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Stiles rolls to a stop in front of the Hale house, spilling out of the Jeep like he’s still sixteen and in high school. Even from where he’s waiting at the base of the porch, Derek smells the staleness of the air that wafts out with him—a mix of sweat and coffee. From the smell of things, Stiles made the six-hour drive from Los Angeles without stopping, which is better than him speeding.

“Finally decided to wait for me?” Stiles chuckles, slamming the door shut and trotting up to the house, toward Derek. The non-joke being that they really didn’t. It’s nothing to take offense at, because it’s not as though all of them in are in town all the time. Three years of college has done that. Whoever is in town needs to be able to deal with whatever it is that crops up and not necessarily with a ton of backup.

Derek hums, low in the back of his throat. Stiles’ grin falters.

“Is everyone alright?”

“We’re alive,” Derek says, which isn’t saying much, given the group.

Stiles’ lips set into a tight line as he approaches Derek. “Alright then. What do we know?” His face and arms are tan, cheeks pink with the barest hint of sunburn. He’s been in LA for a week on what he jokingly called ‘PD’ and Derek is sure was actually vacation.

Derek would not be hard pressed to say the week in the sun looks good on him. Instead, he gestures to the house and starts walking. “I’ll show you.”

*           *           *

Stiles drives them to the shipyard, having insisted on taking his Jeep. Derek shrugged, not really caring. The days of needing to always be in control, down to things as petty as driving, have mostly fallen behind him. They stop outside the fencing, far out of sight of the main entrance, long since closed for the night, and hopefully lost in a dark well of shadows.

Last night Scott followed the creature here, to the containers it’s using as a feeding den, before calling in for backup.

Derek’s in the passenger’s seat, and there’s nobody else. Kira is out of commission with a broken arm. Scott got hit bad saving Derek’s life. Even with Alpha healing, Scott’s wounds are slow to knit themselves together. The worst one is a gash ripped across the back of his skull, so deep it’s open to show his skull slowly recovering from having cracked open. Cora’s foot was shattered. She doesn’t even have Alpha healing, which means she’s high on the same pain meds as Kira, just laced with a little special something-something to make them werewolf compliant.

So, it’s Stiles and Derek.

“You’re not getting anywhere near this thing,” Derek says, painfully aware that it’s the seventh time he’s said in the three hours since Stiles settled himself at the dining room table in the Hale house and looked over the laughably sparse information already laid out.

Like every other time, Stiles snorts and says, “I’m not planning on it.” Not for the first time, he asks, “How fast is this thing?”

“Not as fast as us, but a hell of a lot stronger,” Derek says, an echo of his previous responses. It was that latter part that had put them in such a bad spot; that, and the suspicious difficulty healing the wounds. Scott had been the first to get hit, gone down hard, head gushing blood. It only took moments to recognize he wasn’t going to be getting up on his own, moments in which a cold dread settled over the rest of them as to whether he’d get up at all. Things went down hill from there.

Scott was always so smart, so tactical. He’d taken lesson from everything in high school and, these days, didn’t let himself get in those bad spots, didn’t let himself get hurt.

“And not killing every night,” Stiles murmurs to himself, slipping out of the Jeep with predatory grace.

The refinement of his movements, that Stiles seems to turn on and off at will, has puzzled Derek for years now. Mainly wondering why Stiles turns it off at all. Not that he’s ungrateful, because those elegant motions do a lot for him. In the dick department. Derek has a hard enough time controlling his dick around Stiles without adding lethal human grace finesse to the bill.

Still unsure what Stiles’ actual plan is, Derek follows him to the back of the Jeep. Pulling it open, Stiles reveals a soft blanket hiding long rectangular boxes. With a tug, the blanket slides away to show what look to be three plastic instrument cases, which, just doesn’t make any sense whatsoever. Stiles’ musical capabilities end at being able to listen to it.

Humming and hawing for a moment, he crawls in, grabs the handle of the furthest case and lifts it over the rest, the sharp, defined muscles in his forearms rippling and shifting with the weight of it.

Derek wants to ask what’s inside, but it’s a silly question, he’ll find out soon enough.

Laying the case down with case, Stiles thumbs at the locks Derek only now notices, before flipping the switches and lifting the lid. Within, nestled in carefully cut padding, are the parts of a very large rifle.

Derek’s mouth goes dry. He sees movement in his peripheral vision, maybe Stiles looking back at him, but can’t take his eyes off the gun in the case to confirm.

“Hey,” Stiles murmurs, with more motion. “Why do you look like that? What’s with this look? Come on. This is not a surprise. You know I have guns.”

He gets himself to nod, knows the sudden stiffness in his neck makes the motion jerky and unnatural.

Stiles reaches up, rests a forearm on Derek’s shoulder as he caresses the back of his neck with the fingers of one hand and presses the index finger of the other against the furrow of Derek’s brow. “Then what’s with the look?”

Finally, Derek manages to blink, tearing his eyes from the gun and bringing his attention to Stiles’ face. “That isn’t a gun.” His voice is rough, mouth still parched.

The smile that pulls at Stiles’ lips makes him frown. “No,” Stiles agrees. “That’s a Barrett M82A1 sniper rifle, which, according to my instructors in LA, I am a natural at firing, so much so that I have been suggested, many times over the past week, to enter some kind of,” the hand on the back of Derek’s neck stops stroking as Stiles’ wrist moves, hand making a gesture of some kind, “competition for, because apparently shooting competitions are things that exist. I mean, I guess I knew that. I just didn’t realize shooting this would be a competition.”

Derek doesn’t know what to say. Eventually, “Instructors?” tumbles out of him.

“Yeah. In LA. Where I’ve been for a whole week? I told you it was PD. Derek, I’m still in school for another semester, and unless I have a job I don’t know about, that’s not protecting Beacon Hills from shit that tries to beat up and kill the people I love, I’m not sure what other ‘professional development’ I’d be doing.”

“Professional... Development.”

“Yes. ITTS. Remember?”

“I thought... I thought you were lying so you could go on vacation by yourself.”

Stiles lets out a soft bark of laughter. “Okay, that totally sounds like something I would do. That actually sounds kind of nice in fact, but no. ITTS.”

“Is not an IT thing?”

“IT as in information technology?” Another chuckle. “No. Oh my God though, hilarious. I should tell Susan so she can try to pass that off on her husband next time. I went for International Tactical Training Seminars. ITTS. Some private lessons, because they didn’t have the ones I wanted scheduled so close together, and then an urban sniper course. I mean, I get that we’re in the forest a lot, but that’s not when I’m going to be using this, because, you know, trees and sniper rifles don’t do amazingly well together, but this,” he gestures with the hand not on Derek’s neck, to their surroundings, “is pretty much the perfect setting. Garret, my instructor, so don’t get your panties in a twist, will be—Well, okay, not proud, because I can’t actually tell him I left session an hour early to actually go shoot something in an urban environment unless I want to end up in prison, but, if he knew about the supernatural and I could tell him, then he would be proud.”

Derek’s pretty sure his eyes are huge. Can feel how his eyebrows have crawled up his forehead while Stiles speaks. With a breath, he calms himself back to neutrality. “You are not firing that thing,”

Stiles chuffs. “I already have. Many, many times.”

“Where did you even get it?”


A strangled sound crawls out Derek’s throat. “No.”

“Yes. And I’m not returning it because it cost me half a year’s tuition, i.e. my third major, to buy it, and I really, really like it,” he says, hand back to stroking Derek’s neck, fingertips curling in the short hairs.

“Half a—How much did that cost.”

“Seven thousand five hundred dollars, plus shipping. You’d think that paying seven and a half grand for something would at least buy you free shipping, but apparently... no. It doesn’t.”

Derek doesn’t even have it in him to make another sound at that. In fact, he has no reaction whatsoever. Stiles has finally done something for which he has, literally, no reaction.

Patting a hand against Derek’s stomach, Stiles steps away and begins assembling the weapon. Long fingers and deft hands bring it together under Derek’s watchful gaze.

He’s still stunned, unable to identify exactly what he’s feeling. Horror? Amazement? The good kind? The bad kind? Fear? Horny?

Stiles affixes the scope and props the weapon, the shoulder part—Derek doesn’t even know, the only time he’s touched a rifle is to break it in half, he knows little to nothing about them—on the ground, and then leans forward, shuffles around the back of the jeep and pulls a legitimate ammunitions box out of under the rumpled sheet. When he straightens momentarily, opening the case, the rifle comes to just an inch or two below his shoulder.

The thing is huge.

Metal clatters.


The sound draws Derek out of his stunned silence and back to reality.

“You can’t kill it with a gun,” he says, unsure if the bitter tint to his voice is because, after all these years, he expects Stiles to know better, or because he’s insulted that Stiles thinks this... thing can somehow do what their pack couldn’t.

Stiles’ shoulders shudder in a soft chuckle. “A Barrett. And yes, I’m pretty sure I can.”

“You can’t kill me with a gun.”

It’s the first thing Derek’s said that makes Stiles pause, but he doesn’t straighten from where he’s sifting through bullets. He doesn’t turn around. “Not with normal bullets,” he says a breath before the pause threatens to become uncomfortable.


“I’ve been making them since I ordered the thing. Always be prepared is not just a motto for boy scouts, I pretty heartily adopted it back when I was in high school and you know that hasn’t changed much.”

A moment later there’s a metallic snapping clipping through the quiet darkness of late evening as Stiles loads the rifle’s magazine. “It holds ten rounds,” he explains as Derek watches his fingers snap each new bullet into the clip. He’s seen this before. Stiles carries a pistol almost constantly, became a reserve deputy for his dad so he could get a conceal carry permit. Derek’s seen him clip bullets into a magazine.

These aren’t bullets.

They’re little... missiles.

Stiles, unaware of Derek’s mini-crisis, is still talking.

“Which is more than enough. At least for this. I mean, if it’s not then we’re pretty much dead, so... you know.” He shrugs. “The bonus is that I don’t have to carry any extra ammo. Man the M107 looks so awesome, and Amir let me fire his yesterday, but it’s a bolt action and, I mean, that’s just stupid considering what we deal with.”

Grabbing the rifle, Stiles slaps the magazine into place.

Derek tries not to flinch.

“I shot a bulls eye at a mile this morning, but I don’t want to wait that long for the bullet to hit considering, you know, supernatural creature.” Hefting the weapon over his shoulder, Stiles’ bicep bulges.

“How much does that weigh?”

“Almost thirty pounds.”

Derek stares at him.

“Don’t worry. I’ve been carrying weight packs while running for a while. Mainly building up muscle mass and, you know, in case I ever need carry anything.” He raises his eyebrows at Derek, making it clear ‘anything’ means ‘werewolf friends’.

Derek wonders when all this has been happening. Says as much.

Stiles chuckles and shrugs. “School? I mean, I haven’t been—I haven’t been trying to keep it a secret. When I’m hear I don’t run with the weights because I’m just trying to survive catching up to you, Scott, and Cora. You think I’m going to add more weight to me?” Another huff of laughter. “I don’t have a death wish, Derek.”

Derek nods, finds himself inexplicably relieved, that Stiles isn’t actively keeping secrets.

“It’s not going to slow me down,” Stiles assures. He turns away from the Jeep and reaches out to grab the hem of Derek’s shirt at the same time. “Come on. I got a place in mind.”

*           *           *

Derek is conflicted. On the one hand, he feels pretty strongly about Stiles not toting around a thirty pound sniper rifle around a shipping yard while hunting an angry something that kills werewolves and people alike; or in the back of his car, which just seems like something that he could go to jail for, even though Stiles has assured him he’s licensed for all these weapons no less than half a dozen times in the past three minutes.

On the other hand, watching Stiles lay prone on the top of a shipping container, rifle nestled to his shoulder, face pressed against it, eyeing down the scope, long fingers curled around the grip, is kind of insanely hot. He’s relaxed, yet fully alert. There’s an intensity and focus that gripped Stiles the moment he set his rifle down and laid on the cool metal, legs splayed for comfort and balance.

Derek glances at his sprawled legs, wonders how well Stiles could shoot if he were stripped at the waist, Derek pressed against his back, nestled between his thighs, bottomed out and rolling his hips into Stiles’ bare ass.

Jesus Christ, this is not the place to be thinking these things. It’s nearing midnight and they’re waiting for the most deadly thing they’ve encountered in a year to peak its head out so Stiles can attempt to shoot it, at which point they will have its undivided, angry attention, and it will probably know exactly where they are. Derek needs to be thinking of how he’s going to get them out of here, how he’s going to make sure Stiles doesn’t end up with a broken arm like Kira, or ankle like Cora, or with his skull split open like Scott.

He shudders at the thought.

Scott’s alive because he’s a werewolf. The healing process may be slow right now, but it’s still working. If Stiles suffers the same injury, or one half as bad, he’ll be dead, not lying unconscious in one of the guest bedrooms.

Stiles’ ankle jiggles, seemingly at random, but it draws Derek’s attention and the more he watches the more he sees a rhythm. A moment later there’s a soft, rhythmic popping from Stiles’ mouth followed by a whispered, “Stayin’ alive. Stayin’ alive.” Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. “Stayin’ alii~iiii~iii~iii~iiiiive.” It’s not sung, just a breathy whisper, and Derek finds himself relaxing, recognizing Stiles’ dedicated focus hasn’t transformed him into some kind of elite sniper pod person.

At least, not completely.

*           *           *

An hour later, Stiles whispers, “I need you to stop looking at me so much.”


“Peripheral vision. Also, while I get that in reality I can’t, I still pretty much can feel your eyes on me.”

“You just look—”


Well, yes. “Focused.”

“I like this.”

“Waiting to kill something?” Derek wonders, stomach churning. They’ve all killed over the years. None of them has grown to enjoy it. Or so he thought.

“No. The challenge. And, I mean, I get that something has to die for it to be a challenge, unless they’re moving targets, or we go deer hunt—We should go deer hunting,” he whispers urgently, interrupting himself. “But not with this. This is... This is waaaaay overkill for a deer.” He sounds a little disappointed. “I can shoot trees though. Also, you’re watching me again.”

“So what?” Derek huffs, not meaning to sound as petulant as he does.

“So, it makes me uncomfortable.”

Derek feels his features twist into a frown. “Oh.”

“Because it feels really intense.”


“And, like, unless you want me hard, and plan on rimming me until I come so hard my brain washes out my dick, and are okay with letting this thing get away, I kind of need you not to have your eyes all over me. And, yeah, part of it is the fact that I have this amazingly powerful weapon in my hands. You looking at me makes me want to know what it would feel like to have control of one powerful weapon while another fucks me until I need one of those herpes donuts from the pharmacy to sit.”

A breath punches out of Derek. His dick twitches in interest. He says, “Okay,” voice haggard, and turns his attention back to the shipping containers the beast is, hopefully, inside.

*           *           *

Around two a.m. Stiles shifts, digs around in his pocket, and pulls out two sets of earplugs.

“I’m a fucking idiot,” he mutters, handing a pair to Derek as he fits his own in his ears.

*           *           *

It’s nearly light out before the thing shows itself, slipping into sight from between two containers to the north. Derek’s stomach churns with the sudden knowledge that it was out all night, that it wasn’t holed up in its container, that someone else might be dead, multiple people may be dead, and all he’s done is sit here trying not to think about Stiles’ dick or ass or both.

The thing is huge, a massive hulk of inhuman monstrosity. At least eight feet tall, Derek had thought it had fur when they first ran into it, which was also when it kicked their asses, but found out that its scaled hide is, in fact, covered in feathers. Taloned feet and hand-like appendages, and a thick tail with spikes at the end that make Derek think of a stegosaurus. Its face is flat, like some kind of pug lizard, with longer teeth than he would have expected.

In a word, it’s hideous.

It hasn’t noticed them, but every muscle in Derek’s body is tense, instincts telling him to take Stiles and run, to figure out an actual way to kill this thing. His blood runs cold when the creature pauses outside the cracked opening of the container it calls home, as though feeling the weight of their eyes, as though knowing someone is near, as though—

There’s a thick explosion of blood, wet chunks of brain and skull, and a deafening burst of noise that makes Derek wonder if his own head is exploding.

Wincing, hands clasped to his head, he watches the body of the creature totter. For a moment it tilts back and it looks as though the thick stiffness of its tail will keep it upright. Then the tail folds and the beast collapses in a heap. Stunned, he rolls to his side, finds Stiles’ features are set in grim determination, that he’s still looking down the scope, and winces prematurely as Stiles’ finger tightens on the trigger another time.

Derek isn’t sure if he feels pride, satisfaction, or horror at Stiles’ next three shots that messily, gorily, sever the beast’s body in half. Actually, he might want to be sick somewhere. He isn’t, because when he turns toward Stiles again, it’s to observe him pull his face away from the scope, features tight and bleak. There’s no joy, for the kill or even for having fired his weapon, not even relief at a job completed. He looks exhausted.

A smile twitches at the corners of Stiles’ mouth when he notices Derek watching him. It doesn’t reach his eyes, and he sighs, “Woo. We did it.”

Derek’s not entirely pleased with himself when the first words out of his mouth are, “What did you put in those bullets?”

Stiles’ smile goes crooked and a little dark. “The first one? Nothing.”

There’s no real reason to ask about the others. The thing didn’t have a head after the first bullet, the others, the severing, was just precaution. His gaze flickers to the Barrett and the skin between his shoulders prickles with understanding.

A low groan drags out of Stiles as he climbs to his feet, hauling his weapon back onto his shoulder. With a free hand, he digs his earplugs out. “We should take care of the body before any early shifters get here.”

Derek nods, notes the sag of Stiles’ shoulders, the droop of him now that the waiting is done and the tension has leaked away. For a moment he considers offering to carry the thirty pounds of weapon dragging Stiles down along with fatigue, but in the end really, really doesn’t want to touch it.

*           *           *

Stiles is the walking unconscious by the time they get back to the house, a skill developed after years of training. His eyes transfixed on Derek’s back, he shuffles after him like a baby duckling, aware of nothing but Derek, following blindly, trudging up the stairs to the second floor, covered in dirt, blood, and ashes after burning the body of the beast and throwing enough bleach around the scene to destroy the viability of any DNA tests. Derek would offer to carry him, but Stiles isn’t a fan of being carried unless he needs it. Maybe back when he was in high school, but not now.

Even so, there’s no complaint when Derek leads them through the master bedroom, tapping the door shut behind them, and into the bathroom. There’s no resistance when, after Derek’s completely stripped and turns to find Stiles barely out of his shirt, Derek pulls it off the rest of the way and helps him with his shoes and pants.

They wash, though it’s mostly Derek washing both of them, not that Stiles doesn’t try his damnest to help. If Derek’s honest, he’s most helpful when he nods off on his feet, swaying precariously under the spray, giving Derek four quick minutes to work a lather into his hair and over his naked body, unhindered.

Stiles jostles awake when Derek herds him out of the shower, leans a forehead on Derek’s shoulder as he lets himself get toweled off, which is a little strange until Derek feels long fingers curl around his biceps and hot lips mouth at his neck. He’s gently drying Stiles’ gentiles when, “If I lay in my sniping position, will you fuck me, slow, until I fall asleep and wake up again?” gets whispered into his skin. “And later I can pull the Barrett out and we can do it outside, while I shoot targets, and... you do too.” Even dead on his feet he snickers at the horrible pun.

Nonetheless, Derek’s half hard.

A hand falls limply down between them, the blunt ends of long fingers brush against his steadily swelling cock.

“Hm?” Stiles hums into his neck. “You can fall asleep in me,” he offers, “Or come over and over until it's dripping out my ass and your cock’s covered in yourself.”

Derek moans, heart hammering in his chest, sweat prickling his entire body. Between them, he’s fully erect and notices, despite Stiles’ tiredness, he’s slowly getting there as well.


“Yeah,” cracks out, low and rough, barely a word. He swallows, has a hard time of it and has to work some saliva into his mouth before he nods and says, “Yes. Sure. Whatever you want.”

“Your cock filling me up and rocking me to sleep. Rocking me awake.”

Stiles has a dirty mouth, but it’s never as lewd as it is when he’s like this. Exhausted and horny, when Derek’s not even sure Stiles knows he’s talking out loud. They’ve talked about it, about the precarious consent of it all, when Stiles is more unconscious than not. Stiles just chuckled Derek’s concerns away and gave whole-hearted permission for Derek to enact all of Sleepy Stiles’ wildest fantasies.

It’s some of the best sex they have.

Derek walks them to the bed, lets Stiles lie down first, belly down, legs splayed—as promised, the same position he held for the better portion of the night. Now, he nestles a pillow next to his head instead of a rifle, and closes his eyes. He hums gently, to himself, or to Derek, when Derek settles between his thighs, spreads him open, and licks from testicles to anus. He prods with his tongue, relishing the taste of Stiles, the feel of him, his warm body pliant under Derek’s tongue and hands.

He takes his time, because there’s nowhere to be and nothing to do, and Stiles asked him to.

When he finally pulls away he crawls over Stiles to the nightstand, grabs lube and—His hand hovers over the condoms, erection straining at the image Stiles has planted: of coming, over and over, while Stiles sleeps, utterly trusting, utterly Derek’s. Something about it makes Derek impossibly hot, his dick painfully hard. He leaves the condoms where they are, takes the lube, and settles back between Stiles’ legs.

The little moans and soft sighs that had pressed out of Stiles while Derek worked him with his tongue don’t come when he slips his first finger in to the knuckle. Stiles’ breathing and heart rate are slow with sleep, and Derek works gently, stretching him open with care not to wake or bother. But when he has three thick fingers thrusting gently into the tight, wet heat, Derek can’t help but push deep, searching, and crook his fingers, pressing and massaging until Stiles twitches and lets out a deep, pleasured groan.

Derek strokes and teases until he hears Stiles’ heart rate pick up, his even breathing shudder. Leaning forward, he asks a final time, “You sure?”

“Fuck me to sleep. In my sleep. Fill my dreams with cock and come.” That last part sounds more High School Stiles than Sleepy Sexy Stiles and makes Derek chuckle. Then he sighs, “Fuck me until I’m so full of you I taste it on the back of my tongue and the scent of you seeps out of every pore.”

Derek slips his fingers out and, not ungently, slides into Stiles, bottoming out moments before the heat and tightens of Stiles and, shit, the image of filling Stiles to the brim, of making Stiles permanently smell like Derek—even if it’s not actually possible—has him coming, hard and long. His fingers dig into Stiles’ hips as he rocks against his ass, chasing the waves of pleasure, trembling with it.

Under him, Stiles hums, pleased, and falls back asleep.

*           *           *

Derek draws Stiles out of sleep with long, slow thrusts, propping Stiles’ hips up ever so slightly out of his sniper position so the head of his cock slides against Stiles’ prostate. It’s a slow process, which is what he wants. He wants Stiles to wake up hard and aching already, pre-come beading at the slit, skin slick with a fine layer of sweat from the heat of need.

He succeeds.

Stiles shudders out of sleep, gasping awake with a stuttered moan of intelligible words. His whole body trembling by the time he’s conscious enough to form words, and when he is he begs, “Oh fuck, Derek, please.”

Thrusting in, Derek leans forward, presses his chest to the heat of Stiles’ back and mouths at his ear. “I wake you?” He rolls his hips and Stiles mewls.

“Oh shit, this is amazing.”

“It’s been hard work,” Derek notes, pulling himself up, sliding out again until the head of his cock slips out of Stiles with a wet pop.

“No. What? Where?” Stiles, attempts to twist in Derek’s grip, which tightens and keeps him in place as he presses against Stiles and slides back in, eliciting a low, throaty noise. “Oh my god. It smells like sex. Derek. Fuck. Please. Please.”

Derek’s been stewing in it for so long he’s forgotten, but now, at Stiles’ reminder, he scents the air, finds himself growling, fangs pricking his lips, as the thick, heady stench of his own come and Stiles’ sweat floods his lugs. “Fucked you,” he says, not quite able to retract his fangs now that they’re out. “Stayed in you,” he continues, drawing out and then, slowly, thrusting forward again. “Ate you out,” he murmurs, hears Stiles’ heart hiccup, “and tasted myself on you.” He thrusts forward, hard, fast.

Stiles fists the sheets, as he groans, “Fuck me, please.”

Derek does, noting when Stiles steadies himself by pressing his palms to the headboard, as he slides into Stiles, loose from hours of fucking, slick with Derek’s come. Confident Stiles is at least aware enough to keep his head from bashing into the headboard, he unfurls a hand from his hip and curls his fingers around Stiles’ throbbing erection, now weeping pre-come.

“Fuck. Derek.”

It’s not long. Half a dozen thrusts until Stiles is coming, hot and hard, onto the sheets under him. Loose limbed, his arms slide away from the headboard, his skull not cracking against it only because Derek’s pulled him, slid him away from it as he pulls Stiles up to shaky knees and thrusts a handful of times until the fire builds in his gut, streaming through every vein and nerve.

Consciously or not, Stiles squeezes around him and Derek’s growls, hips snapping forward, cock deep and hard in Stiles as he comes.

It’s all he can do to collapse just to the side of Stiles, whose hands he feels drawing Derek out of him, allowing him to turn and curl against Derek’s chest. Shimmering brown eyes watch him, pleased grin stretching Stiles’ lips, wide enough to show teeth.

“That was amazing.”

Derek nods, unsure if he has the energy for words.

“You look wrecked. I feel wrecked. Did you really fuck me that whole time?”

Derek musters the energy to grin.

“Oh fuck, that is so fucking hot. God. Please.” Stiles pets at his chest, runs his hands up to Derek’s shoulders, down his arm, up his neck. “Please. I want—” A pink tongue darts out, glossing Stiles’ lips. “Can I do you next?”

If it were at all physically possible, Derek would be hard again. He nods, says, “Yes,” voice hoarse with need.

“And—And you still want to—With the gun. Outside.”

Derek closes his eyes, not quite able to handle all of the input, but wraps his arms around Stiles and brings him in tight. “Yes.”

“So I don’t have to return the Barrett?”

Burying his nose against Stiles’ neck, he shakes his head. “No.”

It’s not just that the idea of fucking Stiles while he holds the gun is amazing, it’s that the memory of the beast’s head exploding is still entirely vivid. Stiles is human, and he accomplishes so much in light of that, perhaps more than the rest of them. For years Stiles has talked about Derek, and Scott, and Cora, and werewolves and supernatural creatures of the like, as powerful—with the ability to be their own weapons when necessary.

Derek shudders, remembering Stiles, rifle in hand, scope pressed to his eye. Stiles has his own weapons, always has, that make him just as powerful and just as deadly. No matter Derek’s misgivings, he’ll never take that away.