There’s blood in his eyes, his head and back are killing him, and Derek’s lips are pressed so hard against his own that he can feel the fangs bruising his mouth.
Stiles isn’t sure how they wound up here.
Actually, that’s a lie. He’s perfectly aware of how they got here.
It involves their ragtag group of misfit werewolves confronting a strange, violent pack that was threatening their territory. It was like the Alpha pack all over again, only more dangerous because the betas of this new pack are stupid, ruthless, and crazy as shit. Stiles, only a mile out from Derek’s house, rumbles down the road in his jeep when something—someone—lands on the roof of his car and punches through his window. The glass shatters with a frankly terrifying trajectory inwards and Stiles slams on his brakes as his eyes clench shut. The muted thump of a werewolf body rolling down his windshield and onto the hood of his car is loud in his ears, louder even than the rush of blood as his heart pounds and brakes screech.
He opens his eyes, lungs painful as they pull and push air in and out too quickly, and enraged gold eyes are all he can see before—wait.
The kissing. That’s important, very important. Not that the homicidal lycanthrope dragging him through dirt and fallen leaves isn’t important, but the kiss that follows? The path to this monumental push of lips on lips began even before this ill-fated venture to the Hale house.
The douchebag manhandling him through the forest, hand clamped tight around Stiles’ throat to keep him from screaming, is just a bonus.
This…thing with him and Derek began months ago, born of a long-overdue truce between Scott and Derek when the former had finally accepted that without an Alpha and without a pack, he was doomed to life as an omega. It had taken a major kick in the ass, courtesy of Stiles, before Scott could stop orbiting Allison long enough to realize the consequences of refusing an Alpha’s help. Stiles had done his research, and the implications weren’t pretty. It had probably been his quiet, pleading desperation not to lose anyone else in his life that had driven Scott to turn to Derek.
Derek, in turn, realized that Scott and Stiles were a non-negotiable package deal. There’s no tolerating Stiles if he wants Scott in his pack, and thus an olive branch had been extended. Derek turns to Stiles more often than not if he wants research done. He keeps Peter an arms length away from him at all times because Stiles still feels the stirrings of rage when he thinks about what was done to Lydia. He answers the phone whenever Stiles calls, no matter how inane the conversation. Slowly, Stiles becomes privy to Derek’s quiet sense of humor, becomes familiar with the way the corners of the Alpha’s mouth tick up when he finds something funny but doesn’t want anyone to know. Derek’s presence in his bedroom isn’t unusual, especially in the months the Hale house was undergoing renovations, but Stiles no longer feels his heart jump to his throat when he opens his bedroom door and finds Derek lounging on his bed or reclining in his computer chair.
Well…that’s not entirely true, but the heart-throat jump has a different inspiration these days.
The point is that somewhere along the line, Derek went from being a stubborn, menacing grump, to a stubborn, menacing grump who laughs at Stiles’ jokes and comes to Bad SyFy Movie Saturday every month, who lets Stiles say his piece and actually listens, but brings him crashing back down to earth if need be.
And Stiles lives for the times when he can make Derek throw his head back and laugh, this weird full body thing that looks so strange because his shoulders are usually tensed, and it makes his heart do that throat jump thing and he loses his breath a little bit because those unguarded moments belong purely to Derek and Stiles.
Derek stands by and watches carefully while Deaton teaches Stiles about the parameters of his own magical ability and shows him how to harness his spark, and Derek’s eyes shine with pride whenever Stiles makes a small step in the way of progress.
Derek, who lets Stiles shanghai him into going shopping for the newly rebuilt Hale house (using Peter’s credit card) and doesn’t put up much of a fight when Stiles makes him go shopping for curtains for an hour and a half. Derek, who just raises an eyebrow when Stiles shows up with his PS3 and hooks it up to the flat screen in Derek’s room; who takes the controller and chooses Arsenic and Old Lace on Netflix instead of an action movie, and quietly introduces Stiles to his love of old films; who eats the un-popped kernels out of the bowl of microwaved popcorn and likes ginger ale.
Derek, who doesn’t laugh the way the others do when Stiles gets a bit manic, but frowns and asks him, privately, if everything is alright.
Stiles doesn’t understand this newfound affection between the two of them, but he looks at Derek, who has been alone for so long and is quiet and grumpy on a good day and more attractive than Stiles can deal with, but more importantly who is a good man, and thinks to himself, “I’ll take it.”
There’s something holding Derek back, though. Stiles can see it in his eyes whenever it’s the two of them in one of their moments, and he would push the way he usually does, but he thinks about the way the house still smells of smoke sometimes on warmer days and how Derek’s eyes are smudged with exhaustion more often than not, and keeps his mouth firmly shut.
This friendship between them is comfortable, for all it’s unexpected, and Stiles doesn’t think he has it in him to damage whatever’s built between them. Derek’s lost so much in his lifetime, to fire and to circumstance, and Stiles doesn’t want to be the reason he loses anything more.
Which is why the second the fucking dickweed beta dragging him through the woods on Hale property finally lets go of Stiles’ throat, he lets out as loud of a howl as he possibly can. It’s broken and garbled, harsh and dry from the pressure that had been crushing his windpipe, but it’s loud enough to startle his abductor. He gets a super-strength elbow to the ribs for his effort and falls to his knees in the soft decay of leaves, wheezing as his bones creak. There’s nothing in the air but the sound of his muddled breathing and the beta’s snarl, but then a howl carries on the wind.
The werewolf stiffens, hearing the noise for what it is:
Pure, unadulterated rage.
Derek has heard his cry for help, and if Stiles knows anything about the way Derek protects his pack, then he’s expecting the cavalry to come crashing through with vengeance.
The good news is, he isn’t wrong.
The bad news is, it’s the kidnapping-asshole-beta’s pack that finds them first.
There’s no doubt in Stiles’ mind that Derek’s going to find him and save his pale ass, yet again, but he really wishes that his pack would hurry the fuck up.
“Well, well, well,” the Alpha purrs, stepping forward as she shifts. “Little Red, come to play with the wolves.”
Stiles looks down at his blue hoodie with confusion, like the color wheel has been lying to him his entire life. “Dude, what. I’m not even wearing red. Also, I am totally here against my will. Just FYI, in case the whole ‘kidnapping’ aspect escaped you.”
The Alpha gets a sour look on her face, her nostrils flaring like Stiles is something gross that she’s stepped in. She clearly is choosing to ignore the fact that her greeting and his wardrobe are not on the same page tonight, which is sort of rude considering she’s orchestrated this stupid thing.
Just as she opens her mouth, either to go into some supervillain monologue or to give the orders to flay Stiles alive, her jaw snaps shut and all of the werewolves in her pack bristle and turn their heads in the same direction, just in time for Stiles to hear the first crash deep within the forest. Unnaturally colored eyes flare bright in the dark of the woods around him and he can hear the crack of their bones as their faces shift to accommodate the wolf. The Alpha lets out an angry sounding snarl and curls a fist into the front of Stiles’ shirt, claws tearing through the fabric and dragging blood out of his skin. He spares a brief moment to mourn the thin, worn t-shirt he’d stolen from Derek before the pain sets in and he gasps.
A low snarl echoes back to them from between the trees, the crashing noise getting louder.
“Dude,” Stiles manages to choke. “You are fucked.”
Derek bursts through the tree line with astonishing speed and impeccable timing, on all fours and in his full Alpha form. It’s not the jagged, monstrous thing Peter had been; with the pack finally coming together to appease the wolf, Derek’s fully shifted form had come to look more like a gigantic wolf than a bipedal hell beast. More often than not, he shifts only as far as his Betas can, and saves the big guy for emergencies.
Which, judging by the challenging roar the Alpha gripping him emits, this probably is.
Derek’s front legs dig hard into the ground as he answers with a blood-curdling roar of his own, hackles raised and teeth bared in an ugly snarl as the rest of the pack falls in behind him.
“Stiles!” Scott yells, Isaac and Jackson physically holding him back.
“Hey guys,” he says, wincing as the Alpha’s grip on him tightens.
“Enough chit-chat,” the Alpha snarls, because she’s obviously been watching some of the bad action flicks they have on Netflix and that’s where she’s getting all of her dialogue. Stiles feels so much shame being held captive by this unimaginative—oh, hey, okay, being lifted into the air.
In one easy move, the Alpha digs her claws into his sides and hauls him upward. Stiles only has a single shocked second to process what’s happening before the painful claws are gone and he is weightless as he goes flying towards a tree trunk. Derek’s roar follows him as he goes.
He slams into it with his side and part of his face and goes face down into a pile of decaying leaves, the wind knocked out of him completely and his face and sides wet with blood. Distantly, he registers Isaac and Erica crouching over him protectively, snarling and fighting off anyone who dares approach him. Someone else falls to their knees by his shoulders and it isn’t until the view of knees gives way to large, worried eyes and tousled strawberry-blonde hair that he even realizes Lydia’s there, too.
“Stiles,” she says, cupping his face in her hands. “Stiles, are you okay?”
He gags when he tries to inhale enough breath to respond, ribs aching and throat still raw, and Lydia sweeps a hand down his side and pulls up his shirt, sucking air through her teeth when she sees the gashes the Alpha’s claws have left behind. “Okay,” she says, voice panicked but gentle. “It’s okay, Stiles.”
He coughs, a desperate choking thing, and his body shudders as his lungs finally expand and fill with air. Behind his wall of protection comes the horrifying crunch of someone’s limbs being removed, closely followed by the shrieking howl of the other Alpha. It’s a terrible sound that’s swiftly muted by the crack of her neck being broken, Derek’s victorious howl alerting his pack to their win.
Stiles closes his eyes against the pain and the blood winding a path between his temple and his eyelids, vision smearing red briefly before going dark completely. He tunes out the sound of his pack fighting and concentrates on the rattle of his own breath and the tired ache he feels radiating throughout his body.
A pair of warm, large and calloused hands cup his cheeks and lift his head and Stiles wants so badly to open up his eyes but can’t find the energy. “Stiles!” Oh, it’s Danny now. Why is Danny…movie night. Right.
“Danny-boy,” he slurs, eyes twitching underneath the blood crusting his eyelashes together. “Danno. What’s the happs?”
“Stiles, shut up,” Danny hisses, wiping the blood away from Stiles’ eyes with rough sweeps of his thumb. “Can you move?”
Stiles tries to, just a twitch of his shoulders, but the pain that sears through his ribcage denies him. “Theoretically, yes. Practically? Not so much. At least not on my own.”
“Okay,” Danny mutters, and slides an arm under Stiles to pull him into a sitting position.
“Careful!” Lydia says sharply when Stiles lets out a groan. “Stiles, open your eyes.”
“Buh,” is what comes out of his mouth, but his eyes crack open and try to focus on the blurry outline of the two leaning over him. “Hey, guys,” he drawls brokenly, blinking against the pain and the blood still trying to trickle slowly into his vision. “Is my Jeep okay?”
“Shut up,” they say in unison, and wow, okay, rude. Stiles reminds himself to be offended by that later, when he doesn’t feel like a pile of bruises.
There’s a final sickening crunch that comes from the small battle raging behind his wall of wolfy protection, and high pitched yelps and the sound of scurrying signal the other pack’s retreat. Through the small sliver of space between Isaac and Erica, Stiles can see Derek’s massive jaws remove themselves from an ugly, mutilated corpse-y looking thing and oh, that is so gross. Stiles feels the world lurch a little around him as his stomach turns unpleasantly. “Fuck,” he mumbles, tilting his head back against the tree trunk. “I am so tired of being the patsy, man.”
Derek’s overly large, furry body twists around at that, and then the beast is loping towards him with a high pitched whine, pushing the betas and humans out of the way until he’s crouched over Stiles’ legs. Stiles ignores the screaming pain in his ribs so that he can lift a shaky hand and press it against Derek’s blood matted fur. ”Hey, man.”
Derek’s body ripples and cracks as his bones give way, fur disappearing inwards and baring pale human skin to the cool night. His face is still distorted and fanged, extra hair highlighting the arches of his cheekbones and the straight slope of his nose, and Stiles finds it grossly unfair that Derek is still attractive in this form even when he’s covered in blood and what looks sickeningly like brain matter.
“Stiles,” Derek whines through his teeth, cupping the teenager’s jaw in both hands and rubbing clawed thumbs gently against his skin. There’s a bright and panicked look in his eyes, one that Stiles has come to expect when any member of the pack is threatened, and it’s still unbelievable that Stiles has come to mean enough to Derek to warrant that kind of reaction. Stiles knows that Derek, despite his tough and prickly exterior, operates with a deeply ingrained fear that anyone who means anything at all of importance to him will be snatched away like his family.
“Hey, Derek,” Stiles says, mustering up a small smile. His eyes flicker over the Alpha’s body, still covered in deep rust-red but healing before his very eyes, and okay, that is a lot of tightly muscled werewolf on display right there. “Dude. You are so naked right now.”
Derek lets out a low whuff of a noise, something that sounds like it’s caught between exasperation and relief, and then before Stiles can even try to think of a witty comment to break up his all too serious moment, Derek is rocking forward and pushing their mouths together. It’s nothing at all like how Stiles imagined their first kiss would be (not that he’s imagined it, not at all; definitely not when he’s alone in his room and night with his hand down his boxers and—wait whoa not the time) because Stiles’ back and ribs are aching, blood is still congealing slowly on his face and the contours of Derek’s fangs are pressing hard enough into his lips that they might leave a bruise.
Stiles’ hand is still in the air, hovering where he’d been patting Derek’s grimy fur, and his fingers twitch forward until his palm is against oversized sideburns and he can feel the silent vibrations of Derek’s whining. They stay there, nothing more than a too hard kiss and breathing harshly into each other’s faces until Derek pulls back an inch or two and Stiles feels the excess hair disappear as Derek shifts back into his fully human form.
“Stiles,” he says, voice a quiet rumble.
“That was nice,” Stiles says quickly, mouth quirking up in a painful smile. “Like…really nice. Maybe not the best kiss but I’m not complaining, dude. It was good.”
Derek’s mouth twitches but his eyes stay worried and bright.
“So yeah,” Stiles says, exhaling loudly. His vision is tunneling, going black around the edges until all he can see is the blood still smeared on Derek’s face. “Kissing. Is good. But, uh. I’m going to pass out now, okay?”
Derek frowns hard and digs his thumbs into the spot beneath Stiles’ ears, and the last thing Stiles hears before the world fades to black completely is the sound of Derek calling out his name.
He wakes up in the hospital with a pounding head, the lights too bright and his mouth tasting like it’s filled with cotton, and the first thing he sees when he turns his head is his father sitting in the chair next to the bed, a serious look on his face .
“Shit,” Stiles says tiredly, eyes closing again.
“Indeed,” John says, and Stiles knows even without looking that the Sheriff has his arms crossed over his chest in a way that means Serious Business. “So. Do you want to tell me why one of the officers doing a routine patrol found your car on the side of the road, less than a mile from the Hale house? And why I got a panicked call from Scott at nine o’clock at night saying that they were taking you to the hospital?” His dad stands and plants his hands on his hips, looking exhausted and resigned and worried. Stiles feels like shit. “And why Derek Hale has refused to leave the waiting room for longer than ten minutes, and only then it was to shower so that he could wash the blood off of his body?”
Stiles is suddenly a lot more awake, opening his eyes wide and sitting up a little bit in bed. “You didn’t arrest him, did you?” he demands, heart thumping wildly in his chest. His brow furrows.
His father stares him down with an unreadable look, cool and assessing and Stiles can feel himself gearing up for a panic attack because if his dad arrested Derek he has no idea how he’s going to fix this, because Derek wasn’t responsible for Stiles getting hurt, Derek would never hurt Stiles—not anymore, anyway—because Derek watches bad movies with him and makes sure he gets enough sleep and kissed him—
“No,” John sighs finally, shoulders dropping. “No, I didn’t arrest him. Mostly because of the loud group of teenagers who wouldn’t shut up until I knew that the blood all over his torso was his own.”
Stiles relaxes minutely until his dad’s Stilinski Cop Stare © is back. “Strange, though,” he says, voice forced casual. “How he was covered in his own blood but had absolutely no injuries.”
“Strange,” Stiles echoes back softly. Fuck.
His dad clenches his jaw. “Mind explaining it to me, son? Because I sure am curious.”
Stiles rolls his head to stare back up at the ceiling, breathing deep and slow. His mouth still feels thick and dry and every bit of him hurts, but beyond that he’s so tired. He’s tired of lying to his dad, of hiding one of the biggest parts of his life from the only real family he has left. He thinks about what his lies have cost him, how his dad looks at him these days like he can’t trust Stiles at all because Stiles hasn’t given him reason to ever since Scott got turned by Peter.
“You might want to sit down,” he tells the ceiling, then licks his lips and looks back at his dad. “It’s kind of…unbelievable.”
John scoffs but doesn’t sit down, just raises a challenging eyebrow. “Try me.”
An hour later, both Stilinski men have a pounding headache. Stiles is lucky, because his can be dulled with this handy-dandy IV dripping painkillers into his system, but judging by the way his dad’s been pinching the bridge of his nose for the past five minutes, he might not be the one who needs it more.
“Werewolves,” his dad says flatly, slumped in the chair with his eyes shut tightly.
“Yup,” Stiles says, popping the ‘p.’
“Are real. And Scott…Scott, who had to wear Velcro shoes until he was thirteen because he didn’t know how to tie shoelaces without them coming undone three minutes later, that Scott, is a werewolf. And Derek Hale…is in charge of the werewolves in Beacon Hills, most of who are your classmates. And you…are not a werewolf.”
His dad drops his hand and sighs, blinking his eyes for the first time since Stiles finished talking. “This…actually explains a hell of a lot,” he says quietly.
Stiles gapes at him, unable to believe that his father’s shoulders are actually relaxing and he’s looking totally relieved. “I…what?!”
John laughs, still looking exhausted and worn, but it’s as though a weight has lifted off of his shoulders. He looks lighter than he has in months, and Stiles totally doesn’t get it. “Look, kid,” he says, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “I’ve lived in Beacon Hills a whole lot longer than you have. I’ve seen my share of weird goings-on around here, most of it to do with the Hale family. It’s not exactly a secret that there are more bumps in the night around here than anywhere else, but it’s good to finally know what’s causing it. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t like that you’re throwing yourself in with these things. You’re in the hospital for Christ’s sake, of course I’m not happy about that. I want to shut you in your room and board up the windows and doors if it means you’ll be safe.” He stares Stiles down, eyes wet. “I love you, Aloyoshenka.”
“Dad,” Stiles says, embarrassed. His name sucks, seriously, why does his dad have to whip it out during every serious father/son talk that they have?
“Shut up,” his dad says, but there’s no bite to it. “I love you. I would do anything to keep you safe, son, and if I can’t then at least you have a horde of super strong, protective…people, to look after you.”
Stiles’ headache has returned with a vengeance. “This is so not how I was expecting you to react,” he says weakly. “I was thinking there’d be more shouting and disbelief? Definitely you accusing me of doing drugs somewhere along the line until I could convince Derek or Scott to prove it to you. The werewolf thing, not the drugs thing. But for the record I’m not doing drugs.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” John says, deadpan. He leans back in his chair and picks up the book he’d discarded on the bedside table long ago. “Werewolves and giant lizards are fine, but I don’t think Beacon Hills would survive you on drugs.”
Stiles splutters, indignant. “Rude! So rude! Here I am, your only son, lying in a hospital bed and you just sit there and sass me! Heartless.”
“Shut up, Stiles,” his dad says, and turns a page.
“Outrageous,” Stiles grumbles, and aggressively thumbs at the television remote even as his heavy eyelids begin to drag themselves shut, the painkillers kicking in. He falls asleep to the sounds of Maury Povich enthusiastically announcing that a man named Daryl is not the father, and when he wakes up next, the sky is dark beyond the window shades and Derek is sitting in the chair previously occupied by Stiles’ father.
“Hey,” Stiles croaks, and oh hell his throat and ribs hurt so much more than they did earlier. He winces as he slowly pulls himself up his pillow a little bit further and is embarrassed at how out of breath he is by the time he’s finally settled into a comfortable position. “You been here long?”
Derek stares at him and his face looks more pale and gaunt than usual in the harsh light thrown by the lamp that sits between them. The silence stretches between them, heavy and endless, and Derek won’t stop staring. Stiles swallows down the mild panic building in his throat. He wants desperately to break the quiet, to babble on mindlessly the way he always does, but something in the way Derek is looking at him keeps the words caught firmly on his tongue.
Derek suddenly rises from the chair and comes closer to the bed. Stiles notes distantly that he’s wearing a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt that he’s never seen before, but smell vaguely like Danny. “Yes,” Derek says, low and serious as his hands curl around the bars of the bed. He pushes a hand against Stiles’ hip, shoving him to one side of the bed and climbing into the empty space provided. He curls an arm around Stiles’ shoulders and pull his head down to rest against Derek’s chest, ear pressed to the quick staccato of Derek’s heartbeat.
Derek lays his other hand against the spot on Stiles’ ribs where he’d impacted with the tree, and black veins trace up his arm while his hand grows impossibly warm. This isn’t the first time he’s done this to Stiles, stealing his pain and absorbing it faster than any human would be able to, but the action never fails to quietly astonish Stiles.
The inky lines snaking their way beneath Derek’s skin fade slowly, but the large hand spanning Stiles’ side doesn’t move.
Derek is never far away, after that. He’s always been a fairly tactile guy, which had initially been surprising considering his prickly exterior, but he’s been touching Stiles with increasing frequency ever since his most recent trip to the hospital. He insisted on being present as Stiles was discharged, and lingers in the Stilinski household for two days before Stiles shoves him out the door and tells him to go see to his pack because they won’t stop texting him, dammit.
Derek’s only gone for a total of five hours before he’s looming silently in Stiles’ bedroom window, tapping on the glass impatiently. Stiles rolls his eyes and slowly rises from his bed to unlock and open the window. “You realize that when my dad says I’m “grounded and not allowed to see any supernatural beings outside of school for two weeks,” that does include you, right?” he says, in lieu of a greeting.
Derek rolls his eyes so hard Stiles is surprised they don’t pop out of his head, and sheds his leather jacket and shoes before starting on the button of his jeans. Stiles watches him, mouth hanging open.
“Uh, Derek, not that I’m not appreciating the mini-strip show, but what are you doing?"
“I don’t sleep in jeans,” Derek grunts, shoving the denim down his legs and baring his boxer briefs to the world and Stiles has the most inconvenient erection right now because all he’s wearing are his boxers and there is no real way to hide a boner in this underwear.
“You don’t sleep in my bedroom, either!” he yelps, unable to take his eyes off of the curve of Derek’s butt as the werewolf turns and pulls the covers down on Stiles’ bed and climbs inside.
Derek gives him another withering glare. “Stiles, I’ve slept in your bed before.”
Derek’s mouth gets tight at the corners and his shoulders tense, and Stiles immediately regrets putting up such a protest because he recognizes that body language. Despite how much the two of them have opened up to one another in the previous months, there’s still a part of Derek that isn’t sure about his actions and will shut down if he thinks that Stiles is going to push him out.
“It’s fine!” Stiles says quickly, moving to the other side of the bed and shoving the covers down so that he can slip in beside Derek. “Who needs pants anyway, am I right? Totally outdated. I’m way ahead of you.” Derek grunts but relaxes when Stiles presses their shoulders together and pulls the computer in to balance on both of their legs. “I was just watching South Park. Hope that’s alr—”
The words die in his throat with a squeak as Derek’s arm settles across his shoulders and the werewolf pulls him in tight. Stiles turns his head to the side, nose brushing against Derek’s cheek as he stares at the side of his face with wide eyes. “Derek?” he asks, nerves scratching at his voice.
Derek’s jaw is clenched and he’s taking deep, slow breaths, but then his head tilts to the side and the hand not draped around Stiles lifts to cup gently at his cheek, drawing their mouths together in a soft, dry kiss.
Derek’s lips are trembling and Stiles’ eyes are wide open, both of them breathing quickly into the other’s mouth. It’s reminiscent of their first kiss, only minus the blood and agonizing pain, so all around an improvement. Their lips stick together the smallest bit when they separate, and Derek offers a tentative smile as he drags his nose over the apple of Stiles’ cheek. “Was that—”
“Yeah,” Stiles breathes, still too close to Derek’s face to focus in on anything properly expect the puff of breath across his mouth. “Yes. Good. It was…I liked it. Feel free to do it whenever you’d like, I’m easy. I mean…not easy, I’m not some kiss monger, you’re the first to plant the flag or…whatever.”
“I liked it,” he says breathlessly, closing his eyes and leaning in to catch Derek’s mouth in another quiet kiss, lifting a hand to scratch through the soft hair at the base of the other man’s neck.
He likes kissing Derek when nobody’s life is hanging in the balance.
They spend a few minutes with their palms curled around each other’s faces and their mouths rubbing together before Derek tilts his face away with a breathy sigh, sliding his nose against Stiles’ before pulling away completely and pressing the space bar on the laptop. The twanging banjo of South Park’s theme song is jarring following the moment they just had, but when Stiles slides down Derek’s body enough to nestle his temple into the slope between Derek’s neck and shoulder, nothing could take away from the feeling of Derek’s cheek resting briefly against Stiles’ head.
He drifts off during the part of the episode where Cartman’s initiating a ginger uprising, and wakes up around two thirty to take a piss. Derek makes an unhappy noise in his sleep when Stiles lifts his heavy arm from where it’s been curled around his waist, and a small frown crinkles between his eyebrows and doesn’t go away until Stiles has washed his hands, turned out the bathroom light, and resumed his position as the little spoon.
He’s barely settled back underneath the soft down comforter before Derek’s rolling into him and burying his nose in the spot between Stiles’ neck and the pillow, large hand sliding sleepily over his ribs before splaying wide and low on Stiles’ stomach. His cock gives an interested jump at the feeling of Derek’s hand so close, but the weight in his eyelids eventually wins out and he falls back asleep to Derek snoring lightly in his ear.
The next time he wakes up, the sun is blue and pink with the sunrise and Derek’s kneeling on the ground next to his head. He’s fully dressed and staring at Stiles intently, one hand meshed into his bedhead and the other curled gently around the hand that’s still slack with sleep and halfway fallen off the bed. It’s nothing at all how he was expecting to wake up this morning—the two scenarios in his mind involved either waking up alone or his dad waking Derek up with a shotgun to the face.
Not that he’s complaining. This version of events is greatly preferred.
“Hey,” he whispers, lifting himself up on his elbow but carefully not dislodging either of Derek’s hands. “Sleep okay?”
Derek just nods once, eyes scanning over Stiles’ face for a moment before they flicker towards the window. “I need to go,” he says quietly yet he makes no motion to move. “Your dad’ll be up soon and I probably shouldn’t be here.”
“Makes sense,” Stiles slurs, dropping his cheek back into his pillow and yawning so hard his jaw cracks. “I still have my phone, though. Not sure why he didn’t take it away from me but I’m not complaining. But yeah, phone. Which is good for texting or calling. Assuming that you’re interested in maybe texting or calling a certain grounded son of the Sheriff. Or maybe Skype? I have a laptop and you have a laptop, it’s like our technology was made for each other.”
“Stiles,” Derek says, but it sounds soft and amused. “Shut up. Go back to sleep.”
“Yessir,” he mutters, snuggling back under his comforter. He feels Derek’s hands begin to pull away from him and grabs on quickly to the fingers dragging against his palm. “Hey, now,” he says, brave with slumber, “Don’t I get a kiss goodbye?” He cracks his eyes open.
Derek looks tense and unsure now, instead of the soft affection of a moment before. His mouth is tight and his brows are drawn together, and Stiles immediately regrets opening his big mouth.
“No, hey, never mind,” he says, waving a hand around. “Dude, it’s totally fine. A one-time thing. Or two-time thing, depending on how you look at it. It’s fi—”
Derek’s mouth is against his then, muffling the words and making sure they never see the other side of Stiles’ tongue. The kiss is like the one they shared last night, all soft pressure and warmth, both of their mouths a little wet and making the drag that much sweeter. Stiles sighs through his nose and cards a hand through Derek’s hair, thumbing at the shell of his ear and opening his mouth enough to suck Derek’s upper lip between his own. The back of Derek’s throat vibrates in a small whine and he pulls away from Stiles, breathing hard. Their foreheads knock together gently.
“I’ll text you,” Derek says gruffly and grips the back of Stiles’ head and pushes his mouth against his forehead in one last kiss before he stands and disappears out the window.
Stiles flops backwards against his bed and stretches, a smile spreading slow across his face. His phone buzzes next to his head a few seconds later and when he thumbs across the screen it reads:
Derek: Get some sleep.
Stiles bites his lip and before he can stop himself, quickly types out ‘Will do. Miss my bed buddy already tho’ and hits send. He then proceeds to spend thirty seconds wondering if there’s a way to magically pull a text message out of the universe because seriously, Stilinski?
His phone buzzes again.
Derek: Shut up, Stiles.
Derek: I mis
Derek: *Miss you, too.
His phone buzzes pretty consistently throughout the day while he talks to Derek, who possesses the amazing ability to be monosyllabic even through texting.
Seriously, it’s unreal. Stiles might do a study on it. ‘Alpha Werewolves and Communication: How to Interpret Grunts, Growls, and One Word Sentences.’
His dad looks at him from the other side of the couch when Stiles’ phone goes off for the third time in as many minutes and takes a casual pull from his bottle of water before saying, “Tell Derek that next time, he should use the door. I don’t feel like retiling the roof outside your bedroom window when it gets cold out.”
Stiles splutters indignantly for a solid minute.
Stiles always thought that if he found a guy or girl deluded enough to actually date him that he would be totally hyped up on the idea of finally getting some. He’s always been a sex crazed teenager but he’d figured that having someone actually interested in doing those things, with him, would send him into some fornication frenzy.
But it’s not like that.
Yeah, Stiles looks at Derek when they’re crowded on the couch and watching Gangland on Spike TV and he thinks to himself, Damn, that’s nice. He masturbates at least once a day to the thought of Derek pushing slicked up fingers into him, splitting him in half with his dick and fucking Stiles like it’s all he wants to do. He’s finally got a boyfriend, it’s someone who’s so ridiculously out of his league it’s like they’re on different planets, but Stiles doesn’t feel that desperation.
Okay, that’s a lie, because Derek is hot like burning and of course Stiles wants to be on him all the time, but there’s something…strange. And it happens whenever Derek kisses him.
Derek initiates kisses just as often as Stiles does, and they’re always the soft, slow kind that they’ve shared since the beginning. Just their mouths, wet enough to stick, and occasionally small sweeps of tongue against lips, but there aren’t as many deep, longing, wall-slammy kisses as Stiles was expecting. Whenever they pull apart, there’s this moment that’s almost too brief to notice, when Derek looks scared.
Worry pulls down the corner of his mouth for a split second, like he’s not allowed to be the one to kiss first, like Stiles is going to get mad at him for taking that liberty when in reality all Stiles wants to do is drape his body against a couch wantonly and let Derek know his body is ready.
The anxious look fades when Stiles chases after him for more kisses and ends up peppering little ones all along Derek’s nose and cheek, huffing playfully against the stubbled jaw. Derek laughs and rolls his eyes, massaging his hand against the back of Stiles’ neck, and nips at him playfully.
But without fail, each time Derek pulls away from a kiss that Stiles hasn’t started, that worried look is back.
It’s…kind of scary, actually.
Derek isn’t the kind of guy that Stiles would have expected to act like this. He’s been expecting more of a Harlequin romance novel hero type, not this soft, shy person who trades kisses with Stiles like they’re something precious; something to be frightened of.
He wonders who hurt Derek so bad, because someone must have done something to make him act like affection is something to be scared of.
He wants so badly to ask, to blurt it out and ramble and just know the answer, but he keeps his mouth shut and hopes that one day, Derek will trust him enough to tell him on his own.
So for now he’s happy to kiss Derek and let Derek kiss him, never complaining when Derek pulls away suddenly.
And then comes the day when Jackson finds it in himself to be an even bigger douche than normal, and pelts a lacrosse ball at Stiles’ unpadded back as hard as he can. The thick rubber ball slams into a spot just below his shoulder blades and he can almost feel the instantaneous bloom of a bruise even as he falls to his knees, the oxygen knocked from his lungs.
His mouth gapes open and his hands claw at his throat and chest, lungs burning with no air to fill them, and under the roaring in his ears he can hear Scott and Lydia ripping Jackson a new asshole.
Hands grip at Stiles’ face and force him to look upwards, into Isaac’s panicked eyes. “Stiles,” he calls, rubbing his thumbs against the arch of Stiles’ cheeks. “You need to calm down and breathe, okay?”
Tears prick at the corners of his eyes when the horrible ache in his chest continues, tongue clicking in his mouth as he desperately tries to pull in air. He’s starting to panic on top of the fact that the wind’s been knocked out of him, and when blackness starts to creep in on the edges of his vision, he knows that this is going nowhere good, and fast.
Then Isaac’s hands are forcing his mouth apart and a gust of stale oxygen is being pushed into his mouth and it kind of tastes like Cheetos, which: gross.
With one hitching, gasping gulp, sweet and blessed non-Cheetoey air expands his lungs. Stiles breathes in fast and deep and feels like he’s going to throw up and oh, Jesus, he’s definitely crying and shaking, and wow he doesn’t want that to ever happen again, fuck.
He’s still shaking badly five minutes later and Isaac offers to drive him home, guiding him to the Jeep with gentle hands. He shoots worried glances over to where Stiles is curled up in the passenger’s seat, hands balled up in the front of his shirt and chest still feeling cracked open. Stiles doesn’t even think that someone would have called Derek until Isaac pulls to a stop in front of the Stilinski household and someone’s opening the car door and pulling Stiles out of the Jeep before the keys have even left the ignition.
“What happened?” Derek grits out, holding Stiles close to his chest.
“Jackson,” Stiles mumbles. “Lacrosse ball. Thanks, Isaac.”
The lanky werewolf nods at him, still looking worried, and Stiles uses the last bits of his energy to brush a hand down Isaac’s cheek and neck. He recognizes the look on Isaac’s face as the one he wears when he’s desperately wanting a hug, but Stiles’ back and chest just can’t handle that right now, so rubbing his scent onto Isaac’s face is just gonna have to do.
He sort of drifts a little after that, and when the world rights itself he’s in his bedroom, dazedly sitting on the edge of his bed. “Whoa,” he says, blinking heavily. “When did I get here?”
Derek frowns hard and pulls up Stiles’ shirt, whining low in his throat when he sees the mark on his back.
“’z’it bad?” Stiles asks, turning his head over his shoulder. Derek’s fingers gingerly press against the spot where the lacrosse ball made impact and Stiles hisses, curving his body away from the touch. “Oh, wow, ouch. I hope Lydia neutered him verbally.”
Derek is quiet, rubbing his thumb against the dimples in Stiles’ lower back. “Scott said you were having trouble breathing.”
“Fuckwad knocked all the air outta my lungs,” Stiles grumbles and rubs a hand over his chest. “Seriously. Verbal neutering. Maybe even literal neutering.”
The whining noise builds in the air again, tumbling out of Derek’s throat. Fingers brush against the bruise again and Stiles hisses through his teeth, but the pain soon leeches away. “Are you doing your creepy mojo again?” he demands, pulling away so he can look at Derek’s arm. Black veins trace gently underneath the skin and Derek’s eyes are red and he looks more annoyed that Stiles stopped him than he looks apologetic. Stiles runs a thumb along the underside of Derek’s wrist, where the lines are darker and more woven together. “Dude. Not that I don’t appreciate the sentiment, but I’m okay. Promise.”
Derek’s scowling at his collarbone now, fingers rubbing at the scars that dash across Stiles’ sides, a silver-skinned reminder of the night they had their first kiss. “I don’t like it when you’re hurt,” he admits gruffly.
“Hey, listen, I don’t like it either,” Stiles says, reaching up and pulling at Derek’s hand so that he can twine their fingers together. “If I could have avoided being kidnapped every time a new Big Bad comes to town, I totally would have. I should have a TV Tropes page by now; it’s ridiculous, frankly, that I’m the only one of the group that gets kidnapped. Pack-napped. Whatever. Point is, those are big hurts. This?” He prods gently at the edge of the bruise that he can reach. “This is a little hurt. An ouchie, if you will.”
“Scott said you weren’t breathing for ten seconds.”
“Scott has no way of knowing that unless he was actually timing the whole thing, in which case he and I are gonna need to have a talk about his priorities when his best friend has had the wind knocked outta him,” Stiles says, feeling tired. He scoots backwards on the bed but doesn’t let go of Derek’s hand, trying to pull him back with him. “I don’t wanna talk about this anymore, I just want to sleep. Can we sleep?”
Derek makes an irritated noise in the back of his throat and flicks his eyes up to Stiles’. His lips part slightly and he rocks forward the smallest amount, before the space between his eyes crinkles down and he retreats like he shouldn’t have moved in the first place.
“Hey, man,” Stiles says, pinching at his skin. “You can kiss me if you want to. Like, whenever you want to. I’m definitely not gonna be mad about it.”
His tone is teasing and gentle, but Derek looks at him with wide eyes and he looks taken aback and the smallest bit hopeful, and something in Stiles shatters.
“Derek,” he says, moving to lie down on his bed and pulling the other man down with him. “You know…you know I like you, right? Like, probably more than is healthy. I think about you all the time, okay, and I like kissing with you and just hanging out with you. So don’t…I don’t know what I’m trying to say. I guess I…I want you to know that it’s you and me, right?” Stiles licks his lips and slips a hand beneath Derek’s leather jacket, the fabric of his t-shirt warm and soft against his palm. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, but I want you to do the things you do want to. Like if you just wanna watch TV, we can just watch TV, it’s cool. And if you wanna kiss me, well,” he puckers his lips with exaggeration, “these babies are yours for the taking.”
Derek breathes out through his nose and clenches his jaw, then palms at the curve of Stiles’ neck to draw him into a soft kiss. Stiles hums against his lips and parts his mouth, catching Derek’s upper lip between his and sucking gently. Derek’s shoulders hitch when his breath catches and he pushes forward more, slicking his tongue against Stiles’ briefly before pulling away.
Stiles stays leaned forward and keeps his eyes closed, mouth pulling up into a small smile. His lips are still wet and spit slicked when Derek looks down at them, and he can’t resist kissing Stiles one more time before pushing him gently down into his bed sheets.
Stiles winces when he tries to settle into a comfortable position, the bruise on his back aching with every shift. Derek rolls his eyes and forcibly rolls Stiles onto his stomach and leans down to run his nose along the darkest patch of skin before he pulls away and rolls out of the bed.
“Hey,” Stiles whines, face smushed into the pillow. “Where…you took all the sexy werewolf heat away, don’t do that to me, dude!”
“Relax,” Derek says, rolling his eyes and toeing off his shoes. He pulls at the buckle on his belt and scowls when Stiles perks up with exaggerated interest, which becomes much more genuine when Derek pulls his shirt over his head, leaving him clad in just his boxers and jeans when he slips into bed next to Stiles and spans a gentle hand between his shoulder blades.
“I like this much better,” Stiles says, scooting closer and burying his face in the crook of Derek’s neck. “Oh, my god, you’re so warm and soft,” he moans, nuzzling in. “Never leave me.”
Derek tenses and Stiles feels it everywhere their bodies are touching, and doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until Derek relaxes and his cheek presses into the top of Stiles’ head.
“Okay,” Derek says quietly.
They don’t say anything, after that.
Derek becomes slightly less reserved following the conversation in Stiles’ bedroom. They don’t, like, make out in front of the pack or anything, but Derek presses kisses against Stiles’ temple and jawline with increasing frequency. He doesn’t flinch away when Stiles slumps against him, cheek rubbing into the leather clad shoulder and arms winding across Derek’s midriff. They do sneak kisses here and there, but they mostly save those for the times when they’re behind closed doors.
Otherwise, Derek treats Stiles the same way he always has when they’re with the pack, just with the occasional cuddle. It’s really nice, Stiles thinks, as Derek shoves a pillow under his head. They’re lying on the couch in Derek’s living room, watching a Family Guy marathon on TBS, and Stiles has his head in Derek’s lap and is almost purring at the feeling of fingers running through his hair.
“Shut up,” Jackson mutters sullenly from where his face is pressed into Lydia’s stomach.
“I didn’t even say anything, douchenut.”
“I can hear you,” Jackson snaps, lifting his head and leveling a snide glare at the two. “You’re being disgusting.”
“You’re disgusting,” Stiles mutters, pressing his face into Derek’s denim clad thigh.
“Children,” Derek says, voice smooth and holding the barest hint of a threat. “Shut up. You’re both the prettiest girl at the ball.”
There’s a shocked silence where everyone turns away from Brian and Stewie singing an unnecessary musical number on the television, and stares at Derek with different levels of awe. Stiles snickers into the fabric of Derek’s jeans, not at all surprised by the blatant snark the Alpha’s exhibiting. For whatever reason, people tend to ignore Derek’s sense of humor, and Stiles can’t say that he didn’t, at first. But the dry wit is something he’s come to expect out of Derek’s mouth and he loves watching it catch other people off guard. “You’re the best,” he hums into the solid muscle of Derek’s thigh.
Derek smirks so hard that Stiles can practically hear it, but the hand cradling his head is gentle. Stiles purses his lips against Derek’s jeans, making loud kissing noises as he pecks against the leg acting as his neck support. Derek cuffs the back of his head, making Stiles squawk and lurch into a sitting position. He scoots himself to the other end of the couch, swatting at Derek’s hand when the older man scowls and reaches out to grab Stiles and pull him back in. Derek lets out a soft growl and darts forward, and Stiles leans back so far that he goes ass over head over the arm of the couch, landing on the floor with a loud thump.
Jackson immediately begins snickering because he sucks, and Scott asks after Stiles’ wellbeing even though he’s totally smiling, the jerk. Stiles jumps to his feet and brushes off his knees and arms, glaring at all of his so-called “friends.”
“You’re all the worst,” he declares, spinning on his feet and heading for the kitchen.
He’s been aimlessly staring into the fridge for less than a minute when strong arms wrap around him and stubble rasps against the back of his neck. “Hey now,” Stiles says, slapping against Derek’s forearms. “Nuh uh, snuggles are for people who are not you.”
Derek hums against his skin and pulls him away from the fridge, turnings Stiles as he does. Cupping one hand around the base of Stiles’ skull and the other under the swell of his ass, he lifts Stiles up onto the granite countertop and presses their bodies together from the waist up.
Which, oh. Oh, this is a new development, Stiles thinks dazedly when Derek mouths at his Adam’s apple. His hands wander over the werewolf’s back, slipping beneath his t-shirt and gliding up Derek’s taut muscles. Their mouths meet open and wet, both of them breathing hard against each other as they press and touch and lick.
Derek’s just pushed a wide hand against the small of Stiles’ back when Scott stumbles into the kitchen, tripping over the floor runner as he sees them and letting out a yelp before he goes crashing to the ground in a desperate attempt to backpedal out of the kitchen.
Stiles grins against Derek’s mouth and breaks away with a laugh when Allison walks up with resigned affection and helps Scott to his feet; Derek, on the other hand, seems weirdly content to keep rubbing his face along the line of Stiles’ neck, leaving behind some wicked stubble burn. Stiles tilts his head back against the cupboards, relishing in the attention, but Scott’s squeaking protest sort of puts a damper on the mood.
“Oh, my God,” Stiles groans, slapping at Derek’s broad shoulders and shoving him gently away. “Scott, dude, you have got to stop cockblocking me.”
Scott lets out a whine that sounds like a garbled version of the word ‘cockblocking,’ and looks utterly wounded when he looks at how Stiles and Derek are tangled up together.
“Scott,” Stiles says, very seriously. “Dude, I fucking love you, but you made me listen to your stupid, awful poetry about Allison’s hair. I think I’m entitled to a little private time. I think I am entitled to many private times, as many as I want or as many as my endurance can handle. What’s a werewolf’s refractory period, by the way?” Stiles says, directing the last question at Derek. “Is it different because of your healing thing, or—oh my God, do werewolves have magic dicks?”
“I’m leaving!” Scott yelps, dragging Allison behind him. “I’m leaving and never coming back, Stiles, I hate you so much.”
Stiles snickers, but the laughter dies in his throat when he realizes how stiff Derek has gone in his arms. He swallows thickly, running gentle hands over the tense muscles of his shoulders. “Hey,” he says quietly, trying to get Derek to look at him again. “Derek. Dude, I was just saying shit to rile up Scott, you know? I’m…I’m totally cool waiting to find out about your magic werewolf dick for myself, I don’t care how long it takes us to get there. It’ll build up the suspense, you know?”
Derek inhales deeply and breathes out, slow and heavy, through his nose and against the thin layer of skin that stretches over Stiles’ collarbone. He relaxes against Stiles, arms still looped loosely around the teenager.
Stiles still feels nervous, though. Something…something isn’t right, here. Derek is like, a solid 12 on the hotness scale and could totally get it whenever and from whomever he wanted, but the idea of sex makes him seize up like the words are made of wolfsbane.
Derek’s body trembles under his touch and Stiles hears him take a few short breaths through his nose, and something about this is weird. He frowns and pushes Derek back, and—
“You’re laughing,” Stiles says incredulously. Derek’s upper body is practically vibrating as he bites down on his lips, scowling at Stiles’ legs and looking for all the world like this is the most embarrassing moment of his life. “Oh, my God, you’re laughing and here I thought you were having an emotional breakdown, you asshole, why are you laughing?”
Derek licks his lips and tries to school his face into a serious expression before he looks up at Stiles, but the effect is ruined by the way the corners of his mouth keep twitching upwards. “Magical werewolf dick,’ Stiles?” he asks, and the smile stretches across his face, unbidden. He grins, wide and white and ever so slightly crooked with his too-big front teeth, and something inside of Stiles withers up and dies because seriously, how is this the dude who wants to make out with him on a daily basis?
“It’s a legitimate question,” he huffs, shoving at Derek’s shoulder.
Derek rolls his eyes so hard they might fall out, and leans into Stiles’ body yet again, stubble scraping against his own smooth jaw. “Guess you’ll have to find out for yourself,” he murmurs, pressing a gentle, wet kiss to his tragus.
“Holy shit, when,” Stiles croaks. “Can…is it now? Now would be great, now would be awesome.”
Derek hides his smile in the curve of Stiles’ neck and whispers, “Later,” like a promise.
(Stiles definitely does not immediately need to adjust himself in his jeans, no matter what Derek might say.)
“Later” comes after they’ve kicked everyone out of Derek’s house at ten thirty and Stiles has confirmed an alibi with Danny in case his dad gets curious and wants to make sure Stiles isn’t spending the night with his 25 year old boyfriend (he is 18, thank you very much, he is an adult who can do who and what he wants as long as his dad doesn’t pistol whip everyone involved).
Stiles is currently sprawled on top of his broody werewolf boyfriend, both of their shirts thrown across the room and Derek’s jeans unbuttoned and unzipped, gaping open so that Stiles can see the rigid outline of his cock beneath gray boxer-briefs. He’s going to town on Derek’s neck, sucking dark marks into the skin and watching as they fade quickly away, one hand buried in Derek’s hair and the other squished between Derek’s shoulder blades and the mattress. Their hips are rocking together with enough friction to tease, and that’s when Stiles gets an idea.
(Pay attention kids, because this is where the night goes topsy turvy.)
“I wanna try something,” he whispers hoarsely into Derek’s ear, stroking a hand out of his hair and down his neck and chest and ribs. “Fuck, I…can I blow you? Is that cool?”
“Yes,” Derek grits out, slamming their mouths together in a hot, desperate kiss into which Stiles grins. His heart is drumming with excitement and nerves, and he drags himself down Derek’s body, nosing at the lines of his chest and giving a playful lick to the contours of his abs—
Derek lets out a growl, low and angry, and pushes Stiles off of him so hard that he goes flying off the bed and onto the floor. His head cracks painfully off the hardwood flooring and his erection wilts immediately when he sits up, wincing, and only has time to say, “What—” before he sees Derek’s face.
Black as thunder and half wolfed out, Derek looks like he’s on the verge of murder. Panic, confusion, and fear settle somewhere in Stiles’ throat as Derek violently wipes at his stomach with the corner of the bed sheet and refuses to meet his eyes when he bites, “Get out.”
Stiles swallows thickly. “Derek?”
The werewolf’s head snaps up, eyes glaring red and fangs long and sharp, and he roars. “GET OUT!”
Stiles chokes on the fear he hasn’t felt in so long, grabs his hoodie but not his t-shirt, and runs out of the room as fast as his shaking legs can take him.
He makes it about a mile away from the Hale property line before he has to pull off to the side of the road, hands shaking, and barely gets the car door open in time to puke.
He kind of wants to cry, but mostly he just wants to know what he did wrong.
Stiles is grateful that the next day is Saturday because that means he can just hole himself up in his room without a worry. He spreads mountain ash around his house, needing a day off from wolfy business, and turns his phone off completely. He watches every episode of Archer on his laptop and eats his bodyweight in Doritos and guacamole, and tries hard not to think about the way Derek had so violently shoved him aside the night before.
His dad knows something’s up, which is kind of embarrassing but also awesome because it means he orders Stiles an extra large Hawaiian pizza and orders a salad for himself, and doesn’t say a word when he sees the fort that Stiles has made on the ground using his bed sheets and comforter. He even climbs inside and watches two episodes of Archer with Stiles while he munches slowly on his salad, then gives him a reassuring pat on the back before crawling out and going downstairs.
He only checks his Facebook once the whole day and winces when he sees that he has three new messages in his inbox from Isaac, Scott, and Lydia. They all seem to be variations of “TURN ON YOUR PHONE!” but he ignores them and goes back to the Stilinski Bed Fort of Awesomeness and No Werewolves.
Derek’s face burns in his memory, eyes blood red and hot with rage. Stiles shoves his Doritos and guac away with a grimace when his stomach churns.
He falls asleep huddled on top of all of his pillows and tightly cocooned in a fuzzy blanket, and when he wakes up on Sunday it’s with a resigned sigh and a mournful glance at his cell phone.
He puts off turning it on until after he’s stumbled downstairs and grabbed one of the boxes of Poptarts that he keeps hidden from his dad, along with a giant glass of OJ. Stiles crawls back into his bed fort and presses the power button, a sense of dread in his stomach.
The stupid phone starts vibrating like crazy once it’s booted up, and after the buzzing stops he hazards a glance.
Twenty-one new text messages and three voicemails. Shit.
Scott: dude derek just showed up @ my house lookin freaked u ok
Scott: this isn’t funny man he looks crazy
Scott: pls answer ur phone before he kilsl me
Scott: …….stiles just say ur ok
Scott: PICK UP UR PHONE STILES
Lydia: You need to call Derek or Scott I don’t care which just make them shut up. I don’t have time for this.
Lydia: Seriously, Stiles.
Isaac: Hey so uh Derek’s losing it can you like…come by or call him or something?
Isaac: I think he thinks you’re dead
Isaac: You’re not dead right
Isaac: This isn’t funny anymore text me back if you’re alive.
Erica: Get your head out of your ass Stilinski answer your phone or break the ash line
Derek: I need to talk to you.
Derek: Stiles stop ignoring me. We need to talk about last night.
Derek : Please break the ash, I need to see you.
Derek: I’m sorry.
He ignores the voicemails and fires off a quick group text that just says, “Sry guys, I’m ok just needed some stiles time” to everyone but Derek.
Stiles gnaws at his lower lip and thumbs over the text box beneath Derek’s name, unsure of what to say. Eventually he settles for “its ok” and quickly presses send.
His phone lights up and buzzes with incoming texts, which he reads over quickly and doesn’t answer because Derek texts him back almost right away.
Derek: Don’t do that. It’s not okay.
Derek: Can I see you
He bites his lip and stares at his phone for a minute, nausea still tying a knot in his stomach when he thinks about the way Derek had thrown him off on Friday night, how the back of his skull is still throbbing a little, and how fear still creeps in tendrils in his brain. He texts back in the affirmative, however, and quickly runs outside to scuff his foot across the line of mountain ash.
He’s halfway up the stairs before he hears the slide and click of his window, followed by a muffled ‘thump,’ so he’s not really surprised when he turns into the doorway of his bedroom and Derek’s glaring balefully at his fort.
“Hi,” Stiles says, waving quickly. He feels ridiculous and shoves his hand immediately into his hoodie pocket. “Hello.”
Stiles sees the lines of Derek’s muscles tense underneath his gray Henley, and Christ is he wearing sweatpants? Derek shifts closer to him, drawing his attention away from those stupid fucking sweatpants, what the fuck, and Stiles feels his shoulders roll in as he tries to make himself smaller.
Derek sees the movement and stops in his tracks and looks completely wrecked. “Stiles,” he croaks.
“I’m sorry,” Stiles blurts, before Derek can get one more word out. “I’m sorry, dude, I thought…I thought it was okay, you know, but maybe you don’t really want me to do that kind of stuff to you, which kind of sucks I mean I won’t lie, but we can totally work around it, I just. I’m really sorry, okay, I told you we could do what you wanted, and if you don’t want—”
“Kate Argent seduced me when I was 15 years old.”
Stiles stops talking in favor of gawking at Derek, horror unfurling low in his belly. “What."
Derek takes a deep, shuddering breath and sits heavily on the edge of Stiles’ bare bed. His hands rub over the fabric of his pants before curling loosely over his knees, and he stares at Stiles’ fort with an expression that’s somewhere between determination and total heartbreak.
“I was…it was three weeks before my 16th birthday,” Derek says, toneless and quiet. Stiles takes a step towards him. “I was on the swim team in high school, did I ever tell you that? I was doing laps in the pool after the rest of the team had gone home and…and I got to the end of the lane and someone was just standing there and I looked up and she was.” He swallows thickly, clenches his fingers. “She was beautiful. And she smiled at me and I was fucking fifteen, and I was gone so fast, just because she smiled at me and paid attention when I felt like no one else would. And I…” He turns his head away from Stiles and the scratch of his claws against his legs is audible. “I had sex with her. My first…I had sex with her, and I thought she could be my mate, and then when Laura took me out of the house on my birthday so my family could set up a surprise party, she burned my family alive.”
Stiles falls to his knees in front of Derek, unsure of when he even moved that far.
“She killed my family,” Derek whispers, angry and ragged. “Fucked me just to get information. It’s all my fucking fault.”
“Derek,” he chokes. “Jesus, Derek."
“I killed them all,” Derek says, lifting his head to display the wet sheen in his eyes. “For a smile and some nice words.”
Stiles’ hands slam into the sides of his head, thumbs pressing in against the apple of his cheek. “Stop it,” he says, feeling sick to his stomach. “Derek, you didn’t…you didn’t light the fire, right?” Derek doesn’t answer, and Stiles presses harder with his thumbs. “Right?”
“Right,” Derek whispers, the word punched out of him.
“You didn’t kill them, man,” Stiles insists. He feels tears biting at his eyes and throat, making it hard to breathe. “That fucking…psycho bitch manipulated you, and you were just a kid, shit, it’s not your fault. She…she fucking raped you, dude, in like every way she could. And I really, really wish she weren’t dead so that my dad could arrest her or I could chop off her legs or something, I don’t know, I just…I want to kill her."
Derek blinks at him and Stiles surges upwards and brings their mouths together in a hard, nasty kiss. He withdraws just as quickly and tilts their foreheads together. “Seriously, you know how much the thought of severed limbs hurts my brain but I want to tear that bitch apart, holy fuck.”
“It’s not your fault,” he insists, gently pulling Derek onto the floor with him. “It’s not your fault.”
“It’s not your fault,” he says, crawling into his fort with Derek and pulling the werewolf down to his chest.
“It’s not your fault,” he says, wrapping his arms tight around Derek’s broad shoulders like he can soothe even a fraction of the damage wrought.
“It’s not your fault,” he says, pressing the words into the wave of Derek’s hair (untainted by gel), and feels the great, shuddering sigh that runs through the older boy at his words.
It’s not your fault, he presses into Derek with every sweep of his hand down Derek’s spine.
Things are a little weird for a few days after Derek’s big reveal. Not between the two of them, really, though Derek does seem to get a lot more touchy-feely. He’s not complaining about that, though, because he does really enjoy how tactile Derek is.
Stiles starts acting a little overprotective, hypersensitive to any snide remark sent Derek’s way, and he doesn’t realize he’s been staring Allison down a lot more than usual until Scott says something about it. He flushes and turns his face away, glancing everywhere but at Allison because he knows she had nothing to do with what her crazy aunt did to Derek, but a bitter part of him remembers how she had essentially turned the other cheek when every member of her family decided to lose their damn mind and start torturing people.
“Dude,” Scott says, shuffling close to Stiles at lunch on a balmy March morning. “What’s going on with you?”
Stiles sighs and fists a hand in his hair, feeling frustrated with the world in general. “Nothing for you to worry about, man,” he says, and his heart doesn’t skip a beat because he’s not lying; what’s happened to Derek really is none of Scott’s business, is barely any of Stiles, and he’s not about to divulge a secret like that if it doesn’t belong to him. “Just been a long week, that’s all.”
Scott gives him a confused puppy-dog look, lips pulled between his teeth with worry, and pulls his eyebrows up in an attempt to brighten the mood. “Hey, at least your birthday’s coming up!” he says, nudging Stiles’ shoulder. “The big one-nine, where you get to do…exactly the same stuff you could do last year!”
Stiles snorts into his potato salad and gives Scott a fond half-smile. “Don’t remind me that I’m older than everyone here, please,” he says, stabbing into his food with his fork. A thought occurs to him and his head snaps up, staring Scott down with a panicked glare. “No surprise party.”
Scott looks mostly confused, and a small touch disappointed, but he scrunches his face up and says, “Uh…okay?”
“Seriously,” Stiles presses, pushing his food away from him. He’s not hungry anymore. “No surprise party, okay? I know you try to throw one every year, but not anymore, alright? I’m dead serious, man, if you do…” He swallows and thinks of Derek, who lost everyone on his birthday, who would have died too if it weren’t for Laura’s distraction, and he feels like he might puke. “I won’t forgive you.”
Scott definitely looks worried now, eyes glinting gold. “Stiles, what’s going on with you?”
“Nothing,” he grunts, rubbing at his stomach where the cafeteria food is settling unpleasantly. “Just. Promise, okay? I don’t even want to do anything this year. Pizza and a movie is fine, no party."
“Scott. It’s…nothing’s wrong with me, okay? It’s just something…Derek, he. It’s not my story, okay? I just…don’t want to make him sad.” Stiles pulls his napkin apart and tosses it onto his tray. “That’s all.”
Stiles can tell that Scott desperately wants to press the issue but he really is an awesome best friend and lets it drop, changing the topic by sheepishly asking if Stiles was paying any attention in Trig so that he can copy his notes.
Stiles rolls his eyes with exaggerated annoyance, but forks the papers over.
That’s enough of the birthday talk, at least…
…until his dad brings it up at dinner three days before Stiles’ actual birthday, right when he’s in the middle of a mouthful of chicken alfredo. He chokes and casts a panicked glance towards Derek, who’s been picking at his pepperoni calzone with the sort of awkwardness he only displays around the Sheriff. Derek’s face flashes with surprise and a splash of anger before going carefully blank.
“Dad, I already told Scott that I don’t want anything big, okay?” he says desperately, violently digging through his noodles. “Just. Pizza, soda, movies. It doesn’t really matter.”
His dad hums and takes a sip of his water. “At least you’ve talked him out of trying to throw you a surprise party.”
Derek’s fork falls to the table with a clatter and he mutters an apology before picking it back up with a shaking hand.
“Dad, can we finish eating in my room?” Stiles pleads quickly, bouncing in his seat. “I know you have to leave in a few minutes for your shift, so is it cool if we just…” He waves vaguely towards the staircase.
John gives the two of them a stern look that softens when he sees how Derek’s suddenly gone small and pale, frozen with his fork still gripped in his hand like a weapon. He clears his throat and grabs his Greek salad, moving into the living room with a mumble.
Stiles stares at Derek and pushes his tongue against the inside of his mouth to keep himself from saying anything stupid right away. “Upstairs?” he manages eventually, and Derek nods. They gather their drinks and food and slowly climb to Stiles’ room, the silence eating away at the space between them.
“Why didn't you tell me your birthday’s on Monday?” Derek says, setting his drink down on the desk with a ‘thunk.’
“It…I dunno, man,” Stiles shrugs, coming to stand next to Derek. He reaches out and wraps his fingers around Derek’s wrist, lifting his hand up so that he can rub circles into the smooth skin over the back. He traces veins and the lines of tendons, examines the way their hands are nearly the same size but Derek’s are wider. “Just. After what you told me, about that day…” his mouth twists off to the side quickly. “Didn’t seem like the right time to say, oh hey, my birthday’s in four weeks, thanks for reminding me with your heart-shatteringly tragic story.” He takes one of his hands away from Derek’s and rubs firmly at the back of his neck. “I didn’t want to make you sad.”
Derek’s throat lets out a thin whine and then they’re kissing, holy shit this is not the outcome Stiles was expecting but he can go with the flow, and Derek’s holding Stiles’ face like he’s something precious and sacred, licks into his mouth like Stiles is the only taste he wants to chase with his tongue, and shoves his broad, warm hands underneath Stiles’ shirt and palms the small of his back.
Their mouths separate with a slick sound and Derek’s breathing heavily and still gripping Stiles like he might float away, but his voice is soft and breaks when he shuts his eyes and says, “I love you.”
The world falls out from beneath Stiles’ feet, but in a good way.
“What?” he says, pulling back an inch. “Derek, look at me. What?”
Derek takes a few steadying breaths and opens his eyes, staring Stiles down and not blinking when he says, sounding more certain than before, “I love you.”
“In spite of the fact that you always call me ‘dude,’ and you constantly throw yourself into danger and then complain about the danger you’re in, and you’re so fucking annoying about which pillows on your bed I can and cannot use—”
“It’s about lumbar support, okay—”
“—and you always interrupt my sentences, and I swear sometimes you’re such a smartass little prick it makes me want to throw you across the room—”
“This is the worst confession of love ever, oh my God.”
“—but you make sure your dad eats healthy and you picked out all the fucking furniture in my house and you piss Peter off so badly, and you look at me like I’m an asshole but you like it, you like me, Stiles, and I don’t know why you do, but I can’t let you go. I love you.”
Air punches out of Stiles’ lungs when he looks at the pissed off and honest look on Derek’s face, like he’s annoyed to be saying all of this out loud and can’t believe Stiles has done this to him, and he lets out an incredulous laugh and squeezes Derek’s hand tightly. “I love you, too,” he says, and reaches for his boyfriend. “Shit, man, I really love you.”
Stiles is sitting on the couch Monday night, allegedly doing his English homework but really he’s watching The Dark Knight Rises while his dad does paperwork on the other end of the couch, when the doorbell rings.
Both Stilinskis look in the direction of the door before glancing at each other. John shrugs and goes back to shuffling his papers so Stiles shoves his schoolwork aside and jogs up to the door, snagging another slice of pizza on the way. He’s just shoved the slice into his mouth when he opens the door and nearly chokes on it when he sees what’s on the other side.
Derek…is holding a box of cupcakes from the best bakery in Beacon Province.
“Holy shit,” Stiles garbles around his mouthful of pizza. He chews vigorously and then swallows, throat feeling a little sore when he looks at Derek and says, “Dude, what?”
“Happy Birthday,” Derek says shortly, shoving the box at him and looking like he wishes the porch would swallow him whole.
“Thanks,” Stiles manages, still blinking owlishly. He runs his thumb along the clear plastic and he can’t fight the big grin that takes over his face. He looks back up at Derek and hooks a hand behind his neck and kisses him messily. Derek’s stiff against him, like he’s embarrassed by the fact that he brought cupcakes by (and probably also because he can hear the Sherriff in the next room over), but soon he presses a hand to the small of Stiles’ back and exhales through his nose, relaxing and returning the kiss with ease.
Stiles pulls him into the house when their mouths separate, dragging him behind and barely waiting for Derek to shut the door before he’s bounding into the living room, cupcakes raised above his head.
“Derek brought Birthday sugary goodness!” he announces. John’s eyes track the box with interest and he sets down the papers. “I will allow you a cupcake, one single cupcake,” Stiles says, setting the box down on the kitchen table and waggling a finger at his dad, “and no more, mister high cholesterol.”
John scoffs and comes up to the table, pulling the box towards himself and opening it so that he can inspect a cupcake up close. “What kind?”
“Hummingbird,” Derek says, looking nervous about his choice in pastry. “It’s…it’s like carrot cake but. Pineapple.”
Stiles nearly swoons. “Pineapple,” he moans, cradling a cupcake in his hands like it’s made of solid gold. “Oh, my God, pineapple is my favorite.”
“I know,” Derek acknowledges quietly, flicking his eyes upward to meet the Sherriff’s calculating gaze. Stiles’ dad hadn’t been exactly…thrilled, to find out that his son was involved with a twenty-five year old who tended to get hungry like the wolf, but there’s a look of warm approval that he gets whenever Derek does something for Stiles just because. He’s got that look on his face now, and gives Derek a small nod and raises the cupcake to him in a toast before taking a bite.
Stiles has already devoured half of his cupcake by the time he shoves one into Derek’s hands, staring him down with an intent that suggests if Derek doesn’t immediately eat this cupcake and fucking love it, then there will be hell to pay. Derek takes a bite and somehow manages to make it the most resentfully that anyone has ever eaten a cupcake. Stiles is in a little bit of awe, honestly.
Derek makes a grudgingly pleased noise, as if he wasn’t expecting to actually like the cupcakes he’d bought and Stiles beams at him around a mouth full of frosting, then stretches out to slap his dad’s hand when he reaches for another cupcake.
Derek smiles a little into his next bite and feels Stiles’ pinky hook around his own while he lectures the Sheriff on healthy eating.
Later that night, when Derek’s snuck back into Stiles’ room and the Sheriff’s left for work, they strip each other of their clothing and curl up beneath the blue comforter, Derek smoothing a hand down Stiles’ body until he curls a hand around his dick, getting him off with slow, unsure stokes. Stiles buries his face against Derek’s neck and grips his hair tightly when he comes, choking on Derek’s name.
When his legs stop shaking quite so badly and he feels as though he’s able to support his own body, Stiles kisses his way gently down to Derek’s cock, making sure to keep eye contact the entire time until he seals his mouth over him. Derek grinds his head backwards into Stiles’ pillows, fisting at the sheets so that he doesn’t leave bruises on pale shoulders, and comes with a sob.
It’s sloppy, and nowhere near as good as it could be, but when Stiles slinks up Derek’s body and collapses on top of him, smelling of both of them and utterly flushed and debauched, Derek thinks it’s pretty close to perfect.
Things are good; with them, and in general.
So, naturally, the next week is when everything falls to shit.
Stiles would like to take a moment to point out that Twilight, in addition to being a fucking travesty of a book and film series, is full of shit.
The vampires that roll into Beacon Hills in mid-April can go into the sunlight without stupid sparkling skin, don’t have any special eye colors that easily distinguish them from normal fucking people, and none of them have names like “Laurent” or “Edward.” The only thing that seems to have been gotten right is the fact that vampires don’t seem to like werewolves all that much.
The creepy-as-fuck leader of the vampire…clique, thing, whatever, is named Joe. Not even Joseph, just Joe. The guy who’s his second in command is named Mitch. The other vampires (five in all) are named Diane, Phil, Michael, Gwen, and Billy. He couldn’t tell you who’s who other than Joe, Mitch, and Billy. The only reason he knows who Joe and Mitch are is because they fucking follow him around for three days straight, and Billy’s a ginger with more freckles than Stiles has ever seen in his entire life and that image just sticks in his brain for whatever reason.
Anyway, the stalking.
So, that happens, and every werewolf who feels even remotely protective over Stiles gets mega pissed about it. Even Jackson gets a little tetchy, which really says something.
Derek nearly bursts a blood vessel over it.
The point is that everyone concentrates so much on protecting Stiles (because he’s obviously the weak human, fuck you very much, he can start fires with his god damn hands. Small, contained fires, but still) that they miss the nest’s real plan.
Mainly, “Get the Alpha.”
The thing is, these vampires don’t seem to tolerate the Betas at all. They sneer at them and scoff and flick their cigarettes at them and Stiles thinks they’re all douche bags. Like, even without the psychotic, murdering, bloodsucking tendencies. One of them told Scott he was stupid, which, alright, Scott can be a space cadet sometimes but last time Stiles checked they don’t let just anyone be veterinary assistants, okay, and Scott’s a lot smarter than people give him credit for. So Stiles takes immediate offense on his behalf and makes it very obvious how much he doesn’t like these stupid, hipster vampires with their clove cigarettes and scarves (it is April in California.)
But for as much as they don’t care for the Betas, they sure do seem interested in the Alpha.
From what Stiles has understood from Deaton, vampires for the most part see themselves as better than werewolves but have this eensy-weensy little problem where Alpha blood is like crack to them. Like, in the “once you go magic werewolf blood, you never go back” kind of way.
He needs to figure out some way to make that rhyme.
So Stiles is of interest to them because he, obviously, reeks of Alpha werewolf all the time because of the Alpha werewolf who frequently sleeps in his bed. Which is why the vamps follow him around almost constantly until they wise up to the fact that he is, in fact, only human, and while perfectly tasty in his own right…not exactly what they’re after, here.
One of the best things about usually being the person that gets abducted by the Big Bad is that Stiles is frequently underestimated. So when Derek doesn’t show up at Stiles’ house for Bad SyFy Movie Night fifteen minutes early, the way he usually does, Stiles knows that something’s gone sour. When the Betas show up, looking tetchy and like they’re about to jump out of their own skin, he knows that they feel it, too.
He stalks out to his car and opens up the trunk, hauling towards him a large duffel bag that he’s had put together since the second he heard about fucking vampires being real and in his town. He pulls out a Super Soaker full of holy water, tucks a few wooden stakes into his pockets, and wraps a rosary around his wrist.
Erica gives him an impressed nod of the head while the others look warily through his bag of tricks and murder-y things.
“Nobody kidnaps Derek except me,” Stiles bites out. He’s distantly aware that the statement makes no actual sense but he’s just gonna roll with it. “I’m gonna set these bitches on fire.”
“With holy water?” Lydia asks, coming up to take the water gun away from him.
“Uh, no,” Stiles says, sifting through his bag of tricks for the handle of Everclear he’d…acquired…from a house party a few months back. He flips it in his hand, listening to the alcohol slosh around inside. “With this highly flammable liquid, and—” He closes his eyes and calls on the small, warm spot of energy in the back of his mind that Deaton called a spark, and unfurls a clenched palm slowly, bringing a small burning flame to eye-level. “—with this handy dandy fire.”
He receives varying levels of impressed looks for his efforts, and Danny just slings a crossbow over his shoulder and says, “Cool.”
Stiles squeezes his hand shut to put the fire out and tries not to feel too disgruntled about his anti-climactic fire reveal and concentrates on pouring the alcohol into a second squirt gun.
He’s gonna flambé these stupid hipster vampires if it’s the last thing he ever does.
It turns out it’s damn near the last thing he ever does.
He loses his cool a little when he breaks the line of mountain ash the vamps have spread around their den and walks into the house, growling Betas not far behind, and sees Derek pale and bound to a chair with ropes corded with wolfsbane.
He whirls around and sprays the first vampire that comes near him, dousing them with the alcohol and effectively confusing them for a moment. Phil-the-vampire looks up at him and sneers around a mouthful of jagged, razor sharp teeth, and Stiles pushes a small ball of fire into his palm and slams it against Phil’s face, satisfied when the alcohol catches, clothes wicking quickly until the vamp is entirely engulfed in flame.
Erica and Isaac are facing off against Diane, Boyd’s already covered in what Stiles is assuming is Michael’s blood (considering the slowly wizening vampire corpse, throat gashed open, laying at Boyd’s feet), Allison’s shot Gwen in the eye and throat with arrows, and Billy is squaring off with Scott and Jackson. Lydia and Danny are waiting outside with an assortment of Lydia’s firebombs. Joe's sort of...in pieces, all over the place, and it's super gross. Mitch isn’t anywhere to be found, and Stiles doesn’t like that in the slightest.
He runs forward and pulls a pocketknife out and starts sawing at the ropes binding Derek. He’s just snapped through one when a large, thickly muscled arm loops around his waist and hauls him backwards against a solid chest, crushing the Super Soaker full of alcohol he’s got slung across his back. He feels the cold, wet rush of liquid spreading against his back and smells the strong liquor as it seeps between him and Mitch.
“Well, well,” Mitch rumbles, scraping his teeth against Stiles’ jaw, licking away the blood that wells up. “What have we here?”
“Fuck you,” Stiles bites, and then, wow, okay, definitely a huge super-strength hand crushing his windpipe now.
“A wild one,” Mitch chuckles, grabbing Stiles’ head and wrenching it to the side so he can expose his neck. “I bet you’ll taste just delicious. The stubborn ones always do.”
“Stiles!” Scott yells, and it’s followed quickly by the sound of a spine snapping. Derek lets out a low whine, and the sound of fighting becomes louder and far more violent, the Betas egged on by their Alpha’s distress. Splatters of blood are strewn across the bit of floor that Stiles can see, and he’s hoping desperately that none of it belongs to his pack.
“Pay attention, now,” Mitch whispers, nipping at Stiles’ ear, his Southern drawl cloying and cliché. “I do want you to see his face when I kill you.”
Stiles hears the low growl that’s starting to rumble out of Derek’s chest, and even though he can’t turn his head, he’s willing to bet that the Alpha’s still drowsy from being incapacitated for so long. He closes his eyes and feigns submission and hears the growling ratchet up a decibel, and does his best to ignore it while fire builds in his palm.
The alcohol is dripping between them still, seeping into the back of Stiles’ pants. He takes a chance and worms his hand between their bodies and presses into Mitch’s leg, letting the fire bloom under his fingers. Mitch goes up like a haystack.
Unfortunately, due to proximity, so does Stiles.
He barely has time to register Mitch dropping him and a heavy body dropping over his inflamed back, because the sheer heat and overwhelming pain that rockets through his brain blacks his vision and then Stiles is gone, gone, lost to the world.
He wakes up in a hospital, blinking against the lights.
“God damn it,” he mutters, tries to push himself up against the bed. His back screams in protest and he’s winded by the pain and drops himself back down, gasping for air. “Holy shit, what?”
“You lit yourself on fire.”
Stiles would like to say that the reason he doesn’t scream at Derek’s sudden appearance is because he’s cool as a cucumber, but it’s probably more to do with the fact that he’s still feeling pretty sedate. “Heyyy, man.”
“Don’t,” Derek bites out, taking a stilted step forward. He falls into the chair next to the bed, gripping tightly at his hair. “You almost died. You almost burned yourself to death.”
Something cold settles into Stiles’ stomach. “I’m sorry,” he rasps, reaching out. “Derek, I’m so sorry. I just. He was going to—”
“I know,” Derek says, voice still hard and he’s tense around the mouth. “Jesus, Stiles, I know that. You…you did the only thing you could. But…” Derek looks up and his mouth is open and he’s breathing heavily, tears shining in the hospital lights and making his eyes more green than usual. “I thought you were…and it was fire, Stiles, I can’t. I…I can’t.”
Stiles sits up as far as his aching back will let him and reaches for Derek. “Come here,” he begs, slurring his words through the haze of painkillers. “Please, dude, just. Come here.”
Derek lets out a low whine and crawls into the bed, nuzzling into Stiles and gripping him like he’s afraid Stiles will go somewhere. Stiles trails fingertips up the black veins snaking over Derek’s arms, skimming skin against skin until he dozes off again.
When he wakes up again, Derek’s still in his bed and his dad’s sitting in the chair. “Hi,” he whispers, feeling tired. “What’s the diagnosis, huh? Will I still be able to play the violin?”
His dad gives a tired smile and leans forward in his chair. “Mostly superficial burns,” he says, turning his cup of coffee around in his hands. “Derek managed to smother the fire before you got hurt too bad. First degree, mostly. A few spots of second degree burns, but nothing that should scar too badly.”
“Well that’s good,” Stiles mutters, settling back into his pillows. “Sorry, dad.”
A warm, weathered and familiar hand brushes hair off of his forehead and Stiles leans into the touch. “Kid,” John says, sounding exhausted. “I’m getting real tired of seeing you in hospitals.”
“You and me both,” Derek mutters suddenly, making John jump. Stiles laughs and leans his cheek into Derek’s head.
“You get used to it.”
Stiles’ back heals slowly, like a bad sunburn, and he’s got a flock of werewolves surrounding him wherever he goes, but he’s safe and sound and so is Derek and honestly, that’s all that matters.
Derek sticks to him like a bad smell, but given that he’s like insanely handsome and also, for some reason, likes to put his tongue in Stiles’ mouth and his hand down Stiles’ pants, the obsessive hovering is tolerable. What’s a little bit more irritating is the way he treats Stiles like he’s made of blown glass, like Derek needs kid gloves to be around him. His hands are gentle, too gentle, when they press against Stiles’ hips. He kisses him, light and brief, and never for very long.
Stiles gets it. Derek…Derek’s had a rough life, so far, and most of the good things he’s ever had have literally gone up in smoke. He knows it’s taken a lot out of Derek to tell Stiles about his convoluted history with Kate Argent, to let Stiles get close and to let himself fall in love.
And, even though Stiles is fine, he can’t imagine what was going through Derek’s mind when he smelled Stiles’ singed flesh.
But he’s okay. He’s fine.
“I’m fine,” he mutters against Derek’s mouth three and a half weeks after the crispy-fried vampire incident. He’s got finals coming up but he’s already been accepted on the advance track in Beacon Province University, which is only about thirty minutes outside of Beacon Hills and into Beacon Proper (seriously, who designed the layout of this town), so he’s not feeling too stressed the impending tests. “Derek, jeez, you can kiss me more. I want you to kiss me harder, dude.”
They’re on the couch in Derek’s house, the rest of the pack grudgingly giving them a wide berth, and Stiles is trying his hardest to climb into Derek’s lap. The werewolf is resisting, claiming Stiles’ recent injuries as a reason not to take things any further.
Stiles worms his way under thickly muscled arms and settles heavily into Derek’s lap, grinding down into his crotch and looping his arms around Derek’s neck. He leans forward and scrapes his teeth along the stubbled edge of Derek’s jaw, smirking when the older man lets out a shaky exhale and tilts his head backwards. Stiles rolls his hips, pressing the khaki-clad line of his cock against Derek’s stomach. “Please,” Stiles whines, nosing his way up to Derek’s ear. “I’m okay, Derek, I can take it. You won’t hurt me. I’m fine, I’m not going anywhere, I’m—”
Derek grips him hard and rolls their bodies sideways until he’s lying on top of Stiles and his hands are running all along his body, pressing scratchy, desperate kisses anywhere that he can reach. “You’re fine,” he’s muttering to himself, scattered reassurances that Stiles is, really, still there with him. “You’re here, you’re fine, you’re okay, Jesus, Stiles, I can’t—I love you.” Derek pushes their mouths together hard, and it’s not as much a kiss as it is a desperate move for intimate contact. Derek’s still talking against his mouth, as it were, and Stiles is lost to him.
“Derek,” he moans, gripping the sides of his Henley and pulling it up and off. “Derek, please, just…” He slides a hand down Derek’s chest and into his cotton pajama pants, circling a hand around his still soft cock and begins to jerk Derek off with quick pulls of his fist. Derek gets thicker and longer quickly in his palm, and he makes soft whuffing noises in his throat until Stiles’ hoodie and Batman t-shirt join Derek’s Henley on the ground, and they’re rutting against each other on the couch.
Derek rolls off of Stiles suddenly, dislodging his hand, and stands up. “Wha—” Stiles manages, before Derek is hauling him up and cupping his ass and lifting, and then Stiles has no choice but to wrap his legs around Derek’s waist as the Alpha carries him up the stairs to his bedroom. The two of them are around the same height when they’re standing next to one another, so Stiles’ head is a few inches above Derek’s in their current position, and Derek is definitely taking advantage of that fact to suck marks into Stiles’ neck.
They slam and stumble gracelessly down the corridor towards Derek’s bedroom, both of their hands fumbling with the doorknob when they eventually find the right door.
Stiles kicks it shut behind them and finds himself on his back on Derek’s bed, staring up at the ceiling. There are glow in the dark stars there that Stiles had put up as a joke, and then Derek had gone and bought more stars and sorted them into actual constellations because he’s secretly a giant fucking dork and holy shit, Stiles loves him so much.
He shimmies out of his pants and kicks them to the ground. Derek comes to stand at the edge of the bed, between Stiles’ splayed knees, and shoves his pajama pants down past his hips, and oh, yes.
He crawls on top of Stiles, gently pulling him up the bed until plush pillows surround their heads, and swallows nervously. He stares down at widely blown golden-brown eyes, and tries to talk. “I…I haven’t. Obviously. With a guy, or…or anyone, since—”
“I know,” Stiles says, wrapping both hands around Derek’s neck and pulling him into a long, wet kiss. “Me either. But like, ever. At all, with anyone. Consider yourself the cherry popper.”
“Shut up, Jesus Christ,” Derek says, but there’s no heat behind it and he seems a little bit calmer. “I’m…nervous.”
Stiles doesn’t even know what to say to that, honestly, so he just pulls Derek down into a kiss and tries to make it as good as he possibly can. He slides a hand between Derek’s shoulder blades, over the tattoo and down his spine, until he’s got a handful of magnificent Hale ass, and pulls their hips together hard. He’s still wearing his boxer-briefs but the friction is amazing and he probably could come from this.
“Fuck me,” he breathes out against Derek’s mouth. “Please, I want…you, I want you to, Derek, the first one, okay? Just…shit, dude, get inside me.”
“You’re ridiculous,” Derek hisses, but then he’s shoving Stiles’ boxers down and off and taking both of them in his stupidly large hand and it’s dry and awkward and the best fucking thing that Stiles has ever felt in his whole life. His thighs are quaking, his whole body gone tense with pleasure and sheer want, and he doesn’t know what part of Derek he should be touching, so he’s just gripping any bit of skin he can get his hands on.
He pushes his hips up into Derek’s hands, needing more. He’s lost, totally lost, to the sensation of Derek on top of him and touching him and nuzzling against his neck, that he doesn’t notice the older man reaching out towards his bedside table, doesn’t realize that Derek’s taken out a bottle of lube until a slick finger slips down behind his balls and rubs lightly at the tight ring of muscle. Stiles takes in a sharp breath and his legs tense briefly, then he’s locking his feet at the small of Derek’s back and bearing down into the light touch.
Their mouths open against each other, wide and hot, and Derek pushes his finger into Stiles slowly, listening to the soft keening noises that are pulled from Stiles’ throat. “Oh, my God,” Stiles gasps when Derek leaves small bites down his throat. “Holy shhhiii-i-IT,” he moans, arching his back and clawing his hands into the sheets. “Derek, Derek, oh, fuck, that feels so good.”
“Stiles,” Derek breathes out, the name wrenched from him. “Can I…two—can you?”
“Yes, shit, oh my God, do it,” Stiles rasps, still humping down onto Derek’s hand.
He moans loudly when one finger becomes two, the heel of Derek’s hand nudging up against his balls with each slide. “Please,” Stiles moans, unsure of what, exactly, he’s asking for. “I want you, Derek, I love you so fucking much, please.”
“I’ve got you,” Derek murmurs, pushing a third finger in as gently as he possibly can. “I’ll take care of you.”
“You always do,” Stiles laughs, sounding utterly wrecked. He’s sweating and flushed, but he rolls his head to the side and meets Derek’s eyes unflinchingly and his mouth pulls up at the corners into a smile. “I trust you, man. Now put your dick inside me.”
Derek drops his forehead down into the center of Stiles’ chest and lets out a strangled laugh. “You’re such a sweet talker,” he breathes, slowly pulling his fingers out of Stiles. He fumbles around for the bottle of lube and eventually finds it when he leans off the bed and sees it on the ground, and opens the bottle with a click and pours a generous dollop in his hand and then strokes his dick until it’s slick and shining.
“Should I,” Stiles starts, breathing unevenly. He licks his lips and makes a vague gesture with his hand. “On my stomach, would it be easier or better, like, should I—”
“No,” Derek interrupts quickly, pushing his lubed up hand into Stiles’ chest and getting a grimace in return. “Stay...like this. I want to see you. I…your face, I just. I want to know you really want this. Me.”
The comparison to Derek’s only other sexual experience goes unspoken.
Stiles quiets down and looks up at him, eyes shining with determination and warmth and so much fucking love that Derek can’t even breathe. “Like this,” Stiles agrees, and wiggles his hips around a little.
Derek lets out a breath he didn’t realize he’s been holding. His hands are shaking when he pushes more lube into Stiles with his fingers, and even more so when he reaches down to guide himself inside.
He’s barely gotten the first inch or so of his cock in before he’s overwhelmed, curling his arms under Stiles’ shoulders and knocking their foreheads together as he sobs his breaths against the other boy’s mouth. “Fuck,” he says, voice shaking when he pushes his hips forward and slips in further. “Stiles.”
Stiles tips his head back into the pillow, raking his hands across Derek’s back and tightening the grip his legs have around Derek’s waist. Derek ducks his head to press the bridge of his nose against the cut of Stiles’ jaw, breathing his scent in and resisting the urge to bite down on soft, pale skin as he pushes the rest of the way in. Stiles’ erection is a hot and hard line against his stomach and he can feel bony knuckles brushing against his skin as Stiles worms a hand between them.
“Sorry to say,” Stiles says, breathing hard, “I’m not sure this is gonna last more than five minutes on my end. Oh my God, I feel so fucking full. Shit, Derek.”
The aforementioned werewolf, who legitimately was trying to practice self control, lets out an embarrassingly high moan and pulls his hips back only to snap them forward again. He circles his hips, feeling the coarse hair on Stiles’ legs scrape against his skin, and thrusts again.
The rhythm is practically non existent, Stiles’ hand awkwardly bumping into Derek with every frantic stroke over his cock, and Derek can barely choose between actually thrusting back and forth, and just pushing his cock into Stiles’ body as deep as he can get it, and they’re both saying some of the stupidest, sappiest shit to each other in between sloppy kisses and ragged groans and their first time is probably going to be over faster than it started, but it’s perfect.
Stiles comes first, hand cupping Derek’s head to mash their lips together painfully as he whimpers Derek’s name against his lips, and their chests slip and stick against each other unpleasantly with come. Derek’s orgasm hits him in the gut, nearly knocking the wind out of him and making him double over, helpless to do anything but clutch Stiles close and hump desperately into him.
Derek falls onto his side next to Stiles as soon as he’s able to move, and curls his body around him, still breathing hard into the dip between shoulder blades. He can feel his come between Stiles’ thighs and smell their scents intertwining at a depth they never have before, and when he curls his arm across Stiles’ chest and splays a hand across his heart, he can feel the jackrabbit rhythm that matches his own.
He hears, rather than sees, when Stiles smiles, and doesn’t hesitate to tighten his grip when Stiles reaches up and tangles their fingers together.
They fall asleep pressed together, hearts beating in and out of time.
The next day when the pack is lounging around in Derek’s backyard, Scott looks at Stiles and asks him why he’s walking so strangely. Derek bites down on a smirk and keeps his comments about rounds one through three to himself and waits for the lingering smell of sex to reach Scott’s nostrils.
He can’t contain his laughter when Scott’s eyes widen and his face pales and he stumbles away from Stiles, cupping his hands over his mouth and nose and making horrified noises. Allison’s trying not to smile but Erica is guffawing and nearly in tears while the other pack members are all a mix of disturbed and grudgingly amused.
“Everybody sucks,” Stiles declares, and limps away from all of them.
He manages about ten feet before Derek tackles him from behind, letting his body take the brunt of their impact with the earth, Stiles yelping in his ear as they fall. “Fucker!” he shouts, jolting his elbow into Derek’s ribs.
The rest of the pack seems to take this as an invitation to pile on top of them, Erica and Isaac the first to flop down on top of Stiles, Boyd reluctantly following. Scott burrows his way between Erica and Stiles, frowning hard when she tries to push him away again, and Allison drapes herself against Isaac’s back and pulls Lydia down with her. Danny somehow ends up in the tangle of bodies, as does Jackson who, despite his loud protests, curls into the nearest body and refuses to move even when Stiles lets out a loud groan at all the weight on top of him.
“So much hatred,” he moans. “For every single one of you.”
“Except me,” Scott pipes up, face mashed into Stiles’ throat. “Ugh though, dude, you reek.”
“Nope, definitely hate you,” Stiles retorts easily, wishing he could kick all of them in places it would hurt. “Probably most of all. Second only to Derek, actually.”
Derek grunts against the nape of Stiles’ neck and somehow manages to tighten his arms around his waist, even under the hundreds of pounds of werewolf and human piled on top of him. “You love me.”
Stiles lets out a beleaguered sigh and turns his head to face Derek as much as possible. He hears the question in Derek’s voice, the same way he always does, and infuses as much affection as he can into the resigned way he says, “I really, really do.”
Derek gives him one of his rare soft smiles and leans in for a long kiss.
“Guys!” Scott sputters, leaning as far away from them as he can manage. “I am right here, we are all right here, come on!”
“Yeah,” Stiles murmurs against Derek’s mouth. “Definitely hate Scott the most.”
The betrayed sounding, “Dude,” is zealously ignored.