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"Again," Derek says. From the ground in front of him, Jackson snarls, fur growing on the tips of his ears.

If Stiles had popcorn available, he'd be munching like there's no tomorrow.

Jackson backs off, hunches down, and runs toward Derek with a roar. Bad start, Jackson, very bad. Derek isn't some rival lacrosse team captain. And just as Stiles thought, Derek shrugs off Jackson's attack without even trying.

It's almost enough for Stiles to feel sorry for him. "Dude," he whispers to Scott. "Shouldn't you be helping him out? Strength of the pack, and all that?"

Scott shrugs. "Derek says Jackson needs to be taught control," at the same time that Jackson turns around, snarling, "I heard that."

"I know," Stiles says. "Werewolf hearing and all that, but full marks on—hey!" Why is Jackson moving toward Stiles? Shouldn't he be attacking Derek again?

Stiles stands up, moving a couple of slow steps backwards, eying the exit. Which Jackson is blocking. Damn.

Jackson roars and pounces, eyes glowing unnatural blue. Stiles meeps and feints to the side, which only results in him stumbling over a rusty pipe.

Fortunately, he gets all the time he needs to nurse his wounded pride, since Derek rumbles Jackson into submission. Glow-y red eyes and all. Damn, Stiles is feeling the urge to roll over and show his belly, and he's not even an actual wolf.

(Granted, that's not the first time Stiles has had these thoughts, but normally not while Scott is right there, busting a lung laughing at Stiles' predicament. Thanks a lot, Scott.)

"You need to work on your control," Derek says, stalking away once Jackson is sufficiently cowed.

"Easy for you to say," Jackson mutters. He's back to human now.

Scott frowns at Jackson. "You have an anchor, don't you?"

Jackson rolls his eyes. "And guess where she is? Not here."

Derek appears behind Jackson. One of these days, Stiles will search the warehouse for hidden trapdoors. "You need to learn to control yourself without her," Derek says. "And until you do, bring her here. I don't want another show like this."

"Jerkass," Jackson hisses, but it's not like anyone cares a lot about Jackson's good opinion.


Lydia does show up for the next training session, much to everyone's surprise. Seriously, Erica nudges Boyd in the ribs and everything, it's not just Stiles stealing glances at her.

She sits next to Stiles, which would be more heartwarming if Stiles didn't know for a fact that he chose the best place for observing werewolf shenanigans while obtaining the least amount of physical damage. "Why are you here?"

Stiles winces. Cut straight to the bone, why don't you, Lydia. "Werewolf training," he says emphatically. Lydia just gives him a blank look. Stiles sighs and mutters quietly, "They all take off their shirts at some point. It's essentially free live softcore porn."

Lydia gives him a hard look. Stiles huffs, because whatever, she asked. It's not like he thought he actually had a chance with her anymore, after all that jazz about Jackson and True Love.

But then Erica and Isaac attack Derek simultaneously, trying to gnaw his face off. Lydia says, "So this is what a zombie apocalypse would look like directed by HBO," and Stiles snorts and remembers why his crush on her is still so damned persistent.


Lydia comes for two more meetings. On the third, she's MIA, and Derek looks frownier than ever.

"Feeling confident?" he asks Jackson.

Who smirks like the douchebag he is and waves a... tiny little porcelain urn he's wearing on a chain around his neck. "I've got something better," Jackson says, "and also? Yeah. I'm feeling it real hard, man."

Derek blanches. Even weirder, none of the werewolves on the premises seem to question what the hell Jackson thinks he’s talking about. Erica gives him an appraising look, Boyd looks poker-faced as ever, Isaac looks kind of sad, and Scott...

Okay, Scott does look a little weirded out. But then Jackson charges Derek, weaving under and over his grasp, and actually manages to sink his fangs into Derek's arm.

Derek still has Jackson sprawled over the floor in two minutes, but it's clearly an improvement. Whatever it is Jackson's wearing, it's helping.


As fun as it is to mock Derek's whole be prepared shtick (and yes, Stiles did sing the song. With finger-puppet hyenas, even), there's a point to it.

A lot of points, most of them coming at the end of extremely sharp teeth. Werewolf fangs are needle-sharp rather than razor sharp. Stiles knows this first-hand, and really wishes he didn't: betas may not be able to turn you, but damn their bites hurt.

"Scott, behind you!” Stiles hollers, also ducking as one of the Lloyd pack's betas attacks. She's relatively small and kind of scruffy, and for a surreal moment Stiles feels like he's in one of those videos where adorable kittens pounce small rodents.

Yeah, Stiles isn't too keen on being the rodent in this scenario. Fortunately, unlike your average furry critter, Stiles has a baseball bat and the opposable thumbs to use it. Turns out, there's nothing quite so satisfying as the thunk a length of wood makes as it hits the skull of someone who was about to kill you. It's all Stiles can do to keep from whistling.

That is, until he turns around and catches Scott two seconds away from committing actual murder.

He's growling and golden-eyed, crouching over the attacking pack's resident human, claws digging into the guy's shoulders. Stiles winces as he sees blood dripping. Yeah, that's gotta smart.

"Scott!” Stiles yells. “No attacking the humans! There's a goddamned rule, stay--” he decides to save his breath, running for Scott instead. “Allison,” he says frantically once he's reached them, “think about – crap!” Because Kitten Beta just fucking clawed Stiles’ spine out, by the feel of it. The room seems to move up very quickly, and Stiles brains himself on a pipe in all the commotion.

Scott takes her out, though, and he seems basically in control after that. Plus, the human crawled away. Stiles spends a moment wondering who the hell even lets a vulnerable, unarmed human into Werewolf Warzone, then blacks out in a haze of hypocrisy.


Stiles says it as soon as he wakes up, because it seems kind of important. “No clawing the human.”

Well, slurs it out. He awards himself points for effort, anyway.

Erica smirks at him. There could be nicer things to wake up to. “Too late for that,” she says, faux-sympathetic.

Stiles flips her off. “I was telling Scott that.” He tries to sit up, a little surprised to succeed. Looks like his spine is in place after all. “He was all, like, grarr at that kid. Poor form. Very bad taste.”

"Noted,” Derek says, kneeling beside Stiles. He shoves Stiles unceremoniously to his side, ignoring Stiles' loud protests. “Your back is fine,” and at the even louder sound of Stiles' disbelief adds, “it's just a scratch. Yes, taking into account that you don't heal like we do.”

"Still concussed, though,” Stiles grumbles. Derek seems to cede that point, hands gentling on Stiles’ skin. Stiles shivers, though he’ll claim temporary brain damage as an excuse if anyone calls him on it.

Scott plunks down on Stiles' other side. It's actually pretty nice, being surrounded by (friendly) werewolves. They radiate warmth like nobody's business, and given that Stiles' ass is on the cold, muddy ground, he can use all the warmth he can get.

"I have no idea what happened,” Scott says. He sounds a little scared, out of his depth. Stiles is already on his side, so it's just gravity that pushes him toward Scott, throwing his arm around Scott's waist in a loose hug.

Scott doesn't resist, heavy and solid under Stiles' arm. “That hasn't happened to you in a while,” Stiles says after a few moments of just breathing.

"Allison,” Scott says, an explanation and a complaint lodged at the universe, all at once. Allison who isn't here, since she has more sense than to be caught in a werewolf territorial dispute.

Stiles sighs. “We're going to have to ask Lydia what she did, exactly.”

Above his head, Erica snorts. She's also got a hand on Stiles' scalp, rubbing, and it feels too nice to object. “Yeah,” Scott says, glumly.

Derek, too, still has his hands on Stiles. Fighting makes the pack kinda touchy-feely, Stiles has found.

Well. He’s hardly going to object.


Lydia isn't very forthcoming; big surprise. “I found it in the bestiary,” she says crisply, biting into a celery stick. “You can look it up yourself. I even translated it for you.” She's very obviously judging Scott and him for never bothering to learn archaic Latin.

The surprising bit after that isn't that Stiles finds himself spending the night poring over the bestiary's translation, but that Scott is right there beside him. Stiles asks, but Scott only answers, “I need to be really, really certain about this,” in a voice foreboding gloom and doom.

When they finally find the relevant passage, Stiles understands why.

"If the anchor is a person,” he reads from Lydia's neat notes, “a werewolf may be assisted by carrying a token of their flesh near them at all times. The more intimate the offering, the better—Scott, tell me I'm reading this wrong.”

"You're not.” Scott's gone into downright morose. “I mean, I figured, given what Jackson's little necklace thing smelled like. But I thought there might be more to it.”

"More to it than, ah, a vial full of Allison-juice?” Stiles winces in tandem with Scott. “Okay, I will never say that again.”

Scott gives him a long, solemn look. “If Allison kills me for asking,” he says. “Will you avenge my death?”

Stiles claps his hand to his chest. “By my honor as a Stilinski.”


Scott doesn't die. In fact, he turns up at the next training session with Allison in tow, and a bit of twisted metal on a string.

"It's an empty bullet casing, it was her idea,” Scott says, stars in his goddamned eyes. “I crushed it shut. She let me fill it myself.”

Stiles doesn't know if he's feeling charmed or sick. Allison spends the training session sitting next to him. He helps her figure out her new iPhone, and Allison fixes Stiles' broken wristwatch band, and they very pointedly do not talk about the little bit of metal resting in the hollow of Scott's throat.


Erica and Boyd are next, showing up with a matching set of those name-on-a-grain-of-rice vial necklaces. Without the rice, obviously.

Stiles can't help it, he's fascinated. He elbows Scott, whispering, “Are they wearing each other's...?”

"Yes,” Scott groans. “Please don't make me talk about it.”

That leaves Isaac and Derek. Stiles takes to watching them from the corner of his eye. It makes a form of sense, he supposes. Isaac was the first to fully accept Derek as alpha, way before Scott. They're close, as much as Derek can be said to be close to anyone.

Then Isaac appears with a handkerchief half-peeking out of his pocket, like a badly done pocket square. Everyone in the pack give him brief but extremely discomfited looks, Derek included, and Stiles decides he just doesn't want to know.

So that leaves Derek. Stiles watches him from across the warehouse, because he's the best view around since Lydia stopped showing up.

Derek, unsurprisingly, has excellent control. There's something almost mechanic about his movements as he blocks and dodges, turns his betas' efforts back against them. Even if they all seem to be a little bit better now, Derek defeats them with what looks like zero effort.

It's probably just Stiles' imagination that leads him to read Derek's posture at the end of the day as a little stooped, almost defeated.

Even so, it’s enough that when Derek goes on a perimeter prowl after training, Stiles tags along. He doesn’t ask if he can – when does he ever – but Derek walks in a pace that Stiles can keep up with, just barely. It’s permission of sorts.

“What are we looking for?” Stiles may be panting a bit. Keeping his balance in a forest full of treacherous roots is hard work, alright?

“Me? Signs of the Lloyd pack infiltrating.” Derek pauses long enough for Stiles to catch up. “You? Beats me.” He flicks wet leaves at Stiles’ face.

“Ha.” Stiles wrinkles his nose, shaking his face until it’s free of disgusting cellulose residue. “That’s funny, because I will beat you. Hard.”

“Have to catch me first,” Derek says easily and disappears between the trees.

Stiles stares and takes off after him, cursing at top volume.

A few minutes later, when Stiles grinds into a halt in the middle of the dark, lonely, foreboding woods, he realizes that may not have been the smartest course of action.

Granted, he comes to that conclusion with a mouth full of dirt and claws biting into his back, so it may be lacking in forethought.

Stiles flails for control for the better part of a minute before he realizes that’s Derek on his back. It helps when Derek loses the claws, flattening over Stiles and whispering furiously, “It’s them.”

“So why are we whispering? They’re gonna hear us anyway!” For his troubles, Stiles gets his face ground deeper in the dirt.

When he starts twitching, though, Derek lets up. Not far, just enough for Stiles to roll over to his back. Derek plops back down on him before Stiles manages to catch his breath.

He puts his hand on Stiles’ face, and Stiles is working up to an industrial scale rant about how he will not be silenced by werewolves when he realizes that 1) again, not the smartest course of action and 2) Derek isn’t gagging him. He’s brushing the dirt off Stiles’ face, Derek’s own absent face tilted up and listening.

It’s... weird. Derek’s hands should be hard and foreign but they’re not. They’re soft because instant healing means never getting callouses, and Derek touching Stiles is nothing new. It’s the same kind of attention Stiles always gets after battles, checking for injuries, seeking comfort.

Derek smells nice, Stiles thinks, dazed. All pine-like and leathery.

He’s tensing above Stiles. “They’re here,” he whispers in Stiles’ ear. “I’ll hold them off, you run.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Yeah, right. I’ve got a better one. You jump away and don’t breathe, how about that?”

Derek growls, something about not the time, but for once this isn’t really up to him.

In the end, yes, okay, Stiles is glad that Derek tackled Lloyd because apparently alpha werewolves are immune to mace. Go figure. At least it sent his two betas on their way, yelping.

Lloyd and Derek roll in the ground, and it’s half like something off discovery channel and half a horror movie, growling and snarling and shifting under one another’s hands with a speed that makes Stiles queasy.

Lloyd rears back, and there’s a chunk of something bloody and awful between his teeth. Stiles feels a solid lump of oh, fuck crystallizing in his stomach. “This isn’t over,” he snarls and runs.

Derek is still on the ground and for one horrible moment Stiles thinks that Lloyd may have carved his heart out or something, whatever else there is that werewolves can’t recover from.

Then Derek groans and sits up, the missing chunk in his shoulder healing even as Stiles watches.

I really don’t want him to get hurt, Stiles thinks with the odd, sudden clarity he sometimes gets when the din of battle quiets down. His shoulders slump. Not a lot he can do about that.

Or maybe. Stiles straightens a little bit. It’s only the beginning of an idea, it’s stupid and futile, but hey. That’s what being human is all about, right? Making the dumb little gestures in the face of inevitable death.


According to the bestiary, it's best if the container is made of some kind of porous material. For the scent to, uh, waft, Stiles supposes. Clay might work.

Porcelain. Right. Of course Lydia makes the best choices in everything. Problem is, Stiles doesn't know where to get an urn-thingy like the one she used, and at any rate he doesn't think Derek would wear one.

Yes, all right, the entire thing is a joke anyway. The plan is just to get Derek to roll his eyes, maybe thank his luck that he isn't in a situation where wearing Stiles' secretions around his neck would actually be his best bet. Let Derek shove Stiles away, shaking his head. Stiles is too accustomed to rejection for it to hurt. Much.


He ends up swiping a little corked glass bottle from the police station's office supply cabinet, the kind they use for liquid samples from crime scenes. He hopes Derek would appreciate the irony of it.

Filling it demands preparation. Stiles is far too classy to simply ejaculate in a bottle. The situation obviously calls for pre-come.

Stiles eyes the bottle with sudden doubt. Its size didn't seem ambitious when Stiles took it, but now, considering that he has to fill it with, uh... It's just that Stiles was never exactly, um, copious. In that department.

He takes a deep breath. Tells himself to do it for art, science, and the expression on Derek's face when Stiles gives it to him. He spends more time than he's comfortable admitting surfing for suitable porn before shutting his browser.

If this is going to be about Derek, let this be about Derek, all the way.

Stiles swallows, and pictures Derek. He's got a mental image handy, a little worn at the figurative corners from all the figurative handling.

Mm, handling. Derek's hands are nice. Stiles thinks about them rolling him over to his side, but now there are no painful scratches on his back, ah, unless they're scratches Derek put there himself—

See, normally Stiles doesn't jerk himself to anything like actual memories. They're too vivid, make him spill too quick. But he needs something intense right now, and that's intense as can be, the sense-memory of Derek's heat right at Stiles' back. Maybe a little tantalizing hint of pain and danger, but the good kind, the kind that comes from the pinpricks of Derek's fangs right at his shoulder, not breaking the skin but letting Stiles know it's definitely a possibility.

Stiles clutches himself hard around the base of his cock, whimpering and – okay, milking himself, there's no better word. Wetness is starting to gather at the tip of his dick, drop by torturous drop.

He keeps at it until his knees tremble, until he feels sweat rolling down his back. Teasing himself with carefully kept memories of Derek touching him. The way he smelled crouching over Stiles, keeping him safe from enemy claws. The exact curve of Derek's lip, the hard definition in his stomach, his arms. Feels his orgasm building, but reins it back with gritted teeth and an iron will, coaxing clear pre-come to leak into the bottle.

There's still barely any in there by the time Stiles finally loses it, cupping his dickhead and coming into his palm, eyes rolling back in their sockets. He's out of breath for a long time, hands shaky. When he finally puts the bottle aside, its lip has left an imprint on his thumb.


Stiles comes early to the meeting. He doesn't mind the inevitable rejection, but he can do without the peanut gallery, thanks.

For a moment he thinks Derek might not even be there yet, but then there's a shadow in front of him and a growl behind him. “What the hell is that?”

Stiles turns around with his most winning smile and presents his little, ah, gift. “It's for you.” He dangles it temptingly. It's an ad-lib thing.

Derek just stares at it, until Stiles begins to worry if he maybe hypnotized Derek with the swinging shiny object.

Then Derek snatches it, fastening the string around his neck. “Thanks,” he says gruffly, and turns away.

Stiles... okay, Stiles needs to pick his jaw off the floor before all the betas get in and trample it.

Allison and Scott get in a moment later, saving Stiles from the indignity of finding something to say that isn't so you've got my bodily fluids on your person, huh?

"I'm not sitting this one out,” Allison declares as the rest of the betas trickle in. True enough, this training session turns into an impromptu game of catch-the-arrow. It's sort of like high-speed Fetch. Derek watches them, shouting more or less helpful (usually less, to be honest) advice from the sidelines.

He’s got the bottle Stiles gave him tucked under his shirt. The bulge is obvious, though, and while glass isn’t porous the bottle isn’t hermetically sealed: the smell’s bound to be leaking out. That’s the idea, after all. But none of the betas mention it. Even Scott doesn’t give Stiles a second look.

Stiles is beginning to suspect they all know something that he doesn’t.

They're winding down, Allison sticking one last arrow back in the quiver, when the pack meeting gets interrupted by an honest-to-God car crashing through the warehouse wall.

Lloyd slams out of the driver's seat, grinning at Derek. “We told you you hadn't seen the last of us.”

Instead of answering, Derek growls. The betas round up behind him, eyes glowing various shades of oh, shit.

The rest of the Lloyd pack come pouring in. Those fucking assholes have been trying to make Beacon Hills their territory for the last month, and fuck if Stiles is going to let them have it. They're jerks. Worse, jerks who look like they're in an 80s hair band.

Stiles goes for his trusty bat and keeps an eye out for the kitten-like beta. He's got a grudge to settle.


In the heat of battle Stiles doesn't exactly have a lot of concentration to spare, but then it's like the air gains an electric charge and everyone freezes.


Stiles turns his head, slow and conscious of the still-snarling beta in front of him. She's paralyzed, too.

In the middle of the room, Derek is a huge, red-eyed monster. Seriously, his teeth are bigger than Stiles' fingers.

He roars, and just like that, the Lloyd pack all turn and run with their figurative tails between their legs. Would be literal, Stiles bets, if werewolves actually had tails.

Well. Derek might, right now, but no way in hell is Stiles getting near enough him to look for it.

"What the hell,” Scott says under his breath, next to Stiles. “I didn't know he could do that.”

"Huh. I thought it was like, alpha-standard?” Stiles squints. Derek is pacing in the middle of the room, growling audibly. It makes a shiver run up Stiles' spine. Not entirely unpleasant, because apparently he has a death wish.

"Yeah, not really.” The alpha form thing is really distracting Scott. Stiles can tell by the way he's not staring at Allison, who's plucking her arrows out of the walls. “It's some sort of... control, thing, I don't really get it.”

"You rarely do,” Stiles says. He means it in the most affectionate way, though.

Derek is still pacing, that's so weird. Like, why hasn't he shifted back yet?

Control, Stiles thinks, suddenly uneasy in a way he can't quite explain. Derek's neck is bare; the flimsy thread Stiles used to hang the bottle probably snapped. Stiles glances around, but can't see the bottle anywhere.

Stiles moves a step forward. He's dizzy, because c'mon, battles take it out of everyone.

Derek, too, by the look of it. From one second to another he seems to Stiles more lost and helpless. Which is ridiculous, Derek is a huge hulking man-beast (beast-man? Whatever), he just had to fucking yell to send an entire enemy pack, well, packing. He can't be looking wistful. Stiles is projecting, and it's going to get him torn into kibbles'n'bits by an alpha werewolf with no sense of humor.

By Stiles' second step, Derek is sitting on his haunches. Even like that, he's still taller than Stiles. On the next step, Stiles is within biting distance. He braces himself, muttering, “Don't kill me, don't kill me,” under his breath.

Derek waits for Stiles to come that final step closer before he closes his eyes and rests his muzzle on Stiles' foot. Stiles holds very, very still for a minute and a half. Then his knees give and he's sprawled on the floor in a messy jumble of limbs.

He manages to compose himself into something like a sitting position, with Derek's head in his lap. He feels Derek's every breath, warm and moist on the patch of skin where his shirt rides up.

"Hey,” Stiles says softly, ridiculously. He runs his hand over Derek's head, sinking his fingers into the fur behind Derek's ears. It seems like the thing to do.

In the corner of the warehouse, Stiles thinks he can spot Erica and Boyd lying in a messy tangle of limbs. Jackson has vanished somewhere.

Isaac just stands there like a sad sack. Allison and Scott have a short, whispered debate before Scott comes to take Isaac's hand, and Allison takes the other. Her grip looks oddly gentle, from the distance.

"Didn't see that one coming,” Stiles remarks after they leave. Derek huffs in his lap.

Stiles looks down at him, frowning. The fur seems to recede a little bit with Derek's inhalations, but it's grown again on every exhale.

"You can't do it, can you.” Stiles is surprised at how calm he sounds. Derek's eyes flash, like you think?

Stiles winces, mostly in preemptive embarrassment for what he's about to do. “I'm going by the theory that you managed to shift into this form because my stupid little scent-thing was. Helping, somehow.” He wiggles his fingers. “You can growl once for yes, two for no.”

Derek growls. Once. Come to think of it, that wasn't as unambiguous as Stiles hoped.

Stiles swallows and forges on. “So, I'm going to take off my pants in the hope that it helps. If you're not into that, feel free to rend me limb from limb. Ah, I mean, don't actually do that. A simple double growl will suffice. Or walking away. I can take a hint. Eventually.”

For a long moment, there's only the heavy sound of Derek's breaths. His eyes are closed and his teeth are bared, paws digging into the ground, and the fur almost disappears.

Then it grows back, and Derek growls once. Stiles waits a few seconds for the second growl, then takes a deep breath and unbuttons his jeans.

Derek doesn't move, but there's a new stillness about him. Stiles pushes his zipper down and tries not to think about just how sharp these teeth are, and how close to his dick.

When Stiles pulls it out, Derek moves back a little bit. Stiles breathes out with – relief? Disappointment? He doesn't even know – but Derek only turns his face and.

Licks him. Right on the head, which kind of tickles, and oh god someone is touching Stiles' dick. Stiles thinks he can be forgiven for breathing a little funny.

Derek laps at him, and Stiles can only stare at him in dumb silence. Watch as the red bleeds out of Derek's eyes, as his body goes through painful-looking contortions, as his ears turn human and pink again. It's sort of endearing, actually, which Stiles is chalking up to post-combat drop.

Stiles has very little problem leaking now, it should be noted. Gets even easier when Derek's paw turns back into a hand and his knuckles find the sensitive bit of skin just behind Stiles' balls. Stiles is on his back now, jeans shoved down to his ankles and legs spread as wide as the confines of cloth allow. He makes tiny, bewildered noises as Derek's tongue laps all over his cock, as Derek's finally-human lips close around the head and suck.

Stiles doesn't even manage a warning, he comes before he can even think of saying anything. “Fuck,” he says instead, thick, as Derek licks him clean.

He lies there for a few seconds until he's jostled by frantic movement. Stiles leans on his elbow, blinking down at Derek, who is furiously working himself, mouth still warm at the junction of Stiles' hip and his crotch.

"Dude,” Stiles says reprovingly, because this is his first sexual experience and he is not going to let it pass without actively participating.

Derek's expression goes quickly shuttered. He moves his hand off his cock so fast it probably gave him friction burn.

Stiles gets a grip – in Derek's hair, since that's closest to hand. “No you don't,” he says, a little forceful maybe. “You are now going to lie there and let me get you off. Clear?”

He's pretty sure Derek is going to argue, because Derek is terrible at protecting his own best interests. It's kind of a constant in their lives. But Derek just nods, a little fast and dazed, and Stiles wonders if maybe he's not the only one with post-combat drop.

"Okay.” Stiles pushes Derek, lays him on the ground and crawls to lie beside him, right hand wrapping clumsy around Derek's cock. “This isn't going to be anything fancy, sorry, but on the bright side I do have a lot of experience doing this. Just, uh, a little me-specific, but I figure we can work past that in no time.”

Derek growls again, and Stiles wonders if he forgot he can just use words now. Derek's stubbled cheek is right next to Stiles' mouth, so Stiles presses an awkward kiss there, feeling the rasp of Derek's facial hair against his lips. He works his hand tight and quick, no teasing, gratified by the stutter of Derek's hips.

Also by the way Derek grabs his face, kissing Stiles as he comes in Stiles' grip. Stiles doesn't let go until Derek flinches. “Too much? Yeah, I get that.” He runs his clean hand down Derek's cheek, just to verify what his stubble feels like.

Derek flips them over, burying his face in Stiles' chest, seemingly unconcerned by the fact that Boyd and Erica are up and moving again. In his defense, they don't pay Derek and Stiles any attention, more intent on gathering their clothes and moving into the boxcar for, presumably, continued festivities.

"I can make you another bottle,” Stiles says into the prolonged silence. “I mean, if that would help. Hey, this time, maybe you can help me make it.”

"Maybe.” It's not Stiles' imagination, Derek actually sounds agreeable. It's helped by his hand tightening around Stiles' dick, which maybe reacted a little to the thought of Derek making it drool into a bottle.

Stiles' head falls back with a thump. In the darkness of the warehouse, Derek's eyes flash red at him, then run back into hazel.


Stiles isn't sure how he even got home, let alone when. When he blinks fuzzily awake, it's nearly lunchtime. He loves it when the supernatural crisis du jour waits for the weekend.

His window is open. Stiles narrows his eyes at it, goes to inspect when he spots something resting on the sill.

Resting there are two bands, both of woven leather with little golden clasps. The thicker one has a clay bottle hanging from it. The narrower has a little triskele pendant fastened to it.

There's a note, too, in Derek's spiky handwriting. Text me when you need to fill it up.

Stiles picks the bands up and grins.