Stiles is startled from the Wikipedia stupor he’s sunk into as there’s a sharp knock on the front door of the house. He tears himself away from the focused trance of Adderall and colony collapse disorder and trots down the stairs to open the front door. Scott is standing there, with that furrowed brow and vaguely fretful expression, along with Derek, who looks a little glazed.
“Good, you’re home,” Scott says, and practically shoves Derek in his direction. “Here, take him.”
“I – what?” Stiles says, although he grabs Derek by the upper arms as he lists to one side. “Dude, what’s going on? Weren’t you going to go – ”
“Find that warlock tonight, yeah, he put some sort of spell on Derek,” Scott says. “Will you keep an eye on him? I’m going to go find Dr. Deaton to see if he can reverse it.”
“Why don’t you just bring him with you?” Stiles asks.
“Look, it’s a really long story, I’ll explain everything later,” Scott says, and then he’s out the door, that bastard. Stiles appreciates the fact that he’s obviously in a hurry, but every once in a while, he would like someone to take the time to actually explain things to him.
He sighs and says to Derek, “Okay, pal, looks like it’s just you and me,” and Derek still just stares at him with that same vaguely stoned look. “Or maybe just me,” Stiles says. He tows Derek into the kitchen, where he was sitting at the table and working. “Okey dokey,” he says, wondering if there’s anything specific that ‘keeping an eye on him’ entails, beyond making sure he doesn’t wander off. “Anybody home in there? Yoohoo, earth to Derek . . . nothing? No? Okay. You want a drink of water or something?” he asks, and again gets no response.
Since talking obviously isn’t going to get him anywhere, he shrugs and turns to the fridge, taking out the filtered pitcher of water that he keeps in there. He grabs two glasses from the cupboard. If he doesn’t have to do anything besides make sure Derek doesn’t run away, he’ll just put a glass of water on the table and wait to see if Derek drinks it.
He hears Derek get out of his chair and then a creak of a floorboard, so he turns around and suddenly Derek is right there and they’re face to face with Stiles’ back against the counter. “Holy crap,” he says, nearly dropping the glasses. He hastily turns enough to set them on the counter and then says, “Personal space, dude, and . . . are you sniffing me?”
Because he definitely is. He is leaning right in and pressing his nose into Stiles’ neck. It’s not exactly a sniff, more of a nuzzle. Stiles feels his legs starting to turn to jelly, and he’s very glad that Derek isn’t quite close enough to feel his body’s immediate, visceral response to what’s happening.
“Okay,” he says, taking a deep breath and then putting his hands on Derek’s upper arms, pushing him back a few inches. “Now I can see why Scott left you with me. It must have been very distracting trying to drive with you doing that, and oh my God,” he finishes as Derek just leans back in and starts mouthing at his ear. “Okay. Uh.” He tries to remember how to form sentences. “Derek. Derek.”
The name gets no response, though, and when Stiles manages to squirm free, Derek still has that glassy, blank look in his eyes. No, he’s definitely not all there underneath. Stiles backs up a step as Derek advances, and spares a thought for how ridiculous this is. “Okay, I think I can safely say you aren’t going to remember any of this later,” Stiles says, “so believe me that I would give my left kidney for you to actually want to make out with me, but this is you under some witchy witchcraft which apparently makes you really horny in an animal sort of way, which . . . is way sexier than it should be. So. Just . . . you stay over there and I’ll stay over here and soon Deaton will come fix you up and we’ll pretend this never happened.” Except for the part where he’s pretty sure he’s going to be masturbating to it for the rest of his life, but that’s nothing that Derek needs to know.
Derek just looks at him, but he’s stopped advancing, so Stiles takes it as a win and turns around to pour his glass of water. He’s been facing the other direction for less than two seconds when he feels Derek’s chest press against his back and those arms (those wonderful, amazing, should-not-be-possible arms) circle around his waist. One of them immediately snakes underneath his T-shirt, Derek’s hand splayed flat against his stomach. “Oh dear God,” Stiles says, as Derek starts nuzzling the back of his neck. He’s got to be dreaming. This is a fantastically detailed, amazingly bizarre wet dream, and he’s going to wake up with an urgent need to clean his sheets, because this can’t actually be happening.
The problem is that it is actually happening, or if it’s a dream he’s not waking up any time soon, so he turns around and tries to squirm free again, saying, “Derek, you’re really going to regret this in the morning or when Scott gets back or whatever – ” and he’s almost disentangled himself when Derek has him by the back of the shirt and just yanks, there’s a moment of resistance and then every single button just pops off and the shirt slides back off his shoulders and falls to the floor. Stiles lets out a little yelp as Derek’s mouth fastens on his collarbone and he feels teeth scrape against his skin and every thought promptly leaves his head. “Oh Jesus that – you are one son of a bitch, you know that?”
For the first time, Derek makes a noise, it’s kind of a huff, kind of a growl, but a good, lazy sort of growl. A possessive, happy sort of growl. He’s got Stiles firmly trapped against the counter, one thigh pressing against Stiles’ hip in a way that makes Stiles want to whimper and just rub himself all over the older man, so Derek takes a moment to pull his own shirt off. Now Stiles does whimper a little because Derek’s built like a Greek god and it’s all terribly unfair because he’s been wanting this pretty much since the moment he laid eyes on the man and somehow in the middle of it they wind up on the kitchen floor.
Stiles is pretty much gone by this point, unable to do anything but make happy little noises as Derek explores his chest with hands and tongue and teeth, and there’s this nagging voice in the back of his head that says maybe, just maybe, he should be trying a little harder to get free and he definitely should not be admiring Derek’s abs so much. But the larger part of him is being ruled by hormones and the thought that this is probably, no, definitely the only chance he’s ever going to have to get anywhere with Derek, so he should probably take advantage of it –
but then that phrase, ‘take advantage’, sneaks into his brain and he realizes that’s exactly what he’d be doing. Because Derek isn’t himself, he has no idea what he’s doing, and so if Stiles just goes along with this, it would be like date rape. If there are rules about having sex with drugged people, there should also be rules about having sex with ensorcelled people.
“Okay, Derek, you have to stop,” Stiles says, and if there isn’t a lot of conviction in his voice, well, he probably can’t be blamed for that. He starts to sit up, but Derek just puts a hand on his chest and pushes him back down. “Derek, stop, okay? We shouldn’t be doing this.”
He tries again to get up, and now the growl is less lazy and more angry, and suddenly all of Derek’s weight is on him, pinning him to the floor. That thigh is pressed right against his groin now, and Stiles has to close his eyes and try to focus through the sparks that are going off behind his eyes. “Oh God I am gonna be hard forever,” he moans, trying to wriggle free. It gets him nowhere. “Stop. Stop, Derek, for fuck’s sake – ” but it’s no use, because Derek is beyond hearing and his strength is far superior.
This is an interesting moral dilemma, he thinks to himself, trying to keep himself focused so he doesn’t just surrender completely. If he tries to stop Derek, who is under the influence, but is incapable of it, due to their strength and size difference, then exactly who is raping who here? The temptation to just give up and enjoy himself, because really, what else can he do, is growing stronger by the minute. “Wow, I, I could write a paper on this ethical dilemma someday,” he says, and then Derek’s hands are undoing his belt and he has an idea. It’s a terrible idea, his dick insists, but he tells the damned thing to shut up, it’s always getting him into trouble. Rather than trying to pull away, he reaches up and smoothes Derek’s hair, twines his fingers in it, runs his fingers over Derek’s back, makes some encouraging noises. He does this for at least a full minute longer than is strictly necessary, then murmurs right into Derek’s ear, “Hey, let me up, okay? I have to get my pants off.”
Another huff, a happy little noise that’s almost a purr as Derek rubs his cheek against Stiles’ neck and Stiles desperately tries to think unsexy thoughts. Then Derek’s weight is lifted off him. Stiles scrambles to his feet and takes a few steps backwards to put the table between the two of them. “Okay!” he says. “I can’t believe that worked.”
Derek glowers at him from across the room, and for a minute he looks like Derek again, if one doesn’t count the glazed eyes and the way his cheeks look almost fever flushed. His chest is rising and falling somewhat rapidly, and, “oh dear God,” Stiles says when he makes the mistake of looking down and seeing the bulge below his waist. “I had better be nominated for fucking sainthood after this,” he says to the ceiling. When Derek takes a step forward, Stiles says, “You stay over there, pal, or I will pepper spray you, I swear to God.” Derek stops and glares at him. “Stay. Okay? Just – stay.” Stiles carefully goes for his phone and dials Scott. He picks up a moment later. “Hey, uh, you got an ETA for me?”
“Sorry, Deaton wasn’t at the clinic, I’m trying his house but I – ”
“Uh, ‘cause, sooner would be better.” Stiles dodges around the table as Derek advances on him again. He can’t run. He knows instinctively that as soon as he does, Derek will chase him, and there’s no chance he’ll get away. He has a feeling that if he tries to get away like that, all he’ll do is drive Derek to violence. “Like, really soon. Okay?”
“Stiles, what – ” Scott says, but Stiles has already hung up because he doesn’t have time for Scott’s stupid questions right now because Derek is coming over the table at him. He scrambles backwards and fetches up against the refrigerator, hard, and he’s pretty sure that he’s not going to get free this time.
“Dude, at, at least buy me dinner first,” he gasps out and then he just moans because Derek’s hands are on his belt again and sensible thoughts cannot compete with that. “Jesus, you . . . you asshole, I . . . I wanted you but . . . I didn’t want you like this . . .” He tilts his head back as Derek’s mouth goes unerringly for the point of his pulse, which feels really, really good. “It’s not even me, is it,” he says, his hands curling into loose fists at his sides. “I’m just this, this body that happens to be here, I could be anybody right now and you wouldn’t . . .”
Now he’s starting to get upset, maybe even a little angry, which is probably a stupid way to handle this. But he’s determined, one way or another, to put a stop to this. At least then he’ll be able to look at Derek tomorrow, they can go back to whatever-the-hell kind of relationship they have currently, that sort of antagonistic friendship that he enjoys so much when he’s not thinking with his dick.
“Okay,” he pants, looking at the ceiling as Derek licks his way down his neck. “You have until the count of three to let me go or, or I’m going to do something drastic. You got that? One . . .” Because now his belt is undone and he’s pretty sure that once Derek has a hand down his pants, all bets are off. “Two . . .” There is no logic or emotion in the world that’s going to be able to compete with that. “Three.”
Derek just growls and pushes in a little closer, so Stiles grabs the pitcher of ice water off the counter and dumps the entire contents down between them.
“Oh God!” he yelps, unable to help it, and Derek lets out a high-pitched yip that would be comical under other circumstances. He backs up so quickly that he knocks into one of the chairs and then falls flat on his ass. Stiles takes a moment to get his zipper up and his belt done. Anything to slow Derek down if he winds up pinned again. “I, I warned you!” he says, and Derek lets out a little wolf whine. “You just stay down, you bastard, don’t make me get a fire extinguisher or something.” He carefully lifts his shirt up with his toes and then pulls it on over his shoulders. That helps. He feels less exposed now, even if the buttons are long gone and he has to keep it pulled across his chest. But he can tell from the look on Derek’s face that this won’t last. He has to redirect him, not just try to fend him off.
“Okay, just . . . you just stay where you are, okay?” Stiles tries to put the seductive face back on. It doesn’t work very well. He kneels down next to Derek. “Did I tell you that I’m taking anatomy this semester?” he asks, which is a flat-out lie, but who cares, Derek won’t know the difference. “You wanna let me play doctor?” he asks, his voice cracking a little, and boy, isn’t that sexy. Derek just stares up at him with those glazed eyes. But he relaxes a little when Stiles runs gentle fingers down his sternum. “Let’s see how many muscles I can identify.”
It’s a damned good thing that he’s spent a lot of time on Wikipedia, anatomy class or no anatomy class. He starts with the pectorals and the obliques, and Derek just continues to watch him through half-lidded eyes, not making any attempt to push him away or pull him closer. Stiles tries to keep his voice steady like running his hands all over Derek’s chest and abdomen isn’t some kind of dream come true. He searches out the beat of Derek’s pulse in his throat, runs his fingers down the trapezius and along the biceps, which are truly unfair. Derek’s hand comes up to the back of his head and Stiles goes tense, but Derek seems to be sinking back into that dazed, glassy state and just sort of pets Stiles, fingers curling around his neck. Stiles reminds himself firmly that this isn’t taking advantage of Derek, he’s trying to be clinical about this and just keep Derek from doing anything he’ll regret later. As long as he’s there, with his hands on Derek, the older man seems content not to try to wrestle his pants off again. “Then, uh, this is the linea alba,” he says, fingers wandering down towards Derek’s navel as he thinks ‘don’t look at the hair, don’t touch the hair, you know where the hair goes, that way leads to madness’. Which must explain why he’s just staring at it, at the way he can see Derek’s jeans straining to hold back his erection. The ice water hadn’t kept him down for long.
“Fuck, I, I’ve forgotten what I was saying,” he breathes out, and Derek takes this as a directive to wrap his arm around Stiles and just roll them over. “Oh Christ,” Stiles says, his voice wavering. “Stop it, Derek, I can’t, I can’t push you away anymore, I can’t, so just . . . please stop . . .”
Derek just gives another growl and starts undoing his belt again, nuzzling at Stiles’ neck. Stiles just sinks into it, because there’s only so much self-control in the world and he’s out.
“Okay,” he murmurs, letting Derek play bite at his ear. “Okay . . . Watch the teeth there, buddy, I don’t want to get furry like you . . .”
Derek’s just gotten the button of his jeans undone when there’s another knock on the front door and then Scott barges in with Deaton on his heels. Stiles tries to squirm free and protect his dignity, but it just doesn’t happen. His entire body feels like it’s made of jelly (except his dick), and Derek’s squarely on top of him.
“Oh my,” Deaton says, very, very quietly.
“Hey, Stiles, uh,” Scott says. “How are you doing?”
Between labored breaths, Stiles says, “Get. Him. Off. Me.”
Scott clears his throat and grabs Derek by the arm. Derek snaps and snarls at him, but between Scott and Deaton, they get him into a chair. Scott holds him there while Deaton looks him over and Stiles tries to get his pants back in working order, which is more difficult than it ought to be. “No, it shouldn’t be too difficult to reverse,” he says, kindly not looking in Stiles’ direction while he pours himself a glass of water and downs it in two gulps. “It’s just a standard . . . well, never mind, let me get to work.”
What follows is several minutes of drawing with chalk and burning incense, and Stiles realizes a little too late that really, he should get the hell out of the kitchen, he doesn’t want to be there when the spell wears off. But it is too late when he thinks of it, and he sees Derek’s eyes come back into focus all at once. “Derek?” Deaton says, in his usual mild tone. “You back with us?”
Derek blinks at him for a moment, and then his gaze inevitably darts to Stiles, who’s still standing there awkwardly, the front of his pants still soaked from the water, all the buttons on his shirt popped off so his chest is partially bared, face flushed. Derek just stares at him, and then abruptly pushes back from the table and runs down the hallway. Bare moments later, Stiles hears him retching in the bathroom.
“Wow,” he says. “A-plus for my ego there. The first guy I make out with, and he throws up afterwards. I have to go jump in the bath with a hairdryer now.”
“Stiles, you know it’s not about you, I hope,” Deaton says.
“Oh, yeah!” Stiles says, gesticulating wildly. “Trust me, I am extremely aware that at no point was it ever about me. Words of comfort, those ain’t.”
Deaton grimaces, but then says to Scott, “He should be all right now.” Scott thanks him and then he gathers his things and turns to go. Stiles glares at him until he’s out of the house.
“What the hell,” he finally says, his tone flat. He can hear water running in the bathroom. A minute later, Derek pokes his head out. He’s pale and shaky. He catches a glimpse of Stiles and then heads right back into the bathroom, this time slamming the door behind him. Stiles presses his lips together. “Yeah. This is definitely going down in Stilinski history as my worst evening ever.” He turns to Scott and says, “Why the hell did you leave him with me?”
Scott shifts and says, “I thought, you know, I thought if he was going to be all over someone, at least you would enjoy it.”
“Really? Really, Scott? That was your logic?”
“Well, it’s not like you haven’t been lusting after him since the day you met him . . .”
“Okay, yes, yes I have,” Stiles says, “and you are so epically missing the point. For one thing, you’re implying the only way Derek Hale would ever want to make out with me would be if he was under the influence of some lust spell, which okay, that may be true, but you don’t need to point it out. Secondly, what was I supposed to do, let him go through with it?”
“Yes?” Scott ventures. “Come on! You’re saying you didn’t enjoy it at all?”
“Oh my God,” Stiles says, “I give the fuck up. I know that you’re not as stupid as some people think you are, but you have got to learn to think things through.” He winces as he hears the toilet flush. “You know what, I’m leaving. Get him the fuck out of my house and call me – no, text me – when it’s safe for me to come back.”
He grabs his shoes and leaves through the front, slamming the door behind him.
~ ~ ~ ~
Stiles doesn’t see Derek for almost a week after that, which he figures is probably all for the best. He sees Scott the next day, but refuses to speak to him. He forgives Scott fairly quickly, though. Scott’s his best friend, and sometimes he does stupid shit, sometimes they all do stupid shit. He had good intentions, which Stiles supposes is the important part.
No, the next time he sees Derek is a week later, when he’s sitting around eating pizza with Erica and Isaac and Boyd. He likes to hang out with them, even if Scott still sometimes gets his back up about Derek having turned them to begin with. Whatever, he doesn’t have to agree with Scott on everything. So they’re just chilling when Derek turns up to say it’s time to go do pack things, whatever those are. Stiles sees him as he approaches and gives an awkward little wave. Derek takes one look at him and then turns around and walks out of the pizza parlor without ever getting within ten feet of their table.
“What was that about?” Isaac asks, and then his phone chimes. He looks down at it and says, “Why is Derek texting me to say we’re meeting back at his loft? I mean, he was right there.”
“Beats me,” Stiles says, because so far nobody has told any of the others about what happened and he really has no interest in any of them knowing.
But it goes on like that for another two weeks. It doesn’t matter who he’s with. When Stiles shows up, Derek just gets up and leaves. He doesn’t say anything about it, doesn’t make a big deal about it. He just vanishes like the creeper he’s always been. Everyone puts up with this for the first week, and then Erica starts prying for answers which Stiles won’t give her. Every time he sees Derek, it’s like a kick in the gut.
“He hates me,” he says to Scott, the only person he can talk to about this, which might possibly have been a factor in how quickly Stiles had forgiven him.
“He doesn’t hate you,” Scott says.
“Uh, yeah, dude, I’m pretty sure he does.” Stiles groans and buries his face in his pillow. “Why’d I have to talk about playing doctor, what the fuck is wrong with me.”
Scott hesitates. “You want me to talk to him?”
“Jesus, no,” Stiles says. “That is the absolute last thing that I want. Promise me you won’t say a word.”
Reluctantly, Scott promises.
Things get worse two weeks later when a pair of asshole omegas show up and start making threats that they obviously have no capability of carrying out. The others go to deal with them, and Stiles goes along because hey, how is he going to get experience in kicking ass if not by helping out when cannon fodder shows up? Apparently the answer is ‘wait in the Jeep’, or at the very least ‘you can be the getaway driver’ because that’s where he ends up. But everything goes to hell and he winds up being carjacked by one of the omegas, and later he hears Scott snarling at Derek about how he was supposed to be watching for Stiles, that was his part of the job while Scott was off doing something else, but he had abandoned his post and now Stiles had nearly gotten hurt. Derek walks away from Scott’s snarling without a single word.
If only things would stop trying to kill them, Stiles is pretty sure that avoiding Derek wouldn’t be a problem, but this is his life now so of course that isn’t going to happen. Another week goes by before people start losing their memories in odd sorts of ways and Derek says there’s a faerie in town causing trouble and obviously they’re going to have to deal with it.
They sit down together to discuss strategy, and Derek manages to sit at the same table as Stiles for almost two whole minutes before he abruptly pushes his chair back, gaze trained on the floor, and heads towards the door. “Derek, get back here,” Lydia says, sounding exasperated. “You’re the only one who knows anything about the fae.”
Derek hesitates, then reluctantly takes his seat again. He still won’t look up. So Stiles clears his throat and says, “Uh, I’ll take off then – ”
“No, dude, you were up until midnight doing research,” Scott says. “We’ll need you.”
So Stiles settles back into his chair and they have a long discussion about faeries in which Derek will neither directly address him or look at him. Stiles is on the verge of grabbing him by the shirt and shaking him and shouting, “Dude, was I that bad?”
He makes a solemn promise to himself that night that as soon as all this faerie bullshit is dealt with, he’s going to corner Derek and have a talk with him. Whatever Derek thinks he needs to apologize for, he’ll apologize. He doesn’t even care whether or not Derek’s unreasonable about it. He just wants to have a damned argument with the man again. His silence is uncanny. Worst of all, he can’t even jerk off to the memories, because every time he tries, he sees that look of revulsion on Derek’s face when the spell ends. That is a boner killer the likes of which he has never experienced before.
It takes three days to deal with the faeries, and then another three days to actually psych himself up enough to go to Derek’s loft. He stands outside for a minute, fidgety, thinking of the various things that he’ll surely have to apologize for (the ‘left kidney’ remark is high up on the list, along with the ice water and the anatomy lesson). “Nut up, Stilinski,” he mutters, and knocks on the door. There’s no answer, but he can hear the TV inside, so he tries the knob. It turns easily and he pokes his head inside. “Hey, anyone home?”
“Hey, Stiles.” Erica’s sitting on the sofa, eating a bowl of cereal and watching TV. “What’s up?”
“What are you doing here?” Stiles asks.
“Watching cartoons,” Erica says. “Mom’s convinced they’ll give me seizures.”
Stiles sighs. “Derek here?”
“Yeah, he’s lurking somewhere,” Erica says, and then raises his voice. “Hey, Derek! I need to ask you something!”
There’s a clatter somewhere further in the loft, and then Derek comes out of his bedroom, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, his feet bare, a little on the scruffy side (which is exactly how Stiles likes him). “Yeah, what . . . Stiles.”
“Yeah, hey, it’s Stiles,” Stiles says, as Derek takes a step backwards. “Can we talk?”
“Uh . . .” Derek seems at a loss for words, which is unusual for him. He folds his arms over his abdomen, and Stiles wonders if he realizes exactly how much he gives away with his body language. “Yeah. Sure.”
Stiles gives Erica a pointed look. “Do you mind?”
“Not a bit,” she says, taking another bite of her cereal, eyes glued to the television.
Stiles picks up the remote and turns it off. “Try again.”
She rolls her eyes at him, but then flounces out of the loft, shouting “Be that way!” over her shoulder. Stiles sighs in relief once she’s gone.
“Look,” he says, “I get that you don’t want to be anywhere near me. But that obviously isn’t going to work out, because everything in the world seems to want to kill us on a regular basis. So can we just go back to being sarcastic with each other? You know, allies, if we can’t be friends, after what . . . what happened?”
Derek presses his arms in tighter to his body. “Can you . . .?” he asks.
Stiles frowns at him a little. From the way he’s acting, Derek seems more afraid than anything else. Even now, he’s moving so there’s a chair between the two of them. “How much do you even remember about what happened?” he asks cautiously, testing the waters, trying to figure out exactly how much he needs to be apologizing for.
Derek’s hands clench down on the back of the chair, his knuckles white. “I remember enough. I remember you telling me to stop . . . and I remember not stopping.”
Stiles is taken aback. He blinks at Derek and says, “Shit, that’s what you’re upset about?” Suddenly, the way Derek has been avoiding him makes sense. Rather than trying to keep Stiles from being part of the group, he simply left whenever he showed up, figuring that Stiles would be afraid of him, that Stiles wouldn’t want to be near him. “Jeez, Derek, I don’t blame you for that. You . . . you weren’t yourself, you know? Under the influence. Witchy witchcraft and all that.”
“That’s not an excuse,” Derek says roughly.
“Uh, that’s like the textbook definition of an excuse,” Stiles says. “You literally couldn’t help yourself.” He’s breathing again now, relaxing a little. “I wish you’d told me, I mean, I could’ve let you know I wasn’t upset with you or anything. Man, here I am thinking you were upset with me because I’d taken advantage of you and shit I said that out loud, didn’t I.”
Derek narrows his eyes. “In what way did you ‘take advantage’ of me?”
“No way. I didn’t. But you seemed upset? So I guess I thought maybe you thought I had.” Since Derek is just staring at him, Stiles is becoming increasingly nervous again. “I mean, ‘cause I may have told you to stop but that doesn’t mean I was exactly pushing you off me most of the time and, uh, look, seriously, do you remember anything besides me telling you to stop?”
“I remember you,” Derek says, his fingers flexing on the back of his chair, inexorably drawing Stiles’ gaze to them. “I remember your scent. Your pulse in your throat. The feel of your skin under my hands.”
Stiles swallows thickly and says, “Uh, I have no idea what you just said because . . . your mouth was moving and words were coming out but . . .”
Derek takes a step back. He frowns, but it quickly fades into a blank expression. “I’m making you uncomfortable.”
“No! Well, yeah, a, a little,” Stiles stammers, “but it’s not that – I mean, I don’t – oh my God, to hell with this,” he decides, marches forward, and grabs Derek by the front of the shirt, yanking him into a kiss. Derek goes still for a long moment, and Stiles has to admit that as far as kisses go, it probably isn’t a great one. He really has no idea what he’s doing and Derek is just standing there, so it’s basically like mashing his lips against a board.
Derek pulls back and Stiles cringes a little, figuring that he’s misread the situation and now everything is really going to go to hell, which is kind of ironic since he went there to set things right. But then Derek says, “Like this,” softly, his voice a little rough, which is just fantastic, and he leans in for another kiss. He tilts his head a little and presses his lips against Stiles’, one hand coming up to trace Stiles’ cheekbone and jaw and the cords of his neck. It’s gentle up until the moment Stiles opens his mouth under the pressure of the kiss, and then it’s something more than that and he just gives up and moans into Derek’s mouth, feeling all the strength go out of his legs.
Derek seems to sense that he’s about to wind up falling on his ass, because he starts backing them up until he gets Stiles up against a wall. It’s just like being in the kitchen again, except approximately fifteen hundred times more awesome because this is Derek, he’s not stoned or enspelled or sleepwalking and he’s kissing Stiles. Stiles lets the wall support him as Derek hooks a finger in one of his belt loops, which is way sexier than it should be.
“Tell me you want this,” Derek says, his breath hitching in his throat. “I have to hear you say it.”
“Oh God yes,” Stiles says, not at all ashamed of his enthusiasm. His hands are curling in the hem of Derek’s T-shirt. “Yes, I, I want this, like, you don’t even know how bad I want this.”
“Yes, I do,” Derek says.
“Okay, you . . . you could stand to tell me a little about that . . .” Stiles says, “because I mean, I thought, I was just the guy who happened to be there . . .”
“You were,” Derek says. “I wanted to . . .” He cuts himself off. “But I never would have let anyone else touch me the way you did. Here.” He takes Stiles by the wrist and presses Stiles’ hand against his throat. “Here.” He moves Stiles’ hand down to his abdomen. “If anyone else had touched me like that, I would have killed them.”
“Wow, that’s incredibly romantic and also . . . terrifying,” Stiles says. But it makes sense. Those are vulnerable places to a wolf. In Derek’s mind, he had literally been allowing Stiles to hold his life in his hands. Stiles has to swallow hard as he considers this. It’s way more erotic than it should be.
“But if you wanted to, then . . . why did you keep pushing me away?” Derek asks, withdrawing a step, which is something Stiles absolutely does not want him to do.
“Because . . . you weren’t you, Derek, I mean, you didn’t know what you were doing. I didn’t know how you really felt, if you felt anything, and . . . I couldn’t just let you . . . do something like that when you didn’t want to. No matter how badly I wanted it.”
Derek studies him seriously for a few moments, and Stiles is afraid that now he’s really blown it, whatever ‘it’ is. He opens his mouth to say something else, some nervous sort of apology, and then Derek surges forward again, catching his mouth in another kiss. Stiles makes a muffled little noise of surprise against him, but he’s certainly not protesting. He’s pretty sure he just won the ‘good things come to those who wait’ lottery. Every minute of the torturous past three weeks is totally worth the way Derek is kissing him now, the way Derek’s body is pressing him against the wall, the way Stiles is able to tangle his hands in Derek’s hair totally guilt-free.
When they pull out of that kiss what seems like five hours later, Stiles is panting for breath and probably the happiest person on the planet. Derek still looks serious, but that’s pretty much the norm for him. “I don’t think anybody’s done anything like that for me before,” he says.
“Oh,” Stiles says. “Okay. Uh. You can reward me now, I’m ready for all the rewards – ”
Derek lets out a soft snort of laughter and then gets his hands underneath Stiles’ T-shirt, pushing it over his head. He leans in for another kiss as his hands move to explore the newly bared skin. “I remember that you seem to like this,” Derek murmurs, mouthing at the place where Stiles’ neck meets his shoulder.
“Y-Yeah,” Stiles manages. His legs are starting to feel shaky. He’s sliding down the wall, although Derek is still partially supporting him.
“And this,” Derek says, biting gently at his collarbone as he eases Stiles to the floor.
“Fuck you, you said you didn’t remember anything . . .”
“I said that I remember you.”
Stiles is sitting on the floor now, not one hundred percent sure of how he got there, back against the wall, legs splayed out awkwardly with Derek’s knees on either side of them. He’s thinking this isn’t a great position, since Derek’s going to have to crane over to kiss him, but then Derek tugs his own shirt off and suddenly Stiles is face to face, so to speak, with a simply glorious expanse of chest. “Oh my God,” he says, trying to think of a good way to proceed, since he’s pretty sure that if he asks, he’ll sound like a five year old. (‘Can I touch it? Can I, can I, can I?’)
Derek senses his hesitation, but he doesn’t say anything about it. Instead, he takes hold of one of Stiles’ wrists, pulling it forward and pressing Stiles’ hand against his chest. Stiles lets out a little shiver, feeling the beat of Derek’s heart beneath his fingers. Derek’s other hand comes around to cup the back of Stiles’ neck, pulling him forward. Stiles presses his mouth against the skin of Derek’s chest, then hesitantly opens his lips and lets his tongue glide across the skin. Derek gives a breathy little groan as Stiles licks at the hollow of his throat, as his hands trace that amazing muscle definition.
“Did you . . . do this the other day?” Derek asks, one hand stroking at Stiles’ hair, almost petting it.
“Yeah,” Stiles says, hoping he doesn’t sound embarrassed.
“You were saying something,” Derek says, his brow furrowed as he tries to remember.
“Wasn’t important,” Stiles assures him.
Derek doesn’t say anything for a long minute, leaning down and nuzzling at Stiles’ ear, one hand kneading restlessly at his shoulder. Then he says, “Tell me. I don’t like . . . not remembering.”
That seems reasonable to Stiles; as much as he doesn’t really want to repeat previous events, he can see where Derek’s coming from. “It was just a dumb thing to keep you distracted. Naming all the different muscles. Like the obliques and the pectorals,” he adds, running his hands over each of them in turn and trying to keep his voice from cracking.
“I like that,” Derek says. “It’s weird when you aren’t talking.”
“I’d think you’d be glad to have finally found a way to shut me up,” Stiles says.
He expects a sarcastic comment, but all Derek says is, “No. Not really.”
“Maybe I should start with your back this time,” Stiles says, running his fingers up and down Derek’s spine, hearing his sharp intake of breath, feeling Derek’s hands flex on his shoulders. “Like, with your deltoids and your latissimus dorsi,” he continues, spreading his hands out across the flat of Derek’s back, feeling the muscles there, digging his fingers in a little as Derek nips at his neck, leaving little marks there. He works his way around Derek’s side, making stuff up when he doesn’t remember the actual muscles because he really doubts Derek has any idea what he’s talking about anyway.
“And, uh . . . like we covered the other day . . . this is the linea alba,” Stiles manages, but this time he follows the line all the way down, letting his fingers stir the hairs below Derek’s navel, amazing himself with his own boldness.
Derek groans out, “Oh you son of a bitch,” and just grabs Stiles and spills them all the way onto the floor. He gets Stiles wrists in his hands, pinning them to the floor on either side of his head. His teeth fasten on Stiles’ collarbone, not hard enough to get through the skin, but hard enough that it’s going to leave a bruise. Stiles loves that, that Derek is marking him that way, possibly more than he should. Not that he’s capable of complex thought at the moment, not with Derek’s hips grinding against his own. He spares a brief thought for complete amazement that Derek, with his sculpted abs and hot body and killer smile, wants him, the skinny, bony nerd who uses sarcasm as a weapon. But with very physical evidence of Derek’s want pressed right up against him, there are no arguments left in his head, and then Derek’s kissing him again and he forgets everything else.
Derek shifts his weight slightly before his hips push forward again, Stiles’ thigh somehow sliding in between his legs. He lets out another noise into Stiles’ mouth, one hand tracing down his chest and brushing over the front of Stiles’ pants. Stiles moans and pushes himself up into Derek’s hand without any shred of conscious thought. Derek just pushes him back down, keeping his touches light and teasing until Stiles is whimpering and squirming against him. In an act that’s mostly desperation because otherwise he never would have had the guts to pull it off, Stiles bats Derek’s hands out of the way and pulls Derek’s hips down to his.
“Oh, fuck,” Derek gasps out as their bodies grind together. He pulls back, just slightly, and for a moment it seems like he might try to separate them and slow things down, but then he just presses his weight against Stiles and starts kissing him again. Stiles makes encouraging noises in the back of his throat and digs his fingers into Derek’s lower back, pulling himself up as Derek pushes down, and nothing matters except the rhythm they’re settling into and the feel of Derek’s body against his and the not-at-all-slow build of pleasurable tension that he thinks might actually drive him insane.
Nothing that amazing can last forever, and he has this vague suspicion that he’s about to embarrass himself but he doesn’t even care, the words are just falling out of his mouth. “Oh my God Derek I am seriously about to come in my pants,” he gasps out, “and I really, really don’t want to do that on my first time with you.”
Derek makes a noise that’s more to acknowledge than agree, but then he’s fumbling with the button and zipper of Stiles’ pants, one hand reaching down to wrap around Stiles’ cock. There’s nothing gentle or teasing about his movements now; his grip is firm and the rhythm fast, like he wants Stiles to come, and just the thought of that, that Derek wants that, sends Stiles spilling over the edge. He lets his head tilt back and just continues making those tiny little whimpery noises as the world goes white and fuzzy and amazing.
When he finally manages to put himself back together, he clears his throat and looks over at where Derek is stretched out on the floor next to him, just watching him. He’s still half-naked and still obviously hard. Stiles stares at him for several moments longer than necessary before he mumbles, “That was a little embarrassing.”
“I enjoyed it,” Derek murmurs back.
“Oh, Christ.” Stiles lets out a wavering breath. “You are un-fucking-fair, you know that?”
Derek just shrugs. “Nobody has a lot of staying power their first time. Don’t worry about it. The important thing is recovery time.” He reaches out and strokes his hand over Stiles’ cheek, his throat, his stomach. “As in, how soon you’ll be ready for another round.”
“Keep doing that and I think I’m gonna be ready pretty freakin’ soon,” Stiles says.
“Good,” Derek replies, “because I’m nowhere near done with you yet. You said you wanted all the rewards, remember? We’re only getting started.”
~ ~ ~ ~