Derek has a lot on his mind.
He has Peter and Gerard and the kanima and hunters to deal with, a pack to train, a reluctant dipshit werewolf to babysit and his pack’s assortment of family members, friends and significant others to wrangle. Including Stiles, who shows up in the woods when they’re training and installs Wi-Fi in the den and comes by one day with an awkward, huge piece of furniture in the back of his Jeep and says, “It’s a Papasan! Barely freaking used. Ten dollars. That’s right.”
For a while, Derek thinks Stiles is there to watch over Scott. But later, after Scott and Allison have broken up and gotten back together every other Monday or so, things even out and the pack solidifies. Wolves and humans work together the way the Hales did, when the Hales filled a big, happy house and couldn’t sit down for Thanksgiving dinner without stacking three tables together and using paper plates because they didn’t have enough china to serve more than a dozen people.
They're a pack. Scott is happy and relatively safe. He belongs.
So it doesn't make sense for Stiles to be there for Scott.
While Derek tries to figure Stiles out, he notices Stiles watching him a lot, as if studying him in return. It's disconcerting. Stiles watches him over the edge of his heavy textbooks and glances at him when he’s got a mouth full of French fries and looks over while he’s playing Call of Duty with Scott on the TV they set up in one of the railcars.
Stiles keeps an eye on Derek even when he's not contradicting him or trying to track everyone’s plans or scheduling Pack Meetings because no one bothered to check their emails on the Google group.
It begins to feel—something. Not suffocating. Not even bad, really. (Derek appreciates proximity; it's hard to get used to it again, but it's what the wolf wants, and it makes the pack stronger to stay close.) He can't place what sets him on edge about Stiles' behavior until he's exhausted after a long full moon night keeping Erica and Boyd from tearing each other apart. He goes for a walk to clear the scent of their agony from his nose, and finds Stiles sleeping a block away in his parked Jeep. Derek doesn't wake him.
Fondness, that's it. That's the unfamiliar response to everything Stiles is and does.
It still frustrates and confuses Derek, but at least he knows what the feeling is.
Derek doesn’t mark down the day they first kiss, but he knows it was spring, because Stiles pulled away, smiling like he was drunk, and then sneezed all over Derek’s shoulder.
He doesn't mark down the first time they fuck, but he holds Stiles for a long time afterwards.
Fucking Stiles is like training the betas. It calms Derek, it gives him focus. It’s a rhythm. He learns the sound of Stiles’ heartbeat and how it changes just before he comes. He listens to the way Stiles forgets to breathe when he feels good. He tastes Stiles’ sweat and come and lets the unfamiliar pull of a bond form. He tells himself it’s good for the pack, especially when it comes to a human, who won’t bond as naturally as the betas do. He doesn’t call the way he feels around Stiles joy or happiness, because Stiles still irritates him most of the time.
(Because you can’t be born an abomination and not believe in fate. You can’t shrug off superstition. You can’t admit you want something or it’ll burn, like everything else.)
Derek finds something like comfort in the routine of their physical relationship, but he can't shake the feeling that Stiles needs something. He wants something he’s not getting. The awareness of this snags at the edge of Derek’s perception like a hangnail. Derek ignores it because whatever it is, it’s low on the hierarchy of shit to deal with, starting with keeping them all alive.
But he gets a pretty good hint one afternoon, when the betas are learning Judo from a DVD on Erica’s laptop. She’s using Stiles as a dummy and throws him onto a mat made of flattened cardboard boxes over and over, until Stiles is breathing hard and his face is all red. He fights her, making her work for every throw, and when he lands on his back, gasping with the wind knocked out of him, he glances around the room until he spots Derek and their eyes meet and the realization hits Derek just as the scent does. Derek feels his skin prickle up with sweat because how are the others not noticing?
Stiles is aroused. Wanting. Getting off on—something. The pain? The pressure of Erica’s knee against his sternum? Erica?
Erica gives him a hand and hauls him up and they square off to begin again.
Derek barks, “Enough. Stiles, come here," and grabs Stiles by the arm when he wobbles over, still winded.
“Dude, I’m fine,” Stiles says, as Derek drags him out of the room. “I have like, four shirts on, and we put styrofoam under the cardboard. It’s practically regulation Judo shit, I looked it up on Wikipedia.”
Derek releases Stiles in the back storeroom that’s full of junk and old furniture. The room's lit by one dingy skylight, and a beam of midday sunlight from above lights dust floaters like confetti.
“Fine!” Stiles backs up, trips on a piece of plywood, and catches himself against a rusted filing cabinet. “One shirt. And I didn’t look it up. But they probably do it on hardwood or something anyway. And Wikipedia will get you a giant C- on your Shakespeare papers, FYI.”
“I’m not worried about the mats,” Derek says.
“Oh... ‘kay.” Stiles licks his lips and gestures at the door with his chin. “So. Awesome talk. You’re totally welcome for helping—whoa—”
Derek takes Stiles by the collar of his tee shirt and the waistband of his jeans and throws him onto the mattress on the floor. Stiles bounces onto his back with a grunt and pushes up onto his hands.
Derek approaches him slowly, never taking his eyes off him.
“What the hell? I thought we talked about using our words,” Stiles says. He goes pale under the dust that settles on his sweaty face.
“Shut up, Stiles.”
“Are you mad at me?” Stiles asks, voice sharp with irritation but earnest, like he really needs to know.
Derek will think about that later. “Do you want me to be?” he asks.
Stiles’ heartbeat stutters. “What?”
Derek sinks to the mattress. With Stiles caught off guard, all he has to do is crawl forward. One knee pins Stiles by the thigh. His other leg pins Stiles’ opposite leg down. He sweeps Stiles’ wrists together with one hand and locks them against the mattress with his weight.
“Is this like, a private Judo lesson?” Stiles asks.
Derek simply waits.
When Stiles’ instincts kick in, he moves like a wolf, his body responding naturally to the threat and his desire. He turns his head to the side, exposing the tendons and arteries at his neck.
“Is this some kind of power trip?” Stiles asks quietly. His heartbeat has gone rabbit-fast, but he covers it well, breathing slowly and keeping his voice even. He's not afraid, but he's keyed up. Adrenaline sours his sweat and pulls the last of the flush from his cheeks. “Because dude, alpha and all? I sort of know you’re in charge.”
Derek takes his free hand and slides his thumb under the edge of Stiles’ shirt, running it from the exposed tufts of dark hair below Stiles’ belly button to the thin, pale skin that stretches over his ribs.
“And that? Tickles," Stiles gasps out.
“Is that so?” Derek asks. He drops his fingertips to Stiles’ skin slowly, one at a time, like he’s playing music. When his pointer finger makes contact, Stiles’ throat clicks with a swallow.
“What are you doing?” Stiles asks, his body coiling, the muscles pulling so tight they’re practically singing. “Derek.”
Derek doesn't actively decide to do it. It just happens, as if it's meant to. He wiggles his thumb at the divot between two of Stiles’ ribs and Stiles arches. For a beat, it’s like Derek punched him. Stiles' breath sucks in and his face scrunches up and then snap, he’s laughing. It’s loud and hoarse. Stiles’ entire body shakes with it.
“No no no, don’t tickle me!” he cries out. “Shit, Derek! Don’t tickle—”
Derek does it again. Harder.
Stiles’ laugher hits a hysterical pitch and he fights this time, deliberately jerking his arms and kicking. Holding him down takes about as much effort as yawning. The most difficult part is not smiling. Even distressed, Stiles' laugh is infectious, big and full-bodied.
Derek tickles Stiles until his laughter becomes harsh wheezing.
“I hate you,” Stiles pants out, after Derek lets him catch his breath. “I’m not five, you dick. Stop tickling me.”
“I noticed that,” Derek says, placing his hand on Stiles’ crotch, where his erection strains at his jeans. He rolls his palm at it, base to tip, and watches Stiles shiver.
Stiles blushes. “Damn it.”
“Tell me what you really want, or I will stop.”
“I told you to stop, jerk-off.”
Derek inhales slowly, letting the wolf scent Stiles. Arousal. Embarrassment. None of the hollowness of fear or the spark-hot smell of anger. “I can let you go, right now. Or you can tell me what you want me to do.”
“I want...” Stiles looks at him and falters.
“Let me make this easier. Do you want me to hold you down?”
Stiles’ eyes go wide, and then he nods.
“Do you want me to stop tickling you?”
It’s probably the longest stretch of time Derek’s seen Stiles stay quiet.
Then Stiles shakes his head.
Derek’s arousal is like a living thing, curling along his skin and fighting his control. The wolf doesn't want to play games with Stiles. The wolf doesn’t want to give him this. The wolf wants to dominate Stiles with teeth and a bloody fuck on the cold concrete and this—this is probably why Derek’s mom took him aside when he was fourteen and told him they’d find him a werewolf mate, that he had to be patient.
“Do you want me to get you wet?” Derek asks, low now, like a growl.
“Do you want me to make you whine for it like a bitch?” Derek asks, his tongue sticky with the words. This is a dangerous, stupid game. The air is dry and Stiles’ skin is hot and he could take him by the throat right now, could take him.
"Yeah," Stiles says, the sound barely audible. He squirms his mouth like he's swallowing more words and pushes his hips up against the hand still draped lazily over his crotch. He watches Derek closely, wide-eyed and not scared, but something. Trusting. Hopeful.
Fuck, it cuts Derek apart.
Stiles isn't trusting Derek to be gentle; he's trusting Derek to hurt him. The need in Stiles is like a chasm, strange and intoxicating.
Nothing Derek's ever done qualifies him to deal with whatever misfiring impulses in Stiles' brain want him to be tormented by a werewolf who could rip his throat out, but he's beyond stopping now. Not when Stiles is wiggling into Derek's touch.
"You'd make a good wolf," Derek muses, as he lets his fingers bump-slide back along Stiles' ribs. "You could afford to be this reckless, if you were."
"I wouldn't want to show up the others. They're trying so hard to be good," Stiles says. Derek can't tell if he's joking or not; Stiles' voice trembles with the effort to hold back laughter as Derek's fingers begin tracing tight circles, the pressure threatening to become a merciless tickle again.
Derek waits until Stiles' skittering gaze catches and sticks. "Tell me you want it," he says, slow and deliberate. It's an out, and it's the last out Stiles will get.
"Tell me!" Derek shouts. He feels a rumble of concern from outside the storeroom and ignores it. The betas won't come barging in here unless he calls for them.
"I want it," Stiles says. He reeks of embarrassment now. The scent lingers at the back of Derek's throat.
Derek doesn't give himself time to let that sink in. He doesn't want Stiles' shame. He wants his (need, joy) laughter, so he lashes his fingers against Stiles' side and up under his shirt to the hot clutch of skin and sweat and hair at his armpit. He digs his blunt fingertips into the hard plane of bone beneath the skin and muscle.
"Fuck—fuck!" Stiles shouts, twisting helplessly. His laughter is primal, like a bark, like a howl. He starts to say no, again and again, but the sound catches on a long, drawn out nngghhhh each time. It's an admirable level of control. And it won't last long.
Derek measures out his attacks, driving Stiles to sobbing gasps and pausing to let him breathe before beginning again, always on a fresh patch of Stiles' skin. He shifts above Stiles, never letting him escape, only allowing the brief illusion of freedom before he pins him in another position.
When Stiles is on his stomach, clawing at the mattress and bucking his hips, Derek grinds against his ass. He feels lightheaded, his breath coming in low, hoarse chuckles as he ruts against Stiles' and torments that hysterical, howling laughter out of him. The next time he stops tickling, he keeps moving, showing Stiles how hard he is.
Stiles goes boneless and whines quietly, his cheek against the mattress. The side of his face is streaked with tears, his lashes clumped together with them. Derek stares, fascinated at the wreck of him. He's never see Stiles cry, but he's smelled anguish on him, and there's no anguish here now. Stiles radiates want and even as he sniffles between breaths, he moves. It takes Derek a moment to realize he's trying to rub himself off on the mattress.
"I know it hurts," Derek says, dizzy in a way he's never felt before. Not fucking, anyway. Not fucking Stiles. "I'll help you."
Instinct pulses in him as he yanks Stiles' jeans open and down his thighs. Stiles is so sweaty from practicing and struggling it's like he really is wet. A ripe desire to mate hits Derek like a gunshot and he snarls out a quick laugh and says, "Stiles."
Of course this boy would find one more way to aggravate him, to make him itch, inside and out.
"Yep, right here," Stiles says weakly. He doesn't move at all, as if his wrists are still pinned down to the mattress. "Oh my god. My ribs hurt."
"You'll live," Derek says, the sound garbled as he licks his own fingers messily.
"And my dick hurts."
"Does this hurt?" Derek touches Stiles' hole, waits for that first flinch to subside, and enters him in one long, probing slide. He curls his fingers and twists them, making Stiles feel it all, without a chance to catch his breath and let the burn pass.
"Uh huh," Stiles says. His fingers clench into fists. "Fuck, Derek. Come on. Yeah."
Derek palms Stiles's back, right between his shoulder blades. He presses, not too hard, but enough to show him he can't get away. Enough to feel. "You're a brat, pup," he says, grinning.
He fingerfucks Stiles like he tickled him, finding the spot that makes Stiles cry out and nailing it with pulsing thrusts that aren't quite enough to get him off. Without slick stuff, he can't do it for as long as he wants, but it's enough to drive Stiles into a state of mindless groaning and low, pained whimpers.
"Derek, lemme come, please," Stiles says. He's chewing and licking at his own knuckles and clawing at the mattress. "It hurts."
Derek drags in a shuddering breath. "I want to fuck you."
"Awesome," Stiles says, like he's being strangled.
"Don't freak out," Derek says.
Stiles, after being tickled half to death and fingerfucked within an inch of his life, apparently has a lingering shred of self-preservation. He pushes up on his elbows and looks back at Derek. "Uh?" His eyes go wide. "Oh my god."
Derek can count the number of times he's changed in front of Stiles on one hand, and it's never been at a time like this. But he doesn't want to rip Stiles apart. He needs to make him slick. Needs to make him wet.
"I feel like this is against the law, probably. In this county, anyway—oh god!" Stiles shouts, when Derek takes him by the ass and spreads him open and licks him from the pink rounds of his balls to his tailbone in one long, hard swipe. "Oh, fuck me. Oh my fuck."
It's a struggle to keep his teeth clear of Stiles' tender skin, and Stiles must feel them—must know the danger—because he goes very still, trembling and breathing in tight whistles from his nose. Derek growls, pleased at the submission. Stiles is a good boy. He's so hot inside. He tastes so good.
When the soft scent of blood rises to the surface of Stiles' skin under Derek's bruise-hard grip, Derek changes back. A moment of worry flares until he sees that he hasn't scratched Stiles. His claws remained unchanged, dormant in his human hands.
"Stiles," he says.
Stiles peeks one eye open, waits a moment, and blinks his eyes open fully. "Oh, hey, you're back." His cheeks are so unevenly flushed they look like they're splattered with berry juice.
"I didn't go anywhere."
"You did. You were like... excavating, dude. I don't even know."
Derek snorts and opens his jeans. "Ready?"
"Like you would not believe."
"No, stay on your stomach," Derek says, when Stiles starts to get up, all of his limbs trembling like he's just learning how to move.
He waits until Stiles is flat again, and sinks onto him, enjoying the tight burn-press of fucking into Stiles when Stiles' legs are pressed together. Like this, Derek can bite down on Stiles' meaty, strong shoulder like he's holding him down with his jaw the way he wants to, deep down in his blood.
One slow thrust, and another, and they're both wet enough for him to snap down with force.
"Yeah," Stiles says, the word gusting out of him on a downstroke. His fingers flutter, grasping blindly until they find Derek's.
After that, they're quiet. There's nothing gentle about it. Derek dimly recalls starting this for Stiles, but now it's for him. He doesn't want to be slow or tender. He doesn't want to kiss. He doesn't want to think about what Stiles needs. He wants to fuck this boy until he smells like wolf and can't sit down without remembering that he's Derek's.
Derek fucks him ruthlessly. The mattress jumps beneath them, and Stiles breathes and breathes, echoing the rhythm of Derek's harsh, panting breaths. Stiles comes, but Derek's awareness of it is only a passing thing—the smell of semen and the sensation of Stiles' body clenching around him. Derek fucks him through it, and his own orgasm builds like a slow cramp, aching down his back and up his legs. It pulls a cry out of his throat as he slams home and writhes there, wanting it to last longer than it does, wanting to fill Stiles, needing to claim him.
"Dude," Stiles says. It must be later, because the sweat on Derek's body is starting to cool, and Stiles feels clammy beneath him. "If we're gonna be honest here, I'm not even sure what just happened."
"I pretty sure we had sex," Derek says irritably.
"Yeah the giant werewolf schlong in my ass tipped me off to that one."
Derek pulls out, groaning at the sticky tug. Stiles echoes the sound and rolls onto his side and moans, "My liver, my liver!"
"You guys didn't have cable?" Stiles asks.
Derek glares. Something feels off. It's not Stiles being an obtuse smartass already. That's normal. It's something else.
"You're acting strange," Derek says.
"Sorry if I don't know the protocol for closet sex after school, in a weird werewolf hideout, with a werewolf," Stiles says.
"No, it's not that," Derek says, ignoring Stiles' huff of indignation. "You're relaxed."
"I'm not. I'm sticky. And I hurt in places I didn't know existed until today, thanks."
Derek throws a leg and arm over Stiles and lets the momentum ease Stiles onto his back, and then he kisses him. Stiles' lips are salty with dried tears and sweat. There's tension in Stiles' body, but the astringent, faint smell of agitation that Stiles wears like cologne is gone. Stiles kisses like a teenager—sloppy and quick, with no finesse.
"You look smug," Stiles says, after Derek frees Stiles' mouth from the onslaught of kisses. "Is this because you made me come by screwing me?"
"It was the friction against the mattress," Derek says. He lets a quiet moment pass, and asks, "Are you hurt?"
Stiles hesitates, his heart already skip-beating with a lie before he sighs softly and admits, "A little. Just sore though, not actually like, injured." He worries at his lower lip. "Is it bad that I like it?"
"Probably not any worse than my instinct to breed you," Derek says.
Stiles blinks twice. "I don't know if I have the hips for it. And my dad's allergic to dogs."
Derek sinks his forehead to Stiles's shoulder and laughs for a long time.
They should move. They both need showers and Stiles should rest. The others are still working out in the main room. Derek can hear the thumps of their bodies landing against the cardboard mat. They should be practicing on the concrete if they're not throwing Stiles around.
He's drifting, not sleepily but dazedly, smiling to himself even as he winces through a stretch.
Derek nips at Stiles' jaw instead of saying, I don't know what I'm doing.
"So," Stiles asks. "Are werewolves ticklish?"
"Immune," Derek says quickly. "Totally immune."
Stiles gives him a wicked, knowing look. "Uh huh."