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Stiles is sixteen and never afraid of Derek. He startles easily, yes, but his heart never jumps, he never gives off fear. The first time Derek smells fear on him is the night Peter is the alpha and what's left of Derek's world crashes down around him.

“I can't believe,” Stiles says between languid kisses. “I can't believe -”

Derek doesn't really care about what Stiles can't believe. All he cares about is; the length of Stiles pressed back against this wall, the way Stiles shifts underneath his hands, the little breaths that escape him to linger against Derek's cheek, the hands that slide greedy fingers through Derek's hair, the hot hardness of Stiles' cock through his pants. Their bare feet brush together as Derek presses as close as he can.

Derek drags himself away from Stiles' perfect, sinful mouth and trails kisses along Stiles' jawline to his ear, briefly pulling the lobe between his teeth before pressing a gentle kiss just behind Stiles' ear. It feels like Stiles goes momentarily boneless, his legs sagging, and Derek holds him tighter so he doesn't fall.

“I can't believe you,” Stiles finishes the thought from what seems like hours ago. “How long?”

Derek doesn't want to answer that (the answer is somewhere between five and two years depending on how honest he is with himself) so he scrapes his teeth down the long column of Stiles' neck instead. Stiles makes soft noises, rocking his hips instinctively against Derek's, and takes his hands out of Derek's hair to slide underneath Derek's shirt. His fingers press into Derek's back as Derek finds Stiles' pulse point and sucks briefly at it.

“Silent treatment,” Stiles says and Derek's pleased with how breathless he sounds. In reward he traces a path down to the hollow of Stiles' collarbone with his tongue, feeling the vibrations of Stiles' moans like a buzz against his mouth. He presses another lingering kiss there as he slides his hands down the back of Stiles' jeans to pull him close.

“Oh God,” Stiles says, grinding against Derek. “Derek – you're -”

Stiles lost for words is probably going to become Derek's new favourite thing.

“Bed,” Derek says, pressing the word into Stiles' neck with tongue, on the tail end of an open kiss.

Yes,” Stiles says, burying his face against Derek's hair, breathing deeply.

Stiles is seventeen and lusting after Derek. The arousal is so constant, so powerful, that Derek can taste it in his mouth, sour-sweet and distracting as hell. It becomes background radiation, an unwavering constant, and Derek does nothing about it.

Stiles doesn't protest when Derek lifts him; just tucks his legs around Derek's waist, resting them against the slight flare of Derek's hips, and rucks his shirt up with his hands. This means Derek loses his shirt half-way up the stairs, Stiles briefly pressed against the wall again to keep him safe. Stiles' hands are everywhere as they complete the journey and one finishes in Derek's hair as the other traces each knob of Derek's spine. Derek kisses him again because he can, licking his way into Stiles' warm and waiting mouth, and Stiles' hand tightens in his hair.

Derek leans them against the wall outside his bedroom and Stiles loosens his legs, slumping slightly as his feet hit the floor. Derek pulls him up with a hand around the back of his neck, tracing unfamiliarly longer hair there, and tucks his nose into the bend of Stiles' neck, breathing deep. He strips Stiles' plaid shirt from his shoulders, dropping it carelessly on the floor, and pauses for a moment as Stiles' hands curve patterns over his chest. He closes his eyes and smiles against Stiles' neck.

“Don't laugh at me,” Stiles warns him, raising his arms to let Derek pull his Batman tee over his head. “I've waited a long time for this.”

Five years, Derek thinks, remembering the taste of Stiles' teenage arousal on his tongue. He pulls Stiles against him by the hips and Stiles goes with the movement, swinging them around so Derek's pressed into the wall. Derek runs his hands up Stiles' arms, feeling the all human strength in them, strength that Stiles has earned, has fought hard for. He wonders absently why Stiles still buries his body under layers when he has so much to be proud of. Maybe it's always been there and nobody noticed.

Stiles catches him in a kiss and Derek draws Stiles' tongue into his mouth, sucking lightly until Stiles groans. Stiles pulls away to drag his tongue along Derek's stubbled jaw. It has the feel of something Stiles has been thinking about for a long time and Derek likes the action for it, for the history it contains. Stiles breathes against his neck for a moment and Derek waits, hands sliding restlessly up and down Stiles' back.

“Can I?” Stiles asks and Derek smiles again, feeling the expression come easily to his face.

“Yes,” Derek says, ducking his head to press their cheeks together for a moment. Stiles licks his lips, his tongue brushing briefly against Derek's neck, before he ducks his head to suck a wet bruise below the line of Derek's stubble. It'll fade in moments and Derek wishes that it wouldn't – but the sense memory will remain, fire curling just under his skin.

“I never thought,” Stiles says, kissing his way down further, resting his open mouth against Derek's collarbone. “Never thought you'd let me even if you did like me.”

“I like you,” Derek says, cupping the back of Stiles' head and pulling him into a gentle, barely there kiss.

Stiles is eighteen and hates Derek. The lust is still there, but buried underneath darker, more bitter emotions. Derek misses his constant and misses Stiles but it was a necessary evil, the only way to keep him safe. Derek hopes he'll understand one day.

Stiles reaches for his pants as they cross the threshold of Derek's room. His fingers shake a little but are still deft, practised, and there's that familiar lick of jealousy. But Derek was never going to be the one to take any of Stiles' firsts so he pushes it down and appreciates the experience. He kisses Stiles again because every kiss is different, something new to hold and bury away for dark moments. Stiles pulls his zip down and reaches in to cup his cock, making a soft noise of pleasure as he traces the length.

Derek smiles into the kiss before breaking it to suck at Stiles' neck as Stiles strokes him through the fabric of his underwear. He brings his hands down to unfasten Stiles' jeans, pushing them apart to get his hand on Stiles' cock. Stiles makes a noise he'd probably call embarrassing but Derek finds delightful.

“Off, off,” Stiles says before Derek can attempt any sort of rhythm. He pushes impatiently at Derek's pants and Derek can't hold back a laugh. Stiles looks at him like he's sprouted antlers.

“You laugh,” he says as Derek steps out of his pants. Derek shrugs as he decides to just remove his underwear as well.

“You've heard me laugh before,” Derek says, moving over to pull Stiles' jeans down when Stiles gets distracted. He sees Stiles' eyes drop to his cock, sees Stiles lick his lips, and hears Stiles' heartbeat switch tempo to something heady.

“I just – didn't think you'd laugh in, you know, sexy situations,” Stiles says, eyes widening as Derek drops to his knees to force him to step out of his jeans. Down here, level with Stiles' cock, the scent that he's being picking up since this started is strong, making his mouth water.

“Oh?” he asks, raising an eyebrow at Stiles before leaning in to mouth at the head of Stiles' cock through the Superman boxers Stiles is wearing. Stiles curls fingers into his hair instantly.

“Thought you'd be all – rarr! serious face,” Stiles says breathily. Derek outlines Stiles cock with his tongue, dampening the material.

“Disappointed?” Derek asks, rocking back onto his heels. He frames Stiles' hips with his hands, tracing his thumbs down the grooves created by his leanness. Stiles lets out a shaky breath.

“God, no,” he says. Then he's cupping his hands around Derek's arms and pulling him up. “Up, up, up.”

The next kiss is urgent, drowning under years of Stiles' repressed passion, and Derek goes with it, nipping at Stiles' lower lip and letting Stiles drive him back toward the bed. Stiles gives him a push and Derek falls back, resting against his elbows to watch Stiles kick his boxers off. Stiles straddles his thighs and bends over Derek's chest, trailing kisses in random patterns of his own divining. Derek gives over and in to it, letting out small moans and shifting under Stiles.

Stiles is nineteen and resents Derek. He sees Stiles when Stiles is on spring break and knows that Scott must have told him the truth. There should be anger in him, there would have been before, but this Stiles is different. This Stiles is growing into someone else.

“You are so fucking gorgeous it is unreal,” Stiles says, brushing his hands down Derek's sides, over his pecs, experimenting with a nipple before tracing over his abs. “You know this.”

“Can always stand to be told,” Derek says, because it's true. He's never – he's always known what he looks like to other people but it's not how he sees himself. He sees himself as cracked and imperfect, pieced together like a broken vase with crucial parts missing, and is sure people will see that if they look too close.

He's been held together by bitter hope and blind fury and only in recent years has he seen parts of himself coming back that he's been missing; his smile and his humour, his wanting, being able to taste life and breathe like he isn't treading water from one mistake to another, the humanity that burnt out of him years ago.

Derek thinks he must be a patchwork person, stitched together lovingly by so many hands, none more so than those caressing him right now. He thinks Stiles doesn't mind because Stiles is patchwork too, and for just as long a time as Derek, and maybe that's why this feels so good and so right. Two patchwork people, stitching the finishing touches into each other with kisses and touches and shared breath.

“Derek,” Stiles' hands are resting flat on his chest and his eyes are curious. “Are you with me?”

“Yeah,” Derek says, nodding, trying out his smile again. Stiles smiles back.

“Lost you for a moment,” Stiles says, leaning down to steal Derek's smile with a kiss.

“Sorry,” Derek says, bringing his hands up curve around Stiles back, fingers mapping his shoulder blades.

“Don't be,” Stiles shakes his head. “Just tell me where you go sometime. That's enough for me.”

“Okay,” Derek says and he finds he means it, and that he'll try his best to use words that haven't been his friends for a long time.

Stiles lays against him and they kiss, open-mouthed and sweet, it feels like trading stories in movements and techniques learned from others. Derek kisses Stiles until he finds Stiles underneath it all; slightly awkward, always endearing and more than a bit manic. Stiles gasps when Derek's hands find their way to the cleft of his ass and he grinds down against Derek, his cock a hard line on his abdomen.

“What can I -” Stiles presses their foreheads together and breathes. “What can I do?”

“What do you want?” Derek asks, bumping their noses together and rubbing back and forth.

“Everything,” Stiles huffs out a laugh. Derek tilts his head to catch the laughter on his tongue.

“We've got time for everything later,” Derek says against Stiles lips, feels him smile.

“Yeah we do,” Stiles says and the happiness radiating off him is like a drug to Derek's senses, making him feel slow and smooth.

“What do you want now?” Derek asks, raising a hand to move Stiles' head so he can taste his pulse again.

“Any- God – anything you'll give me,” Stiles whispers, practically vibrating against Derek's chest.

“You already have it,” Derek says because this is about a lot more than sex and he thinks Stiles gets that, hopes Stiles gets that.

“Even your heart?” Stiles asks, still against him. He never disappoints.

“Especially that,” Derek says and it should be cheesy and embarrassing, like some terrible romantic cliché, but it's just the two of them here, with nothing between them, and Derek's free to love Stiles as much as he wants.

“You – you're -” Stiles stops and pulls back, looking down at Derek. “You're perfect.”

“And you're ridiculous,” Derek says, smiling. Stiles is grinning even as Derek holds him and rolls them over, spreading Stiles under him.

Stiles is twenty and forgives Derek. Derek wants to believe this is because Derek came all the way to Stiles' college to save his life but he knows better. Stiles saves him back when the danger proves to not have passed. Derek holds onto him longer than he should.

Derek takes his time because he can. Stiles has probably imagined this in a thousand different ways but Derek's never been one for fantasy – reality is difficult enough without trying to prophecise the future. Stiles probably expected hard and fast, and there's time enough for that, but this is the only first they get and Derek's making sure it counts.

Stiles is wanton. It's an old word, one of Laura's from a Word Of The Day calendar, and it's the perfect word for Stiles. His legs sprawl, inviting Derek to settle between them, and his skin is flushed under Derek's gaze. His lips are red with kissing and his eyes are heavy lidded, pupils blown wide with lust as he watches Derek.

Derek starts with Stiles' hands. Reads his history in the callouses of his fingers; Little League, lacrosse, years of handwritten notes, fingertips made hard by keyboards. Here are the two fingers he broke during the Alpha pack business and here is the thumb that's clicked since the second time they killed Peter. Derek presses kisses to Stiles' palms before encouraging him back into touching Derek, the lazy rasp of his hands against Derek's skin is a reassuring susurrus in the still room.

Derek kisses Stiles' shoulders and finds his way back to Stiles' neck to work up a real bite, one hand against Stiles' abdomen to feel the way it tenses and flexes as he does it. Stiles grabs at him and lifts his hips, pressing their cocks together in a way that makes them both stop and gasp for breath. Derek presses him down again and Stiles whines slightly. Derek smiles and presses a kiss to the mark he's made as an apology.

He kisses down over Stiles' chest, finds that Stiles' nipples cause more of a reaction than Derek's ever have for him and worries at them with his mouth and fingers. Stiles writhes under him, which is intoxicating, and grasps Derek's hair with the fingers of one hand. Stiles likes his hair is what Derek takes away from that and he likes the way Stiles pulls at it so chalk one up for something they share.

Derek moves away from Stiles' nipples and traces the definition of his abdomen, not as dramatically cut and etched as a werewolve's would be, but strong and right for Stiles. Stiles sighs as Derek maps them with his tongue, briefly detouring to work around Stiles' belly button which makes Stiles whine again. He drifts away to Stiles' hips and licks and kisses down each groove before sitting back to take a moment to look again.

Stiles reaches out for his hands and pulls him close, kissing him sweet and fast then dirty and slow. Derek lets Stiles lead the kisses, lets Stiles push up against him in his desperate search for friction, sucks Stiles' tongue into his mouth and swallows his moans. Stiles is needy and Derek's want is wrapping around his spine, knowing it won't be long before he gives in and lets the perfectly imperfect man under him have all that he wants.

“Derek,” Stiles breathes out on a break for air and the two syllables that make up Derek's name have never said so much in his wreck of a life.

“Okay,” Derek says, breathing the word into Stiles' mouth. “Okay, Stiles.”

Stiles is twenty-one and likes Derek. Stiles texts him and e-mails him. Sends him pictures of various girls and boys he's trying on like clothes. Sometimes Derek calls just to hear Stiles' voice and Stiles humours him. Derek may be in trouble when jealousy licks fire up his spine.

Derek slides back down Stiles' body and follows the trail of hair that leads to Stiles' cock. He takes it in his hand and makes one simple stroke, to curses from Stiles, before fitting his mouth around the head. Stiles' flavour bursts in his mouth and Derek has to breathe shallowly until the flare of his senses relaxes. He flattens his tongue and slides down as far as he can before moving back and off to lick down to Stiles' balls.

“Jesus Christ, your mouth,” Stiles says as Derek applies suction in the best way he knows how, stroking Stiles' cock in a steady, if lazy, counterpoint rhythm. Stiles' hands land in his hair at the same time as he moves back to the head of Stiles' cock, this time settling in earnest.

Stiles tugs on his hair then presses his head down and Derek sucks and licks over his cock, bobbing his head so his lips meet the circle of his hand as it rises up. Stiles thrusts his hips completely off rhythm, holding himself back Derek thinks. Derek opens his eyes and looks up to see Stiles watching him with the widest eyes he's ever seen. He feels like this is a memory Stiles is etching into his scattered brain forever, feels powerful in such a simpler way than normal, and he pulls off despite Stiles' bereft moans.

“Want to see,” Derek says, annoying himself with the monosyllables that are all his tongue can find when Stiles' taste is lingering in his mouth. “Want to be here.”

He kisses into Stiles' mouth and the mixed up taste of Stiles' literal arousal and the ill-defined Stilesness he's been trying to figure out all evening explodes like a wash of pure sex between them. Stiles holds Derek tight to him before pushing at his shoulders until he pulls away. Derek lifts an eyebrow and Stiles proffers a hand to him, palm up. Derek reads his intentions and shivers slightly before licking it, coating Stiles' fingers and the rough pale palm. Stiles reaches between them and grips both their cocks together, Stiles' still slick from Derek's ministrations and Derek's now slick from Stiles' hand. Derek gasps and drops his head to Stiles' neck and Stiles breathes out on a small chuckle.

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “That's right.”

Derek thrusts into the tight circle of Stiles' long fingers and the delicious drag of Stiles' cock against his sets his body alight. His skin tingles and his chest tightens and nothing should ever feel this good, surely? But of course it does. Because this is Stiles. Stiles and Derek. And they can be this good if they want to.

Derek wants to be this good forever.

He joins his hand with Stiles' and forces the pace steady, guiding Stiles' thumb over the head of his cock to catch the precome there, thrusts down against Stiles' rising hips in a slow counterpoint. Stiles' free hand comes up to pull Derek's head away from his neck, mouth searching his out until he can presses hot, open kisses to Derek's. Derek breathes into the kiss, feeling his orgasm beginning to stir right in the very centre of himself, deep and cascading.

Derek leans his head back so that he can watch Stiles' face. He'd thought Stiles would be loud and talkative but he hasn't been. He wonders if that's Stiles behaving for his benefit or if the simplest answer to 'how to get Stiles to shut up' has always been sex. Derek likes it whichever way because now he can watch the build of Stiles' orgasm without filtering out words.

Stiles' body is taut under him, his hips sporadic in their thrusts. He smells amazing, and the smell isn't going to leave this room for days (never if Derek has his way), and Derek thinks he could probably get high from it, if werewolves could get high. Stiles' breaths are sharp gasps interspersed with occasional deep breaths that come back out as deep, quiet moans.

“Stiles,” Derek says, whispers, and Stiles hears and tilts his face towards him, still working their hands together. “Are you close?”

Stiles swallows, his throat working hypnotically, and licks his lips as he tries to get his words out. He settles for desperate nodding and Derek bites back a grin. He takes his hand away from Stiles' and lets Stiles take control, rolling his hips against him like a wave. Stiles' hand speeds between them and Derek watches the ruin of Stiles' composure as his orgasm comes crashing suddenly open him. Stiles without layers, Stiles at his most open, Stiles' head tipped back and his masks ripped away. Stiles is the most beautiful thing Derek's ever seen and when Stiles' eyes fix on his, hazy with coming hard, that's all Derek needs to find his own orgasm. It shudders through his body from head to toe, white explosion of noise in his head, and if this is what it's like to come against Stiles he can't begin to imagine what it will be like inside him. Or what it'll be like with Stiles within him.

“Holy shit,” Stiles breathes as Derek crumbles against him. They're sticky with sweat and come and a more than generous amount of saliva but Derek can't move.

“Something like that,” Derek mumbles from where his head has fallen against Stiles' chest.

“If this is what sex with werewolves is like I kinda see what Lydia sees in Jackson,” Stiles says and Derek lets out a rumble that should probably have been a growl but he can't put the effort in. “Don't be jealous – that was dealt with years ago.”

“It's not always like that,” Derek says instead of admitting to his jealousy of an ancient crush.

“Oh, so that level of mind-blowing is just for us?” Stiles asks and it figures that not even an orgasm could knock his brain offline for any amount of time.

“Yes,” Derek says and Stiles brings up a hand, the clean one, to pet through his hair.

“I can live with that,” Stiles says quietly and Derek makes a contented noise.

Stiles lets Derek crush him to the bed for five minutes before making noises about breathing difficulties (he's fine, Derek would've heard otherwise) and how they'll likely stick together permanently if Derek doesn't move soon. And, yes, the mix of come and sweat cooling between them is more than a bit disgusting but Derek likes it.

“You're so weird,” Stiles says and Derek spares a moment to worry that he said that last bit out loud. “You like this don't you? Ugh, werewolves are so gross.”

“It's ours,” Derek says with a shrug as he levers himself up. He realises that just confirms the weirdness but he hears Stiles' heartbeat skip in his chest at it so he figures Stiles doesn't mind, really.

“Next question is which of us have enough energy left to make it to the bathroom and back,” Stiles says, looking at Derek hopefully. Derek rolls his eyes and hides his laughter as he climbs off the bed. “Atta boy. And honestly I really don't think my legs are working properly anymore.”

Derek isn't exactly steady on his feet either but Stiles thankfully doesn't comment on the one or two stumbles Derek makes on his way to the attached bath. He wets a cloth and grabs a towel and carries both back with him, throwing the cloth expertly enough that it lands on Stiles' face. Stiles grumbles as he pulls it away and Derek doesn't hide his laughter at that. Stiles smiles at him like he's still not used to that, and maybe he isn't – he hasn't been around for all of the slow piecing together of Derek's patchwork self.

Stiles wipes himself down then swaps the cloth for the towel so Derek can do the same. After they're both as clean as they're going to be without more effort Derek balls the cloth and towel up and throws them in the direction of the bathroom. Derek falls back into the bed and curls around Stiles, knowing his body heat will be enough to keep them warm. Stiles' hand goes instantly to his hair again, definitely petting.

“How long?” Stiles asks again when Derek is drifting towards sleep. Derek flexes a hand against his side.

“Five years or two years, depends on how you look at it,” Derek says, laying honesty over the trust that's built up between them.

“How do you look at it?” Stiles asks idly. Derek thinks about it for a long moment. So long that he can feel Stiles' breathing slipping towards sleep.

“Two years of certainty,” he says quietly, curling a hand possessively over Stiles' hip. “Five years of everything else.”

“You just wanted to protect me,” Stiles says, just as quietly and Derek catches a breath in his chest because they've never talked about this. “And I probably won't ever forgive for the way you did it. But you know now, right, that I can protect myself. I'm strong enough.”

“I know,” Derek says, letting the breath go. “That won't stop me from trying.”

“You can throw yourself between as many magic bullets and arrows and whatever and me as you like,” Stiles says firmly. “Just so long as you respect my right to be there in the first place.”

“Yes,” Derek says, sighing. “You can risk your life as much as you like. As long as I'm near enough.”

“Got yourself a deal, sourwolf,” Stiles says, pressing a kiss to Derek's hair. It's been a long time since the first time Stiles called him that and the tone is so different that it's almost like a completely different word.

Derek lets himself drift away to sleep with the certainty of Stiles trapped under his rib cage, as safe as he'll ever be able to keep him.

Stiles is twenty-two and loves Derek. He leans against the door of Derek's kitchen smelling of home and warmth and Stiles and Derek can hold on as long as he wants to. Stiles is twenty-two and Derek loves him and he should be scared but he isn't. Derek isn't afraid of Stiles.