"Ow!" Stiles says, jerking his fingers away from the sewing machine. Nursing his nipped finger, he levels the machine a glare. "Thing bit me!"
Scott doesn't look up from his project, threading his needle carefully through the holes of the tortoiseshell button he's sewing onto his bear for an eye. His expression is one of concentration equal to that he wears while doing advanced algebra. Or simple algebra, for that matter. Allison leans around him and looks at Stiles with concern.
"Do you need a hand?"
"Nah," Stiles says, as he repositions the fabric, lining it up with his carefully placed needles. "You already pretty much made Scott's bear for him."
"Hey!" Scott says, finally looking up from his bear's (very unsymmetrical) face, to glare at Stiles. Then smile goofily at Allison. "Thank you," he says, and kisses her cheek. Stiles mutters to himself.
Textiles class had been an elective subject for the semester, and Stiles is kinda regretting convincing the pack to take it as a 'bonding' activity. It's the last class of the day on a Wednesday, so he'd figured they could all just laze around for an hour every week, play with fabric, then head over to Derek's house after school like they usually do. Unfortunately, the class isn't quite as easy as he'd anticipated. He and Scott are struggling to make their assignment even resemble the teddy bear it's supposed to be, and of the group only Allison has ever done any sewing before in her life. And although Jackson is taking to it surprisingly well, even Lydia isn't finding it to be a talent that comes naturally to her, which is making her frustrated and snappish every time it comes time to attend the class.
"You know what, screw this," Stiles says after the machine snags for the third time in a row, bunching his fabric. He pushes his chair back, and swivels around to face the table his friends are sitting at, scraps of fabric mounted high between them. There's only about five minutes left of the class anyway, so Stiles gives up on getting anything done today. His bear doesn't need a little faux-leather jacket anyway. It wasn't like he was going to give his little were-bear to Derek as an incredibly annoying gift or anything.
"Ooh, velvet!" Lydia says, pulling a square of red fabric out of the bottom of the pile, where she's rummaging around searching for materials to make the dress for her bear out of. She smirks as she tosses the scrap at Stiles. "Hey, why don't you keep that one?" she suggests sweetly, with a wink.
"Um, okay?" Stiles says, tucking it into his pocket. Lydia breaks out into a proper evil grin, and catches Jackson's eye, who's laughing under his breath.
"Yeah," he adds, throwing another piece of fabric at Stiles. "And that one as well."
Stiles catches the furry fabric in his hand, running his fingers over it. It's a dark brown synthetic animal fur, which is actually exactly what he needed for his were-bear's sideburns. "Thanks," he says, shoving it into his back pocket with the piece of velvet, but Lydia and Jackson are still snickering like there's something he's missing.
"Allison," Scott says, just as the bell rings, "Could you sew Mr. Bear's eye on for me?"
"You named it Mr. Bear?" Jackson says incredulously as they all start packing up their bags and heading for the door.
"Well, he's a bear," Scott says, "and he's a dude, so, yeah."
As they're exiting the classroom, Lydia comes up behind Stiles and reaches for his back pocket. He nearly jumps out of his skin as her fingers brush his ass, but she just rolls her eyes. "Just straightening you up there, hon," she says, patting his bum as they leave the room. Stiles glances down at the back of his jeans, and sees that she's positioned the furry fabric so that its peeking from his pocket, with the red velvet poking out neatly next to it. He shrugs, and doesn't really think about it as they head down to the school car-park.
As usual, Derek makes the wolves (well, two wolves, Lydia and Scott, and one were-lizard, Jackson) train with him when they arrive at the house, more or less leaving Allison and Stiles to either watch and help out with pointers and/or teasing catcalls, or catch up on their homework. Today, they do a little of both, sitting cross legged on the porch with their economics homework laid out in front of them, watching as the others scrap in the clearing.
"Enjoy your trip?" Stiles calls out, when Lydia steps on Jackson's tail mid-jump, sending him pin-wheeling face-first into the ground. Jackson hisses at him, his pointed teeth bared, and Stiles grins. "Maybe you should come back next fall!"
"What? He stumbled right into that one!"
"Alright, that's it!" Derek shouts. "Stiles! Run into the woods, now! We're practising evasion and tracking. You have five minutes, then I'm sending Jackson in after you. Scott, Lydia, you can sit this one out."
"Holy shit!" Stiles says, "No!"
"Four minutes, fifty four seconds," Derek says, glancing at his watch. "Or I'm coming for you myself."
"Okay, okay!" Stiles jumps to his feet and off the porch, dashing towards the cover of the woods. "No more puns! Ever!"
As he reaches the tree line, he glances back over his shoulder, expecting to see Derek counting down seconds on his watch and looking self-satisfied, and Jackson grinning his lizardy smile. He's right about Jackson, who's crouched on all fours, getting ready to chase after Stiles, but Derek isn't even looking at his watch now, instead staring after Stiles' with an uncharacteristically dumb-struck look on his face, his jaw dropped open.
Stiles doesn't keep looking back, not having time to think why that might be when he knows that in about four minutes he's going to have a pissed off Kanima on his heels.
He makes it about eight minutes, hiding from Jackson in a small ditch made by a fallen log, before suddenly scaled claws are fastening around his throat and hauling him out of his hideaway without warning. Stiles isn't ashamed to admit he screams, loud and high-pitched.
When they get back to the house, things are different. Scott, Allison and Lydia are sitting together, chatting happily as they work on their homework, but Derek is crouched away from them on the other end of the porch, sitting on his haunches and leaning back against the wall, looking blank. Not brooding or grumpy or anything, not even when Jackson throws Stiles, flailing, up onto the porch with a triumphant hiss, before shifting back into his human form.
"Well done," Derek says, keeping his voice as expressionless as his face. Stiles is lying on his stomach, groaning, and twists his neck to narrow his eyes up at Derek.
"Thanks for that," he says, his voice coming out rasping from Jackson's grip on his throat all the way back to house. Derek doesn't look at him, training his eyes, uh, apparently on the distant skyline.
Somewhere behind him, Stiles hears Lydia call out to Jackson and throw him a pair of pants. Muscles aching, he pushes himself up off the rotting wood of the porch, and stretches, facing away from Derek. He thinks he hears a groan come from behind him, but when he turns around, Derek is looking innocently at his cuticles.
"Are you okay?" Stiles asks, suspicious.
"I'm fine," Derek growls, eyes darting between Stiles' eyes and the far off distance. Over the other end of the porch, the others are snickering, but when Stiles looks at them, they all school their faces into blank seriousness, looking back down at their homework.
"Uh, quadratic," Scott stammers.
"Yes, yes, um, international, um, gross profits," Allison adds. Lydia throws a pen at them.
"I'm going home," Stiles says slowly. "Anyone want a ride?"
He ends up back in his car with Scott and Allison. Derek will drop Lydia and Jackson home later, probably.
"So what the hell is going on?" Stiles asks as he reverses up the dirt track that passes for a road to Derek's house. Scott and Allison are sitting in the back of the Jeep, and they glance at each other, before shrugging and grinning.
"We're not supposed to tell you..." Scott says.
"Lydia thinks it's funnier this way."
"Oh my god, just tell me," says Stiles. "What is funnier?"
Allison glares warningly at Scott, who sighs and breaks almost immediately. Stiles almost feels bad for him -- he just can't keep secrets. "It's the stuff in your back pocket," he says.
Stiles had almost forgotten he was carrying those scraps of fabric. "Uh huh? And what a-- Oh my god! I hate you guys! What does it mean?"
"Hey, it wasn't us! It was Lydia and Jackson!"
"Scott, I'm serious, I'm not going about flagging gay guys without knowing what I'm advertising! What the hell am I wearing?"
Both of his passengers start snickering again, then. "Um," Allison says. "I mean, it's not exactly a common one. I don't think most people who aren't like, gay werewolves would even know what it means."
"It's knotting!" Scott says, sounding a bit too excited.
"Oh my god," Stiles says, nearly swerving off the road. "Like, what dogs do with the -- at the base of -- with the breeding and the --?"
"Yep! And cause you're wearing it on the right side..."
"I'm into receiving, then?" Stiles asks, at and their looks rolls his eyes. "Oh come on, we've all spent an evening reading up on hanky codes, right? Wait, so how does it work? Red velvet and fur is knotting?"
"Well," Scott says, "Lydia says that red velvet is generally fisting, and fur is generally bestiary--"
"No, this time you do mean bestiality," Stiles interjects. "Jesus Christ, Lydia. This isn't funny." As he says that though, he thinks about it, and smirks a little. Actually, it is a bit funny.
"I mean, Lydia told us about it while you were running from Jackson," Allison says. "It was just a silly joke with her and Jackson, we didn't realise that Derek..."
This time Stiles nearly does crash the car. "Derek thinks I'm into getting knotted!" he shouts, trying to straighten the car back up on the road, which is by now actually made of tarmac and headed into town.
"If it helps," says Scott, "he doesn't exactly seem to mind."
Stiles thinks back to how uncomfortable Derek looked around Stiles this afternoon, and that nearly inaudible groan he'd barely caught. "I didn't even know werewolves had knots..."
Scott actually sounds kinda disappointed when he says, "Only alphas..."
By contrast, Allison sounds very relieved when she says, "Thank god."
The next day, when he turns up to school Stiles is wearing a different pair of jeans, but to everyone's surprise, the red velvet and fur are still poking out of his back right pocket.
"What?" he challenges, with a grin. Pretty much everyone in the pack holds up their hands in a way that says, 'okay, it's your business, not ours', and also, 'we're not helping if this gets out of hand'.
'hey derk, u comin 2 movie night 2night?' the text says. 'my house, dad not home so u won't b arrested. :) can u bring popcorn n also illegally buy alcohol for teenagers?'
The reply Stiles gets a few hours later just says 'yes', and he's not sure whether that just means yes he's coming, or yes he's bringing alcohol too. Probably not, since Derek is really uptight, and also only Stiles and Allison can actually get drunk thanks to werewolf metabolism.
Anyway, it's Friday afternoon, and Friday evening is always movie night, so the text was actually pretty pointless. Derek always comes, and it's always at Stiles' house because Friday is always the time Stiles' dad works nights.
Lydia says as much when she sees him texting Derek.
"Oh you know," Stiles replies. "I just thought I'd remind him. He's really getting on in years. Getting forgetful."
Lydia arches an eyebrow sceptically, and pointedly flicks her eyes up and down Stiles body.
"Your point?" he asks innocently.
"Your clothes," she says. "Believe me, I know what it looks like when someone is dressing to get laid."
And yeah, okay, maybe Stiles' clothes are a little less worn and mustard-stain-y than usual, and maybe his jeans are his tightest, most posterior flattering pair. And yes, okay, maybe, just maybe, he's still wearing the red velvet and fur hankies in his back right pocket. "It was just a text!" he says.
"It was a flirty text," she says. "It was a clingy, flirty text, and you're begging him to get you drunk."
"Shut up," Stiles mutters, as they wander down the hall towards class. Lydia just grins.
"Hey, I approve, Stilinski," she says, and reaches out to pluck Stiles phone from his hand. "Just, you can do better."
Lydia is a really fast texter, and before he knows it, she's pressing send and shoving his phone back into his hands with a wink. Stiles opens the menu and flicks down to the sent messages with a feeling of dread.
'ur a man of few words,' the text reads. 'knot that Im complaining. ;)'
"You're evil!" Stiles calls after her, jogging to catch up. "You're the devil on my shoulder! In a really flattering red catsuit, with terrible, terrible ideas."
Lydia just flicks her hair back and takes her seat in the classroom.
Derek actually does bring beer, to Stiles' amazement. He pushes through the door when Stiles pulls it open, and shoves the six pack into Stiles' arms, not making eye contact with him or saying hello. Everyone is already in the lounge-room, rearranging the furniture into a sort of comfortable nest of couches and cushions that they can all pile onto to watch the rented movies.
"Oh wow," Stiles says, following Derek into the living room. "You are actually the best. Like the actual most excellent person ever."
"Thank you," Derek grunts, still not looking at him. Dropping the beer onto the coffee table, Stiles ducks around the Alpha and bends over in front of him to throw the DVDs off the cushion pile and towards the television. He hears a strangled noise from behind him as he holds the bent-over position slightly longer than necessary, rearranging the pillows until satisfied. Looking over his shoulder, he grins at Derek, who's staring wide eyed ahead of him, deliberately away from Stiles.
"Oh my god, Derek bought beer!" Scott says, before remembering that he can't get drunk and looking immensely downtrodden.
"Did he remember the popcorn though?" Jackson asks, settling himself down in his chosen spot in their living-room nest, and making himself comfortable in a pointed way that says he's not moving for anything now and everyone else is just going to have to work around him.
Derek pulls a bag of microwave popcorn out of his jacket and holds it out in Stiles' general direction until he takes it. "What are we watching?" he asks the room.
"Um," Allison says, who's closest to the DVD's. She picks up the plastic video shop bag and rifles through. "Summer Storm, Brokeback Mountain and Red Riding Hood… Wait, who picked these out?"
Lydia makes a subtle cough and smiles innocently.
"Seriously, tight, flattering red Lycra catsuit," Stiles says to her, biting his lip and trying not to grin. "With a little toy plastic trident."
"You're welcome," she says.
"Popcorn," Jackson hisses threateningly.
"Oh my god, okay!" Stiles says, turning towards the adjoined kitchen. "Come help me, Derek."
"You don't need help making microwave popcorn," Derek says.
"Uh, no, he does," says Scott, with a face like he's having a PTSD flashback. "He really, really does. In fact, just don't leave Stiles alone with a microwave, ever."
"And with that incredibly comforting endorsement," Stiles calls from the kitchen, "get in here before I blow anything up. Again."
With a long suffering groan, Derek follows him out of the room.
In the kitchen, Stiles is already reaching up to the top shelf of the cabinets, trying to reach the microwave safe bowl. He knows he can't, not without climbing onto the counter -- Dad had made sure of that -- but he stretches himself up anyway, letting out soft grunts as he strains upwards.
"Jesus fu-," Derek murmurs under his breath as he enters the room. Stiles twists around to look at him with a grin, and deliberately arches his back more, contorting his body as his fingertips wriggle just out of reach of the plastic bowl overhead.
"Move," Derek says, taking a step forward. But Stiles acts like he doesn't hear him, just lets out a breathy moan, lifting one knee up onto the counter.
"I just need like, another inch," Stiles says, and Derek huffs behind him in frustration, and comes forward, plucking the bowl off the shelf and pressing himself against Stiles' back in the process. Stiles lets out a satisfied hum, but Derek takes a step back immediately. When Stiles turns around, Derek's expression is one torn between utter bewilderment and frustrated aggression.
"You…" he says. "You have no idea." Then he growls deep in his throat, his eyes blazing red briefly, and turns his back on Stiles. "Popcorn, now."
"Never has that sentence been said with such a weight of death threat behind it," Stiles teases, but makes the popcorn anyway.
"No," Stiles scolds, as he comes back into the living room, plucking a can of beer from Jackson's hand and replacing it with the bowl of popcorn. "Those are for me and Allison. They're wasted on you lot."
"Oh, I'm fine," Allison says. "I don't really like beer."
"Great, they're for me then," Stiles says happily.
Jackson mutters under his breath, "Oh this is going to go brilliantly."
Everyone has settled themselves down on the cushion pile except for Derek and Stiles. Jackson and Lydia are sitting in the middle, and Scott and Allison are to their left, wrapped up around each other, which leaves just a corner space between bases of the couch and armchair which are at right angles to each other to squeeze into. Derek sits down first, making himself comfortable next to Lydia. Stiles first grabs a couple of extra cans of beer so he doesn't have to move, throws them on the frame of the cushion-less couch, and settles down in the small space left. He twists onto his side so he's facing the television and his whole body is pressed against Derek's side.
"Do you have to...?" Derek grumbles while Scott fiddles around with the DVD player and feels around for the remote.
"No space," Stiles points out, and gestures at his snug little corner. "Not here. Nada. Not today." He takes a long slug of beer, then makes a face at the taste. "Ugh, why do people like this stuff?" he asks, before taking another drink.
"Sixteen," Derek says, so quietly to himself that Stiles isn't actually quite sure he heard him.
Scott finally finds the remote then, and starts the movie with a futile "Shh, shh," to the room -- they're not actually ever quiet during the films on movie night, and really, none of them actually want to be, except maybe Derek.
About halfway through the first film, Stiles is starting to feel light-headed, his whole body relaxed and practically draped over Derek's. It hits him suddenly, just how completely lazy and tipsy he feels, and it makes him grin into the warmth of Derek's shoulder, which he nuzzles brazenly.
"What are you doing?" Derek growls.
"Hey, don't blame me," Stiles says, "I've had two whole beers."
"You're the worst," Jackson says from somewhere distant over Derek's body, which is actually really comfortable and smells really nice.
"Shut up, Boy George," Stiles says. "Um, because Boy George sung Karma Chameleon, and a chameleon is a lizard, and you're, you know."
"Someone take the alcohol away from him," Scott says.
"No!" Stiles replies, hugging his third, as yet unopened can of beer to his chest.
"Yes." everyone else says in unison.
Derek reaches down between their bodies and pries the drink out of Stiles' grip, throwing it behind the couch.
Stiles frowns and sulks for a while, not paying attention to the film at all. "Hey," he says after a while to Derek, voice quiet.
"I've never noticed the wood grain on the legs of the couch before."
Derek doesn't say anything to that, but does turn his head, looking at Stiles incredulously.
"No, like, seriously, it's really cool. It's covered in all these little knots. Of wood." Stiles looks up at Derek through his eyelashes, smiling at him. He strokes his fingers over the wood. "It feels really cool, really good. All these little knots. I really like the way they feel."
Derek's face is a picture of stunned horror. Stiles thinks he hears Jackson sob into his hands, and pushes himself up so he can see over Derek's shoulder, where everyone is staring at him and shaking their heads. Even Lydia. Traitor.
They've even paused the movie.
"It's like the most awkward thing I've ever seen," Scott says, and pops a handful of popcorn into his mouth.
"I can't watch," Allison agrees, burying her face in her boyfriend's shoulder.
Everyone is silent for a long moment, waiting to see what Derek does. The only sound in the room is that of the popcorn being passed around and eaten.
"Stiles, can I talk to you outside?" Derek asks, voice low.
"I think I can pencil you in to my busy schedule," Stiles says, getting to his feet and stumbling a little as he stands up. The room wobbles a bit. "Woah, steady." Derek stands up next to him and wraps a hand around his arm, guiding him out of the living room, through the kitchen and out into the back garden.
"Wassup?" Stiles asks, aiming for casual as he leans against the back wall of the house.
Derek's voice is a rumbling growl as he replies, "Take. That. Shit. Out. Of. Your. Pocket."
"What?" Stiles reaches around to his back pocket and fiddles with the scraps of material, rubbing them between his fingers without removing them. "These? They're just off-cuts from textiles class."
"You have no idea what you're doing," Derek says. "I'm not asking. Take. Them. Out."
"Maybe I do."
"No you don't. You-- you're signalling. Things you don't want to be signalling."
"I know," Stiles says, and when Derek just stares at him, slack jawed, he makes a mind = blown motion with his hands.
"You're…doing this on purpose?" Derek asks, and now he's not just growling, he's got that tone to his voice like he's literally going to eviscerate Stiles.
"Hey! You're the one who's up to date on the gay werewolf hanky code. And really, who even knew that was a thing?"
"Well," Derek says, as if it's obvious, "I'm a gay werewolf. What's your excuse?"
"Lydia," Stiles says, also as if it's obvious. "And Jackson, but mostly Lydia. And also, I kinda have a thing for gay werewolves. Well. A gay werewolf. Singular."
Derek is just staring at him now, then he cards a hand through his hair, something Stiles has never seen him do before. "Take them out."
Stiles rolls his eyes. "Oh my god, I just-- I know what I'm flagging, okay? I'm flagging to have a big old knot up my ass. To be fucked hard by an Alpha wolf, filled up with your come, and locked together like your fucking bitch, alright?"
"No, Stiles, take them out. You've got my attention."
"Oh," Stiles says, and pulls the scraps of material in his pocket, holding them in his hand. Derek reaches out and grabs them, tucks them in the pocket inside his jacket.
"I don't want you flagging other Alphas, okay?"
"How many gay Alpha werewolves are there in Beacon Hills? Is that on the Census?"
"You're sixteen, Stiles."
"This is not news to me."
Derek buries his face in his hands, and rubs at his eyes. "Okay," he says. "Come on. Let's go back inside. They're waiting for us."
"No, wait," Stiles says, taking a step forward, watching Derek carefully to see if he recoils back. He doesn't. "Can I just?" He takes another step forward until he's in Derek's space, and tilts his head up, bringing one hand up to Derek's cheek, guiding him forward until he's kissing him. It's not good. It's clumsy, and nervous and a little bit drunk if he's honest. But Derek exhales in relief against his lips and kisses back, even if only briefly before pulling away.
"No, Stiles," he says, after drawing in a shaky breath. "Not… you've been drinking."
"Oh for fuck's-- Alright, I know I'm a light weight, but really, I had two beers, I'm not three sheets to the wind."
"And I don't trust myself around you."
"How very Edward Cullen."
Derek frowns. "Just -- lets finish watching the movies."
"Or I could show you how Brokeback Mountain ends..." Stiles purrs, crowding into Derek's personal space again.
"I think one of them dies," Derek replies, and Stiles thinks -- no, wait, it's definitely a threat.
"Oh, fine," he says, pouting a little. "But given that I'm still kinda tipsy and everything is swaying a little bit, could you please hold my hand as we walk back inside so I don't fall over?"
Derek only scowls a little bit as he takes Stiles hand in his own, threading their fingers together and leading him back inside.
Despite everyone's discouragement, Stiles actually ends up drinking another beer later in the night, and although he doesn't initiate any suggestive conversations about couch bases, he does end up falling asleep on Derek's chest and drooling a little bit. It's okay though, because by that point it's late, and the pack isn't so much watching the movies as lying in a pile on the floor, tucking themselves into each other's bodies and dozing.
"Alright," Derek says, when the last movie finally finishes playing, and the DVD starts looping the menu music incessantly. "Everyone up, time to put the living room back together."
With a series of groans, everyone rouses themselves except Stiles, who's still snoring against Derek, fingers clutching tightly at his shirt when he feels movement. Derek makes a motion to shake his shoulder, but Scott immediately whispers a warning.
"Don't wake him up," he says to Derek. "He won't go back to sleep if he wakes up now, he'll stay up all night editing Wikipedia and drinking grape soda."
Derek looks down at Stiles with a pained expression and sighs. "Fine. I'll put him to bed, you guys put the room back the way it was. Then I'll drive Scott and Allison home, and Jackson, you can take Lydia."
"Heh," Jackson says, "It's like you're his boyfriend and his dad."
Allison shakes her head at him disapprovingly.
With a grunt, Derek hoists Stiles up in one smooth movement, carrying the boy over his shoulder, and glares down the smirks directed at him from his pack before turning to the stairs.
"Lovethewayyousmell," Stiles mutters against his shoulder blades in his sleep. Out of sight of the others now, Derek rubs a hand soothingly over the flank of Stiles' thigh, hushing him.
At the top of the stairs, Derek pushes the door to Stiles' room open clumsily, trying not to jostle the sleeping boy. Inside, he carefully lowers Stiles onto the bed, and regards him for an agonising minute trying to decide whether to undress him before manoeuvring him under the covers.
In the end he goes downstairs and asks Scott to go up and take Stiles' pants off, and everyone laughs at him.
When Scott comes down again, he makes a face at Derek. "I think you should go up there and say goodnight because he's kinda half awake and he mumbled something at me about wanting my knot, which isn't even fair because I don't even have a knot."
"Are you seriously still on this?" Allison asks, and Scott grumbles something to himself before wrapping an arm around her waist, sweeping her hair back and kissing her cheek.
Derek goes back upstairs.
Stiles is blinking with half lidded eyes on the bed when he comes into the room, and grins apologetically at Derek. "I think I asked Scott to knot me, please don't be jealous, I thought he was you. I was really excited you were taking my pants off." His voice is slurred with sleep, and Derek can't help but twitch the corner of his lip up fondly.
"I feel bad. I think it's a sore point with him."
"Go back to sleep, Stiles."
"Mmm," Stiles says. "C'mere."
Derek goes, and kneels next to the bed, lets Stiles kiss him. When he pulls back, he's asleep again.
Derek goes downstairs and checks the fridge to make sure there's no grape soda though, just in case.
Stiles is bleary eyed and a little bit headachey when he goes downstairs the next morning to find his dad sitting at the breakfast table with a mug of coffee and a stern look.
"Why are there empty beer cans in my trash compactor, Stiles?" the Sheriff asks, and the first thing that pops into Stiles' head is: Quick! Deflection!
"I'm dating Derek Hale!" he says before his brain thinks of a more appropriate change of subject. His dad's eyes nearly pop out of his skull, and his face goes red.
"You're dating an ex-murder suspect who is six years older than you and buying you alcohol?!"
Walked into that one, Stiles' brain helpfully supplies. Try again.
"Werewolves are real and Derek, Scott and Lydia are all part of a werewolf pack, and Jackson is a giant murderous lizard."
The Sheriff just nods. "Okay son, do you want to go back up to bed for another couple of hours then come downstairs again and try over?"
"Yes please," Stiles says, and goes back up to his room, immediately picking up his phone and texting Scott: 'Im an idiot help told my dad about derek n also werewolves n he doesnt blieve me but aaah help'.
Fiddling with his phone for a few more moments, he then opens up a text to Derek. 'u may want to go in2 hiding sorry i told dad. merc with a mouth eat ur <3 out. :/'
Derek texts him back before Scott does. Stiles opens the message and it says, succinctly: ' >:c '
Scott's message buzzes through barely an instant later, and it's also pretty to the point. 'man I <3 u but how r u still alive?
'says u!' Stiles texts back, but heaves a sigh and goes back downstairs to where his dad is still sitting at the table exactly as he was before.
"Okay, truth, now," he says.
Stiles heaves a deep breath. "You know how everyone comes around for movies on Friday nights?"
"Yes..." the Sheriff says.
"Well, 'everyone' maybe includes Derek, who was exonerated, point of fact."
"And he brings beer."
"Just last night. And we only had three. Which is like, less than half a beer each, really." Well that's technically true, Stiles thinks to himself.
"And you're dating Derek Hale."
"And we maybe kissed -- just kissed! -- twice, and really, I'm nearly seventeen, and he only just turned twenty-two, so really it's only like… four years between us, and that's hardly illegal at all. And you shouldn't arrest him because he hasn't actually done anything wrong."
"Except buying alcohol for minors, and seducing a minor."
"Yeah," Stiles says, "Except that… those."
"And I should disregard that stuff about werewolves?"
"Actually it would really take a weight of my shoulders if you'd believe that bit."
His dad levels a weird look at Stiles. "Okay."
"And the age of consent is actually sixteen in some states, and in some parts of Mexico it's as low as twelve."
"It's eighteen in this state, Stiles. But, that said, I'm not going to arrest someone for dating my son, not if he makes you happy. Does he make you happy?"
"I think so? I mean, as I said, we've only kissed twice. Those two kisses made me very happy."
The Sheriff sighs. "I know you, Stiles. You grew up quickly after your mother died. I know you're capable of making your own decisions."
Stiles actually chokes up for a second. "Wow. Thanks, dad."
"But, hand to God, if he hurts you, he will be in a prison cell quick as you blink, got it?"
"Yessir," Stiles says.
"And Scott being a werewolf would explain a lot, actually. Asthma doesn't just go away."
Later that day, Stiles climbs into his Jeep and heads over to Derek's house. All the way over, he's feeling kinda nervous, despite the fact that he's the person who spent half a week wearing a literal I want to be knotted! advertisement out his back pocket. By the time he pulls up outside the dilapidated house he's got an awful trembling feeling in the base of his stomach, gnawing at his bravado. But he forces himself out of the car because, well, super hearing. Derek already knows he's here.
Which is the same reason he doesn't knock on the front door, just stands outside twitching in excited nerves. Well, also, he's a bit worried that one day knocking will be a bit too much strain and the door will collapse inward, pulling the whole house down with it.
"Hi," he says, when Derek comes to the door.
"Do I have to flee town?" he asks, stepping aside for Stiles to come in.
Stiles shrugs and grins. "Nah, I actually have a really cool dad. Did you know that the age of consent is twelve in some parts of Mexico?"
Derek frowns. "Don't use that argument. Please."
"Oh alright," Stiles says, and steps forward, ducking his head a little as he tries to work out whether he's allowed to kiss Derek hello. He figures he is when Derek places a hand on his neck, thumb on his pulse point, and brushes their lips together. "Hey," he says, when they part, "I'm sorry about last night."
"Which part?" Derek asks, getting that look on his face like he's beating himself up over being a child molester.
"Oh, don't worry," Stiles says. "Only the bit where I had two beers and tried to seduce you by talking about couch legs."
Derek heaves out a sigh of relief. "Yeah, that was pretty terrible."
"Oh look," Stiles says, licking his lips suggestively, "there are knots on the wood of the banister on those sexy stairs over there."
Derek shakes his head, and covers Stiles mouth with his hand. "I'm going to kiss you in a second, can you promise to go at least five minutes without saying anything that makes me question why I'm so attracted to you?"
Stiles makes a pained face, but then nods, and says nothing at all until Derek is crushing their mouths together. Immediately he moans into the kiss, and surges forward, wrapping his arms around Derek's neck and opening his mouth, submitting to Derek's onslaught completely.
"Want you," he murmurs against Derek's lips, and Derek makes a rough affirmative sound in the back of his throat, breaking the kiss to trail his mouth along Stiles' neck, licking and biting keenly. Stiles is never silent, and although he keeps to his promise of not saying anything ridiculous, he does moan and whine in a near constant stream of half-words and begging. "Always want you, want all of you, want to take you in Derek, want you inside me, want your knot, please, please, please."
Derek growls against Stiles skin and pulls back, and Stiles catches a glimpse of his teeth elongating and receding as he reigns his wolf instincts back.
"Upstairs," he says, voice barely more than an animalistic grunt. Stiles turns to the stairs, but they don't separate, Derek pressing himself against Stiles' back as they make their way slowly up the stairs. They pause half way for Derek to guide Stiles' to twist around and kiss him, open and messy as he grinds his hard-on against his ass through both their pairs of jeans. Stiles groans, grabbing Derek's wrist and guiding it to his own erection, straining against the denim of his jeans. Derek gropes him roughly through the material, then pushes him forward ahead, slapping his ass as he nudges him up the stairs.
"Go," he says, "there's a bed up there. We're doing this right."
"When you say bed?" Stiles gasps, reaching the top of the stairs and making grabby hands until Derek is back up with him, covering his neck in dark hickeys again.
"Okay," Derek growls, "A mattress that is only slightly charred and has a new fitted sheet on it. Go."
"I'm sold, I'm sold," Stiles says, and eventually they manage to stumble into the bedroom, falling on the bed in a pile of limbs and searching hands.
Stiles is naked before he's even managed to get Derek out of his jacket, his clothes discarded in a flurry of preternatural movement and possibly tearing. "God yes," he whines, arching up under Derek, his bare cock rubbing against the rough denim covering Derek's. "Shit," he gasps. "Sorry, I gotta warn you, this probably isn't going to last long for me."
"S'okay," Derek says, tugging off his jacket and shirt as Stiles continues to grind himself against his body. Then Stiles' hands are all over his skin, Stiles' overly talkative lips silenced as they plant fast kisses all over his chest.
Derek's fumbling with his belt as Stiles makes his way with wet kisses down his torso, eventually he manages to get the buckle undone, and get his cock out, and Stiles is pushing him back so that Derek is lying on his back and he decides he can't even be bothered getting his jeans off further than that. Mainly because Stiles' is dragging his tongue over the crown of Derek's cock and he's throwing his head back and groaning in pleasure.
"Holy shit," Derek says, reaching down and brushing his fingers against the short strands of Stiles' hair. He doesn't push for anything, just hovers his hand there and waits, and after a moment Stiles is planting a quick kiss on the tip of Derek's cock then opening his mouth and taking him in as far as he can go.
Stiles moans around him, and wraps his hand around the base of Derek's cock, and starts stroking him in time with the careful bobs of his head. When Derek looks down, he almost laughs at the look of intense concentration on Stiles' face, his brows furrowed in focus.
The dedication is paying off though, and soon Derek is feeling the tension coil in his stomach, and regretfully he taps Stiles shoulder, motioning for him to come up.
"Was that okay?" Stiles asks, self-consciousness evident in his voice, and Derek just pulls him into a deep kiss, humming a positive sound.
"Gonna come," he explains when they pull apart, and Stiles just grins, and sits back, pulling away. On all fours, he starts to crawl away from Derek, glancing around the room. "What d'you want?" Derek asks, coming up behind him and half-mounting him, wrapping his arms around Stiles' waist and kissing his shoulder blades as his cock nudges into the dip of his ass.
"Easy, boy," Stiles laughs, and reaches out for his jeans, grabbing them by a leg and pulling then closer until he can fish around in the pockets. "Here," he says, tossing a tube of lubricant back over his shoulder for Derek to catch.
"Has anyone ever told you you're presumptuous?" Derek asks.
"And crazy prepared," Stiles agrees. "There's a joke there. Fuck me."
Derek flicks the cap on the tube, then pauses. "Can I ask you something?"
"Oh, yes," Stiles says quickly, "I did." He reaches into the other pocket of his jeans and pulls out a condom, holding that out for Derek as well. "I was kinda hoping you wouldn't wanna use one. I mean, I'm clean, and you -- werewolves don't carry viruses, right? So there's no danger. And I kinda wanted the whole… knotting, being filled with your come thing. As you know. So. But if you'd feel more comfortable, that's fine, I don't mind."
Derek looks down at the condom, then throws it into the corner of the room. "I was going to ask if you only want me for my knot."
Stiles actually bursts out laughing. "No, I want you because you're crazy hot and I've kinda wanted you since I realised you probably weren't evil. What kind of a stupid question is that?"
"Well, you go on about it a lot, and the whole hanky code thing."
"I told you, that was mostly Lydia and Jackson playing a joke. It just kinda fit. Also, it is hot."
"Okay," Derek says. "Just checking." Then he coats his fingers in lube and slowly starts to prep Stiles.
As the first finger slides past the tight ring of muscle, Stiles lets out a low groan, and drops to his elbows. "S'good," he assures Derek when the Alpha pauses. "Really good. Keep going."
Derek presses deeper in, seeking with the tip of his finger until he grazes that point that has Stiles trembling and whining underneath him. He grins to himself, predatory, then pushes another finger inside, twisting and scissoring as he stretches Stiles open, always making sure to brush the boy's prostate until he's nothing but a trembling mess on the mattress beneath him, a long drip of precum stretching from the tip of his flushed cock to the bed. He adds a third finger, and Stiles takes it easily, opening up for him.
"Please," he begs, voice breaking, and Derek can't deny him anything. He eases his fingers out, then strokes a generous coating of lube over his cock, before shaping his body to Stiles' and pressing inside. The sound that comes from Stiles' throat almost makes him come on the spot. "You're amazing," Stiles says. "You feel amazing."
Derek kisses the base of Stiles neck, then starts up a rocking rhythm, not really pulling out far, just gently pushing into Stiles' angling himself so that there's near constant pressure on his prostate.
"Fuck," Stiles says, "I might come just from this, Derek. I think I'm going to."
That pushes Derek to the edge, and he growls, pushing in even deeper, picking up the pace a little.
"Seriously, can I?" Stiles gasps, burying his face in his arms, which are crossed up by his head. "Can I come, Derek?"
Derek growls, and he can feel his knot growing at the base of his cock. Stiles almost whimpers, feeling the stretch inside him.
"Fucking fuck, okay, this is happening," he stammers. "Please, please Derek, I need you to tell me I can, please."
"Yes," Derek says, finding his voice and forcing it out past the sheer animal sounds his body wants to make. "Yeah, come for me, Stiles."
That's all it takes, that and the ever growing knot stretching him, pulling him apart, and then Stiles is shaking, coming, spending himself all over the mattress, without ever even touching his cock. And Derek follows him over the edge, filling him up as he locks them together, the sound that erupts from him somewhere between a shout and a howl.
"I've got a present for you," Stiles says, the next Wednesday afternoon, as he and Derek sit on the porch, watching Jackson and Lydia chase each other around the clearing, and Allison and Scott sit under a tree and, predictably, make out.
Derek just grunts in response.
"Oh my god, I worked really hard on this and put thought into it and everything, and that's all I get? A surly grunt?"
Derek grunts again, but throws his arm around Stiles shoulder and pulls him close, kissing his temple. "Worked really hard on what?" he asks, as Stiles digs around in his school bag.
"Yeah, so hard I got a B plus, asshole. Here." With a grin, he tosses the Alpha the little teddy-wolf, with his little red button eyes and sewn on muttonchops. He's wearing a little leather jacket (that Allison had ended up sewing for him) and has fangs drawn on with fabric paint.
"Cute," Derek says, but he's grinning a genuine warm smile, and flips the were-bear around in his hands.
In the left back pocket of the bear's little sewn on jeans are two tiny scraps of red velvet and fur.