Melissa is still halfway through a 36 hour shift at dusk, so Stiles is on Scott duty. He skips lacrosse practice and shows up at the hospital a half hour before the sun goes down. Melissa is waiting for him at an exit in the west wing with a cooler. Her smile is tired and only half there, which has been the norm since Scott was bitten.
“O-negative is on top, for incentive,” she tells him, handing over the cooler. It’s small, holds maybe ten, twelve pints of blood. Stiles recognizes it from road trips Melissa would take them on during summers through junior high, when it held capri sun pouches and turkey sandwiches.
He thanks her, knows he’s not doing nearly enough to get her forgiveness. He had dragged Scott into the woods that night; it’s Stiles fault that she’s sneaking blood like an illicit substance out the side door. She says, “Just make sure he studies.”
Stiles is back to the McCall residence with the blood in the microwave when Scott emerges from the crawlspace under the stairs. He gives a sluggish wave and heads up to his old room for a clean pair of clothes. Melissa refuses to keep a laundry basket by the stairs like he asked. She says she hates clutter, but Stiles is pretty sure it just makes her sad.
When he comes back down, quiet, breathless, Stiles is stirring the warm blood lazily with a small thermometer used for steaming milk he had found at a Cash & Carry. He hands the glass over to Scott, tries not to watch Scott’s fangs descend and his irises push the white out of his eyes when he smells it.
“O-negative, your mom says it’s an incentive to study for your GED,” Stiles says, “But I think it’s an incentive to try and beat me at Smash Brothers.”
Scott tips his head back and downs the blood. His adam’s apple bobs as he gulps, and Stiles has a hard time not looking at his neck, trying to find the marks Peter left, the ones he knows aren’t there because Scott has freaky undead healing powers.
“Like I need incentive to kick your ass,” Scott says, face shifting back to normal as he wipes some blood away from his upper lip with the side of his hand, sucking at it absently.
The real incentive, the one gone entirely unmentioned here, would be to keep him away from Allison. Allison, the most beautiful-slash-delicious girl Scott has met in his short life, is O-negative. She is also from a family of vampire slayers, because apparently Joss Whedon was way off about the “one per generation” statistic. Scott’s relationship with her is tumultuous at best.
They play games roughly through midnight, before Stiles lets the early morning and fading medication get the better of him. Scott opens up a dog-eared chapter in his GED textbook and starts reading, keeps himself close to Stiles on the couch. His skin is cold, an unsettling presence against Stiles, but it keeps Stiles aware while he drifts. It’s a system they’ve worked out ever since Scott took off into the night as soon as Stiles crashed, waited outside Allison’s window until she let him in. Scott recklessly fed in places that Allison’s parents could see, was too stupid to help them heal, and in the aftermath Stiles found out that Victoria Argent keeps stakes on the front bumper of her car.
Stiles feels Scott shift distantly in his sleep, feels the cold slip away, and he wakes with the sensation. Scott’s heating up a second packet of blood in the microwave, and the clock over his shoulder says its four a.m. He can distantly hear the garage door opening, the whine of the breaks on Melissa’s car. He usually stays an hour or so more, occasionally until sun up when Melissa gets off shift, just to let her sleep in peace. Tonight they both look tired. Stiles puts the rest of the O-negative and a few A-positives in the fridge, gives Scott a hug, and leaves with the rest of the cooler.
When he gets home, Derek is hovering--literally hovering--outside his window.
“Permission granted,” Stiles says, opening the window with an eyeroll.
“I could have let myself in, if you would just allow me--”
“Nope,” Stiles says, cutting him off as Derek slides through the sill. He hasn’t done anything personally to make Stiles trust him less since Derek killed Peter and inherited whatever-it-is, the head vampire status. Stiles just has little power left against Derek otherwise, and isn’t going to let it go anytime soon. “Once again, we are tabling that conversation for somewhere far, far, far away in the future when I haven’t slept light on a couch with the cold dermis of the undead for a blanket.”
“Please,” Derek says, his voice taking on that unnatural curve that should get Stiles to do what he wants; a kind of glamor that hasn’t worked since they became blood brothers or whatever happened when Kate Argent’s cursed bullets gave Derek blood poisoning and Stiles had to let him feed for the first time. The surgery table in Alan Deaton’s clinic had been cold metal against Stiles’ back, and it was the only sensation Stiles could hold onto with Derek’s mouth nursing at the femoral artery in his inner thigh.
“Nope,” Stiles says again, “nope, nope, nope.”
Derek doesn’t do defeat well, lets his shoulders and back slouch into it and exhales deep like he has to. Stiles is beyond caring, because he gets to sleep for an entire extra hour in his own bed before he has to get up for school. Derek keeps the distance as Stiles undresses like he’s alone.
“You’re tired,” he tries, “I could come back tomorrow.”
Stiles hums as he climbs onto his bed palms first and eases onto it. “No,” he says into his pillow, waving his hand towards the door where he’s left the cooler, “I got a pickup from Mrs. McCall for your little underlings. Wouldn’t want that to go to waste. And you--you look about as hungry as I am tired.”
When he rolls onto his side to look at Derek, Derek moves at him in one sudden, flickering swoop. He’s got his hand climbing up Stiles’ thigh, under the leg of his boxers before he’s aware of his own actions. Stiles rolls his shoulders in a horizontal shrug, utterly exhausted. Derek hesitates. “I could--you could have some of me, you know. It could help.”
“No thanks,” Stiles says, eyes still on Derek’s hand light against his thigh. It’s not that they haven’t done it before, it’s not like Stiles is scared, he just always wakes up in the morning with a blood-drunk equivalent of a hangover. There’s a guilt that settles in his stomach whenever Derek returns the favor, makes him feel strong and sensitive with his blood.
Derek leans over, presses his closed lips to the inside of Stiles’ knee, lets his grip tighten. He says soft, “You know you wouldn’t turn.”
Stiles knocks against Derek’s brow with his kneecap a bit, dipping deep into his reservoir of self-control to not just give into Derek immediately. Blood is rushing to his cock and he knows Derek can hear it, is hungry for it. “Is that what you told your new vampire babies too?”
“No,” Derek says, but doesn’t elaborate. Isaac and Erica and Boyd are another point of contention, another discussion that isn’t happening tonight. “You know I can’t lie to you.”
“You can’t,” Stiles says, and, “I know I won’t. You could always find someone else to feed on too.”
“Oh,” Derek says, moving up Stiles’ body fluid and quick, his mouth suddenly against Stiles’ ear instead with chilly, unpracticed breaths. “But do you even know how you taste?”
“Huh,” Stiles says, and apparently that is the consent that Derek needed to move down to Stiles’ neck and bite. The first second or two always hurts no matter where it is, before warmth seeps through and hushes him. He wants to say something like, dude, the sheets, or dude, teeth marks while the wet pools around Derek’s mouth, the short hairs against the base of his head. He can’t form any words though, utterly blissed out. He moans, maybe.
Derek has him by the teeth on one side of his neck, by the hand on the other. His grip is rough and a sort of desperate he hasn’t shown otherwise tonight. He’s got his entire weight on Stiles at this point, has their bellies pressed together, a knee coming up to pin one of Stiles’ wrists to his side. After the first few gulps he slows, laps at Stiles’ neck instead with long strokes and suckles at the punctures in between. When he breaks away he removes his hand from Stiles’ neck and tears open his own wrist with his mess of fangs for a mouth.
“Drink,” he says, pressing his wrist against Stiles’ mouth, cradling his neck with the other. Stiles hesitates, enveloped by warmth and sandbag weights in his muscles, but then Derek says drink again with a little more urgency. Stiles closes his eyes and lets Derek push the wound past his lips, lets the copper and salt drip down the back of his throat. It starts out cold and unpleasant, but suddenly Stiles is filled with a need and whines into Derek’s wrist, trying to coax out more. This is the part that he loves; when he can feel himself shooting through Derek, when he can feeling Derek coursing through him like they’re nothing but each other’s pulses.
Eventually Derek pulls his arm away, runs that hand through Stiles’ buzz cut once and returns his own mouth to Stiles’ neck. Blood is still pooling into his mouth sluggishly when Stiles rolls his hips up into Derek’s, slow and inviting. He can feel Derek smile into his neck, before he swipes some of his own blood against Stiles’ neck, effectively closing the punctures.
“You woke me up,” Stiles says raspy, giving another thrust up, letting Derek feel how awake every part of him is. Derek drags a hand down Stiles’ side, across his thigh and down between his cheeks, pressing against the thin cotton of his boxers, against his hole with his thumb. Stiles’ whine is high and shaky against the back of his throat.
Derek bites into the curve of his jaw gently, kisses the corner of his mouth. “Gotta be quick. Dawn’s in an hour.”
Stiles wishes, briefly and only on the nights when he’s let Derek feed him, that Derek could stay; that Derek could be his normal boyfriend, and they would stay up all night doing this and not trading vital fluids, and that Derek would be there again in the morning. In a few hours he won’t care, but right now he just wants.
Derek undoes the button of his own jeans with one hand, his right thumb still rubbing over the brim of Stiles’ asshole. Stiles squirms into the pressure open-mouthed, rolls his head to the side and reaches for the bedside drawer where the lube is shoved in with a reading light and some extra iPod chargers, a broken pair of headphones. Derek finishes rolling his jeans off, climbing forward with the denim stuck around his knees to grab the lube out of Stiles’ hand with another kiss to the side of his mouth, up his cheekbone, his temple.
The first time they did this, the entire blood-sharing, sex-having routine, Derek could hardly fit himself inside Stiles, who was tight against the cold, hard pressure of Derek. His back naked and uncomfortable against the freezing surface of Deaton’s operating table, he had been so overwhelmed by the chill of it all, the deep, foreign thickness inside him, he thought he was dying. The lube that he bought afterward, that Derek squeezes onto his fingers and rubs down his cock heats up and makes the cold more bearable, makes Stiles feel like he has a candle burning out his ass almost too warm and leaking wax. When Derek presses in, fingers first, Stiles groans into the conflicting textures and grinds his teeth. When Derek coaxes him open, slides his dick in and palms at Stiles’ own with his lube covered hand, the flush that goes up Stiles’ chest to his ears makes Derek hungry; something about the blood rising to the surface makes Derek’s eyes become consumed by his pupils.
It is simultaneously the hottest and most terrifying thing Stiles has seen in his entire life. Stiles lets his calf climb up Derek’s chest when Derek thrusts into him. He strokes Stiles with fervor, looking for the pulse beneath his fingertips and letting it guide him. Stiles has got blood up his cheek from rolling his head to the side, around his open mouth, at the thick of his tongue. When he comes in Derek’s hand it’s practically art, come dotting his stomach, pooling between his compact abdominals. He is a mess of fluids, still making deep huh, huh gasps when Derek pulls out and comes against Stiles’ oversensitive dick. His eyes are still mostly black, but Stiles would say they soften a little after the climax when his shoulders round over and he grips onto Stiles’ thigh still pressed against his torso like an afterthought. He lets Stiles breathe.
“Fuck,” Stiles finally says, taking himself in. “Looks like my extra hour is gonna be spent doing laundry so my dad doesn’t think I made a snuff film in my bedroom.”
Derek doesn’t say anything, just traces his thumb across Stiles’ stomach in an indiscernible way, catching semen with it before idly sticking it in his mouth. His expression is indifferent.
“Doesn’t really have the same effect, does it,” Stiles says, pushing himself up onto his elbows, curving both his legs down around Derek’s waist.
“That’d be nice,” Derek says, collapsing forward, letting their chests stick together where Derek’s shirt has been hiked up with cool sweat and muscle. It’s pretty gross.
“Half hour to sunrise,” Stiles reminds him.
“Yeah,” Derek says, chin hanging on Stiles’ shoulder, and for a second Stiles realizes maybe Derek doesn’t want to leave either. They lean together in silence for a bit. Stiles’ senses are temporarily amplified, and he zones out to the sound of early risers in the neighborhood a few houses down getting ready for work.
“Hey,” he finally says, pushing Derek away, “you’re gonna give me chest acne, I’m a growing boy with shitty skin.”
Derek hums and turns away to grab a dirty shirt off the floor to wipe off Stiles’ chest. The growing boy comment brings back a little discomfort between them. It reminds him of Scott, how Scott refuses to speak to Derek still, somehow blames him for the whole creature-of-the-night business. Scott is still having a hard time coming to terms with Allison staying human, Allison growing up while he has the body of a sixteen-year-old forever. It’s bound to make him a little bitter, grow darker eventually. Stiles briefly wonders how old Derek really is. He wonders what Derek looks like in the sun.
“I could help,” Derek offers, something warm and inviting in his words that Stiles thought he was immune to. He looks like he’s about to leave, balls of his feet pressed into the floor, his palms pressed into the bed. He doesn’t move.
“With my acne? Or with my laundry?” Stiles asks, because they’re both about to be a huge problem.
“With everything,” Derek says, and it’s with an uncertain heaviness that presses against Stiles chest and threatens to break his ribs. Stiles is speechless for a few seconds, mouth gone wide and dry. When he remains quiet, Derek shakes himself a little and does push away. He pulls his jeans back up, doesn’t bother to wipe at the base of his cock that’s dried over with come and lube, and walks over to the closed bedroom door to pick up the cooler. Stiles still doesn’t speak.
“Your dad,” Derek says, “he’s got another graveyard coming up in three days, right?”
Stiles nods, wordlessly follows him to the window and opens it for him. Derek has two legs out and the cooler over his shoulder when Stiles finally stops him. The horizon is beginning to brighten beyond the rooftops into a pale blue, and in the dawn Derek looks years younger without shadows haunting every curve of his face. Stiles puts a hand on his shoulder and says, “I’ve been wondering, have you ever-- do you ever wonder what I look like in sunlight?”
Derek smiles unevenly at him, canines pronounced. “No” he says, “I like you in the nighttime, with me.”
He leans up to press a kiss into Stiles’ jugular where the marks he left are almost already faded, digs his feet into the windowsill and pushes himself away.