Stiles is warm. Deliciously so, considering how cold it's gotten outside. It's almost time for him to leave, but he curls up further into the body next to him, reluctant to get out of their blanketed cocoon. An arm encircles his waist, pulling him closer, and he buries his face in the pillow.
“Sun's up,” Derek says, voice rough with sleep. Stiles' forces his face in Derek's neck, squeezing his eyes shut.
“Not if I can't see it,” he whines. He feels more than hears Derek chuckle, the vibration running along his chest. Derek's hands flatten on his back as the man rolls them over. He begins placing open mouth kisses along Stiles' throat, stubble rubbing pleasantly against the teenager's skin.
“You need to head out,” Derek says, making no move to let Stiles up.
“Funny. I can't seem to get to my clothes from here,” Stiles says, running his fingers through Derek's hair.
“That's a problem,” Derek mumbles against his collarbone.
“I need a shower,” Stiles tries. Derek just takes a deep breath, drawing his nose all the way up to Stiles' ear.
“Smell just fine to me,” he says smugly. Stiles punches him in the arm.
“I would, you jackass."
He eventually gets Derek to roll over, immediately shivering as he breaks away from the warmth of the bed. He takes one of the blankets with him to the bathroom to try to avoid the chill of the air, but he's still shivering even after he steps into the spray of the shower. He should have asked Derek to join him, but even if he could get Derek up and around before 10 o'clock, it would be more than a little counter-productive. So he's significantly surprised and within his rights to flail when he pulls back the curtain to see Derek leaning against the door frame. Despite the near heart attack Stiles just had, Derek couldn't look less threatening right now with his unbuttoned jeans riding low on his hips, messy bedhead, and sleepy eyes. He does seem to wake up a bit as his eyes travel down Stiles' body. Speaking of which...
“This isn't a free show,” Stiles says, breaking out in a full-body flush as he reaches for a towel. As he wraps it around his waist and steps out of the tub, he intentionally avoids looking at Derek when he moves to the sink to brush his teeth. He sees Derek come up behind him in the mirror, arms reaching around to grip the sink, locking Stiles in as he nuzzles the back of his neck. “You know this still really weird, right?” Stiles asks around the toothpaste in his mouth.
“What's weird?” Derek asks. Stiles spits and rinses his mouth out.
“The cuddling. The cuddling is weird. This-” Stiles says, holding up his toothbrush to the mirror. “-is weird. The fact that I have spare clothes here is weird.” He's being playful, but realizes it might not have come across that way when Derek shifts uneasily behind him. “It's not a bad weird,” he rushes.
“I can't... I don't like doing relationships halfway, I guess,” Derek says quietly, not meeting Stiles' eyes in the mirror. Probably for the best because they're on their way to the size of dinner plates. Because Derek just said relationship. That he and Stiles are in one. Officially. He doesn't realize his heart is in overdrive until Derek takes his hand off of the sink to place it on his chest. Derek's still not looking at him in the mirror, but Stiles can see the guarded expression as the man stares down at the sink. And this? This is a bit more than Stiles was expecting. By, like, light-years. When Derek came back, and they fell into... whatever this is, Stiles was pretty sure they would stay somewhere within the realm of allies-turned-booty calls. Anything more had never even seemed feasible.
And yet he has clothes here, and his own toothbrush, and a key. He has Derek's trust and that probably should have been his first clue.
“You don't mind?” he finds himself asking against his better judgment. Derek finally looks up at him, eyebrows drawn slightly in confusion.
“Mind what?” he asks. Stiles looks away, berating himself for even bringing it up.
“Nothing, don't worry about it-”
“Mind what?” Derek asks again, other hand coming up to Stiles' hip. Stiles swallows the lump in his throat.
“I'm not exactly... easy to be around?” he tries. Annoying is the word people tend to use. To his face. There's a reason he has such a small group of friends, comprised mostly of people who are more acquaintances who occasionally need him to save their asses. He's gotten better about it since he and Scott started high school, but he still has moments of disjointed ranting or non-sequitur comments. He's “the odd one” of the group, even when that group is made up of werewolves. Putting up with someone like him is one thing when it comes to an arrangement based on sex. It's an entirely different situation to choose to spend time with him in any other capacity, a feat usually accomplished by his dad and Scott and maybe Lydia on a good day.
“Have we met?” Derek snorts. “I'm not gonna win any popularity contests any time soon.” Stiles opens his mouth to argue that Derek has the whole “drop-dead gorgeous” thing going for him, but he's cut off when Derek presses yet another kiss to his neck. “You are easy to be around. Even if you drive me crazy sometimes.”
“You know that's only gonna get worse, right?” Stiles asks, turning his head. Derek raises an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the side of his mouth.
“If you're the worse thing that happens to me this year, I'll count myself lucky.”
“Wow,” Stiles says, breaking away from Derek to turn around. “Quite the romantic there, Hale.” Stiles gives him a lopsided smile, if only to let Derek know he's joking, before he walks out of the bathroom. He regrets it immediately when the cold air of Derek's apartment hits him full force. “Would it kill you to jack up the thermostat a little?” he asks, going over to open his drawer in Derek's dresser, pulling out a set of clothes.
“Will I see you later tonight?” Derek asks, but they both already know the answer. Staying at Derek's is doable on the weekends, when Stiles can tell his dad he's at Scott's. But it's Monday, and that excuse won't fly on a school night. So instead of answering, Stiles just brings a knee up on the bed, leaning over to kiss him. It was supposed to be a quick peck, but Derek's hand rests on the back of his head and goddamnit he is going to be so late for class.
He was late for class. Whatever. School's been insane ever since someone introduced the concept of Senior Pranks to the graduating class. He considers those extra minutes making out time well spent, since it meant avoiding having his Jeep getting tagged in the parking lot during the morning announcements. He's pretty sure someone is going to be expelled for the sheer number of poorly drawn penises on everyone's windshield. Speaking of make-outs and penises, he has at least two or three hours before his dad's shift ends for the day. Maybe he should call Derek to-
Stiles pulls into the driveway, reasonably confused when he sees his dad's cruiser in the garage.
And by confused he means panicked. The last time his dad came home early, he'd been fired. Stiles walks through the front door with no small amount of dread, dropping his backpack near the door and rubbing his suddenly sweaty hands on his jeans. The light's on in the dining room and Stiles rounds the corner tentatively. He breathes an audible sigh of relief when he sees his dad at the table, case files and paper work spread out across the surface. The man looks up at him over the glasses perched on his nose.
“Hey, kiddo. How was school?” he asks, turning back to the papers he's been holding.
“Fine,” Stiles lies. “What, uh. Whatcha got there?” he asks, quickly stepping over to the table before his dad can hide anything. He's a little surprised when his dad doesn't try to cover anything or swat his hand when he reaches out for a crime scene photo. Stiles actually freezes in the middle of grabbing it, looking at his father expectantly. His dad just shrugs and points to the chair next to him.
“Have a seat, son. There's no point in hiding this one from you,” he says, and Stiles practically throws himself into the chair in excitement. His dad chuckles and readjusts his glasses. “Anymore.” Stiles looks up sharply.
“Anymore?” he repeats. His dad shrugs, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
“I've seen you pop up at enough crime scenes and investigations without explanation to last me a lifetime, Stiles. Back before I knew about-” he waves vaguely, “-all of this, I just attributed it to your interest in my work and your morbid curiosity.” Stiles opens his mouth to contest the “morbid” part, but shuts it as soon as he realizes he can't. His dad pins him with a look. “You have to realize that other people don't know you like I do. Other people might notice a pattern.”
“... And when you say other people, you mean Scott's dad,” Stiles concludes. His dad nods, taking off his glasses.
“He's been asking me questions about you. And your friends, but mostly you. He's taken it upon himself to sift through my more recent cases and he's picked up on a common denominator for many of them.”
Stiles groans and lets his head fall onto the table with a hard smack.
“Can't you just tell him I'm an ambulance chaser? That you're putting me in therapy for my obsession with gruesome deaths?” Stiles suggests half-heartedly.
“Now there's an idea,” his dad mutters under his breath. Stiles lifts his head and fixes his dad with an unamused glare. “Because of his snooping around, I've done my best to keep mum about my current case.”
“What current case?”
“Exactly,” he dad says. Stiles narrows his eyes. Well played, father dear. “Law enforcement from Redding contacted me a couple of days ago. Wanted to know about the incident with the woman missing her liver.” It takes Stiles a second to catch up.
“The one from the graveyard?” he asks.
“Yep. They became significantly less interested when I told them the liver had been taken from a corpse,” his dad tell him.
“As opposed to...?” Stiles leads. By this point his leaning heavily into his dad's personal space, and then man puts a hand on his face, gently forcing his son back into his chair.
"As opposed to the five live people they have in hospitals, also missing fairly important organs.”
“Oh my god,” Stiles says excitedly, bouncing in his seat.
“Morbid curiosity,” his dad stresses.
“Oh, right, sorry,” Stiles says, shaking his head and settling down. “That's terrible. Who would do that to a person,” Stiles says mechanically. “But no, seriously, who? Do they have a suspect? Is that why you're following the investigation?”
“Remind me to take you with me to the next required seminar on empathy in the workplace,” his dad says and Stiles exaggerate a frown. “I called them back last night when a man was found wandering the streets after midnight. Missing his pancreas.” Stiles flails his hands a bit.
“Oh my god!” He's bouncing in his seat again, but his dad seems to have given up trying to taper his enthusiasm.
“The removal was surgical. As were the ones in Redding. Their people think it might be the work of someone selling on the black market,” the man continues.
“... But you think otherwise,” Stiles says.
“Not necessarily,” his dad says. “But there is some reasonable doubt in my mind, because of this.” He places a report in front of his son. Stiles skims the document, picking out keywords and trying to make connections.
“... Excessive blood loss?” he tries. His dad nods. “They had their organs stolen, Dad. Isn't that kind of expected?” he asks. His dad hold up a finger, reaching for a photo and sliding it over to him. Despite Stiles' issue with blood in person, he's never really had an issue looking at images like these. His dad says it's because he's good at compartmentalizing. He also says it's not necessarily a good thing. Nevertheless, the photo is of a man's back, a neat and precise line cut into his abdomen. It's sewn up, evenly spaced stitches holding the skin together.
“That was not done by the ER,” his dad supplies. Dots begin to line up in Stiles' head.
“Right. You said it was surgical. So... if it was done with a fair amount of skill, he shouldn't have lost that much blood,” Stiles says, looking up. His dad smiles and nods, like he's proud.
“Correct. This little detail is what connects our case to the cases in Redding. If this was just a matter of harvesting organs, why take the blood? We know they had to have done so. None of the blood was found at any of the scenes where the organs were taken. No signs of excessive clean up to suggest it was washed away.”
“If there's a market for organs, wouldn't there be a market for blood too?” Stiles asks.
"Maybe,” his dad says absently. He rubs his eyes tiredly. “I could be reading too much into this. Maybe I'm looking for something that isn't there.”
“Something supernatural,” Stiles says.
“Vampires are really in now aren't they?" his dad jokes. "I was thinking about calling Chris Argent later. Maybe Derek Hale, too, just in case.”
“Derek doesn't know about this,” Stiles says absently as he looks through the photos. There's a beat of silence from his dad and he looks back up, meeting his dad's suspicious stare.
“And you know this, how?” the man asks. Stiles breaks out into a cold sweat.
“Beeeeeecause he would have told Scott about it?” he tries.
“And how was Scott this weekend?” his dad asks and shit this feels like a trap. It has to be a trap.
“Good,” Stiles says vaguely. “I mean, he's definitely coming into the whole... alpha thing.”
“Uh huh,” his dad says, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. Stiles fidgets in his seat, torn between keeping his mouth shut or trying to come up with some other bullshit to start spewing. He's about to give in to the latter, preparing to dig himself an even deeper hole, when his dad's work phone rings. Stiles throws a silent thank you to the universe for bailing him out. His dad spares a glance to the number calling, gestures for Stiles to stay put, and walks into the living room as he answers.
While his dad is busy, Stiles takes the chance, using his phone to take as many pictures of the documents on the table as he can. He doesn't know how close he is to being grounded, so he doesn't want to get kicked out of the investigation just as soon as his dad brings him in. There's quite a bit of it he hasn't read yet, and he definitely wants in on this. It might not be supernatural, but he's always been fascinated by his dad's job, even when he was a toddler and his dad was just a deputy.
For as long as he can remember, he's wanted to be just like his dad; he's wanted to do what he does. If he's lucky, Stiles'll be half as good a detective as him someday.
He shoves his phone back into his pocket and tries to situate himself to look as if he hasn't been making illegal copies of sensitive evidence. His dad pauses as he walks back into the dining room, eyes narrowing as he glances at Stiles. Maybe the light whistling and finger drumming was a bit much. His dad goes about collecting all of the photos and documents, placing them back into their proper folders.
“So,” Stiles starts. “What's up? You get called back in?” he asks.
“The manager of the funeral home just outside of town is missing a body,” his dad says as he pulls on his jacket. He's hold up his hand as Stiles surges forward. “No, you cannot come with me. I probably won't be home until late. Do not stay up all night. Just make something for yourself for dinner. I'll get something later.”
“No curly fries,” Stiles says automatically.
“As far as you know,” his dad says as he heads out the door.
“No curly fries!” Stiles shouts behind him. He hears his father chuckle right before the door closes and the house falls silent. He wanders over to the window, peering out of the curtains and watching his dad's cruiser pull out. He waits until the cruiser turns off of their street before he rushes to grab his backpack and locks up the house as he runs to his Jeep.
Derek's apartment, luckily, is in the opposite direction of the funeral home his dad has been called to. He takes the stairs two at a time to his boyfriend's floor and promptly trips as soon as word boyfriend even crosses his mind. He bashes his shin on the next step and falls into a heap, mouth letting out a very deep, very manly whimper. He rubs his shin as he rests his forehead on the offending step. He's already plotting its death and the death of its brethren when he hears a door on the floor just above him open.
Lifting his head, he sees Derek stepping out of his apartment. Stiles waves at him, not ready to take pressure off of the bruise he can feel forming.
“Hey, Derek,” he says, voice strained. Derek pads over to him in his bare feet, and Stiles hates him just a bit, because apparently the cold snap isn't affecting him at all.
“What did you do?” Derek asks, bending down to pick up Stiles' backpack. He grabs a hold of Stiles' arm on his way up, pulling Stiles to his feet. Stiles can't help the hiss that's forced through his teeth, putting more of his weight on his unbashed leg.
“I refuse to answer on the grounds that it might incriminate me,” Stiles says, hopping up the steps. Derek rolls his eyes, wrapping an arm around Stiles' waist, grabbing hold of his belt, and practically dragging him to the door. He doesn't let go until he eases Stiles onto the couch, dropping the bag next to the secondhand coffee table that he sits on in front of Stiles as he takes off the teenager's shoes.
“Let me see your leg,” he says, reaching down for it himself.
“Derek,” Stiles starts, ignoring the sharp ache in his shin. “You are never gonna believe what my dad is looking in on.” Derek raises an eyebrow, pulling back the pant leg and wow. Yep. That's going to be a spectacular bruise very soon. “Ow. Ow, holy crap!” Derek says nothing, merely cradles the calf in his hands, black veins appearing on his forearms. The bone deep ache in his shin devolves away, and Stiles wonders if he should feel bad for shrugging off his pain on Derek, but the guy doesn't even flinch.
“I don't have anything to wrap this with,” Derek says with a frown.
“Don't worry about it. It'll be fine,” Stiles says, pulling his leg out of Derek's hands. He digs into his pocket, pulling out his phone and opening his photos. “Check it out. Someone's been going around snatching people's vital organs. Mostly in Redding, but there was instance here last night. And, just a little bit ago, my dad was called out to the funeral home because they're missing a body.”
“You're a little too excited about the idea of missing bodies,” Derek says as he stands. Stiles throws his arms up.
“Why do people keep telling me that?” he asks in frustration. Derek huffs out a laugh, his expression disbelieving but fond. “Look, this may just be some psychopath looking to make it rich quick, but what if it's not?”
“What do you think it might be?” Derek asks crossing his arms.
“What if this is the beginning of what Deaton predicted? Things being drawn here for nefarious purposes and whatnot.” Stiles does his best not to mention the Nemeton directly; Derek's still not comfortable talking about it, not that Stiles blames him.
“Organ stealing and bodies disappearing,” Derek says with skepticism.
“Yes! And blood!”
“Of course there's blood,” Derek sighs as he plucks the phone out of Stiles hand.
“No, actually it's sort of a lack of blood,” Stiles says. Derek raises an eyebrow, managing to look half intrigued. “Not all of it. Just a couple of pints. So far, all of the victims are alive. Not sure what the guy wants with a body that isn't.”
“What makes you think this was done by the same person?” Derek asks, confused.
“To be fair, it's a definite break in MO, but what are the odds? A dead guy being taken the day after another guy loses his pancreas?” Stiles asks, but Derek shakes his head.
“If the body was already at the funeral home, the odds are pretty good that it was embalmed before it was taken,” he says, zooming in on one of the documents. “If this is a black market thing, what would they want with a corpse in the first place?”
“I don't know. Maybe there are some med students out there hard up for practice cadavers,” Stiles tries. “Or maybe-” Stiles starts, moving away from the couch to straddle Derek's lap, placing his knees on the table. Derek blinks in surprise, one hand automatically coming up to brace Stiles' lower back. “-it is the work of something supernatural,” Stiles finishes, wrapping his arms around Derek's neck.
“As something supernatural, I take offense to that,” Derek says, but with amusement in his voice. Rolling his eyes, Stiles snatching his phone out of Derek's hand and is about to snark back at him when suddenly Derek's hands are on his ass, holding Stiles' weight as he stands. Stiles doesn't have time to wrap his legs around the man's waist because he's immediately dumped on the couch. Derek doesn't follow him, merely straightens back up and walks around the couch and into the kitchen. Stiles is less than amused.
“You can't be smart in my general direction and then tease me like that!” he tells Derek's retreating back. “It's cruel and unusual!”
“Unusual would be the word,” Derek says. Stiles just flips him off, reaching for his bag and pulling out his notebook. He hears Derek messing around in the kitchen, but he tunes it out in order to transcribe what he can from the photos. It seems all of the victims were originally in good health, no older than early twenties, and-
“Oh, dude,” Stiles says absently.
“Find something?” Derek asks, suddenly at his side. Stiles jumps a bit but focuses on the mug that's shoved under his nose.
“Did you make me hot chocolate?” he asks, taking the mug into his hands. It warms his hands enough for him to realize that the apartment is back to being its needlessly cold self. He needs to talk to Derek about how not everyone who occasionally sleeps in this place is a walking space heater.
“Cora forgot a box of it when she left,” Derek says simply.
“How's she doing, by the way? Have you heard from her?” Stiles asks, taking a sip.
“She says it's a lot warmer in South America.”
“Lucky punk,” Stiles says with an exaggerated frown. Derek sits next to him on the couch this time, leaning over to get a look at Stiles' notes.
“What was oh-dude worthy?” he asks. Stiles starts to flail in his excitement, but remembers soon enough to set the mug down.
“Look!” he says, holding up his notes. “Medical information on all of the victims.”
“You realize you probably shouldn't be looking at that, right?” Derek points out.
“But you're not an investigator,” Derek stresses, reaching out for the paper. Stiles leans back, clutching it to his chest. “I just want to look at it,” Derek says, rolling his eyes.
“No, you hypocrite. You just tried to crush my gumshoe dreams,” Stiles says, sticking out his tongue. He squeaks embarrassingly when Derek grabs him by the legs and pulls him down the length of the couch. “Watch the bruise!” But Derek is already reaching out again for the paper that's clutched in Stiles hand stretched far above his head.
Derek takes the opportunity to attack his unguarded sides, fingers pressing into sensitive areas that force a bark of laughter out of Stiles' mouth. His muscles spasm under his skin, forcing him to drop his arms and pull his legs in in order to fight off Derek hands. Derek relentlessly tickles him for a moment more before snatching the paper out of his hand. Breathless with laughter, Stiles makes a feeble attempt to kick Derek in the ribs, but the guy just grabs his ankle loosely as he reads the paper.
“What am I supposed to be looking at?” he asks.
“Nothing. You're not an investigator,” Stiles quips back at him. Derek presses a thumb sharply into the arch of his equally ticklish foot. “Aha! S-stop! Blood type!” he shouts out, trying to pull his foot away. Derek lets it go, eyes tracking the information in Stiles' notes.
“B negative? They all have the same blood type.”
“Yep. What do you want to bet that the missing body is B negative too?” Stiles says smugly. Derek doesn't look convinced.
“You don't know that. And it could just be a coincidence,” he says. Stiles shakes his head.
“Seriously doubt it. It's too rare for something like that.”
“Why am I not surprised you know that?” Derek asks under his breath. Stiles smirks as he grabs the paper out of Derek's hand.
“Same blood type, surgical removal? I'm betting we're looking for a doctor,” he says confidently.
“It doesn't really take a genius to come up with that one,” Derek says, because he's a parade rainer.
“Crushing my gumshoe dreams,” Stiles says, shoving his foot into Derek's face. They spend a good minute or two struggling on the couch, Stiles trying to knee him in the gut, and Derek holding him down by his upper arms. Eventually, Stiles tires out, letting Derek clamber over him.
“Say it,” the man says and Stiles turns his face to the side.
“No, I am not admitting defeat here. Go away,” he says stubbornly. He feels Derek bend down, hot breath against his ear.
“Say it,” Derek tells him again. Stiles sighs, letting his head fall against the couch cushion.
“You're the big bad wolf,” he says without inflection. Derek smirks down at him.
“And?” he prompts.
“No, dude, come on.”
“I'm the big bad wolf and?” Derek drags his lips across Stiles' cheek, pulling back as Stiles lifts his head for a kiss. Stiles lets out a frustrated sound.
“And I'm about to knee you in your big bad balls.”
“Well, in that case,” Derek says, straightening up. Stiles shivers, immediately regretting the removal of his werewolf heater. He's determined not to give Derek the satisfaction of asking him to come back, but he can only lie there staring at the ceiling and being cold for so long before he can't take it anymore. He gets up and looks around, but Derek's not in the living room anymore or the kitchen.
Nope, he's in the bedroom, stripping his shirt off. Stiles stares, transfixed by the muscles moving beneath Derek's skin, and follows the toned lines down his back to his waist and then his, quite frankly, glorious ass. Derek turns as he tosses the shirt on the floor, raising an eyebrow with a smirk on his face.
Stiles tackles him onto the bed.
They're both tearing off Stiles' overshirt, kissing frantically as Derek grinds his hips up. Stiles breaks away in a gasp, taking this moment to pull off his undershirt too. Derek grabs him by the waist, turning them so that Stiles is pinned beneath him. He places open mouth kisses along Stiles' chest as he starts removing his belt and Stiles definitely wants in on that. He reaches down to pop open Derek's jeans and slips his hand inside.
Derek hisses in pleasure, biting Stiles' collarbone lightly. He tongues the indentations left by his teeth, rocking himself into Stiles' hand. Stiles opens his legs, letting Derek settle in between them as he pulls Derek's jeans down far enough to free his cock. He palms it, feeling the gathering moisture at the tip and spreading down. Derek sucks harshly at the skin of Stiles' shoulder causing him to moan out. Reluctantly, Derek pulls back, shoving his jeans the rest of the way down and throwing them over the side of bed. He grabs at the top of Stiles' pants, pulling them open and practically ripping them down and off, underwear and all.
“Oh my god,” Stiles says. Derek smirks down at him but Stiles shakes his head. “Not you, you narcissist.” He points to the large bruise on his shin. “Look at this! It's gonna turn yellow, I just know it.” Derek rolls his eyes, moving back a bit to take Stiles' leg into his hands.
“Does it still hurt?” he asks.
“Depends,” Stiles says with a crooked smile. “Gonna kiss it better?” Derek says nothing, locking eyes with Stiles as he bends down to run his lips just blow the bruise where the skin is still tender. Stiles' breath catches as Derek begins kissing upward, hands running along the outside of Stiles' legs to his upper thighs. He runs his tongue along the crease where leg meets pelvis and Stiles is painfully hard. His hands shoot out, running through Derek's hair and cupping the back of his head. Derek meets his eyes again as he runs his hot tongue up the length of his cock. Stiles can't help throwing his head back with a whimper when Derek tongues the slit before bringing the tip into his mouth.
He's still not used to this.
He's not used to the overwhelming sensation of it, of someone touching him like this. He's torn between focusing on the heat of Derek's mouth and the soothing motions of the man's thumbs on the inside of his thighs. Every downward plunge pulls the air from his lungs and makes his vision swim. He can't help what he does with his hands, alternatively gripping tight and petting Derek's hair or dragging nails over his shoulder. Nothing he's done has ever caused Derek to stop; he seems to read the actions, figuring out what drives Stiles crazy and exploiting the hell out of it. Like the thing he's doing right now, fuck!
“Hng-ah!” The choked off moans are becoming more frequent, no matter how hard he tries to just pant through it. The jerky movements of his legs and the spasms of his stomach muscles are involuntary and embarrassing but, even with as flushed as his face is, there truly isn't enough blood in his brain at the moment for him to care. And he's close. He's so fucking close he can taste it-
“Derek!” But even as he tries to warn the man, the grip he has on his hair tightens, holding Derek's head in place. He doesn't seem to mind, staring up at Stiles as the teenager comes in his mouth.
Stiles is always a bit useless after that, at least for a few minutes. He stares with half-lidded eyes up at the ceiling, trying to catch his breath as the tremors in his body subside. There's not much he can do beyond feeling Derek kiss and nip at his hips and up his torso. He would feel bad about not reciprocating but Derek's always seems to enjoy this part; touching and mouthing at his skin while he's boneless and barely cognizant. He does, however, yelp when Derek bites playfully at one of his nipples.
“Bad wolf!” he says, swatting Derek weakly across the head. Derek laughs, a huff of breath warming the skin between his teeth. He sits back on his heels, leaning over to the night stand. Stiles takes a slow, deep breath, pulling his knees further up one at a time. “You got more lube?”
“You're going to make one hell of a detective, you know that?” Derek quips, popping open the bottle's cap. Stiles plants a foot on the man's chest, trying in vain to push him back.
Derek actually has the audacity to laugh at him, pulling Stiles' foot up and over his shoulder. Stiles rolls his eyes though his face turns bright red again and Derek sets about repositioning his legs. Let the bastard do all the work if he's going to sit there and mock Stiles' life goals.
“I hope you went to Mr. Richard's pharmacy. I hope he judged you at the check out,” Stiles says in spite. Derek still looks amused, the jackass that he is. The same jackass that's gently pressing a slick finger against his hole, circling it before sliding in. Stiles squirms, sucking in shallow breaths of air as his cock twitches with renewed interest while the man works him open. It won't take much; they'd spent the weekend doing very little else but this.
He's too busy just feeling of Derek's finger moving inside of him that he's understandably surprised when Derek brings his legs down around his waist and flips them over.
Stiles blinks down owlishly at him, thrown by the sudden change of position. Derek just adds another finger, causing Stiles to rock forward with a moan. He braces is hands on the firm shoulders below him, biting his lip as Derek begins alternatively rubbing against Stiles' prostate and scissoring his fingers.
“N-not that I'm complaining, but-” Stiles says after gasp.
“Maybe I wanted to enjoy the view,” Derek explains with a smirk as he leans back slightly, his other hand rubbing a soothing pattern into Stiles' thigh. He pushes his fingers deeper inside, forcing Stiles' body to rise up a bit. Stiles' toes curl as his breath catches and his nails bite into Derek's shoulders. Stiles drags them down to his chest in retaliation, but Derek lets out a low satisfied growl, adding a third finger. It's hard for Stiles not to cry out or to rock back onto them. His hips have a mind of their own now, setting up a rhythm Stiles in no way has control over. Derek isn't even moving his hand anymore, seeming content to sit back and watch Stiles take himself apart. Stiles glares at him. He pulls himself off of Derek's fingers in a quick motion, throwing a leg over and turning. Derek doesn't stop him but watches in confusion nonetheless. Once he's turned a complete 180, he gives Derek a smug look over his shoulder. Derek's hands come up to his hips as he settles himself into a comfortable straddle.
“How's the view now, Hale?” he asks, grasping Derek's cock and lowering himself down. He goes slow, making sure that Derek sees every inch disappear inside of him. When he's fully seated, he wiggles experimentally. It causes Derek to tighten his hold on his hips, the tell-tale prickling of claws causing Stiles to shiver. Stiles presses his hands into the mattress between Derek's legs, using the leverage to lift himself up and push back. He can't help but bite his lip as his legs spread open just a bit more. Derek's fingers are back to trying to destroy him, alternating between gentle circular caresses of his thumbs and using them to spread his ass.
“Look at you,” he hears Derek breathe out. He feels one of the man's thumb trace the edge of his stretched hole, gathering the slickness there and then pushing in along side Derek's cock. Stiles cries out sharply, arms folding at the elbows and he suddenly feels too hot in his own skin. His muscle spams around the added intrusion as his breaths come in quicker pants. One of Derek's hands come up to rest lightly against the small of his back. “You alright?” he asks.
“Hng-,” is the most intelligent thing Stiles can come up with. Though his movements have slowed, he hasn't stopped. His plunges are still deep and he reimpales himself on Derek's thumb every time he drops back down. Each time he anticipates the burn of it, the pull eventually losing its sting as his body gets used to it.
So of course, that's when Derek decides to change things on him.
Derek grabs him just below his hips, pulling Stiles off of his cock completely. Before Stiles can ask him just what the fuck he thinks he's doing, he's pushed forward down the bed, having to throw his arms further out to keep from falling face first. Derek's legs are pulled out from under him and he can feel the mattress dip as Derek repositions himself. Stiles is on all fours now, trying to push himself up onto his hands, but Derek runs a hand up his sweat-slicked back, resting between his shoulders as he presses Stiles back down. Derek realigns himself against Stiles' hole, sinking back in with a satisfied exhale.
And then he doesn't fucking do anything.
“Wha-” Stiles canes his neck back to look over his shoulder.
“You can do it,” Derek says in assurance. “You were doing so well.” There's about a thousand things Stiles can say to that, anything from calling Derek flat-out lazy to telling him to go fuck himself. But he doesn't say any of them. Instead, he takes a couple of deep breaths before letting his forehead rest against hands. He arches his shoulders down as his hips push up and back, and he rebuilds his rhythm.
He keeps it slow, gently rocking himself back onto Derek's cock. Derek's hands won't stay still, traveling up and down his back, seemingly trying to encourage Stiles to pick up his pace. Well fuck that, Stiles thinks. If Derek wants him to do all the work so bad, he can just take what Stiles gives him and be grateful for it. As if to punctuate his own thoughts, Stiles pushes back fully onto Derek and clenches tightly around his cock.
Derek chokes off a moan, one of his hands digging fingers almost painfully into Stiles skin. Smirking into the sheets, Stiles keeps his muscles contracted as he pulls forward. He relaxes in preparation of taking Derek in again, but the man grabs bruisingly at his waist. He's pulled back onto Derek's cock sharply, punching out an embarrassing sound from Stiles' mouth.
Stiles pays for his teasing in the power of Derek's thrusts. He grips the sheets in his hands and buries his face even further into the mattress trying to keep the whimpers and shouts muffled because he'll be damned if he gives Derek the satisfaction. It works well enough until one of Derek's hands snakes into his hair, pulling back enough that Stiles' head has to follow.
“Come on, don't be like that,” Derek says, turning Stiles head so that his cheek in pressed into the sheets. He drops his hand next to Stiles' face to brace himself and Stiles briefly considers biting it. A particularly deep thrust breaks Stiles self-imposed voice embargo, because Derek is a dick who just has to have everything his-
“Ah! Oh god-”
Stiles hates himself a little, but it feels too good not to give in, to let Derek piston into him with unrelenting force. He can only brace himself against the bed, rocking with the power of Derek's hips. His stupid whimpering is laid over the slick, wet sound between them. He can feel lubricant and precome coating and cooling the insides of his thighs and it's too much. Too much sensation, too much sound, too much heat underneath his skin-
When he comes, it's with a blinding light behind his eyes. He pants wetly against the sheets, listening to Derek's choppy breaths and the creaking of the bed.
His head is still a foggy place when he comes back to himself. Derek is still going behind him and every time he hits Stiles' prostate it boarders on a delicious kind of painful at this point; Stiles feels overstimulated, so much that even the bruising grip of Derek's hands is nearly too unbearable. Derek is losing any semblance of a rhythm, a sign that he's finally close.
“Come on, Derek,” Stiles says in a rough voice. He moves minutely to the hand in front of his face, drawing Derek's thumb into his mouth and dragging his hot tongue around it. Derek groan deep in his throat, surging forward one last time and shuddering against Stiles' back.
They collapse and lie there for a long time, each trying to catch his breath. Derek buries his nose into the hair at the nape of Stiles' neck and Stiles wiggles a bit, trying to get comfortable since Derek doesn't seem to have any intention of pulling out soon. Whatever, Stiles can roll with that, has rolled with it before, because it's apparently a thing for Derek. Stiles' body is too strung out to do anything about it even if he did mind.
“Don't fall asleep on me,” Stiles says when he feels Derek's breathing even out.
“M'not,” Derek mumbles out, and Stiles snorts.
“At least pull up a blanket, dumbass. Or turn on the heater.” Because as warm as Derek is, Stiles can still feel the cold of outside creeping in through poorly insulated windows. Derek mumbles something again, something sounding suspiciously like In a minute. “Fine, you dick.” They settle into the afterglow, a comfortable quiet broken only by Derek's soft snoring, because he's a lying bastard. Derek's heavy, but not heavy enough to make breathing impossible, so Stiles just reaches back and flicks one of the man's ears even as he feels sleep calling him as well. He lifts his head to look over at the night stand where the clock reads 5:43PM. He's got time, he thinks as he closes his eyes.
Just a couple of hours and he'll go home and his dad will never know he was even gone.
When he wakes up, the first thing he notices is how pleasantly warm he is and the feeling of the comforter pulled up to his shoulders. There's a pleasurable soreness in his muscles that makes him want pull his legs up and fall back to sleep. Derek is gone, he can tell without opening his eyes. The bed around him feels light, absent of the weighted presence of another person. Stiles imagines he's probably in the bathroom or in the living room reading. Really the only thing keeping Stiles from staying in bed is the return of the dull throb in his shin and the growling of his stomach. Sighing in frustration, Stiles resigns to getting out of bed for a lazy shower in which he uses all of Derek's hot water and then making himself an ice pack for this stupid bruise. He stretches as he blearily glances over at the alarm clock.
Which reads 8:55PM.
Stiles' eye practically bug out of his skull. Shitshitshit! Panic is like cold water rushing through his veins as he throws off the blankets and topples out of bed. He exchanges his fantasy of a long, hot shower for the quickest cleanup of his life. He's just gonna have to put up with his shin and rumbling stomach for now, because he's probably really fucking close to being grounded. He nearly trips when pulling on his jeans and searching for his socks at the same time before remembering those were in the living room. He's frantically pulling his shoes on and shoving his notebook back into book bag when Derek walks through the door, a paper bag in-between his teeth as he carries a sack in one hand and unlocks the door with the other.
“Why didn't you wake me up?” Stiles asks in frustration. Derek raises an eyebrow before tossing the paper bag to him and shutting the door. Stiles fumbles with the bag for a second before opening it and breathing in the smell of fried rice and pork. “Oh no, dude, did you go to China Garden?” Stiles ask mournfully. Derek looks at him in confusion as he sets the plastic sack up on the counter.
“Yeah? What's wrong with it? I distinctly remember you offering the owner your first born child once,” he says and he's not wrong. Stiles fucking loves that place. He bounces in place indecisively for a second, eyes flickering from the bag to the clock anxiously. “There somewhere you need to be?” Derek asks, eyes watching Stiles cautiously.
“I should have been home an hour ago at least,” Stiles sighs. Derek pauses in the middle of pulling out the contents of the sack.
“Oh,” he says quietly. “I thought-” He cuts himself off.
“... Nothing. School night, right? You should probably head home.”
Derek shoves the stuff back into the sack before walking stiffly toward the bathroom. Stiles knows he should be running to his Jeep right now, but a cloud of tension has engulfed the entire apartment and he can't just leave it like that. With reluctance, he sets the food down on the counter before following Derek to the bathroom. He walks up quietly, watching as Derek shoves something into the medicine cabinet in stiff movements. Looking closer he sees boxes of bandages, alcohol wipes, and pain relievers and suddenly Stiles feels like the absolute worst boyfriend in the world. He moves forward, slipping his arms around Derek's torso and pressing his forehead in-between the man's shoulders. Derek closes the cabinet and Stiles feels him breathe in deeply.
“I can stay for dinner,” Stiles says into his back, his words slightly muffled by the shirt. Derek moves a bit, and Stiles loosens his hold to let him turn in his arms. He gives Stiles small, sad smile, bringing a hand up to Stiles' face. Stiles brings his head in a bit closer, tilting at just the right angle for Derek to kiss him.
And then Stiles phone starts to ring.
Stiles is too busy fiercely muttering out a string of colorful curses when he digs out his phone to bother checking the caller ID, so when he answers the call he's a little less than polite.
“Stiles? Where are you?”
The sound of his dad's voice sends him into a brief panic, a resurgence of earlier's anxiety ramming back full force for one blinding second. He's in the middle of pulling a convincing lie out of his ass when Derek moves to the side to leave the bathroom, a warm hand coming up momentarily on his shoulder before slipping off. How do you tell your father that you're in the middle having a minor relationship crisis?
“Uh, I'm, uh. I'm getting dinner.”
The answer is: you don't.
“This late? Why didn't you eat earlier?” his dad asks.
“I... may have been going over the case?” Stiles tries.
“Oh really? With what evidence?” His dad's voice carries a certain amount of apprehension that suggests he already knows. Stiles weighs his options; admit to having pictures which would result in a lecture on chain of evidence procedures and how much trouble his dad could get into were Stiles found with them... or fess up to having sex with his much older boyfriend in the middle of the day.
“I'm deleting them right now, I swear,” Stiles says and he hears his dad sigh in frustration over the phone.
“Stiles, how many times-”
“I'm sorry! I just want to help!”
“Just-” his dad starts. “Just hurry on home. It's a school night.”
“Are you gonna tell me what happened at the funeral home?” Stiles asks.
“Stiles, if you aren't home in the next fifteen minutes, you're grounded,” his dad says.
“Right, absolutely. Copy that, Dispatch.”
Stiles hangs up and takes a moment to hate his life. He contemplates leaving the pictures before deciding he would rather not have his dad stick him in the drunk tank overnight as punishment. Again. After deleting the photos, he irritably shoves his phone back into his pocket and walks out to face the awkward tension. He cautiously walks into the kitchen, poking his head around the wall to find Derek leaning against the island waiting for him.
“So, I might have to take a raincheck on dinner.”
Stiles expects Derek to either be angry or resigned; to start making demands that they both know Stiles can't meet or to simply hang his head and say nothing. Instead, he gives Stiles a fond smile before picking up the bag of Chinese food and walking over. Holding the bag out to Stiles, Derek's smile becomes a bit of a smirk.
“Told you you weren't supposed to have those,” Derek says in reference to the pictures. Stiles swipes the bag out of his hand in flash of annoyance.
“Gumshoe dreams,” he says in a low voice, daring Derek to say anything more about it. The man just laughs a little, leaning in to give Stiles a quick kiss before heading to the living room.
“You better get going. Your dad's gonna have your ass otherwise.”
“Oh my god, shut up!”
With that, Stiles runs out of the apartment, fully aware that Derek has just let him dodge a bullet on this whole thing. He'd definitely going to have to make it up to him later.
“So wait. Is there someone stealing bodies or stealing organs?”
“Both. And blood. Don't forget the blood.”
“Someone is stealing bodies, organs, and blood,” Scott says as he goes over everything Stiles just told him.
“Well, all of those things have been stolen. The question is whether or not it's the same person and if that person is, you know, the devil.”
“Stiles, I feel like you've just jinxed us,” Scott says as he opens locker. “I don't want to fight the devil.”
“You heathen,” Stiles jokes as he pats Scott on the shoulder. Scott laughs as he gathers his books.
“I am too. Think about it, Scott. It's a little unlikely that all of this is just coincidental,” Stiles says as they head to class.
“Yeah, but it's not impossible,” Scott counters. Stiles is close to smacking him upside the head when they finally take their seats. “Hey, did you say it was the MacAlistar Funeral Home?” Scott asks.
“Thought I remembered hearing something about it the other day,” Scott says with a look of absolute concentration.
“What, you mean like on the news?”
“No, no. Here at the school. Gimme a minute, it'll come to me,” Scott says. Stiles is about to grill him further nonetheless when Finstock walks out from his office.
“Stilinski!” he says loudly. “Go to the boiler room and get me more post-it notes. Because of some people,” Finstock says with a sneer, “every square inch of the inside of my office was covered with the damn things from floor to ceiling!” There are a few scattered snickers amongst the class before the coach slams his hand on the desk. “Cut it out! Stilinski, get goin' while I interrogate some of the seniors in here.”
“Why do I have to do it?” Stiles asks petulantly. He kind of wants to stay and watch this. If it goes in any way like the Inquisition of the Dodgeball Debacle, it's something he wants to bear witness to in its full glory.
“Maybe if you didn't come in dead last on every run we do in gym, I'd have picked someone else.”
“That doesn't even make sense, Coach!” Stiles says, but he gets out of his desk anyway and stomps toward the door.
“Just do it, for Christ's sake!” Finstock yells.
“Where's the logic in having supplies in a freaking boiler room anyway?” Stiles shouts back, barely dodging the dry eraser Finstock throws at him. He stumbles out of the room quickly before he can be pelted with anything else and makes his was down the stairs. He drags his feet the entire way to the first floor and then to the creepy stairs down into the boiler room. He really needs to talk to someone about this, because this is why the printer paper in the library is always slightly moldy. Maybe he'll get a petition going, because really? The English room has a perfectly good storage closet for holding all of this stuff; the ball-point pens, the staples, the corpse, the paper, the- Stiles freezes in the middle of collecting all of the pink colored post-it notes to look back over to the right.
And yep. That's a dead body.
Stiles sits in the principal's office and tries to look as innocent as he actually is. He doesn't think he's doing a good job, since his dad is leaning against the principal's desk with fingers rubbing against the middle of his forehead, as if trying to dispel an oncoming headache. Principal Thomas sits behind his desk and continues to give Stiles disapproving looks while Scott's dad takes down his statement.
“And you just happened to find the body there?” Agent McCall asks.
“Yep,” Stiles says, popping the 'p' at the end. “Right there next to the spare Econ books. It's kinda funny, he actually looked like he was sitting there reading one. I mean, with the suit and everything it's like he was ready to start giving a lecture-” Stiles immediately drops his smile when he realizes that no one else in the room finds it as humorous as he does. Tough crowd.
“This isn't anything to joke about, Stiles,” Agent McCall says, crossing his arms. Stiles is so unimpressed by the obvious peacock show of authority that he actually relaxes back into his chair and props his head up with his fist. His dad gives him a warning glance, but Stiles can tell he's a least a little bit amused. “A body stolen from a funeral home is on school premises and you, of all people, were the one to find it.” Unease twists in Stiles gut, despite his nonchalant posture but he's saved from having to say anything when he dad pushes off of the desk and moves to stand between him and McCall.
“Just what exactly are you insinuating here, Agent?” his dad asks firmly. McCall draws himself up to his full height in order to look down at the Sheriff.
“Your son has an awful habit of being just at the edge of things; crimes scenes, murders, jail breaks. Why is that?”
Stiles looks nervously from his dad's back to Agent McCall's face and shifts in his chair. There's a tension in his dad's shoulders that suggest he's about five seconds away from decking Scott's dad right here in school. Principal Thomas leans back in his chair in trepidation.
“Gentleman,” he says, “I don't think this is assisting in your investigation at all. Might I suggest that the Sheriff take his son home for now? I'm sure if you have any further questions then that they'd be more than happy to comply.” Wow. This man really doesn't want a fist fight happening in his office. Stiles's dad and Agent McCall stare each other down for a bit longer before the Sheriff eventually turns to gesture for Stiles to get up and get his things. Stiles springs out of the chair to grab his book bag and follows his dad out into the hall. The Sheriff is walking down the hall at a relentless pace, and Stiles knows better than to say anything until they reach the parking lot. Hell, his dad is angry enough that he should probably keep his mouth shut all the way home, but Stiles can't keep it in anymore.
“Dad, I'm sorry-”
“Don't,” his dad says firmly. Stiles is jolted still for a moment, so sure that the man was angry at him. But his dad just sighs and scrubs a hand over his face. “Don't apologize for something you couldn't help.” Stiles immediately relaxes and gives his dad a grateful smile. “Go get your Jeep. I'll meet you at home and then we'll talk about what we're going to do.” And with that, his dad turns to his cruiser and Stiles goes to hop into the jeep.
When they get home, Stiles immediately starts firing texts to Scott and Derek about what happened. With any luck, it'll spur Scott into poking around the school while the investigation team is there. And with better luck, maybe Derek will go snooping around the funeral home.
“Okay,” his dad says at the kitchen table. “Let's get your story straight.” Stiles eyebrows shoot up as he pauses in the middle of his texting bombardment.
“Um. Dad, isn't that the thing guilty people do?”
“It's the thing smart people do,” the man says, pulling up his legal pad and a pen, and putting on his glasses. “I'm gonna go over some questions that you'll most likely be asked. We'll work from there. Where were you Sunday night?”
At Derek's apartment, having as much sex as two people can possibly fit into one weekend
“... At Scott's,” Stiles says. His dad looks up over his rims skeptically.
“Is Scott aware of this?”
“Yes?” Stiles tries. He holds his dad's judgmental stare for a record of 3.4 seconds before dropping his shoulders and sending a text to Scott. “Yes. He's aware. Hey, whoa wait. Are you say the corpse was taken the same night the dude got his pancreas cut out? It wasn't the next morning?” He's not even meaning to deflect his dad's attention, but it works nonetheless when the man sighs.
“Both incidents happened around the same time. The only reason the funeral home took so long to notice is because the guy wasn't supposed to be buried until Wednesday. They had other funerals to arrange before then,” his dad explains.
“So we're looking at two different people,” Stiles says more to himself. His dad nods, returning to his legal pad.
“Technically we're only looking for one. We caught the guy who took the pancreas this morning.”
Stiles nearly drops his phone.
“He was pulled over for not using his turn signal out of town. Deputy Parrish saw something odd in his backseat through the window, did a standard check, and found a couple of coolers,” his dad says. Stiles flails his hands uselessly, urging his dad to go on. “Packets of blood and an organ on ice. Turned out to be a med student from Irvine trying to pay off his loans. Since B negative is fairly rare, he was able to make a lot of money selling the organs and the blood. And now he'll be spending quite a good amount of his time in prison.”
“A med student?” Stiles asks, collapsing into a chair, feeling a little put out. “Are we sure he isn't a Satanist med student?”
“It's just so...” Stiles struggles to find the word. “Normal.”
“Black market organ trade is not normal, son,” his dad says.
“You know what I mean.”
“I'll take normal over supernatural any day.”
“Hey, buddy, I'll have you know some of my best friends supernatural,” Stiles says. His dad at least laughs a little. “But seriously. Was there not anything weird about this guy?”
“Stiles, this had nothing to do with the tree. I'm glad that you're staying vigilant, but stop reaching. A good detective knows to let the evidence speak for itself, rather than try to force it to say anything he or she wants it to,” his dad says before looking up at the clock. “Come on. I imagine Agent McCall isn't too far away from making a visit. You were at Scott's for the weekend. What did the two of you do?”
“Video games, pizza.” Stiles offers him the most standard of their bro-nights. He's sort of on autopilot, still reeling from the knowledge that at least one of their investigations really isn't connected to the Nemeton's bullshit somehow. It's a relief and an annoyance all rolled into one, but now he wonders where that leaves the rest of his theory.
“No wondering around town after midnight, then?” his dad continues.
“We're not ne'er-do-wells, Dad.”
“What about Derek?” the man suddenly asks.
“He wanted to try this new-” Stiles catches himself and nearly bites his tongue with how quickly he closes his mouth. He stares at his dad with wide eyes as the man zeros in on him.
“What was that?”
“To try... the new chicken thing that the China Garden has. Yeah.” And once Stiles starts lying, it's a little hard to stop himself. “You know, so he called us. Me and Scott. And he asked us if it was any good. The chicken thing. So we all got China Garden one night and ate it. At Scott's.”
“Is Derek aware of this?” his dad asks. Stiles sighs deeply as he picks up his phone and texts Derek.
“He is now,” Stiles says, tossing his phone back onto the table. His dad pulls off his glasses and sets the legal pad aside.
“Stiles, once we handle this situation with Agent McCall, we will be talking about this.”
“About what? What's there to talk about?” Stiles tries.
“Oh, I don't know, Stiles,” his dad says irritably. “How about the fact that Deputy Parrish saw your Jeep parked outside Derek's apartment complex yesterday? Would you like to start there?”
“I'd like to talk about Deputy Parrish and how much of a Nosy Nancy he seems to be.”
Before his dad can tear into him, there's an insistent knocking at the door. Stiles never thought he'd think of Agent McCall as a saving grace, but the world is horrible, so why not? Stiles bolts from his chair to run to the front door, leaving his dad at the table to wad up his list of Stiles' answers and throw them away. Stiles hopes he doesn't screw this up; he knows McCall will do everything in his power to pin this on him, because what better way to discredit the Sheriff than through the actions of his son. It's not like there isn't a precedent already set for it. He tries to push down the guilt he still feels about that as he schools his features back into a look of contempt and opens the door.
Derek stands there with hands stuffed into his jeans. This is the first time in Stiles' memory that Derek didn't just appear out of nowhere in his room or stand like a creeper out in his backyard. Nope, instead he's here, on the Stilinski porch in the middle of the day when his hair isn't even gelled and sans leather jacket. It's so mundane in presentation that it doubles back around and becomes surreal.
“What are you doing here?” Stiles finally asks. Derek digs out his phone and holds it up.
“I might be arrested soon; will you visit me in jail? XOXO,” Derek recites from Stiles' text. “Stiles, what the hell?” Stiles works his mouth for a second before answering.
“Yeah, okay, but did you get the one about the Chinese food?” he asks. Derek glares at him, jaw setting in a hard line. It loses its heat though when Stiles' dad walks up.
“Stiles, head on inside and go over the questions I have written down. Make sure you have an answer for each of them.” Derek's whole demeanor visibly changes, his back straightening and a nervous air replacing his prior annoyance. The Sheriff looks at Derek like there's about a hundred and one things he wants to say to him, but instead just gives him a slight nod. “Derek.”
“S-sheriff.” And Stiles watches in fascination as Derek hand twitches at his side, raising a couple of times as if he intends to reach out and shake the other man's hand. But apparently deciding against it, he shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans. The awkward tension on the porch is at its max; Stiles' dad crosses his arms and never once lets his glare drop from Derek, while Derek couldn't look any more like a man on trial if he tried. Stiles glances between them with mounting anxiety before he puts himself in-between them.
“Uh, Dad, maybe I should-”
“Just listen to me for a second!”
And then an unmarked car honks at them from the street as it pulls up at the end of the driveway behind Derek's Toyota and Stiles' dad swears. Derek's shoulders finally relax a little now that the Sheriff's glare isn't on him, but he looks over to Agent McCall with suspicion.
“I'm not interrupting anything, am I?” McCall asks as he walks to the steps of the porch. Stiles gives in to the urge of flipping the man off and the Sheriff puts a hand over his son's to push it down without taking his eyes off of the agent.
“A phone call would have been appreciated,” Stiles' dad says in irritation.
“You were expecting me,” McCall says, dismissing the Sheriff's statement. “Say, mind if I take a look?” he asks, pointing to Stiles' Jeep. He doesn't wait for a reply before walking over to it.
“Yes, actually!” Stiles says, stepping forward. But his dad throws out an arm to keep him from going any farther. Stiles watches in frustration as Agent McCall looks in one of the windows and moves to open the back. Stiles turns to his dad. “Really?” he whispers harshly.
“It won't be a problem since you have nothing to hide,” the man says in a low tone before turning a critical eye on his son. “Right?” Stiles swallows the lump in his throat and most definitely does throw a glance back to Derek.
“Y-yeah. No, yeah, I get it.”
“Surprising roomy back here,” McCall calls up to them.
“Not really,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes. McCall nods his head, conceding.
“Maybe not exactly comfortable. But I don't think a guy that's been embalmed would complain too much, do you?” he says. At this, the Sheriff steps angrily down to the driveway as Derek moves to block Stiles from McCall's view. Stiles elbows him to the side and continues to try to set Scott's dad on fire with his imagination.
“That's a hell of an accusation you keep making. You wouldn't happen to have any evidence to back it up, would you?” his dad asks. McCall ignores him and looks up at Stiles.
“You think it's funny to take a person's body and use it as a prop?”
“What the hell is your problem?” Derek growls out. McCall finally acknowledges his presence, looking uneasy when Derek steps down to the driveway. Stiles bolts down, once again reinserting himself between Derek and the law.
“Okay, whoa! Hey,” he laughs nervously. “Can we maybe not turn this into an episode of COPS? Look,” he says, turning to McCall. “You just because I found the body doesn't mean I'm the one who took it. Anything you have right now is just circumstantial. You can't arrest me.”
“Arrest you, no,” Agent McCall says. He reaches back and pulls out a pair of handcuff. “But while the investigation at the school still going on, I can have you detained for twenty-four hours.” And that's when shit hits that fan.
The Sheriff rears back to punch Agent McCall but it's Derek's fist that connects with the man's jaw. McCall stumbles back into Derek' Toyota, landing against it with a sound that suggests there's going to be an impressive dent. Stiles' dad stares wide-eyed at him with his arm still in the air, while Stiles lets out a laugh bordering on hysterical before biting his lips and burying his hands in his hair. Derek slowly straightens out of his punchy posture as McCall whines in pain on the ground. He turns toward the Sheriff and Stiles with a look of apologetic guilt.
“That was probably the opposite of helping,” he says needlessly. Stiles' dad just walks up and hesitantly claps Derek on the shoulder a couple of times.
“Almost definitely. But that was one hell of a right hook.”
Five minutes later, both Stiles and Derek are seated in the back of McCall's unmarked car while the agent and the Sheriff yell at each other outside. The men's voices are muffled but clear to make out, and Stiles can't help but listen with pride in how creative his dad is with his insults. He's even throwing out some particular phrases that Stiles never in his life thought he'd hear from him. And although it's both very entertaining and enlightening, Stiles knows his dad is just making it harder for himself in the long run by fighting with McCall. He's thinking about whether or not he should call a taxi to take him and Derek to the station, since this argument doesn't seem to be winding down any time soon, but then he feels fingers thread themselves timidly through his.
“Sorry that I made things worse,” Derek says, eyes forward. Stiles snorts and turns from watching the shouting match.
“Things were already kind of bad. You should probably worry about yourself now,” he says. Derek gives him a questioning look. “Well, you did just assault a Federal agent.” Derek groans and lets his head fall against the driver seat's headrest.
“There goes my clean record,” he grumbles. Stiles pushes their fingers more tightly together, hooking his around Derek's. If Stiles is honest with himself, the reckless jump to defend his questionable moral honor was kind of hot.
“Hey, look at it this way: I know for a fact you just racked up some major points with Scott.,” he tries. Derek huffs out a laugh, but doesn't lift his head. “And my dad,” Stiles adds. Derek looks over at him and then past his head through the window.
“Maybe I should go punch him again.”
“Let's not get carried away.”
They don't even bother with the interrogation room, instead going back into the office that McCall has claimed for himself. He pulls the blinds down to in order to keep out the judgmental eyes of the station as he grills the Sheriff's son and processes the son of a once prominent family for assault. Stiles' dad is red faced, but he stands in the corner with his arms crossed and keeps his mouth in a tight line. McCall walks behind his desk and brings an ice pack up to his jaw while glaring at Derek, who matches his glare head on.
“The two of you are in a lot of trouble.”
Stiles is pretty sure he and Derek roll their eyes in sync.
“Why don't we start at the beginning of all this, Stiles,” McCall says. Stiles shrugs in an exaggerated fashion and crosses in legs.
“Well, once upon a time, this guy – a real dick, let me tell you – came into town and started trying to get my dad fired.” McCall doesn't appreciate that and frowns angrily at him. “I know, right?” Stiles asks. “What kind of asshole does that?”
“Language,” his dad says from the corner, though he doesn't seem that upset by it. Stiles gives him a wink and leans back into his chair, refraining from saying anything else.
“How 'bout this?” McCall says. “Where were you Sunday night?” Stiles keeps himself from glancing over to Derek and hopes Derek is keeping his poker face.
“I was at Scott's,” he says easily. “Not that you would know,” Stiles can't help but say. “Seeing as how you don't live there anymore.” His words are tinged with spite, even though he keeps his tone cooperative. McCall's expression borders on enraged for a brief moment before he he gives a humorless chuckle and walking to stand in front of his desk. Stiles watches him warily as he reaches into his pocket to pull out a phone.
“Scotty, if your dad asks, I was with you all weekend. I'll explain everything later. P.S.: your old man can go jump off a cliff,” McCall reads.
Stiles swallows and he hears his dad shift uneasily on his feet. His mind is racing about a mile a minute trying to come up with something – anything – that would sound plausible enough to get this guy off of his case. But what could he do? He doesn't have another alibi lined up and anything he says at this point would just sound like the lie it is.
“Why'd you do it, Stiles? For kicks? For attention?” McCall asks.
“I didn't steal the body,” Stiles says.
“Maybe you were acting out,” McCall continues, ignoring Stiles' assertion. “Your dad's a busy man; I'm sure he must not have a lot of time for you.”
“You're one to talk! I didn't do it!” Stiles tells him, getting angrier by the second.
“Then where were you?” McCall demands. Stiles glares at him for a moment before averting his eyes, mouth held firmly shut. “Come on, Stiles,” the agent presses. “It's an easy question. You weren't at home and you weren't at Scott's. You know what I think?” Stiles bites back a sarcastic reply as McCall leans forward into his personal space. “I think you were at the funeral home. I think you found a way in and-”
“And what?” Stiles asks. “Dragged a two-hundred plus pound body out the door and into my Jeep?”
“Maybe you weren't alone,” McCall counters, pulling back and shrugging. “Maybe Scott helped you. You've always been good at talking him into doing things-”
“Are you kidding me right now?” Stiles sits forward in his seat, hands gripping the arms of his chair. “Scott would never do something so stupid!”
“Maybe it was your boyfriend here,” McCall says turning to Derek. He's obviously joking, but Stiles freezes nonetheless. McCall must notice, because he pauses, looking between them before settling back on Derek. “You look like a strong guy,” he says. “I bet you could lift a body pretty easily.”
“I didn't help to steal a body,” Derek says, as if it's the dumbest thing he's ever heard. “And neither did Stiles.”
“You sound pretty sure of that,” McCall points out.
“I am,” Derek says and Stiles feels his hands and feet go cold. Derek's features are set in a grim line as glances back at the Sheriff before sighing. “Because we were at my apartment Sunday night.”
Stiles closes his eyes and waits for it.
“Were you aware of this?” McCall asks Stiles' dad after a moment of silence.
“I am now,” the Sheriff says. Stiles can't bring himself to look at him, keeping his eyes on his feet. He understands that Derek is just trying to get Stiles out of some serious trouble, but Stiles wonders if he even fully gets just how hard he's royally screwed himself.
“And what was the nature of this... visit?” McCall asks. Stiles rolls his eyes and gives him an annoyed look.
“Derek bought some IKEA furniture and didn't know what to do with all the extra pieces,” he snaps.
“Stiles,” his dad warns, and yep. He's mad.
“We'll talk about this later,” the man says. Stiles opens his mouth to argue – to what extent he doesn''t know, but a knock on the door stops him and a deputy pokes her head in
“Sorry to interrupt, but your son is here with a few of his friends,” she tell McCall.
“Tell him to wait.”
“He's very insistent,” she says. McCall sighs and tosses his ice pack onto the desk. He moves to walk out of his office, but two people are pushed in before he can make it to the door. Stiles recognizes them from school; they're on the varsity basketball team, but he can't recall their names. They both look like they're about to be put on death row when they see his dad and Agent McCall. Scott walks in behind them then, blocking the door when both try to turn tail and run. His gives them both a disappointed look and turns them to face McCall.
“What is this?” his dad asks. Scott smirks at him before patting them on the shoulders.
“These two have something that they'd like to say,” Scott says. Neither of the guys looks like they feel particularly eager to be getting chatty with law enforcement.
“Come on, man, my mom's gonna kill me-” one pleads.
“Tell him,” Scott says again, and Stiles can hear a small amount of alpha in his voice.
“It was just a joke!” the other insists.
“Hold on, hold on,” McCall says, waving a hand. “What is this?”
“They're the one's that stole the body and put it in the supply room,” Scott tells them. “And they'll be more than happy to be as cooperative as they can be. Right, guys?” Scott grips their shoulders hard enough that they both flinch and nod.
Stiles is going to kiss Scott, but he's in a room with at least three people who probably wouldn't appreciate that, so it'll have to wait until later.
“Another senior prank, are you fucking serious? Scott, a prank is a bucket of water on top of the door. A prank is cellophane over the toilet bowl. Stealing some guy's body days before he's supposed to be buried in order to frighten your teachers? That's a prison sentence! Plus, like, a fine and a buttload of community service!”
“Dude, I get that. Normal people get that. I don't know what they were thinking. I'm pretty sure they're also the guys who glued Principal Thomas's mounted sword on top of his car,” Scott says.
“You mean the one that used to belong to Gerard?”
“Yeah, that one.”
He and Stiles sit in break room of the station while the seniors are processed. Derek was moved to the Sheriff's office, and Stiles really hopes his dad isn't angry enough to commit murder in his own place of work, because that would be such an amateur move. If he was going to kill someone for being involved with his son, he should really put some thought into it. Stiles sighs and wishes Scott had pulled his deus ex machina just five minutes sooner, if only so killing Derek wasn't a terrifyingly real possible option at this point.
“It really bugged me that the name of the funeral home was so familiar,” Scott continues. “When the police showed up, those two were freaking out in the locker room and I remembered that they were talking about it at practice last week. I tried to text you, but I think I left my phone at home.”
“Your dad has it,” Stiles tells him off-handedly as he wrings his hands.
“So wait,” Stiles says, ignoring him. “The organs were taken by a med student who couldn't pay his bills-”
“-and the body was just a bad joke?” Stiles finishes. “None of this had anything to do with... anything?” Scott shrugs.
“At least it wasn't the devil?” he tries. Stiles lets his head hit the table.
“My very legally questionable relationship with Derek has been outed over normal, everyday stupidity?” he laments.
“Wait, what?” Scott asks.
“I was so sure this had to actually be something. Your boss was all doom and gloom a few weeks ago! He made me think shit was going to go down a lot sooner than this!”
“I'm sorry, can we go back to the Derek part?”
“You mean how he's probably going to jail for punching your dad and sleeping with me?”
Stiles just pushes his forehead into the table harder as Scott freaks out a bit. Everything is so screwed up; he doesn't even know where to start to try and fix it. Derek is so thoroughly boned right now, and Stiles can't help but think about how much this changes things. No more late nights on his couch watching old movies, no more pestering the man while he tries to cook. No more mind-blowing sex, or lazy weekend mornings in bed. He's not going to get to mock Derek's choices of select reading before bed and get a pillow in the face for calling him a nerd.
What ever little rough patch they managed to get over yesterday would be for nothing. Hell, the fact that they had finally gotten to a place for rough patches to actually happen is a null point now. He's only just turned seventeen, they don't even have the excuse of just being a few months off from being perfectly legal. It's not like his dad is actually going to buy that crap furniture excuse, especially since he'd already been suspicious in the first place. If he's lucky, he might be able to compromise with his dad; stop seeing Derek in return for him not being charged with anything worse than assault. If he promises, swears even, to put an end to his relationship with Derek, maybe he can salvage what little he can.
He'll pick up his toothbrush and his clothes. He'll give back Derek's key.
“Stiles? Hey, Stiles, are you okay?”
Not really. He's pretty sure he's crying. He jumps a little when he feels a hand on his back. He looks up to tell Scott he appreciates the gesture, only that he kind of just want to sit and wallow, but when he looks up he sees his dad. Stiles sniffs and rubs his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt and tries to compose himself.
“So,” he says with forced cheerfulness. “Looks like body snatching stays on my bucket list for one more year.” His dad isn't deterred, though, still looking at him sadly. It makes Stiles feel jittery and guilty all at once. He needs to tell dad what he'd decided, and gets as far as opening his mouth when his dad beats him to it.
“Why don't you head home,” the Sheriff says. Stiles looks up at him in surprise.
“What? But, Dad, I-”
“Just,” his dad intercepts. “Just trust me, alright?”
Stiles doesn't feel great about leaving the station without talking to Derek, but his dad doesn't exactly leave room for argument. Scott stays with him for a while, and Stiles fills him in on the things he's been keeping to himself. It's not that Stiles thinks Scott will disapprove necessarily, but up until Monday morning, Stiles had been playing everything by ear. Things with Derek seemed to be too good, almost precarious in a way. Like any wrong move on Stiles' part could send it all falling down. If their arrangement was destined to fail, then Stiles had wanted there to be as few witnesses as possible.
And then Derek had said they were in an honest to god relationship, and suddenly things were given a firmer foundation. One that he and his stupid morbid curiosity have now just put into jeopardy.
Scott seems confused by most of it, still not particularly sure how this thing with Derek got started, but neither is Stiles, so he doesn't go there. His friend doesn't say anything though, just sits and listens until Stiles is pretty much finished.
“So,” he finally says. “You guys are actually... pretty serious?”
“We were getting that way, I think.” They're both quiet for a bit before Scott stands up from Stiles' computer chair and pulls him into a hug.
“You going to be okay?” he asks as he pulls back. Stiles shrugs.
“My chest kind of hurts.”
“Heartbreak,” Scott says with a small smile. “Two billion songs written about it.” Stiles laughs despite himself. “Hey, come on. Maybe you could talk to your dad like you said.”
“That conversation would probably include Derek being run out of town,” Stiles says. Scott tilts his head, conceding the point.
“Probably. Or maybe your dad can see that Derek makes you happy. He does make you happy, right?” Stiles takes a moment to really think about it, about going over cases with Derek and waking up next to him, and he doesn't really need to go much further before a small smile slips out. “See?” Scott says. “Stiles, your dad's super reasonable. I'm sure you guys can work something out.”
“Sometimes you live in a Disney fantasy, Scott, where true love trumps laws, and I just don't have the heart to bring you out of it,” Stiles says, patting Scott's shoulder. Scott goes to say something else, but he stops himself, turning his head as if listening. “What is it?” Stiles asks. Scott turns back to him and shakes his head.
“Nothing! Just a squirrel! Hey, I'm... I'm gonna head out, okay?” he says, jerking a thumb over his shoulder.
“I thought we were having a moment here?” Stiles asks, raising an eyebrow.
“Totally!” Scott says. “And I'm here for you! But I have a- I gotta go. Home. So, like, call me! If you want to talk about it more, okay?”
And then suddenly Scott leaves. Just... runs out of Stiles' room and down the stairs, like they hadn't just been having a heart-to-heart. Stiles stares at his door in disbelief. Okay, really? He calls bullshit on this. The next time Scott gets dumped, Stiles is now under no obligation to supply emotional support. Nope. Screw that, let him just- Whatever. Maybe he will call Scott. Yeah, he'll call him and spoil the end of every movie he knows Scott's been wanting to see. Maybe even give that Kira girl a ring and tell her every gross, embarrassing story about Scott that he knows, starting with the beetles in fourth grade and then-
Stiles nearly has a heart attack when turns around angrily and bumps into Derek's chest.
“Oh my god!” Derek's hands come up around his arms to steady him when he steps back and Stiles punches Derek in his stupidly solid pectoral. “Dude, how are you not in a cell?” Stiles asks. Derek raises an eyebrow, but doesn't release his arms. The warmth of his hands is a stark contrast to the sudden drop in temperature in the room thanks to the now open window. “If you're on the run again, this probably isn't the safest place to be anymore.”
“Scott's dad isn't pressing charges. And my car is still here,” he says simply. Stiles shakes his head.
“How? I'm surprised you didn't break his face!”
“He figures your dad will want first swing a me,” Derek says. Stiles stiffens, mouth going dry.
“And my dad?” he asks quietly. Derek takes a deep breath.
“He wants to... talk to me again. Some time later.” Derek seems uneasy just thinking about it. Stiles rolls his eyes.
“He won't shoot you,” he reassures and Derek relaxes a bit. “He'll probably use his mace.”
“That's worse,” Derek says, shutting his eyes tightly.
And then Stiles is done with banter.
He reaches out to cup Derek's face and pulls him in. His lips don't quite make their mark, coming in contact with the side of Derek's mouth. A hand on the back of his head moves him to tilt to the side and Derek's lips slot against his more fully. It's just a pressing of mouths together at first, breathing each other in. Derek's hands drift down to his waist, pulling Stiles closer. He licks the seam of Stiles lips, parting them and delving in. Stiles grips the sides of Derek's hair, working his mouth in perfect rhythm to Derek's tongue. The wet slide of it is ridiculously hot, something he hasn't built a resistance to no matter how many times they've done this. Stiles lets his hands slide down to Derek's neck, pushing his little fingers under the man's collar, just to feel as much skin as possible. He pushes back on Derek's tongue, maneuvering into his mouth. He licks along Derek's canines, causing the man to growl low in his throat. Stiles feels the vibration of it in his hands and can't help but curl his fingers, scratching lightly as he does. His nails dig in a little deeper when Derek pulls away, trying to keep the man still, but their lips part anyway.
“So,” Derek says as they catch their breath. “I'm betting the corpse wasn't B negative.” When Stiles doesn't immediately knee him in the thigh, Derek's little smirk falls. “Stiles?” He brings his hands up Stiles', covering them with his own and pulling them down.
“Maybe I should be an accountant,” Stiles whispers between them, eyes focused on the collar of Derek' shirt.
“What?” Derek asks. He squeezes his hands when Stiles steps back, but lets them go anyway. Stiles rubs his forehead and gives a humorless laugh, walking over to close the window in order to dispel some of the nervous energy that's built up.
“It wasn't the Nemeton,” Stiles says. “Not the pancreas guy, not fucking stupid prank. And I was so sure about it.”
“And look where it got us! You were arrested again, Derek. Agent McCall might not have pressed charges, but a record of that is gonna be with you, like, forever. Maybe I should just-” Stiles cuts a hand across the room in a vague gesture. “-just stop. Stop looking for patterns where there aren't any or trying so hard to be like...” He trails off when a lump finds its way into his throat. He's caught off guard when Derek draws him in again, one arm around his waist and the other around his shoulders.
He's pretty sure Derek is hugging him.
He's not new to being held by Derek, but it's usually in an less than innocent context, when they're both sweaty and gross and going at it. But right now, they're both still and Stiles eventually lets himself relax into Derek's arms, gripping the man's shirt down by his stomach. He lets his head drop against Derek's shoulder and thinks about how much he wants to keep this. Because somehow, without him really noticing, Derek's become kind of ridiculously important to him. From his stupid reckless selflessness to the way he likes his eggs made in the morning to how much the cold of the apartment doesn't really bother him much as long as Derek's close - he now has a whole section in his mind dedicated to him.
He's starting to sound like Scott and he wonders if that means he's in love.
“What happened to your gumshoe dreams?” Derek asks softly against his ear, and Stiles laughs into his neck. “Being wrong once doesn't erase all of the times you've been right, you know.”
Stiles pulls back to look Derek in the eye for a long moment before leaning in to kiss him. And then he starts walking forward, forcing Derek to walk backwards until the back of his legs hit the edge of Stiles' bed. Derek falls back on it, looking up at Stiles in surprise as his hands go to his belt. Stiles pulls it through the loops and tosses it over his shoulders, using one hand to pop open Derek's button and slide down the zipper.
If his dad is going to kill Derek in a few hours, he should at least give the poor guy a good send off.
Sinking to his knees and ignoring the still-there bruise on his shin, he pulls Derek jeans and underwear down mid-thigh. Derek sits up on his elbows, taking his cock in hand and stoking himself to hardness as Stiles settles into a comfortable position on the floor. Stiles raises his own hand, stilling Derek's as he brings his mouth to hover around the head. He swipes his tongue over it, gathering the bead of precome there before he removes Derek's hand entirely. He lays his tongue flat against the shaft, starting from the base and slowly dragging up along the veins.
Derek sucks in a breath and threads his fingers into Stiles' hair. It only encourages the teenager to place a filthy, open mouth kiss midway down. Stiles lets the saliva gather in his mouth, knowing Derek considers a good blowjob to be a messy one. When Stiles finally takes him into his mouth, Derek is drenched and fully hard. Stiles starts shallow, working into a rhythm that eventually has him taking Derek deeper after every few passes. Soon, though, he's at his usual end point. He's never been able to take all of Derek's cock before, something he's been trying to fix since he first blew the guy.
Experimentally, Stiles takes more of him in, the head of his cock just barely hitting the back of Stiles' throat. He feel Derek's hand grip his hair tighter, the other joining it at the base of his hairline. Stiles pulls back just a bit, eyes moving up to Derek. The man is on his back again, head thrown back and mouth open in quiet moans and pants. Stiles relaxes his throat as much as he can and sinks back down.
It's uncomfortable, just a bit. Hands are pulling his hair, he's doing his best to keep his gag reflexes at bay, and the push of Derek cock down that far burns a bit. But the sounds Derek is making are so completely worth it, so he pulls back and does it again, gripping the top of Derek's thighs and working his tongue as best he can and ignoring the tears at the edges of his eyes.
The feel of Derek's stuttering hips and the sounds of his moans and pleas are enough to make Stiles realize just how hard he is in his jeans. He begins moving his body with the bobbing of his head, pressing his pelvis into the side of the bed. The pressure against his dick causes him to moan around Derek's cock and the man can't help but thrust up. Stiles does it again, building a whole new rhythm that's destroying them both.
They come together, Derek down his throat, and Stiles inside of his jeans.
He coughs a little when he comes up, resting his head against one of Derek's thighs. He feels the rock of Derek's haggard breathing above him, loves the feeling of Derek dragging his fingers through his hair and down to his face to trace his messy lips.
“Think if I let him shoot me once, he'll let me keep you?” Derek asks in a ragged voice. Stiles can't help but smile against the man's leg.
“Twice, at least.”
In the end, once the grovelling is done and compromises are made, he still has a toothbrush and spare clothes at Derek's.
It's the kind of weird normalcy he knows he'll learn to appreciate.