The short version of the story is this: Derek got himself kidnapped, to the surprise of absolutely no one. For someone with super hearing, he’s very good at getting caught off guard.
Which is why, mere hours later, he finds himself sitting at the Stilinski dining room table in the middle of the night. He’s slumped over, head in his hands and wondering how the logistics of being supernaturally super glued together is going to work out when the Sheriff walks in.
It says a lot about how far they've all come when John doesn't even blink at the sight of Stiles washing blood off his hands. Whether or not that’s a good thing, Derek doesn’t know, but at least it means he won’t have to sit and listen to Stiles’ sad attempts at lying to his dad. Derek can tolerate a lot of things, but Stiles trying to pass off dried blood as tomato paste when there isn’t any in the house is not one of them.
When he finally checks back in to reality, Stiles and his dad are discussing something that probably has to do with why he’s here so late.
“Annnnd, that would be why Derek is sitting at our kitchen table at 11pm?”
Yep. Totally about him.
At Stiles’ rather enthusiastic response, the sheriff sighs.
“I might have….”
“Acted like an idiot?” Derek says.
Stiles turns on him fast enough that it actually surprises him a little. “Oh, don’t even, big guy. You were the one who got himself kidnapped in the first place.”
Derek very nearly rolls his eyes at the accusation. He knows, okay, it’s not like he could tune out Stiles’ blathering on the way over. He understands that it comes from a place of caring, that Stiles was only worried about him, but Derek’s heard the same rant every time something happens to him and he hopes that Stiles will soon realize how futile his efforts are. Derek’s pretty sure a universe where he doesn't throw himself in the line of fire to save someone he cares about doesn't exist. Like, at all. When John clears his throat and levels a look at his son, Stiles at least has the good grace to be a little chagrined.
“So, uh. Anyways. We got cursed. By the witch. And funny story, but now we can’t get like more than five feet from each other for the foreseeable future.”
When the Sheriff asks how long their definition of “foreseeable” is, Derek gently pushes his untouched beer towards the older man. This spell must have come with a side order of hallucinations, because there’s no way the Sheriff just nodded at him, much less in something akin to approval.
“Next full moon,” he replies, for lack of anything else to say. “So, two weeks.”
He admits that he should probably feel...well, something about this, but this is by far and away his best experience with being cursed. Derek is tied to pack, even if it is one of the human members, and he has a warm place with no gaping holes in the walls to stay for the duration, so really, there’s not much to complain about. He’s stuck with Stiles, which isn't exactly a hardship, not that the Sheriff needs to know why. His only real concern, however, is why John is looking at him like he knows something Derek doesn't.
“You can sleep on the floor,” John grunts before excusing himself from the table and out of the room without another word.
“You know that’s not gonna work, right?” Stiles asks.
Derek groans and puts his face in his hands.
The Sheriff is going to kill him.
Over the course of the next few days, Derek is stuck following Stiles around the house, seemingly at his beck and call. Stiles had come up with the idea the night before, to put on a show for the Sheriff so that he wouldn’t suspect that anything had been going on between them, and if the amused looks John keeps throwing Derek are any indication, it’s working. Derek tries to be annoyed with Stiles’ ridiculous requests, but he finds himself to be unexpectedly charmed.
They slip up a few times, like when Derek walks into the kitchen without Stiles asking and comes back with a glass of water and Stiles’ next Adderall dose like it’s something he does every day, or when he throws Stiles’ lacrosse clothes in with his own laundry because tomorrow is Wednesday and Derek knows Stiles will need his practice jersey in the morning.
The best moments, however, come when the Sheriff leaves for work and he and Stiles can make out on the couch for hours with no interruptions. Or when they can just spoon on Stiles’ bed and watch shitty horror movies and simply just enjoy being next to each other without having to hide.
When the witch cursed him she’d probably intended for it to be torture for Derek, but having 24/7 access to Stiles has improved his mood tenfold. He briefly considers finding a way to send her a fruit basket, but Stiles has turned in his arms and is mouthing along Derek’s jawline, and Derek decides that he’s done thinking for the night.
Their two weeks are almost up when everything goes just a teeny bit wrong.
It’s late, the Sheriff having left for his shift hours ago, and he and Stiles are lazily making out on the couch. One minute they were making fun of an old episode of COPS and then suddenly there were wandering hands and gasping breaths, and soon enough they’re both nearly shirtless and panting.
“We really,” Derek huffs as Stiles thumbs his nipple. “We really shouldn't tonight.”
Stiles whines as he pulls back. “But who knows when we’ll be alone like this again.”
Derek sighs. It’s not like Stiles doesn't have a point; alone time is incredibly difficult to come by when you’re keeping your relationship under wraps and you’re surrounded by werewolves who could pick up the scent of sex if he and Stiles spend too much time in the loft on their own. With the addition of the Sheriff’s odd hours, time for anything below the belt is practically non-existent, and even when they can manage a half hour to themselves it’s always quick and dirty.
It’s not like they have to hide for legal reasons; Stiles is 18 and perfectly capable of making his own choices, even if they are stupid sometimes. They came to a mutual agreement to keep their relationship under wraps for just long enough for them to really find their footing before telling everyone. Now he’s beginning to think that trying to get some privacy is what’s costing them their chance to get some...well, privacy.
“Derek, come on,” Stiles presses. “We've talked about this.”
“We’ve talked about - and followed through on - me,” Derek replies. “Are you saying --”
Stiles’ smile is nearly blinding as he nods in response. “Yeah.”
Derek’s always wanted to be able to take his time with Stiles, and it looks like he’s finally going to get his chance.
“Well then, I guess we better head upstairs.”
Stiles only makes it three steps from the couch before Derek growls and pulls Stiles back into his chest, crashing their lips together, all teeth and tongue and no finesse as Derek reaches down and lifts Stiles up so that he can wrap his legs around Derek’s hips.
Derek manages to make it up the stairs before he backs Stiles into the wall outside his room, taking the opportunity to plunder Stiles’ mouth, the slip-slide of wet skin and the clicking of teeth the only noise to break the stillness of the late night. Stiles leans back and raises his arm in invitation, and the rustle of his shirt hitting the ground is followed by a hitch in Derek’s breathing. Stiles without a shirt is far from a new thing, along with touching the bare skin of his chest - they both sleep in as little clothing as possible when they get to stay overnight together, both because Derek puts out so much body heat that anything more than underwear leads to sweaty discomfort, and because Stiles doesn't like getting tangled in his clothes.
No, Stiles half naked and pressed against him isn't a new experience, but the intent behind it is.
Derek stares at his kiss-bitten lips, Stiles’ hair in disarray, and knows that Stiles is the last person he’ll ever want to do this with. After Kate, he never let himself believe that he would feel like this, never even allowed himself to think about it. He’d fucked around a handful of times, nameless hookups outside bars when the itch became too much to scratch on his own, but never anything like this. For so long sex had become this empty thing that only happened when his body demanded it, but this overwhelming want is amazing in the best possible way.
Derek discovered very quickly that Stiles had a preference for taking his time in the one or two instances he had more than five minutes to do so. He once told Derek that his mind goes quiet when they’re together, that for those long moments where they’re pressed together skin to skin he has a one-track mind, something to focus on that he also enjoys. Stiles being so tactile had been unsettling in the beginning; it had been so long since another person’s hands on him had meant something other than his impending death, but now he’s left feeling bereft when he doesn't wake up to the soft touch of Stiles’ fingers brushing his forehead, the bridge of his nose, tracing the seam of his lips. With every passing day, Stiles chased away the ghost of Kate’s presence, her scent, her touch, the cold feeling of her breath on the back of his neck, and replaced it all with warmth and security and love.
He’s got Stiles spread out in front of him, a pale canvas he wants to mark, to claim, so that everyone knows that Stiles is his just as much as he is Stiles’. He wants to kiss and lick every inch of skin he can reach, wants to drive Stiles mad with pleasure, to give him everything to make his first time, at least in some capacity, everything Derek’s wasn't.
He slows down, takes his time taking Stiles apart. They stay there, pressed against the wall as Stiles pulls Derek’s shirt off, leaves marks along Derek’s neck and collarbone, marks that fade almost as quickly as they’d appeared. Derek wishes he could see them, has never resented his ability to heal more than he does in that moment. He wants to be able to carry Stiles with him everywhere, and maybe one day he’ll be able to focus long enough to keep the healing at bay, but for now he dives in to leave his own marks, ones that stand out angry and red against Stiles’ pale skin.
He feels Stiles’ hands reach between them, blindly trying to undo the button and zip of Derek’s jeans, friction a delicious tease that only winds him up more. He nips at Stiles’ collarbone, lightly biting, enough to hear Stiles hiss above him. Derek reaches down to help Stiles with his jeans, lets Stiles pull them down low enough to get a hand inside his boxers, long fingers wrapping around hot skin and Derek growls, hands gripping Stiles’ ass as he finally directs them to the room. Stiles never lets up, grip tight but slow, meant to draw out rather than bring things to a quick end.
He pulls Stiles’ hand away as he crosses the threshold and kicks the door shut behind him before dropping Stiles onto the bed, holding eye contact as he reaches down to undo Stiles’ jeans, yanking denim and cotton down until Stiles is left completely naked, all long limbs and freckled skin standing out in contrast to the navy sheets beneath him. Derek has to take a second to just look his fill, to take in the fact that this is real, that Stiles is real, that Derek gets to keep this for as long as Stiles allows. Stiles smiles, smug, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to Derek, crawling backwards until he’s resting against his pillows. To a certain extent, Stiles is all too aware of the effect he has on Derek, but Derek will never be able to articulate exactly how deep his feelings for Stiles run, how Stiles’ presence has sunk into Derek’s skin, his home, his life, how Derek never wants it to go away.
Derek sheds his jeans and briefs in one quick move, hears the quiet thump of fabric hitting the floor as he follows Stiles to the head of the bed, the soft swish of skin on sheets surrounding them as he settles himself between Stiles’ spread legs and leans in to kiss him, soft and slow. He hears the drawer of the nightstand open and shut, hears Stiles drop something next to them before reaching behind Derek, rubbing his hands over Derek’s shoulders as he settles in, moving his hands down until he has a firm grip of Derek’s ass, pulling him so that there’s no space left between them.
They stay like that, kissing and grinding, barely stopping long enough to breathe, and Derek thinks he could be content to do just this, shut out the world and lay there in the quiet with Stiles for the rest of his life. Eventually, though, his lips feel sore and chapped, mouth nearly bone dry, and he has to pull away. He’s met with the image of Stiles smiling lazily, bathed in the moonlight coming in through the window, and Derek wants to kiss every mole, plans to spend hours doing it someday soon, but for now they need to move into somewhat unfamiliar territory.
“Turn over,” Derek whispers. Stiles does as instructed, grinning as he reaches up to grab a pillow to shove under his own hips.
Derek really doesn't want to screw this up for Stiles, but he knows that bottoming for the first time can be an odd experience. Stiles has always been so considerate when topping, and Derek just wants to return the favor by making it just as good.
It’s not perfect - Derek gets a little enthusiastic with the lube, staining the sheets beyond repair, and Stiles nearly kicks him in the face when Derek reaches for him while his hand is still cold, but it feels right. He uses the same tricks Stiles is partial to using on Derek, slow and easy presses of slippery fingers occasionally tagging Stiles’ prostate as he does his best to make sure Stiles is in as little pain as possible. He pulls his fingers out when Stiles reaches back to grab Derek’s thigh and uses the excess lube on himself before sliding up Stiles’ body and lining up but not pressing in, giving Stiles one more chance to back out.
“Jesus, Derek, come on,” Stiles huffs. Derek kisses the back of Stiles’ neck before pushing forward.
Derek can smell the discomfort coming off Stiles in waves when he finally slides inside, so slowly it feels like an eternity before he bottoms out. He waits for what feels like hours, waits for Stiles to do something, anything that tells Derek he can move. He waits, waits until Stiles looks back at him, and Stiles shifts one more time, dropping down onto his elbows and arching his back so that his ass is in the perfect position for Derek to just watch, and he can’t hold still any longer.
It continues for long, drawn-out minutes - the steady back and forth of Derek’s hips, Stiles’ staccato breathing as Derek hits that place inside him. Stiles, for all the talking he does, lets his body speak for him, lets his reactions guide Derek, tell him how to angle his hips, to speed up or slow down, where else he wants Derek to touch him. Stiles is silent up until Derek reaches down between them and takes him in hand, moving up and down slowly in counterpoint to his hips.
“Jesus, Derek,” Stiles grunts. Derek’s thrusts are becoming increasingly erratic and he has to grab onto Stiles’ shoulder to keep them both upright. He’s so lost in the moment, and so fucking close that a stiff breeze is all it would take to send him flying over the edge, and judging by the downright pornographic noises coming from Stiles’ mouth, he’s just as close.
“C’mon, Stiles,” he moans. “I can feel how close you are, just let go --”
The younger man is a gasping mess beneath him, hands fisted in the sheets. “Derek, oh my god, right there, don’t stop, don’t -- Dad!”
Derek freezes mid-thrust. If ever there were an appropriate moment for the sound of a record scratching, this would be it.
Stiles moves away from him as quickly as possible, and Derek hisses his name when he’s abruptly pulled from the warm clutch of Stiles’ body. The Sheriff is still standing in the doorway, hands over his eyes as he moans pathetically.
“I thought you were working. Work! It’s a thing. That you do. Were supposed to be doing…” Stiles babbles.
“I had to…” The Sheriff gestures at himself with the hand not currently covering his eyes. “Spilled coffee. On my uniform.”
Derek reaches over and pulls the stray comforter up over his lap. “We’re decent,” he says.
John looks mortified and Derek can’t say that he doesn't feel the same. He stands in the doorway for a few moments longer before turning to leave the room, but not before he gets the last word in.
“I hope for your sake that you’re using protection.”
Stiles meeps as he buries his face in a pillow. Derek just sighs and lets his head thump against the wall behind him.
In hindsight, maybe the curse isn't the best thing that’s ever happened to him.
He takes a look over at Stiles, who’s showing no signs of coming up for air, and thinks that they’re probably on the same page. Stiles mumbles something into the pillow that sounds a lot like “I hate my life.”
Yep. Definitely on the same page.