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Upon My Skin

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I wear your love like a tattoo upon my skin.

*

"What's wrong with your shoulder?" Derek asks, appearing out of thin air

Stiles yelps, jerking back from his monitor. He spins his chair so that he is facing Derek, a glare already in place. "Dude, what have I told you about your not-so-latent creeper tendencies?"

Derek gives him epic bitch face. "Your shoulder," he growls.

Stiles lets out an indignant huff, right hand coming up to cup the top of his left shoulder, wincing a little as his fingers brush across the top of gauze. "Nothing," he mumbles, letting his hand fall back down. "Look, dude, I'm busy. Come back in the morning and we'll deal with whatever fresh hell you've managed to stumble into, alright? Right now Stiles needs some alone time."

"Stiles," Derek grits out and Stiles knows without looking that his eyes have gone Alpha red.

It shouldn't be possible for Derek to manage to make Stiles’s name mean both "don't be stupid" and "tell me now before I hurt you" at the same time, but somehow he does. Stiles purses his lips, debating whether it is best for his sanity to protest the invasion of his privacy a little longer, or to just give in now. The steady rumbling growl coming from Derek makes up Stiles's mind for him and he accepts his fate with a sigh.

"There's nothing wrong with my shoulder," he says, turning back towards the other man. "It's just a little sore right now, is all."

"I smell blood." Derek draws in a breath through his nose, frowning like it's going out of style. "And ink and--" his voice trails off and his eyes widen slightly. "Let me see it," he demands, crossing the space between them and tugging at the hem of Stiles's shirt.

"Hey now," Stiles protests, slapping them away. "How's about you keep your mitts to yourself there, big guy."

Derek's jaw tightens until it looks like he could crack walnuts with his teeth. "Let. Me. See. It."

"How about no." Stiles crosses his arms protectively over his chest. "I'm not stripping down for you, Derek. No way, no how."

"Stiles."

There it is again. That magical combination of "god, you're an idiot" and "don't make me hurt you" that Derek does so well. But this time Stiles isn't about to budge.

"Nope. Not happening."

Stiles doesn't strip on anyone’s command. It's just... look, he doesn't have body issues or anything. His body is actually pretty rocking, thank you very much, but he's... it's personal. His body is his. And only he gets to say who gets to see it. And if Derek doesn’t like that, well then Derek can suck it for all Stiles’s cares.

Derek makes a noise that could almost be classified as a whine, if not for the epic scowl he's got going on. "Stiles," he says again, like if he just says it enough Stiles's will give in to his demands.

"No." Stiles gives him stink eye. "I don't just whip off my shirt at the drop of a hat the way rest of you do. If I'm taking my clothes off for someone, there had better be a damn good reason for it. And, before you say it, no, you wanting to see my tattoo is not a good reason. If I wanted the world to see it, I would have put it on my face. So fuck off already."

Derek makes that almost whine again, his brows lifting into an inverted vee as his shoulders slump and his hands flex at his sides. He looks about as helpless as a mountain of muscle can look. It shouldn't affect Stiles, because damn it, he's not a sucker for puppy eyes. He's not. Except...

He huffs out a sigh. "Stop looking at me like that. It doesn't hurt you one bit not to see it." Derek just keeps on keeping on with the sad face, even going so far as to duck his head which, what the fuck even is up with that. Derek is the Alpha. He doesn't duck his head for anything. Especially not for Stiles. "Dude," Stiles says, his mouth dropping open, "what," but he's cut off by Derek awkwardly clearing his throat.

"I, uh," he glances to the side, then visibly steels himself and meets Stiles's eyes. "Alphas have a need to protect their pack," he says firmly, like that has any bearing in this conversation at all.

Stiles waits for him to go on, then blinks at him when he doesn't. "Yeah, and?"

Derek gives him a confused look. "I am your Alpha. You are my pack. I... It's not a matter of wanting to see it, Stiles. I need to see it."

"Dude." Stiles lets out a laugh. "It's a tattoo. No biggie. Nothing for you to go all protect and defend on my ass over."

"Stiles," Derek says with this look on his face like Stiles is being the most obtuse person on the planet. "Please."

And, god damn it. Derek saying "please" is totally Stiles's kryptonite. Stiles's makes a face at him. "Oh for fuck's sake, fine." He jerks to his feet, scowling up a storm as he yanks his tee-shirt off. He tosses it to the side and then tugs off the long sleeve shirt he had on underneath. "Here," he turns his back towards Derek, "you're going to have to peel the tape off for me. I can't reach."

He tenses when he feels Derek's fingers tugging at the tape, carefully working it free from his skin. Stiles chews on his lips lower, oddly glad to be facing the other way so that he doesn't have to see Derek's face when he realizes that the tattoo is a wolf. Or, more accurately, a wolf's head. A stylized, tribal wolf's head, that Stiles is damn pleased with. But still. He hears a sucked in breath from behind him and Stiles's hands ball into fists reflexively.

"I," he half shrugs. "We're a pack now, like you said. And I'm a part of it. So," he laughs. "I guess I just wanted a part of that with me. To keep. Silly, I know. But, yeah. Anyway, what do you think?"

Derek moves closer, so close that Stiles can feel the heat of his body, then leans down and, fuck, breathes on it.

"Derek," Stiles's yelps, taking a step away, he goes to turn around, to face the other man, but Derek's hands shoot out, fingers curling around Stiles's bare hips, locking him in place.

"It looks good," Derek says, his voice rough. "I like it. I like that you wanted it. Stiles, I," his voice cuts out in a frustrated sound and then, holy fuck, is that Derek's tongue?

"Jesus fucking Christ!" Stiles struggles in Derek's grip. "What, you, are you insane? You are licking me, man!"

Derek pulls back, breath warm against the wet slick on Stiles's shoulder. "Of course I'm licking you. How else am I supposed to help it heal?"

"Oh god. You've lost it. Completely lost it. What am I going to tell the pack? Our fearless leader has flipped his lid and, holy hell, would you stop with the licking already?" Because, of course, Derek has started licking him again, of course. "Dude, that doesn't even... stop. Just. Stop. I didn't give you permission to put your stupid tongue all over me, which, wow. Yeah. I'm not even touching how wrong me having to say that is. And, dude, even if I had, you know, even the slightest interest in your tongue, which, by the way, I don't, I wouldn't want it all up on my freshly tattooed skin because hi there nasty ass infection just waiting to happen. Jesus, Derek, stop."

He's gone a bit hysterical by the end and that must break through to whatever version of crazyland Derek is currently occupying, because the other man actually stops. He doesn't let go or, you know, pull back so that Stiles doesn't have to feel his hot breath on his skin-- which is totally making him break out in goosebumps and shiver and wow, could this get any more awkward-- but at least he's not, you know, tracing Stiles's tattoo with his tongue anymore and that's something.

He squirms a little, trying to test Derek's hold on him without making a challenge out of it, but it gets him exactly nowhere. Derek's fingers tighten on his hips, tugging him firmly back until he can feel the solid weight of the other man pressed against him.

Stiles makes a sound of protest, struggling against Derek's hold in earnest this time, which gets him a growl and then the sharp pain of blunt teeth closing around the side of his neck. Stiles instantly freezes, letting his body go limp and pliant, the way he's been taught. The teeth disappear from his neck, but Derek's breath is coming in harsh pants that can't at all be a good thing and Stiles finds himself wishing he had never bothered with getting a tattoo in the first place.

They stand like that for a long moment, Stiles unnaturally still, Derek's body warm against his back.

"What the fuck?" Stiles asks when Derek's breathing has leveled out.

“Werewolf saliva has healing properties,” Derek says gruffly which... well, that’s the first that Stiles has heard of it.

“You’re never told me that before,” he says, disbelief dripping from the words.

Derek makes an annoyed sound. “It’s never come up.”

“It’s never come up,” Stiles repeats slowly, then shakes his head. “Whatever, never mind. Not important. What is important is that you are kinda all over me right now and I’m kinda not cool with that. So, would you mind backing up a bit?”

Derek’s hands flex once, then drop away as Derek takes a large step back.

“Thank fuck.” Stiles darts to where he dropped his shirts, tugging them on one after another. It’s not till he’s swung around to face Derek that he realizes that the throbbing in his shoulder is gone. “Huh,” he says, rolling his shoulder to test his range of motion. “What do you know.”

Derek gives him bitch face to end all bitch faces, then nods once and moves towards the open window.

“Right, good,” Stiles calls to his retreating back. “And let's never talk of it again.”

He gets no response, but then, he wasn’t really expecting one.

*

"Hey Derek, my man," Stiles says into his phone, barely waiting long enough for Derek to growl a response before continuing. "You and your tongue still have that magic superpower healing thing going on?"

Derek is quite for a long, long moment, then says, "Yes," almost reluctantly.

"Oh thank god for that. So, um, how about you come on over here and do a little of your licking magic on my behalf? I mean, I know we said we would never speak of it again, and I have been super on board with keeping up my end of that and all, but, um, look. I'd be real grateful is all I'm saying."

There is another long, silent pause, then a heavy sigh and a muffled curse. "I'll be right over," Derek says a second before the phone call cuts out.

"Good," Stiles tells the dial tone. "Great. See you soon. or whatever." He hisses as he lowers his arm, tossing the phone onto the pillow beside him. He zones out for a bit, staring up at his ceiling while trying not to focus on the throbbing pain etched into his skin. He stays like that, studying the blank whiteness above him, until the tell tale sound of wood on wood has him glancing at the window. Derek is crawling inside, because he's allergic to doors, the weirdo, his face crumpled up in a scowl.

"Don't look happy to see me or anything," Stiles tells him, wincing as he pushes himself up into a seated position.

"Stay still," Derek snaps back, his voice sounding as pissed off as his face looks. He crosses the room in an instant, hands coming up to peel the layers of gauze away, revealing the red, raw looking skin beneath it. Derek sucks in a deep breath. "Jesus."

Stiles sucks on his bottom lip, lifting his other shoulder helplessly. "They said I should break it into a couple of sessions, but I wanted, I needed," he shakes his head, looking away. "It's for my mom."

Derek doesn't say anything, just takes off his jacket and shoes before joining Stiles on the bed. "This is going to take a while," he cautions.

Stiles nods, clearing his throat. "Yeah, I figured. Just," he gestures with his left hand. "You know."

"Yeah," Derek says softly, "I know," and something tells Stiles he's not talking about the job at hand.

Stiles closes his eyes at the first lick, shifting uncomfortably on the bed. The rough rasp of Derek’s tongue stings a bit, but leaves a cool tingle in its wake, soothing away the burning ache the needles engraved in his skin. He lets out a hiss of relief, tension draining out of his body.

“Gladiolus,” he says, like Derek asked. “They were her favorite flower. She was born in August, August fourteenth, nineteen seventy-one. A good day in a good year, she use to joke. And gladiolus are the birth flower for August. She, I...” he lets shakes his head. “I had the wolf, for the pack, you know. And I was cool with that. No regrets at all. But, but I thought if I had something for the pack, I should have something for her. And she just loved those flowers, so I looked them up and, guess what, they stand for remembrance and everything too. And it just seemed right, you know? So, yeah. Once I settled on that, I just had to find the right artist and she told me that I was asking for a lot, that it would hurt like hell and bleed like a bitch, but I needed to do it all in one go. I just had to. But, fuck, I didn’t think it would hurt as much as it did.”

Derek pulls back just long enough to say, “How long did it take?”

Stiles sucks in a breath. “Five hours and change?” he shakes his head, then grunts as the movement jostles his shoulder. Derek growls at him, and Stiles rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I know, stay still. I’m trying. It’s just... you never know how your body fits together until you, uh, injury some part of it. Not that I injured myself or anything, tattoos are not, you know, on par with broken bones or bullet wounds or any of the other crazy shit that seems to happen around me all the time, but still. It hurts. Like hell. Or at least it did, until you started doing that. And, please, please, please don’t stop because yeah. Pain and me? Not friends. Total enemies, actually. I hate that pain bitch.”

Derek lets out a huff of laughter as he moves back, his warm hand pushing Stiles down on the bed. “On your stomach,” he says, “it will make it easier.”

“Sure, okay, whatever you want,” Stiles agrees, slowly maneuvering himself into position. Derek watches him with a look that Stiles would call concerned if it were on anyone other than Derek. His hand is still hovering an inch above Stiles’s back, like he’s poised to catch him or something, which should be ridiculous, but sort of makes Stiles breath catch in his throat.

“Anyway, yeah, gladiolus. Kind of girly. I know. But then, my mom was a girl and she loved them and I loved her and why wouldn’t I want something pretty if it’s meant to be for her.” He tugs a pillow under his head with his free arm and burrows the side of his face into it. “I don’t know, it just seemed right.”

“Stiles.” Derek’s voice is soft and low and it makes something hitch in Stiles’s chest.

He swallows hard, nodding his head. “You get it. I knew you would get it. Scott will too, I’m sure, once I explain it to him a time or ten. But you got it even before I had to explain, didn’t you?” He pauses for a second, giving Derek time to respond if he wants. Derek just makes an agreeing noise, his tongue slowly tracing its way up Stiles’s bicep to curl around his deltoid in a way that makes Stiles catch his breath for a whole other reason.

“Um,” Stiles squirms a little as Derek starts laving at the skin at the base of his neck because. Wow. That suddenly feels good. Really, really good. So good that Stiles is epically grateful that he is laying face down on his bed, because otherwise things would get real awkward real fast Oh god. Is Derek sucking on his collarbone? Stiles lets out a noise that can only be considered a whine, rolling his hips helplessly against the bed, and then feels like the world’s biggest creeper because dude. Derek is doing him a favor. Getting off on it was totally not part of the deal. Stiles sucks on his lower lip, biting down on it when he feels Derek’s hot breath on his neck.

“Uh, I think we’re good,” he says because if he is sporting wood then he probably doesn’t need whatever werewolf mouth magic Derek’s got going on.

Derek lets out a harsh sound. “No.”

“No?” Stiles’s gasps as he feels teeth on his neck, which means that yeah. Derek’s mouth is nowhere near his tattoo now. “Derek, my man, what ya doing there?” he asks, his voice a high squeak.

The bed lets out a groan as Derek all but hurls himself off of it. “I,” he starts, then growls low in this throat.

Stiles rolls onto his side to look at him, taking in the wild eyes, swollen lips and heaving chest before skimming down Derek’s body, drawn to the sizable bulge in Derek’s jeans. “You alright there, buddy?” he asks slowly.

Derek swallows, his hands flexing at his sids. “I should go,” he says flatly, his face blanking over.

“You, uh, don’t have to?” Stiles skims a hand over his head. “I mean, if you don’t want to, that is.”

“No. I,” Derek jerks his head from side to side, then darts out the window like the hounds of hell were on his tail.

Stiles flops onto his back, tossing an arm over his eyes. “Oh great. Smooth move there, Stilinski. Thank god your hand can’t run away from you, or else you would really be screwed.”

*

Stiles makes a point of waiting to get his next tattoo until he knows that Derek would be MIA. It just makes sense, seeing as how wonderfully Derek knowing about his previous tattoos had gone for him. And it would have worked too, except that Derek concludes his top secret werewolf related business two days ahead of schedule and, what do you know, wants to see Stiles ASAP upon his return.

Stiles tries playing hard to get, telling Derek that it wouldn't kill him to wait a day or two, but Derek isn’t having any of it and, in that Derek way of his, decides to cut straight through Stiles’s bullshit and appear in his room without any prior warning.

Which is totally not okay, because Stiles really doesn’t want Derek performing his magic trick on this particular tattoo.

“Go away,” Stiles says when Derek crawls into the room, holding his pillow out in front of him like it’s some kind of shield. “Seriously, shoo.”

Derek looks at him like Stiles is something foul he stepped in. "Did you just shoo me?"

Stiles worries his lip between his teeth. "Uh, is there a good way to answer that?" Derek growls at him, advancing into the room like a menacing horde. "Yeah, I'm going to take that as a no, then." Stiles backs up farther until the back of his knees hit his bed. "Oh shit," he says as Derek reaches out and pushes him down.

"You've been hiding from me," Derek accuses, all but crawling on top of Stiles, who scurries back like a crab to get out of Derek's way.

"Have not."

Derek rolls his eyes. "Liar."

Stiles gives him his best bitch face, which Derek returns in spades. "Whatever. I'm not up for company, alright? Give me a couple of days and I'll be ready for The Wild Wild West, Werewolf edition. I promise."

Derek glares at Stiles, leaning over him and breathing his deep. His eyes flash red and he growls. “Another one?”

Stiles slaps a hand over his lower hip reflexively, which is really not the smartest move he could make. “It’s fine. I swear, it’s fine. I don’t need any of your werewolf hoodoo, alright? It doesn’t even hurt anymore, so, yeah.”

“Let me see it.” Derek’s fingers catch in the soft fabric of Stiles’s sweats, tugging them low on his hip.

“Fuck!” Stiles tries to yank his sweats up and squirm free at the same time. He fails on both fronts. “Derek, stop.”

Derek, of course, does not stop. Instead he lowers himself between Stiles’s legs, right arm pressing against Stiles’s stomach to hold him in place. He drops his head until it is practically touching Stiles’s hip and then breathes in deep.

"Dude, I’m serious! No!" Stiles slaps at the top of Derek's head, bucking and twisting beneath him.

Derek stops fumbling at the waistband of Stiles's sweats. He pushes up a little, his eyes full of questions when they meet Stiles's. "Why not?" he asks, his voice genuinely confused. "You didn't mind before."

"What?" Stiles's mouth drops open because seriously? His problem is directly related to the before in question. Because before was that time where Derek barely sucked on his neck and Stiles got so turned on that he jacked off to the memory of it three times that day alone. But that's not exactly something Stiles wants to share with the class, so he sort of shrugs helplessly, mind desperately searching for another reason to give that will pass Derek's built in werewolf lie detector test. "Scott!" he says finally, half giddy in the satisfaction of having found a non-dick related reason.

Derek's face calcifies. "Scott," he repeats, his voice hard.

Stiles nods eagerly. "I asked him about the whole licking thing and he said that you never, repeat, never did that for him. Even when he was wicked tore up. And what's up with that? I mean, he's way more pack than I am, right?" Stiles glances at Derek for confirmation, but Derek just scowls at him. "Anyway. If you aren't licking anyone else, I don't see why you should be all down with licking me. I mean, unless this another 'oh Stiles, you frail human, you' thing, in which case fuck you."

"It's not that," Derek grits out, his mouth barely moving with the words. "I," he closes his eyes, his hands bunching up in the fabric of Stiles's sweats.

"You what, big guy?" Stiles asks, because he never could leave well enough alone.

Derek ducks his head and sort of nuzzles into Stiles’s whole hip-crotch area which wow. Way to get up close and personal with Stiles’s junk. Stiles twitches because Derek’s face is pressed up right next to his business and that’s the sort of thing that makes a guy twitch.

It’s also, for the record, the sort of thing that makes Stiles’s whole business stand to attention, because this wasn’t embarrassing enough.

He swallows with a dry click and attempts to wiggle free, which gets him nowhere seeing as how werewolves have arms of steel. “Dude,” he says with a desperate sigh, hands shoving at Derek’s shoulders even though he knows it won’t get him anywhere.

Derek doesn’t respond, just turns his head so that his mouth is directly above Stiles’s tattoo. He breathes out over it, then, honest to god, lowers his head for an open mouthed kiss. Derek’s tongue is hot and moist through the cotton fabric as he traces over the hidden tattoo and Stiles can’t help be whimper.

“Just, let me,” he says, his voice raw and Stiles is tempted, oh god is he tempted.

But...

“No.” Stiles balls his hands in Derek’s hair and jerks his head away. “Just, no. I’m not... it’s not even that bad. Seriously, Derek, the thing is already two days old and it’s nothing compared to my arm, or, hell, even my shoulder. So, no. I’m not going to let you yank down my pants and mouth at my hip. God, can’t you see how weird that is? I mean, even as socially inept as you are, you’ve got to know that’s just not normal. And if you don’t have a good werewolf based reason for your epic weirdness, then--” he shrugs helplessly, hoping that he’s managed to make his point for once.

Derek whines a little, tugging his head back down to rub at Stiles's hip and damn it. That's not at all what Stiles wanted to have happen because Derek sounds hurt as fuck and how is that even fair? It's Stiles's body, for Christ's sake. He's allowed to tell Derek no without feeling like a total dick.

"Dude," he starts, but Derek cuts him off with a nip at his hipbone, teeth sharp on Stiles's exposed skin. Stiles closes his eyes and bites down hard on his lower lips so as not to moan when Derek's hot tongue laps at the hurt his teeth left behind.

"Stiles," Derek says his name in a drawn out sigh, voice heavy with longing. "Please."

Stiles shakes his head, eyes still closed and teeth still firmly clamped on the flesh of his lower lip. He's not going to say yes to this. Not without a damn good reason. It doesn't matter how good it makes him feel or how sexy Derek's voice might be. Stiles doesn't fuck around. He just not the type. And even if he was the type, he would still know better than to let his freaking Alpha go to town on his hip just because the thought of it is making him all hot and bothered. That road leads to bad life choices and a level of awkwardness that just won't work with the pack dynamic at all.

Derek makes that sad little whine again and Stiles's sorta wants to punch things because really now? Really?

"Hey," he tries again, shaking the hands still tangled in Derek's hair a little to get his attention. "Look, I like happy sexy times as much as the next guy, believe me I do. But I don't think that is what's on offer here. And, dude, if it was, I would still have to turn you down because I'm not a one-night-stand kind of guy. Or a one-night-hip-lick kind of guy. Whatever the case may be. I don't just spread my shit around, even if it would be all sorts of fun times. Do you get what I'm saying here, Derek? I don't do this. It's not me. So this just can't happen. Not unless you are thinking about this long term, which I serious doubt because dude. It's you and long term thinking just isn't your thing. Which means that this? It can't happen. No matter how nice it might feel. I just wouldn't be able to respect myself in the morning. Or whatever. And you need to respect me enough to take my no as a no this time, understand? If you can't do that, then I can't be around you. At all. You got me?"

Derek lets out another wounded sound, his face pressing even firmer into Stiles's hip for a long moment, then he's gone-- off the bed and across the room in less time than it takes for Stiles to blink an eye.

Something sinks in Stiles’s chest and he lets out a sigh. "Yeah, that's what I thought." Stiles kind of hates how broken his voice sounds, but there's really no help for it. He waves at the window. “Best be on your way then.”

“What if I was?”

“What?”

Derek takes a half-step forward, his jaw tight, but his eyes soft and vaguely hopeful looking. “What if I was. Interested in the long term. With you.”

Stiles shakes his head, confused. “Was that a question? Because the way you speak, it’s hard to know.”

“Stiles.” Derek’s doing that “why are you so stupid, don’t make me kill you” thing with his voice again and it’s almost enough to make Stiles smile.

"No, really, Derek, you got to level with me here. Because that's kind of a big deal. A life changing deal. The sort of deal a guy like me doesn't ever expect to have on offer from a guy like you. So, you really need to not be fucking with me right now because if you are," he shakes his head again, blowing out a breath, "Just, be straight with me here. Oh, god, not straight straight, but oh fuck. Jeez, Stiles, your word choice. Honestly, what the hell is wrong with you. Upfront. That's what I was looking for. Be upfront with me, man. Because I'm not going to be cool with it if you are just dicking me around because you want a little dick. Not that my dick is little or anything. Oh god. Shutting up now."

Derek's got this look on his face like he might be passing a kidney stone, but doesn't leave, doesn't roll his eyes and say "yeah, so not worth it" or anything. Instead he takes another hesitant half-step forward, one hand coming out like he's reaching for Stiles. "You must know," he starts, then shakes his head with an exasperated huff. "I thought it was obvious. I thought I was obvious. What I want from you has always been so clear to me, but if you have to ask me that, then..." he makes a pained face and sorta growls.

“So, uh, what is it that you want from me?” Stiles prompts when it’s clear that Derek’s not going to volunteer the information on his own.

“Everything,” Derek says, eyes dark and earnest. “I’m not a human, Stiles. One-night-stands aren’t a thing that I am even capable of. I,” he runs a hand through his hair and gives Stiles a helpless look. “When wolves mate, they mate for life. Werewolves, well, they do the same.”

Stiles’s jaw drops open. “Mate for life?” he asks, incredulously. “I,” he clears his throat. “Uh, dude. I like you, like a lot, but,” he shakes his head. “For life? I’m only twenty, man. I can’t even drink yet. I don’t know that I can promise life.”

“I don’t expect you to, not yet anyway,” Derek says, his voice is soft but his eyes are burning with intensity. “It’s a lot to ask. But that’s what I want, long term. You. With me. Forever. You wanted to know if I was jerking you around. This is me telling you that I’m not.”

“Alright,” Stiles clears his throat again. “Alright. I can work with that. Like I said, I’m a big picture man myself. So, yeah. We both know where we stand. I want you and you want me and neither of us is going to call it quits the second something bright and shiny crosses our paths.”

Derek nods solemnly. “My intentions towards you are honorable.”

"Your intentions?" Stiles repeats as he pushes himself up on his elbows, amusement bubbling up in him. He knows this is important, that they are crossing their own personal rubicon, but he can’t keep a straight face. "Oh god. Your intentions. Jesus, Derek. Who do you think you are? Mr. Darcy?” Stiles lets out a happy laugh, tipping his head back to smile at the ceiling.

Derek snorts. “You are ridiculous. I don’t know why I even like you.”

“Oh my god," Stiles says around his laughter, “are you going to tell me how hard you fought the feelings that you feel for me? Are you? Go on, do it. Then I can be all twitchy and superior and you can seethe and wallow in manpain because you are so the Mr. Darcy to my Elizabeth Bennet.”

"What?" Derek scowls at him. "No. I'm not," he shakes his head and gives Stiles a look that ought to singe his skin. "Stop confusing your life with a Jane Austen novel, Stiles. That’s not what’s going on here."

"Yes it is! I'm so the Elizabeth Bennet in this. And you’re my brooding, conflicted, socially broken Darcy! It’s like Pride and Prejudice and Zombies. Except with werewolves instead." Stiles beams at him. “My life is awesome. Anyway, now that we’ve covered how much you want a piece of this, why don’t you come on over and get to lickin’, huh?”

Derek gives him stink eye, but he crosses the room and kneels beside Stiles on the bed. "You don't mind?" he asks, his voice tentative for all his face looks like a thundercloud.

"Don't be dumb." Stiles wraps a hand in the front of Derek's shirt and tugs him down, until their lips are nearly brushing. He pauses for a moment, searching Derek's eyes. Then he beams and pushes up the scant distance between them. Derek's lips are soft against his, his mouth almost tentative. Derek lets out a broken noise, his hand coming up to cup Stiles's face, thumb brushing gently against Stiles's cheek.

The kiss is slow and sweet, the complete opposite of what Stiles imagined kissing Derek would be like, but still somehow manages to drive Stiles wild. He is gasping for air when they break away, his whole body tingling with anticipation. Derek gives him a cautious smile, skimming his hand down Stiles’s torso to catch on the waistband of his sweats.

“Do it,” Stiles encourages. “I,” he sucks on his bottom lip. “I want you to.”

Derek’s eyes are locked with Stiles’s and he slowly tugs on the sweats, pulling them lower and lower until the tattoo is fully revealed. Derek glances down, then sucks in his breath, eyes darting back up to Stiles.

He shifts on the bed, lifting a hand to trace delicately over the scab. “Stiles?”

Stiles can’t help but blush. “Yeah,” he says, answering the question Derek isn't quite asking. "Yeah, it represents you."

Derek's eyes shut and he lets out a helpless sound. "Stiles," he says again, his voice broken. When his eyes open, they are ringed in red. "Mine."

Then he's bending low, mouth pressed tight against the hollow of Stiles's hip.

Stiles lets out a groan, as Derek starts to lick, the point of his tongue tracing up and along the points and curves of the triskele. It’s not an endless spiral, not like the tattoo Derek’s got blazoned across his back, but it’s a close cousin, symbolizing protection and strength and, well, Derek himself. Which Stiles was trying his hardest not to think about while he had it etched into his skin, but was, without a doubt, a motivating factor in his acquiring it.

There is hardly any sting left for Derek’s mouth to sooth away, hardly any reason for him to be sucking and lapping at Stiles’s hip, but Stiles isn’t about to object now. He arches into the contact, his hands coming up to fist once more in Derek’s hair. But this time he’s pulling Derek in, trying to get more.

Derek rears back slightly, catching Stiles’s eye. He grins, that cocky I’m-the-alpha smile of his, and then deliberately licks his lips. “You taste good,” he says and Stiles groans.

“Oh my god, did you steal that line from a porno?”

Derek nips at the soft skin under Stiles’s navel, making him yelp. “Shut up.”

Stiles laughs. “No, dude. It’s cool. Everyone watches ‘em. Here, uh,” he chews on his lower lip, thinking hard, “Open your mouth, boy, my cock’s not going to suck itself,” Stiles’s says in a deep baritone. He waggles his eyebrows and flashes a cheeky grin.

Derek rolls his eyes. “Shut up.”

“Why don’t you try and make me?” Stiles winks at him.

Derek growls, but it’s got a playful edge to it, then he’s pushing up onto all fours, crawling his way up Stiles’s body. “You want me to make you?” he asks, bending his elbows and neatly lowering himself on top of Stiles, so that they are pressed together from chest to hip.

Stiles nods once, sharp and jerky, his arms coming up to twine around Derek’s shoulders. “Yeah, I do.”

Derek doesn’t reply, just angles his head down slightly, slotting his lips perfectly against Stiles’s own. The kiss and tender, sweet as before, but oh, the way it makes Stiles’s insides ache. Then Derek’s rocking their bodies together, rolling his hips as he thrusts against Stiles’s thigh and yeah. Stiles’s isn’t saying much of nothing now.

Just oh and yes and please, Derek, more on an endless loop while he falls apart in the other man’s arms.