stiles."

Derek's dripping outside his door, towel that's just a little too small wrapped round his waist. He looks menacing and aggressively close to naked. Stiles has to admit that it's a really good look for him. Even though he's usually on the other side of it, in a way that usually ends with him being yelled at and pushed into something. But, hey, Derek probably couldn't have timed that better if he'd tried, because Danny's fingers go kind of slack on the edge of his laptop, and it's about a second away from hitting the floor and smashing into two, possibly even three pieces. Stiles very carefully takes hold of it, and makes sure the destruction is kept to a minimum. It's what he does after all. Stiles is damage control.

"Derek?"

"Spare towels," Derek says, in an unnecessarily fierce sort of way, and if Stiles wasn't watching Danny he would have completely missed the way his eyes just sort of helplessly slide all the way down Derek's body, before cutting away.

Stiles points through the door, towards the cupboard on the right, and Derek gives one last glare, which Stiles thinks may actually qualify as smoldering. Before he turns around and heads back the way he'd come. His back is also trailing water and flexing in all sorts of interesting and naked ways. Yes, he is just as manly and impressive from the back. Danny seems to agree because he's doing that trying-not-to-look-and-totally-failing thing. Which just looks more obvious and incriminating. Stiles doesn't blame him though, because he's forced to endure half-naked Derek constantly and he still finds it unfairly distracting. Derek all but flings the bathroom door shut behind him.

Danny cuts Stiles a look, sort of annoyed and sort of embarrassed and sort of rattled all at once. But he doesn't look quite so bruised and exhausted now, and he's taking his laptop back and - there is no other word for it - fleeing. He's fleeing from Stiles's house.

Oh.

Danny may have thought Stiles had done that on purpose. Also, the fact that he now knows Derek's a werewolf is apparently not even close to being a deal breaker. Interesting.

"Interesting," Stiles mutters to the world at large. Because this seems like the sort of thing he needs to make a note of.

When Derek returns he's put his jeans on. But he doesn't seem to have made any attempt to dry himself. Why would he ask for towels if he wasn't even going to try, seriously? He's glaring and dripping all over Stiles's floor. The glaring and the dripping is sort of focused in his direction. He didn't even know it was possible to drip threateningly.

"Seriously, you couldn't have at least shaken yourself or something?" Stiles gestures at the spots of unwanted water that are now all over his floor, and then throws him a shirt. Derek catches it but doesn't make any attempt to put it on, maybe he's still too angry for clothes? "Did you see that, you saw that right? You're like gay kryptonite, you make Superman weak at the knees." Stiles pokes at the - seriously they can't be real - muscles on his stomach, and Derek smacks his hand, hard, really freakin' hard. "Ow, and I'm aware that I just cast Danny as Superman in this scenario, which I suspect makes me Lex Luthor and you Lois Lane, and I'm honestly not sure where that went wrong. Because clearly you don't -"

"Stop talking," Derek says darkly.

"Come on, Danny risked life and limb for us tonight, even after the whole werewolf reveal, and I feel like we threw him a bone - er." Stiles can't help it, and he's laughing, before he catches a look at Derek's face. "Oh my God, don't hit me, I'm sorry I joked about your non-existent boner."

Derek's expression doesn't warm an inch, but there's no violence in Stiles's general direction so he figures he's been given a free pass.

"Hey, it's not like I pimped you out this time, so don't get all mad about it. Danny just happens to find you amazingly hot, and you were showing off your amazing, wet hotness in a way that was really hard not to appreciate." Stiles smacks a hand on his wet chest, and that really is very solid, like rock solid. How does he do that? "Is the glaring a thing you do, when you're seducing. Because I think it helped."

He pats him again, just for the hell of it, and suddenly Derek has his hand and - oh, he's really not getting that back until Derek decides he can have it. Which hurts his fingers, his fingers do not appreciate the grinding at all.

"Stop being so cross and scowling.You did an awesome thing. He was probably going to go home thinking about a world in which there are suddenly werewolves who kill people, and the fact that his best friend is a lizard monster who also kills people, and about how he might never sleep easily again. But now instead he's probably going to go home and masturbate thinking about your wet, naked body. Which I think we can both agree is the better option. I'm pretty sure you can survive a little objectification."

There's still glaring, down the nose glaring, with bonus angry mouth. But Derek lets him have his hand back, grudgingly.

Stiles chances another pat to Derek's dripping chest, because he genuinely never met any sort of luck that he wouldn't try and push.

****

Derek doesn't get it. But Stiles isn't entirely surprised. Derek is a black hole of tragedy and despair, and he doesn't understand feelings or friendship. Or hugs. Stiles knows because he tried once, and Derek just sort of stood there stiffly and endured it, like he was being murdered. Scott still refers to that as 'the day Stiles almost died.'

Stiles is working on it though. Because he's stubborn and incapable of letting things go. Also, mutual life-saving aside (honestly that's become a thing between them, it's almost awkward,) he actually genuinely likes Derek, big, grumpy raincloud that he is. Sure, he has a history of trying to kill people, and doing stupid wrong-headed things, but he's willing to stop doing them if you argue at him hard enough. Or bring up the fact that he has no friends and isn't qualified to judge anyone else's loyalty. But Stiles always feels shitty about that. Because Derek clearly still doesn't think he's allowed to have nice things.

This though, Derek's being frustratingly obtuse about this. He just doesn't get it.

"He's Danny," Stiles says with a shrug. "He's just - he's a good guy, even to the people who don't deserve it."

Derek frowns like he's never going to understand. Not even if he went and stood tragically on some windswept moor somewhere for years.

Stiles aggressively shares his snacks with him, until he loses the murderous little dent of frustration between his eyebrows.

****

Danny sticks around, mostly because of Jackson but not always. He helps because that's what Danny does, though sometimes grudgingly, and sometimes with that expression that says he thinks everyone else is insane. But he helps anyway, without even having to be asked most of the time. More importantly, Jackson is slightly less of a dick when he's around, and everyone benefits from that. Isaac likes Danny, Erica likes Danny, Boyd likes Danny. Scott still uses his enthusiastic idiot smiles to flirt with Danny without realising it, but Stiles knows he likes Danny too. Derek, for some reason, is not behind the whole Danny thing. Stiles can tell by the frequency of his lurking, and the way his scowl gets this pinched, crumpled thing going on at the side. It's like something is wrong and Derek has no idea how to fix it. Stiles thinks about making some sort of list of the many ways in which Danny is awesome. The pack needs more sensible people, more sensible people who don't live in abandoned warehouses. Danny's completely overqualified. This should be easier.

Even when Danny gets clawed up by a werewolf, because he's trying to protect Stiles, he's still trying to help. Stiles has to physically take the laptop from him and push him into a chair.

"Dude, you shouldn't be typing with that, take care of your scratched-up arm. I will take over the 'looking for evil taxidermists' duty." Really, what is their life? Evil, magical taxidermists, he wishes the world was joking.

Danny does as he's told, with the sort of calm acceptance he does almost everything. He gives Stiles a sort of wince of understanding when he tosses Danny his first aid kit. Stiles is pretty sure no one else he knows has such a well-stocked first aid kit. It's something of a must, since there's nothing like werewolf claws for their ability to part flesh, and do other gruesome things to human beings and their soft inner parts (and that's before the monsters crawl out of the woodwork - sometimes literally.) Even Scott needs a little help every once in a while, though help for the werewolves tends to consist of bandaging them up so their insides don't spill out before they heal. Danny only got a glancing hit but it still looks nasty, it had bled all the way through his sleeve, and is still occasionally dripping onto Stiles's floor. Danny keeps trying to stop it with his balled up jacket.

"Don't worry about it." Stiles waves a hand at the mess. "My floor's seen worse than that, so much worse. I've gone through like three rugs, it's insane. And there was a whole thing with disintegrating -" He waves a hand. "You don't want to know about that."

Danny raises an interested eyebrow. "No, I really think I do."

Stiles laughs, because Danny gets it, he thinks they're officially having a bonding moment, and he knew this would work. He knew Danny would fit in perfectly. He's a genius.

And then Derek shoulders his way into Stiles's room, smelling faintly of blood and smoke and leather, and possibly also quiet misery (Stiles doesn't know what quiet misery smells like but Scott would probably know.) Derek throws his jacket on the bed. He doesn't say a word, just stands there, grinding his teeth and staring, and if Danny wasn't here Stiles would point out that this, this right here, is why people think he's creepy. When he does stuff like this. But Derek fixes his glare across the room and toes his shoes off. One of them hits the wall with a 'thud.'

Danny's quietly murmuring something about why Derek is always taking his clothes off in Stiles's room, but Stiles isn't really listening. Because for some bewildering reason Derek seems to be both angry and agreeing to Stiles's plan. This is definitely his angry, soon-to-be-half-naked way of taking one for the team.

Derek stands glaring in front of the mirror for a second, before he's catching hold of the bottom of his shirt and pulling it up so hard the stitching in one of the sleeves tears. It's audible even across the room, that angry snap of stitching. The material rolls over his shoulders with a stretch that looks obscene, and then drops to the floor. Derek lays his fists on the dresser and glares at himself. He's staring at his own naked chest like he's psyching himself up for some sort of epic, gladiatorial trial by combat - and Stiles knows he'd be a badass gladiator. He'd be a badass, werewolf gladiator who would probably wreck the shit out of all those ordinary gladiators, until they'd make him fight a tiger, or two tigers, or a bear. Or some sort of tiger-bear??

But, yeah, Danny's going to make a terrible, terrible hash job of disinfecting his werewolf scratch marks, since he no longer has eyes for anything but the low-riding waistband of Derek's jeans, and the slow bend of his spine, and the way Derek's glaring at his reflection like he kind of wants to fuck himself - in a dirty, angry, hate-sex-y sort of way. So Stiles takes over medical duties for him while Derek decides which shirt to wear - he changes his mind twice, angrily dragging them free again and tossing them across the room in a way that makes his muscles stretch and pull - and maybe Stiles is making a hash job of the nurse role too, but it's his plan and he can reap the benefits if he wants to.

****

Stiles is starting to wonder if they should write up some sort of contract. Some sort of 'Derek will flaunt himself to distract Danny from how awful their life generally is, and how many times people try to kill them in an average week.' It's only fair, since Danny has their back, and Derek is like a volcano of attractiveness that should not be capped but carefully erupted when necessary - and he's going to stop with the volcano metaphors because they're clearly a minefield of innuendo.

He does suggest the contract at one point, he's mostly joking but Derek gets this pinched, offended look of betrayal. He doesn't stop scowling for a whole afternoon. No matter how many times Stiles protests that it was a compliment. Or that he promises there'd be a strict no touching policy.

Derek throws Stiles his leather jacket and demands he go out for takeout. Because no one will deliver to either the creepy abandoned house in the woods, or the creepy abandoned warehouse.

****

A month after that there's the whole Wendigo thing, and they're researching cannibals and ritual sacrifices and poking gruesome, half-eaten things in the veterinary surgery's back room. There's a genuine risk of horrible death and digestion. Of Derek's horrible death and digestion, which Stiles is pretty freakin' unsettled about. The thing is the size of a polar bear and Derek is outmatched in a way that's scary for perhaps the first time.

Then Danny hits it with his car, ends up sitting on a grass verge holding a bloody nose, and when Stiles asks him how many fingers he's holding up he's pretty sure Danny says six.

Stiles remembers why he puts up with all of this then, when there's a girl from school he doesn't know wrapped in Scott's jacket, screaming about monsters, Allison is missing five arrows and Isaac's arm is ripped open. There's so much blood. There is so much blood, but no one's dead. No one's dead and Derek finds him afterwards, where he's slumped in a heap next to Scott. Derek who still looks like he went toe to toe with some sort of shape-shifting monster, shirt front drenched in blood, claw marks still healing on the side of his face. He grips the back of Stiles's neck, hard, really fucking hard, which might be some sort of angry reminder not to get in the way when there are giant flesh-eating monsters. Or it might be some sort of demonstration about how Derek's happy Stiles wasn't horribly disemboweled. He's going to pretend that it's the second one. But, you know, ow anyway.

They chop the thing's head off, and Danny offers to drive Allison and Scott home like nothing happened.

Derek gets this weird look after that, sort of quiet and confused, like he's feeling things. Or possibly just giving in to peer pressure, since he hates it when everyone gangs up on him.

Stiles thinks he finally gets the whole Danny thing.

****

People tend to view Derek with suspicion, terrible suspicion. He's been wanted for murder at least twice, and he's been a person of interest more times than Stiles can actually remember, and he's been 'a person we just have a few questions for,' about twice as many times as that. It's not surprising that people aren't exactly handing out the invites. Stiles thinks it's the eyebrows, possibly, or the constant lurking. Some combination of the lurking and the eyebrows, and the expression he wears that says Derek's never going to be happy again, and wants everyone else to suffer the same fate. Derek had said once that it wasn't an expression it was just his face, and Stiles had given him a sort of tragically sad look, until he'd scowled at him and left the room. All Stiles is saying is that he's not exactly making it easy on himself. But he still thinks Derek deserves a little attention that isn't of the 'Oh my God, it's that wanted murderer and possible psychopath Derek Hale,' variety.

Stiles is a great fan of trying to kill two birds with one stone, only without any actual bird-killing. Why would anyone throw stones at birds anyway - and also the odds of hitting two at the same time would be terrible, unless they were tied together - and now it's just wrong. Who would throw stones at tied-up birds, how would they even fly?

"Stiles?" Danny nudges him and, right, they were talking before his brain went off on a bird-killing tangent.

"Derek is awesome, in a sex way right. I mean it's not like I'm an expert or anything, but I'm just guessing going by the -" He jerks his head across the room, in a way that he hopes translates as some sort of reminder of what Derek looks like, and not the start of a seizure. "He has pretty much everything going on over there, right? It's like he's been carved from marble, and the angry thing kind of works for him?"

Danny's face scrunches, like he disapproves of this line of questioning.

"Stiles."

"Come on, agree with me."

"Will you shut up about it. I'm not going to -" Danny is fairly obviously refusing to look at Derek. Stiles gestures with a hand anyway, repeatedly, and in a way that is all-encompassing, to where Derek is sprawled shoeless and smoulder-y by the window, leafing through books as if he expects nothing less than disappointment and thus is furiously pretending he doesn't care whether he finds anything or not. Also ignoring them, very pointedly ignoring them, even though he can hear every word.

"Fine," Danny hisses at last. "Yes, to everything." His voice has dropped impossibly low, as if that's going to help with the 'werewolves not hearing them' thing.

Stiles gestures again, and Danny reaches over to pull his arm down.

Derek shifts the book and smoulders in their general direction, and Stiles honestly can't tell if it's an angry smoulder or a sexy smoulder (it's Derek so there's a strong possibility they both look exactly the same anyway.) Danny swears and looks away and then looks a lot like he's resisting the urge to do something out of character, like punch Stiles in some sort of easily bruiseable place. But Stiles has been threatened by the best and Danny's general air of menace doesn't even rate a four.

"I tried to tell him about the angry thing working for him, but he just pushed me into a hedge."

Danny rubs his face and looks at Stiles sideways, as if he can't quite believe what comes out of his mouth sometimes.

Stiles checks to see if Derek's watching. Which, obviously, because Derek is always watching, it's his thing. Derek's air of menace is terrifying and unstoppable, and Stiles watches it build like a thunderstorm, watches his hands roll into fists until he's stretching his way off the floor and kicking the chair next to him so it grates all the way over to them, and then stops.

"Sit," he says simply.

Stiles isn't sure which of them he's talking to, but they sort of bump together when they both try and take the chair at the same time. Stiles pushes Danny into it when he hikes himself up on the desk behind him.

Derek then proceeds to demonstrate the angriest striptease ever. In fact there's no tease at all, Derek takes off his clothes like they have personally offended him. He takes his clothes off like it's a punishment he thinks he deserves. It's almost threatening the way he just draws his shirt over his head, spine bending, arms folding and flexing, and his body just curls out of his clothes like it doesn't know how to do anything else. A long stretch of naked skin. It's like nudity is his natural state, to which he will always return, and Stiles has no complaint about that, at all. And even if he did complain to someone about it, it would be a terrible lie. Which he would be called on immediately.

Derek throws the shirt to one side, and it doesn't flutter to the floor, nothing Derek throws will ever do anything so graceful and harmless. No it hits the chair on the other side of the room, sleeves wrapping round the back as if to save itself. Derek's already forgotten it exists, hands tugging at his belt in vicious movements. He looks away from them when he pulls both ends apart, drawing it through his belt loops and tossing it away

And - oh - now Derek is staring at him, like he's only just noticed Stiles is there.

"Come here." Derek's voice is a low growl. A 'don't you dare ignore me,' growl. Which Stiles has some experience protesting. Though it rarely ends well for him.

Stiles awkwardly slithers his way off the desk, with a sigh of annoyance, and stomps over to him. The moment he gets within range Derek's fingers are clamped tight around his wrist, pulling him in the rest of the way.

"Fair's fair," Derek says darkly, and he tugs at the bottom of Stiles's shirt, in a way that makes him gawp a little, because he can't be serious?

"What, no, that's -" Stiles's awkward laughter gets cut off when Derek tugs at the shirt, hard. "Danny doesn't want to see me take my clothes off," Stiles adds, in what's actually an embarrassingly high tone of voice. Honestly he could have failed harder at sounding sexy and mature, but probably only if he actually started crying.

He makes an even less sexy noise when Derek twists him around until he's facing Danny, back against the impossible heat of Derek's naked chest. Derek starts unbuckling his belt in jerky, aggressive pulls. He can feel the press of Derek's fingers through his jeans, the slide of his bare wrist where his shirt's hiked up.

"Oh my god, what are you doing?" Stiles demands, and if he wasn't looking right at him he would have completely missed the way Danny's throat rolls in a swallow and, oh my God, it turns out that maybe Danny does want to watch him take his clothes off. Stiles doesn't even know what to do with that.

The belt comes free in one rasping pull, and Stiles feels his hips jerk with it. Derek pulls him back in by his belt loops, and just lets the leather fall.

"You want to know what it feels like?" Derek hisses in his ear, angry and too low for anyone else to hear.

There's a brief press of fingers at his waist. Before Derek's jerking up the bottom of his shirt, and Stiles's breath catches in his throat because there are knuckles against the bare skin of his stomach, sliding up, rasping and warm. Derek's hands turn under the fabric and then there are palms and fingers moving up his ribs, much hotter than his own skin, and he makes a pathetic little noise under all the unexpected touching. He still doesn't quite understand why there's so much unexpected touching. Then his shirt's pulled over his head and off. His arms sort of flail uselessly, he's not hideously deformed but he isn't exactly the standard model of adventurous werewolves and lacrosse players. The constant exercise he gets running from werewolves aside there's entirely too much candy and pizza in his diet for anything dramatically impressive to be going on there.

Derek catches his waist and makes him face Danny again, and Danny is watching and it's all very awkward but also, very obvious that the awkward isn't in any way preventing him from finding this inappropriately arousing, and it's hard to protest anything when you're half hard and pretty sure everyone knows it.

"Derek," he hisses. Not entirely sure if he's being punished or not. This feels a lot like punishment - but also nothing like it at the same time. But the hands on his skin spread and push in, and Stiles gets the impression Derek isn't letting him go until he's learned some sort of lesson. Or possibly until he's humiliated him in some sort of terrible sex way. He should be angrier about that. He shouldn't be dragging air in through his nose and twitching in his grip.

"Do you want me to keep going?" It sounds more like a threat than a question, and Stiles is about to blurt out something sarcastic about how it's so nice that Derek is asking him - but Danny is the one who blinks in surprise, and locks eyes with Derek behind him, and then nods. Because, shit, Derek wasn't talking to him.

Derek grunts like he's pleased with the answer. He slides a hand up Stiles's chest, until he can curl it around the front of his neck, and he can probably feel the pulse racing under his fingers, the way Stiles doesn't know whether to sway closer or stay still, quivering with indecision and jittery arousal. Derek's thumb trails over his mouth, in a way that leaves it tingling and half-open.

Danny makes a noise, cracked like he doesn't mean to - like he can't help it.

"I know," Derek says, soft and angry, almost threatening. Before his hand falls away.

Derek doesn't seem to care that his hair isn't long enough to pull, he just fits his hand to the back of Stiles's skull and pulls his head back, other hand spread open on his stomach, warm and heavy and impossible to ignore. Derek breathes hotly into the naked curve of his throat, close enough to open his mouth there, close enough to bite if he wanted to. Stiles doesn't even know if he wants to - but the thought of it, he's not supposed to be easing back into Derek's hold without even trying to protest, without asking - demanding - to know what the hell this is. He should say something. But for a second Derek's fingers slide low enough to just slip under the waist of his jeans. They drift inwards, tug at the button and Stiles doesn't feel it open but there's definitely a sense that they're less tight than before.

Someone makes a soft, broken noise and Stiles thinks for a moment that it's him, but it's not, it's Danny. When Stiles actually looks up, Danny's eyes are almost black, and his mouth is half-open and both his hands are curled into fists on his knees. His thighs are parted just enough to see that Danny is totally into the whole impromptu double act. Which - fuck - the idea that Stiles has played some vague part in giving Danny an erection is doing so many things.

Derek's hands are on his waist, mouth on the side of his neck, open like a tease, and Derek pulls him back tight. Gives him an up close and personal introduction to his dick, which is currently shoved into his ass, a rigid line of heat. That's about the point where his brain goes white and stops processing.

"Turn around," Derek murmurs in his ear, breath rushing into every curve, in a way that shivers all the way through him, pools low and hot. He groans and obeys, sliding through Derek's hands until they're eye to eye, much closer than Stiles remembers.

Derek's dick is right there, obvious at the crotch of his jeans and there is no moisture in Stiles's mouth, and he wants to touch it so badly he thinks he may have gone insane. He wants to press his hand against it, curl it all the way around it. Even if Derek punishes him for it - fuck, maybe especially if Derek punishes him for it.

"Unzip me."

It's not a request and Stiles doesn't even think about refusing. He exhales out a tragic little sound and lifts his hands. He pops the button awkwardly, edge of his hand brushing the heat of Derek through the denim. His fingers have suddenly forgotten how to be fingers, knuckles and fingertips tripping over Derek's cock when he draws the zipper down, and Derek's tugging his hands away, holding them away from him while he breathes, fingers pressing and pushing, testing, at his wrists. Before he lets them go, slips his hands to Stiles's waist instead and pulls him closer. Closer to his undone jeans and his red-ringed eyes. There's a shaky exhale from Danny, a barely audible 'fuck.' Which sounds rattled and dirty.

"Down," Derek says, a rough growl of a word.

For a second Stiles thinks Derek wants him on his knees, something in his gut tugs hard, and yes, it turns out he's absolutely and completely fine with that. He's so fucking close to actually doing it as well, knees already bending.

"Push them down," Derek clarifies, hoarse like he suddenly realises where Stiles's mind was going.

Stiles isn't sure if he's disappointed or not, brain still half-caught on the idea of Derek stretching his mouth wide, heavy on his tongue. But he manages to get his shaking hands into denim, pushing it down Derek's hips. He doesn't know whether to follow it, whether to sink to his knees anyway and take them all the way. Which will leave his mouth so close - but Derek's already pulling his way out of them, thighs flexing and - oh - that's distracting. Stiles almost lifts a hand, almost tries to touch.

"And the rest," Derek snarls.

Stiles has his fingers pushed into Derek's boxers before the sound tapers off, pulling them down and easing them past the impressive, intimidating erection he's sporting, and if he slows down a little, lets his own knuckles catch on Dereks thighs he's never going to admit to it. Anything to keep his hands shifting on Derek's skin, but they're already being eased away. Derek steps out of his shorts, kicks them away.

Derek is naked.

Derek is naked and Stiles is having serious trouble breathing, and he's not doing anything. He's just sort of staring in this impossibly obvious sort of way, and breathing, and maybe making little whimpering noises, because his brain is short-circuiting and he probably shouldn't be this close since there's a danger he may lose his mind and just start touching. He's still not exactly sure if he's allowed. But he thinks he might just reach out and touch Derek with his hands, or maybe plaster himself against him, try and climb him, possibly come all over his perfect abs while he's there, and it takes him a while to work out that the choked, greedy noise is coming from him.

Derek growls at him, and Stiles exhales and goes still.

Danny makes a noise, cracked and helpless and oh, holy fuck, Stiles had actually forgotten he was even there, and his teenage years are just going to be filled with things which are both hot and embarrassing at the same time.

"I'm gonna - I'm going to leave now." Danny's voice doesn't even work any more, it's just breath, and bits and pieces of words. "You two are going to kill me - fuck."

Stiles can hear all the words underneath that, and he's about to protest that he's not - he's really not Derek's anything. But Derek bites into the side of his throat, like he can hear him thinking it. Stiles makes a noise which even dead people wouldn't mistake for a protest, and lets his head tilt to the side to give him more room. Stiles registers the sound of his bedroom door shutting, but there are no feet on the stairs, no slamming of the front door, and so he's pretty sure Danny's going to jerk off in his bathroom. Which is kind of hot in a way that he's probably going to think about at some point in the future, probably while he's doing something completely innocuous like brushing his teeth - but it's really not as hot as the fact that Derek has wrapped both hands round his waist now, shoving at the edge of his jeans with a slow but persistent pressure, fingertips sliding on the sensitive skin over his hip bones. He's swearing into Stiles's throat, tension rolling through him like he knows he shouldn't. Which, y'know, it's a little late for.

Derek twists him around again, and his fingers wrap around his body and dig back in under the falling waist of his jeans, tease at the elastic of his boxers. He's pressed tight up against Stiles's back now, and he's rock hard and it's still doing things to Stiles's good judgment.

"You are infuriating," Derek says, slowly, like he wants Stiles to take in every word.

Stiles thinks he's trying to be angry, but it's difficult to take it that way when his voice is this rough, shuddery thing, and his erection is still digging into Stiles's ass. Harder every time Derek's fingers tighten, and oh my God, he can't do anything but push back into that.

"And you're still too fucking young to be grinding into my dick," Derek snarls, he's probably trying to be the grown-up voice of reason. Stiles is tempted to point out that Derek is the one who made him take his clothes off, and bit him first, who hauled him up here and touched him and this is all so very much his fault. But Derek isn't actually letting him go, so he suspects all of that is in fact moot. Not that he was fighting. He's absolutely fine with the way Derek tenses and gives a short little huff of air every time Stiles nudges back into him.

"Derek -"

Derek's hands tighten, thumb digging into the soft skin of his hip.

"You don't get to do this whenever you want," Derek says, like he's had enough.

"Why are you punishing me?" Stiles complains, in a way that's loud and overly whiny, but he's done nothing to deserve this, and it's all very sexy and confusing and he'd really like it to continue.

"Because you've been showing me off like I'm your trophy." Derek sounds angry and frustrated, and genuinely hurt, and what the hell? Stiles doesn't get it at all. Derek is not in any way his trophy, there's no - he's not - Oh my God.

"Oh my God."

The world abruptly turns upside-down, and then stays that way.

Because Derek is his. Derek is his. And why the fuck did Stiles not know this? Why did no one tell him this?

"Oh my God, you're mine." He sounds stunned, which is good, since he's pretty fucking stunned, also shaking a little with the realisation. He tips his head back and Derek is looking at him like he's the stupidest person in the world. Which he is, he is the stupidest person in the entire world.

"You're an idiot," Derek snarls into his throat, and he is biting his neck now, rough and almost painful and completely human. Which Stiles utterly deserves, and he's digging his nails into Derek's bare thighs and trying to claw him closer.

"I am so stupid and I totally didn't know. I swear to God. No one told me. Why didn't anyone tell me? Why didn't you tell me?! Or try and kiss me or something. We could have been kissing this whole time." Stiles makes an angry noise of distress, because even the thought of it - Derek grasps his jaw, fingers biting in, and he turns it and Derek's mouth is crushed down over his, stubble grating against his skin. It's hard and wet and Derek's tongue is inside his mouth. It's the awkwardest angle in the whole world, and it's fucking perfect. Best kiss ever.

Stiles groans when they pull apart, and his mouth feels scratched and numb and awesome.

"I'm sorry I've been pimping you out. I wouldn't have done that - all you had to do was say something. But you're beautiful, like in a completely masculine way, fucking masculinely beautiful, like someone hewed you out of marble. Underneath your aura of gloom and fury and stubble. And I just wanted someone to look at you and appreciate that, instead of looking at you with horrible suspicion like you might murder them and wear their skin or something. You are amazing, you are unbelievably amazing. If I'd known you'd take off your clothes for me I would have asked you ages ago."

"Then you should have asked," Derek hisses, raw and frustrated and Stiles has no idea what he's even saying, because isn't he asking now? Begging? Making completely humiliating and vaguely apologetic noises in his throat? How do you politely demand that someone touch you before you go out of your mind, Stiles is in serious danger of just blurting it out.

"Derek." Stiles's voice breaks on his name, sounds weak and overwhelmed and needy.

Derek's hands tighten once and then go carefully still. He moves back a little, takes a long, shuddering breath.

"Tell me if don't want this, say it and I'll stop." Derek's voice is wrecked, even though he's trying to pretend it's not. Stiles can feel the way his fingers are twisting on his skin, the way the heat just rolls off of him, and the way Derek's face keeps tipping into his hair like he wants to get drunk on him. Derek wants him, which is enough to turn all his thoughts to glue and leave his body in charge. Because Derek is naked and Stiles is harder than he's ever been in his life, and why are they still talking?

He has to make his throat work though, has to somehow make sure that never happens - even the possibility of it - there's no way, no way they're stopping. Stiles flails with his hands until he can find Derek's skin and digs his nails in as hard as he can, which gets him a ragged inhale.

"Oh my God, no. Why would I do that? Are you insane. Don't you dare stop. Don't you dare. You can't do that to me. I want you, fuck, so badly, how can you possibly not know that?" Stiles can't think of any more ways to say how completely ok he is with this. But Derek's already pushing him into the wall, pinning him there with his body, leaving Stiles's left arm crushed tight between chest and plaster, while he mouths angrily at the back of his neck, and the curve of his throat, all teeth and wet flare of breath. Derek presses himself into Stiles like he thinks he can crawl through him. Stiles is apparently completely ok with that though, because he just grunts and takes it. Derek's hand twists into the front of his jeans, under his shorts, and the strangled little breath Stiles is taking turns into a mess when Derek's fingers slide over him and grasp him, all heat and pressure and strength. Stiles pushes into it and then hisses when Derek pins him still. He's losing his mind, it's official, and he's choking out Derek's name in a way that sounds demanding and desperate.

"Do you have any idea how frustrating you are?" It sounds a lot like he's being told off, but Derek's jacking him, slow and easy, and Stiles is trying to focus on breathing and not losing it within the next thirty seconds. Which might be the most difficult thing he's done in his entire life so far. "Do you know how hard it's been to not fucking touch you?" Derek presses into him again, like he has every intention of fixing that. God, please let him fix that right now.

"Yes, fuck, anything, yes," Stiles tells him, because he's completely fine with absolutely everything, and he really doesn't want to waste any more time talking about it. Not when Derek is gripping his almost-bare hips, and pressing into him. Then swearing and easing back far enough to tug Stiles's jeans and boxers down at the back, over the curve of his ass, which has Stiles biting down on a high, whimpery noise. He's smart enough to know where this is probably going to go, and he may actually lose his mind if Derek fucks him up against the wall. But then Derek's pressing back into him, dick suddenly hot and naked against the bare skin of his ass, and - fuck - they're officially having sex. This is what this is. He thinks Derek's resisting the urge to bite the hell down on the back of his neck, instead he just presses his forehead there, growling out every breath. Which is unspeakably hot when it should probably be utterly terrifying. Clearly Stiles is broken - or he's just spent too long around werewolves.

Why had no one told him he could do this? He's firing everyone from his life. He manages to get his free hand up and back, finds the shifting muscle of Derek's waist, and he digs his fingers in. That makes Derek groan in a way that's deep, and ever so fucking sordid. Which knocks out the last of whatever control Stiles possesses. He's coming, half over the wall and - fuck - half over Derek's fingers. No stamina at all, and he doesn't even care. He doesn't care in the slightest, because it's so good. He'll probably feel embarrassed about it when he comes down from it all. But both of Derek's hands are on his waist now, fingers occasionally tight enough to sway over the line into hurt - even though Stiles isn't making pain noises at all - and he's still shaking a little with aftershocks, feeling every jolting push against him. Which isn't really comfortable, but Derek's hands are slipping on his skin and he's making desperate noises in his throat, like it's perfect just like this. Which is more than enough. And then Derek's coming against his back and the curve of his ass - Stiles can feel it - leaving wet stripes on the skin, and growling into his neck. Which is the hottest thing ever, and feels bruising and dirty and amazing. Especially the way Derek just flattens his palm against his sticky skin afterwards, softening dick still pressed against his ass, while he just breathes into Stiles's hair.

Stiles makes a sort of useless, broken noise of bliss, and the wall is cold against his face, which is kind of nice, until he's not pressed there any more. Derek carefully pulls him back, and lets him lean against his body. Which it turns out Stiles can probably touch whenever he wants. That's what this means, at least he hopes that's what this means, because he fully intends to do that and not having his fingers bitten off would be awesome. Derek owes him for totally deciding that they were dating and then not fucking telling him - or at least not making it obvious, in some sort of obvious way.

Derek eases his jeans back up, and he's being sort of careful about it. There's an oddly guilty hesitation to everything. But Stiles is enjoying this post-orgasm-with-another-person lassitude too much to do more than grip Derek's naked thighs and tip his head back into his throat, incoherently slurring things which he hopes are complimentary. He doesn't stop until Derek sighs against his mouth and kisses him again.

Stiles is pretty sure if Derek gives him a couple of minutes he can go again.