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It Can All But Break Your Heart

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+ + +

It happens everywhere they go and, these days, it feels like they go everywhere together. Since Derek and Cora have been back in Beacon Hills, any time something hinky pops up or some baddie comes-a-callin’, Derek and Stiles get stuck with each other.

It’s not an accident anymore either. When it was, back in the early days after Scott was freshly turned, Stiles could chalk it up to his bad luck, getting saddled with the grumpy bastard. No, now it’s a strategy. Seriously, fate or destiny or the werewolfy-powers-that-be decide to make Scott a “True Alpha” and suddenly the dude thinks he’s Sun Tzu or something. Stiles might have punched him if Scott hadn’t been smiling that proud-puppy smile when he first made the suggestion. Even Stiles can’t resist that smile.

And honestly, it isn’t a terrible idea. Scott thinks it’s so the werewolves can protect the frail little humans in the pack, but Stiles chooses to see it as a brains to brawn ratio. The smartest human with the strongest, dumbest werewolf and so on and so forth. It’s just math, really.

No one else is complaining though, probably because all of the others actually like their pack-buddies. Scott and Lydia have been bonding, getting their my-buddy kid-sister groove on to the point where Stiles is pretty sure he’s going to see Lydia spit-cleaning Scott’s face one day soon. And not in a sexy way.

Isaac and Allison getting paired together was an easy choice, putting the strongest human with the weakest werewolf. Stiles thinks all the extra time together must also facilitate all of the secret-not-so-secret making out they’re doing.

If Stiles had been consulted, and it still stings like a mother that he wasn’t, he’d have thought Scott would want to keep Stiles as his right hand man, just how it’s always been. But then, things haven’t been the same since Stiles lost his mind and never got it all back.

Anyway, back to that thing, the thing that’s always happening. Turns out, Derek can’t go anywhere without getting hit on.

Stiles always knew on some level that Derek was pretty much the ideal for masculine attractiveness. He’s well built and surprisingly well kempt for a guy who spent the first six months of their acquaintance squatting in abandoned buildings. He’s got a good face, Stiles supposes, with just enough “flaws” to keep him from being too perfect. And then there’s the whole bad-boy, man-of-mystery persona that Derek practically oozes with his leather jackets and wallowing in oceans of epic man-pain. It has to make any girl who has ever read a Nicholas Sparks novel want to roll up their sleeves and get to fixin’ him up.

The first time Stiles complains about it, (to Derek anyway, because Scott and Isaac have been getting an earful for weeks) they’re two months into their non-con bromance, sitting in a Denny’s after 1am, slurping burnt coffee and pecking at their subpar breakfast foods.

Cora is with them this time, though usually she chooses to play the lone-wolf card. Surprisingly, the littlest Hale is even more anti-social than Derek and seems happiest when she can be left to her own devices. When she does decide to play on a team, it’s always with Derek and Stiles. Stiles likes to think that has as much to do with him as it does her brother. He’s the only person who can ever twitch a smirk onto Cora Hale’s lips. If it wasn’t likely that she’d try to kill him, Stiles would so try to hit that.

In the parking lot, a tired looking college girl pretty much threw her books at Derek’s feet so he’d help her pick them up. Derek barely blinked and stepped around the pile while the girl muttered apologies. Their waitress has unbuttoned at least three of the buttons on her polyester uniform and keeps bending over Derek to flash him her cleavage. Stiles thinks he saw some nipple the last time she refilled their coffee.

And now a tipsy clubrat has “tripped” and fallen into Derek’s lap. Cora is lucky she decided to sit next to Stiles because he’s pretty sure that this one would have tried to dive right over her to get to Derek.

“Whoopsy,” the girl says while Derek pretty much picks her up by the shoulders and sets her back on her wobbly, high-heeled feet. “I’m so clumsy.”

She’s sliding her hands down Derek’s forearms, copping an obvious feel and the skirt on her mini-dress has ridden up so far that Stiles can see the bottom curve of her ass-cheek. Even though she’s definitely the kind of girl most people would find hot, Stiles is getting a little grossed out.

When Stiles glances over at Cora, she rolls her eyes so hard that her whole head goes along with the motion.

“Whatever,” Derek mumbles to the girl and throws himself back in his seat, scootching so far away that he’s practically cuddling the window.

Club-girl looks like she planning on crawling right in beside him, but one of her more sober friends reads the go-away signals Derek is broadcasting and drags her away.

“Okay, that,” Stiles drops his fork to his plate with a loud clatter, “was fucking ridiculous.”

“That was nothing,” Cora says dryly, tearing open four packets of sugar to dump into her coffee. “I had to be his pretend girlfriend at Burning Man. It was totally skeevy.”

“I mean, you literally have women throwing themselves at you,” Stiles persists. Then his brain screeches to an abrupt halt and he twists his head around so fast it’s a wonder he doesn’t give himself whiplash. “Wait. What? You went to Burning Man?”

Cora shrugs. “We were finding ourselves.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Derek cuts in before Stiles can begin the interrogation that’s on the tip of his tongue. Stiles turns back and sneers disbelievingly at Derek’s careless demeanor. One minute ago, Derek was obviously bothered and now it’s like nothing happened. “It doesn’t matter.”

But see, Stiles can’t just forget it. It’s totally demoralizing, how hopelessly invisible he feels sitting across from Derek Hale in all of his manly glory.

“Oh, please. Like you don’t get off on it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Derek demands with a dark glare.

“It means I’m not buying the act. If it really bothered you, you could cut the pretty-boy man-scaping routine.” Stiles waves his hand all around, to indicate the whole of Derek’s artfully coifed appearance.

Derek snorts and stabs at a link of sausage on his plate. “That’s rich, coming from you.”

“What does that even mean?” Stiles asks with wide-eyes, turning to Cora for clarification, but she’s no help, staring into her coffee as she aimlessly stirs her spoon around the mug.

“Stiles,” Derek draws his attention back. He’s got a tiny smirk on his lips. “You just called me a pretty boy while wearing skinny jeans.”

Stiles gasps and draws back in offense. “These are not skinny jeans. They are straight-legged.”

Derek actually smiles, a small but real evil smile, and scoots out of his seat. He pulls out his wallet, drops a wad of cash down. “They’re purple, Stiles. Purple skinny jeans.”

And then he’s striding off, last-word having bastard that he is.


+ + +


It just snowballs from there. Every time someone gives Derek that look or approaches him, Stiles has some cutting comment on the tip of his smart tongue. All of them mocking Derek’s attention to his appearance, ranging from light-hearted teasing to downright meanness. Some of them, Derek thinks Stiles thought up in advance, others, the cruder more hurtful ones, seem to be in the heat of the moment.

Derek can’t smell emotion, not in the strictest sense. There are scents that can be associated with certain feelings, but people have such a wide range of emotion that it isn’t a simple thing to pick one out in the crowd.

Especially with Stiles, who is such a jumble at every moment of every day, manic with his humor and cruelty, up and down with his joy and misery. Stiles hates his enemies just as fiercely as he loves his friends and family and it all equals a chaos of scent that drives Derek close to madness on some of his worst days.

But on his better days, it’s something rich and full, so many complementary flavors to Stiles. Derek will open his mouth a little, let it settle in his sinuses and on the back of his tongue, taste the air around Stiles to block out the noise of the world. It can be a cacophony of scent if Derek lets it be, that Stiles is a world unto himself, but it isn't always bad.

Stiles gets this sort of sweet-and-sour scent to him when Derek gets hit on, his cheeks flush up a little more than usual and his pupils go wide and dark. It isn’t just the way he smells, but the way Stiles seems to vibrate and gnash his teeth, bits of sarcasm quick on his mouth. Stiles is jealous. He’s actually said as much a couple of times, off-handed and half-joking, but Derek has had a little time to reflect on the depth of it.

Derek isn’t so old that he doesn’t remember high school, all of the ways it shapes you and who you’ll be, the way the perception of your peers can be so fatally important. Derek had been attractive and athletic, popular with the boys and girls and it might have been enough to make him a smug, arrogant bastard if he hadn’t met Paige at just the right moment.

Stiles is that awkward kid who talks too much, doesn’t wear the right clothes or drive the right car and he makes people uncomfortable with his wit and loud personality. He doesn’t fit in. Those kids were jealous of Derek when he was still in high school and, apparently, they’re jealous of him still.

After Kate, Derek learned the importance of beauty, how it could be used as a tool. So Derek put the extra effort in, to make himself prettier than anyone who might want to harm him, to flip the tables and make it his armor, his weapon. And he used it well, for a long time.

Derek likes women, the look and the feel of them, likes them tall and short, soft and hard. He likes their soft hair and their sweet mouths, their breasts and small hands and wet pussies. After the fire, Derek went through a long line of them, all of them beautiful in their own ways, but none of them quite as beautiful as him.

He was taught a perfect lesson by Jennifer, who was gorgeous but flawed, fragile in a way that spoke to all of the vulnerable and raw places in Derek. It wasn’t the way she looked that drew Derek in, even though the face she showed him had dimension and character. It was the tenderness of her that fooled Derek, all of the parts that were broken and cracked, like jagged glass shards that he thought might match up to his own. He saw her pain and how it made her fierce and brave, so Derek thought, maybe, just maybe, his pain could be his strength too.

But in the end, Jennifer had lied as much as Kate, because his pain couldn’t strengthen him anymore than his beauty.

Old habits die hard, so Derek still does his daily work-outs, still keeps his hair gelled and his beard trimmed, buys the same clothes, wears the same cologne. Derek does all of the things he’s always done to keep himself attractive, but it’s not as premeditated as it once was. He knows he still looks good, but his mask is cracked and he doesn’t care.


+ + +


Things don’t get easy with Derek, but they work well with each other. Stiles used to think that Derek was too impulsive, didn’t think things through, but he was wrong. Or, not wrong exactly, because in the first days Derek was like a hunted animal with no home, turning in circles to bite his own tail. Then he was a new Alpha, power drunk and sloppy, falling over himself and too cocky to know it.

Now though, after all of this time kicking himself in the ass, Derek has evened out. All that arrogance he wore like armor is shed, replaced by humility and a tangible sadness that makes Stiles’ fingers itch to dig in. Derek is smarter than he looks and softer than he seems, a Frankenstein monster stitched up sloppily.

And Stiles hates him a little, the way a minute in the car with Derek can feel like hours tumbling through his own darkness. Because Stiles has always been just a little cruel, but the black spot the Nemeton left in his brain yawns just a bit wider whenever Stiles is left alone with Derek.

They’re ruthless together, Stiles because it comes naturally and Derek because it’s become instinct. They get more done than the others, find and fight the “bad guys” before the rest of the pack can get dirty or hurt.

That’s why Stiles hates the way other people look at Derek. They see his pretty face and his tight body, see him like he’s something beautiful when he’s really not. Not by a long shot.

+ + +

It's Stiles' Thanksgiving break, his first time back from school, when Derek first notices the change.

They're working a case that takes them back to Jungle, because it's actually the best nightclub in Beacon County. It attracts almost as many straight people as it does gay. They've been there for about twenty minutes trying to track down a popobawa who has been using the club as a feeding ground.

The popabawa is a sex demon, sort of similar to an incubus, but with less discerning and yet more specific tastes. The thing seems to have no preference as to gender, but defiles it's victims exclusively in a very uncomfortable place. This is usually where Stiles says, "What? Like the back of a Volkswagon?" It would be funny, if magically coerced nonconsensual sex could ever be funny.

Derek got hit on about thirty seconds after they walked through the door and Stiles didn't roll his eyes. Since then, he's had at least four guys and two girls try to chat him up and still, Stiles hasn't snarked or sassed or scowled over it even once. Derek assumes that Stiles is just storing up all of the annoyance to lay down one massively vitriolic diatribe.

It's after Derek has shooed off the seventh or eighth advance that he turns to head off a comment from Stiles, when he notices the kid isn't next to him anymore. A quick scan of the club and Derek spots him near the bar. There's a man talking to him, leaning in closely to speak into his ear. Derek is more than twenty feet away, but even from this vantage he can make out the clear expression of interest on the guy's face.

Derek watches Stiles accept a drink from the bartender and pay for it himself, even as the guy talking to him goes for his wallet. Stiles just gives him a quick shake of his head, a dismissive smile and turns to head back in Derek's direction. Instead of catching Stiles' eyes, Derek watches the man's face as Stiles walks away from him. Disappointment turns down the corners of his lips and his shoulders slump.

"Anything?" Stiles asks, once he's back in Derek's bubble.

Derek turns to Stiles and gives a startled, "Huh?" Stiles just takes a sip of Coke from his straw and raises his eyebrows. He's been back in town for exactly three hours and hasn't showered since the morning. His deodorant is stale and his lips are chapped, his eyes are tired and his t-shirt is on inside out under the flannel pullover. He looks exactly how he's always looked to Derek, so he can't pinpoint exactly why Stiles seems so vibrant tonight.

"Oh. No, nothing yet."

If Derek gets hit on again that night, he doesn't notice. He's too busy tallying up Stiles' potential suitors. The final count; seven. Every one of them gets turned down, Stiles barely even acknowledging them as he continues his perusal of the club, seeking out their target instead of basking in the attention as Derek would have expected.

It isn't that Stiles is disinterested. He catches a couple of whiffs of attraction, once for a broad-shouldered guy in a wifebeater and then once again for a petite blond girl with a pixie haircut. But whatever Stiles feels towards either of them is just a fleeting chemical reaction, nothing intense enough to merit reciprocation from him.

They leave the club empty-handed, Stiles pulling a crumpled napkin from his back pocket and letting it flutter to the sidewalk. It has the name James and seven digits scrawled across it in shaky blue ink.

"We better double-time it on Friday," Stiles comments. "I have to leave for school on Sunday."

The words snap Derek out of his thoughts and he gives a determined nod, stops staring at Stiles from the corner of his eye and trying to puzzle out this mysterious shift in the world. So, Stiles is a late-bloomer, big deal. It doesn't change anything really. And while Derek is sure that he can track and stop the popobawa without Stiles' help, he knows it can be done more quickly and efficiently with the two of them working together.

+ + +

"We're going to Scott's for Thanksgiving," Cora informs him after shoving him out of his bed.

Derek blinks up at her from the floor, blanket nest thankfully twisted up around him enough to protect his modesty. "No."

"Sometimes we have to do things we don't want to for pack, Derek," she says around a wicked grin. They're exactly the words he used when she refused to go to the pack's graduation ceremony. "Cheer up, Der-Bear. I hear Melissa's pumpkin pie is bitchin'."

The McCall's street is so packed with cars, so many people in this area hosting for the holiday, that they have to park three blocks away. There's a bite to the breeze, but it isn't quite cold yet and everything smells like wet dirt and decaying foliage, which might sound unpleasant but really isn't.

Cora walks in zig-zags, aiming to crunch every stray leaf under her boots and straying far too often into Derek's path. It's possibly the first thing she's done in all of these months that reminds Derek of the bratty eleven year old she used to be.

Scott answers the door to Derek's timid knock, a crooked grin already spreading his face. "Dude, you came!" he says with obvious surprise before pulling Derek into one of those handshake half-hug things that Derek thought only happened in TV shows.

"That's what she said!" Stiles shouts from somewhere further in the house, possibly the living room. A chorus of groans follow it up, along with the Sheriff's sharp admonishment of, "Stiles!"

For some reason, Derek expected the whole pack would be here, but Lydia and Allison are both having dinner with their own families. Scott explains that they'll probably stop by a little later, but with it being just the McCalls, the Stillinskis and Isaac, Derek feels a little more exposed than he is comfortable with.

Scott shares a fond eye-roll with Derek, like it's something they do, like they have the shared burden of putting up with Stiles' tasteless humor. It's a thought that gets stuck in Derek's head because it's true. Stiles has actually become a thing that Scott and Derek have in common.

"I'm on kitchen duty, but the manly men are watching the game in the living room if you want to join them."

"Well, sign me up," Cora says with a smirk, shoving between Derek and Scott to head for the living room. "I love watching men pretend that football isn't an outlet for their homoerotic urges."

Derek hangs his leather jacket up on the coatrack next to the door before following Cora. The house is like an oven from all of the body heat and the stove. Even the window that Derek can tell is open over the kitchen sink isn't cutting through the warm stuffiness.

The couch is full when Derek makes it into the living room, Stiles and Isaac at either end with Cora sandwiched between them. The Sheriff is kicked back in the one armchair, focus intent on the Lions vs. the Cowboys. With no free seats open, Derek leans his shoulder against the entryway and tries to look as casual as possible, which isn't very.

It lasts for about fifteen seconds before Stiles scoffs and rises from his seat. "Take mine. Otherwise we'll all be inflicted with your creeptastic looming and this is supposed to be a joyous occasion.

As Stiles folds himself down on the floor by his father's chair, Derek glimpses a flicker of something cross his sister's face. It looks a little like disappointment, strangely similar to how the man at the bar looked last night. Derek is sure he must be mistaken, but as he lowers himself into Stiles' recently vacated seat, he's pretty sure Cora shoots him an irritated glance.

Derek is a master of denial, so he tries desperately to repress any further thoughts on the matter. He would have been successful too, if Cora wasn't being so damned obvious about it. All through the game and through most of dinner, Cora's eyes keep catching on Stiles. They aren't blatantly desirous looks, but there's a curiosity in every one of them, interest piquing further with every covert glance.

Derek tries to ignore it all and enjoy the meal, the first home-cooked one he's had in years, but its constantly niggling at the back of mind. For the life of him, he can't figure out why it's so damned distasteful to him. Stiles and Cora are around the same age and they've always gotten along, at least as well as Cora gets along with anyone. And there could certainly be worse guys for his sister to fixate on. But for some reason it's grating on every one of Derek's nerves.

Melissa sends them off with a whole pie and a huge plate of leftovers. Stiles follows them out on the porch to make plans to meet up with Derek the following night at nine. "Is this a private party or can I crash?" Cora asks, giving Stiles another speculative once-over.

Stiles gives her a tight-lipped smile, dismissive as all the ones from the night before. "You're a beauty, little Hale, but I don't think you're our mark's type."

They're about halfway back to the car and Derek is gnashing his teeth against all of the comments he wants to make to his sister. When he can't take it anymore, he ends up saying, "You can't date Stiles."

"What?" Cora asks with terrible enunciation, stopping in her tracks, anger evident in every line of her rigid posture. "Excuse me?"

Derek is thinking of a thousand ways he can back-pedal, or even just explain himself, but he's not sure why the idea is so repugnant. It just is.

He gives Cora a couple of furtive looks, feels the oppression of her fury washing over him. "I mean-" he starts, then stops. "Just-" another floundering stutter. "Please don't?"

Cora just stares at him for a long time, tension slowly melting out of her muscles. A dawning realization spreads over her face and her mouth goes a little slack. Derek isn't sure what kind of conclusions she's drawing, but he's relieved when she finally gives a little shrug and starts walking.

"Okay," Cora says and walks past him. Derek follows after her.

+ + +

Stiles is laughing when they come stumbling into Derek's loft the following night. They're both covered in black, brackish blood, soaked clear through their shirts, but Stiles is cackling like they just came back from a comedy show instead of a gruesome hunt.

Derek was already scowling, but it deepens when he picks at the front of his shirt, pulls it back from his chest with a low squelching noise.

"Oh my god," Stiles wheezes, doubling over with his hands on his knees. "That was such a close call."

"It's not funny," Derek mumbles and drags his shirt off right there, without fanfare or care for his audience. Stiles eyes down the muscled plains of his back, catches on the taper of his waist. He keeps them determinedly away from the denim stretching over Derek's ass, figures that thing has been objectified enough for one night.

"This might be the first time I've ever been happy that you're prettier than me." Another peal of laughter bubbles out of Stiles and he gasps a little.

What Stiles is saying isn't even true anymore. Derek is still outrageous to look at, but Stiles apparently has his own appeal. The novelty of being found attractive had worn of pretty quickly for Stiles. It was exciting when he first got to school and suddenly there was all this attention on him, but the superficial aspect was kind of disheartening. It turned out that after the initial attraction, if Stiles spent more than a couple of hours with someone, his personality was just as off-putting as ever.

The entire experience threw Derek's situation into a whole new light. Derek was a cranky bastard with a sarcastic wit that was too dry for most people to get. On top of that, he had a baggage carousel of issues that even the bravest of souls wouldn't want to pick through. Stiles could now admit, he felt a little guilty for how much shit he used to give Derek about his looks.

Tonight had been a repeat of the other night, hungry-faced people throwing themselves at Stiles and Derek both. But it was Derek that had garnered the attention of a monster. Of course it was, because Derek is a magnet for manipulators. But the thing hadn't been counting on Derek being strong enough to resist its thrall. Stiles remembers the look of horrified surprise on that thing's face when Derek had twisted out of its hold right in time for Stiles to plunge the stone dagger into its heart. Priceless, Stiles thought with another hoarse laugh.

"It's not funny!" Derek shouts this time, turning on Stiles, stalking him back against the closed door of his loft. "That thing was vile. What it was doing to people was vile. The fact that you're laughing about it….how can you be this callous? Is it just because it chose me?"

All of the humor drains right out of Stiles, just straight up disappears like it never existed when he looks up at Derek's intense scowl. His brows are scrunched and his mouth is hard, but there's this bleak sheen in his eyes. Stiles narrows in on that look and thinks about Derek's question, decides to answer it honestly because Derek deserves at least one person who can be straight with him.

"Yes," Stiles answers the question. "I'm laughing because it chose you, Derek." The fists in his shirt tighten further, but Stiles continues because he isn't intimidated by Derek Hale. He hasn't been for a really long time. "Just like all of those other idiots who thought you were nothing more than a pretty face and a hard body. And it died bloody because it was too stupid to see what you really are."

Derek's mouth falls open and his shoulders slump. All of the fight has gone out of him, but he's still twisting Stiles' shirt so tightly that it's probably seconds away from shredding. "And what am I, Stiles?" he asks cautiously, like he's preparing himself for an insult.

Stiles just stares back at Derek for a few seconds, making sure he has his undivided attention. He does. He always does. Stiles is just an obnoxious sidekick, but he's somehow always managed to garner the full attention of Derek Hale, this fucking impossible, infuriating creature. Stiles hasn't always liked Derek, but he's always reveled in that attention, unlike the unwarranted stares of horny strangers.

"Dangerous," Stiles finally answers, succinct, brutally honest and perfectly accurate.

Stiles delivers the word like it's a compliment, like he can't think of anything better for Derek to be. He imagines that it's a word that Derek was cautioned against as a child, one that he should never aspire to be described as, a dirty word hunters used against his kind to justify their actions. But that's not how Stiles sees it.

"But it was you who killed it. Not me." Derek says it like he's trying to talk Stiles out of thinking too highly of him.

"And you were the one who fought its thrall long enough to give me the time I needed. Anyone else would have been on their knees in seconds, but not you."

Stiles is letting himself be pressed back by Derek, easy as you please, but he's fighting Derek with his words. Some childish part of him doesn't want to reveal this much to Derek, his regard and growing respect for him. It's a secret he's always hoped to keep, but maybe it isn't really his to keep anymore. It belongs just as much to Derek as it does to him.

On impulse, Stiles brings both hands up to grasp the back of Derek's skull. Derek jerks in response, but doesn't pull away. His eyes widen in surprise, but he doesn't look away. "You never stop fighting, Derek. That is what makes you so goddamn beautiful. All the rest is just fucking window dressing."

+ + +

Derek kisses Stiles then, because there's nothing else for it.

It's not something he's ever really considered, but in retrospect, Stiles' mouth is perfect for kissing. It's always so pink and wet and open, like he's just waiting for someone to slide their tongue in there to shut him up. And Stiles does open for him, he moans into Derek's mouth and gives back as good as he gets.

Derek really does shred Stiles' ruined shirt then, peeling it open clear down the middle so he can press himself closer, get them skin to skin.

It should be weird. Stiles is all hard, flat muscle where Derek is used to feeling soft, giving breasts.

When Derek breaks the kiss he's panting and his mouth feels bruised. He's got his hands slid beneath the tatters of Stiles' shirt, got them cupped around the curves of his ribcage. He slides them down and up again, just gets a good feel of warm skin. He leans his forehead against Stiles', licks the taste of him off his lips before speaking. "I've never been with a guy before. I don't know what to do."

At some point Stiles curled his arms around Derek's neck and he uses his hold to drag himself closer, arching into him like a heated cat. "Yes, you do. Sex is just instinct. Do what feels good," Stiles says against Derek's lips, kitten licks into his mouth in a maddeningly teasing fashion.

Derek growls and pins Stiles' lower body with his own, grinding his hard-on into the cup of his pelvis. "I think it would feel good to put my cock in your mouth," Derek rumbles and follows it with a brief, but tonguey kiss.

Stiles gasps a laugh and nips at Derek's lower lip. "Then do it," he dares, giving up his own hip thrust against Derek.

And Derek thinks, 'fuck it'. He's never gotten to take exactly what he wants, the way Stiles seems to be inviting him to. Stiles might be human, but he isn't a delicate little girl. Derek doesn't have to be polite and he doesn't have to be gentle. Stiles knows that Derek is an asshole, so there isn’t any need to act like a prince.

Derek gets his arms around Stiles and hauls him off his feet, uses all of his brute strength to put him where he wants him. Which turns out to be a few stumbled steps away from the door and back to the floor. Derek bears his weight carefully, doesn't let Stiles' head slam down against the cold concrete.

Stiles goes easily, with only a few muttered 'woah's and a small yelp when he comes into contact with the cold floor.

He gets a little frantic after that, Derek has to admit, just a bit worried that Stiles is going to take it back if he doesn't go fast enough. He straddles Stiles' narrow waist and discards the scraps of t-shirt that are still clinging to his chest.

But even through the haze of unexpected lust, Derek takes a moment to look. Stiles has bulked up since they first met, mostly through the shoulders and he has long corded muscles running down his arms. He's still trim, but the scrawny kid Derek remembers is all but gone. Derek can see perfectly now exactly what had all of those eyes following Stiles.

"Are you gonna stare all night or are you gonna put your dick in my mouth?" Stiles dares, licking his lips in a blatantly lascivious manner. It's far more effective than it should be. So effective in fact that Derek has to run his thumb over those spit-slick lips. He gives them a good feel and then slips his thumb inside.

Stiles closes his lips around Derek's thumb, gives him a suck so good and so hard it makes his dick ache. Derek shifts further up Stiles' body, tucking his knees under his arms. He gets to work on his fly while his does it.

Stiles' hands find the back of Derek's thighs, slide all the way up to cup his ass and tug him forward. His mouth starts to move around Derek's thumb, like he's trying to speak around it, so Derek pulls his thumb out and replaces it with three fingers instead, plugs him too full to talk.

Derek spreads his fly open with his free hand, pulls the elastic band of his underwear over the jut of his cock and notches it up under his balls. He's so hard now that his dick is dark flushed, the head prominent over his foreskin and shiny with precome.

Stiles' pupils go so wide that black eats up the warm brown of his irises. He stares at Derek's cock and moans, bites down on Derek's fingers so hard that he hisses and pulls them free.

"Seriously, Derek, you asshole," Stiles gasps. "If you don't put your dick in my mouth right now I'll kick your fucking ass." Stiles punctuates the threat by kneeing Derek in the back.

Derek growls and fists one hand in Stiles' hair, completely careless to the fact that he's dropped his fangs. He also knows that his eyes are flashing blue, but with Stiles, it isn't something he needs to worry about. Stiles knows exactly what he is and, if his scent is anything to go by, gets off on it a little.

Using the grip he has in Stiles' hair, Derek levers his head up from the floor, grabs his dick with his other hand and uses it to paint the head across those reddened, obscene lips. With just a tilt of his hips, the head goes sliding in, met with a soft wet tongue to the slit. "Oh, fuck," Derek curses when Stiles closes his lips around him, can't help thrusting a little further in. Derek forces himself to back off a little and goes only halfway on his next pass.

The suction Stiles throws in is fucking incredible, the stretch of his mouth so easy and hungry. Stiles uses his grip on Derek's ass to urge him further, urge him faster, lips getting redder and redder, spit and precome leaking from the corners. He's so insistent that Derek stops trying to be considerate and he starts to fuck Stiles' mouth in earnest. The head keeps popping past the clutch of Stiles' throat, but the kid doesn't complain any, just relaxes into it, choking only enough to make it sound filthy and raw.

Derek has never had a blowjob this good and filthy, never had anyone swallow him up like they can't get enough, but Stiles is a stubborn little pervert who keys up the suction and starts humming.

Derek moves his hand off the base of his dick, cups his tight balls in the curl of his fingers. Stiles takes the extra inches just fine, never protests the tugging of his hair or the way Derek pauses for a second once he's nearly balls deep. Stiles just breathes rapidly through his nose, clenches his eyes closed and hums. Derek feels the vibration through every inch and it makes him stutter back to thrust sloppier than ever.

"I'm gonna come, fuck, fuck," Derek mutters inanely about a half a second before his balls draw up and unload. He spills every drop into Stiles' hot mouth, fucking it into his throat and watching it leak from the corners of his lips.

Derek doesn't back off until he's completely spent. He's gentle for the first time when he lowers Stiles' head back to the ground. Stiles pants desperately for breath, swipes the smear of spit and come away from his mouth with the back of his hand. "God--God-fucking-damn, that was hot," Stiles gasps.

Stiles squirms under the spread of Derek's thighs, lets out a little whine and blinks his tear damp eyes up at him. "Will you jerk me off? Seriously, man, I'm so fucking ready I'll blow in, like, two seconds, I swear."

Derek thinks about it for a just a second, feeling suddenly self-conscious about his lack of experience with other penises, but it's the briefest hesitation. He can't stop thinking about how Stiles just gave himself to Derek, let him fuck his face and come in his mouth, swallowed everything he was given without a question. And he liked it enough that his cock is leaking in his shorts, Derek can smell it from here.

After all of that, Derek would give Stiles anything he asked for. If he wants to be jerked off, Derek will jerk him off so good that he'll see stars.

Derek tucks his softening dick back in his underwear and gets himself between Stiles' spread thighs. He rubs him down, nice and slow, pecs to knees, which he drags up to hook around Derek's hips. Before undoing Stiles' fly, he give him a grope through his jeans, just to check out the lay of the land. Stiles is bulging out his fly, a long length pressing up under the denim. Stiles squirms some more at the teasing, so Derek takes pity on him.

When Derek gets Stiles out, he's blood rich and furnace hot, leaking from the tip and fit to pop. He spits in his hand, though Stiles is probably wet enough that he doesn't need it. Derek didn't even know that guys could leak this much, but he's not complaining. It smells fantastic and it's potent enough that he can get a little taste of it on the back of his tongue.

Derek doesn't know much about fucking other men, but he knows plenty about his own needs and wants. If Derek were as worked up as Stiles, he would want it fast, hard and slick. So, Derek wraps his fingers around Stiles in a firm grip and sets a quick pace. Stiles makes the most incredible noise, this trilling moan, head thrown back and throat bared. Derek crooks his thumb just right to get the pad of it rubbing over Stiles' slit on every pass.

Just as Stiles promised, it doesn't take long, maybe a little over a minute of Derek fisting him before his hips judder and his breath catches. Stiles comes quiet, but shoots so hard and so copiously that it pours over Derek's fingers and splatters Stile's naked chest. Derek wrings out every drop and listens for the catch in Stiles' breath, lets go only when he's sure that Stiles is too sensitive to take any more.

Once his breathing has evened out, Stiles looks up at Derek from beneath his lashes and gives him a slow, lazy smile. "Man, we should have tried that a while ago. Might have alleviated some unnecessary stress."

"Yeah, right." Derek rolls his eyes and climbs to his feet. His knees twinge a little, but heal themselves quickly enough that it's barely noticeable. He reaches down and hoists Stiles to his feet by his elbow. "You've only been eighteen for, like, a week."

"Oh, fuck you, man. It's been seven months and you know it."

"Whatever, let's go shower."

+ + +

Stiles spends the night and lets Derek be the big spoon. Not that he'd have it any other way, but he's not going to tell Derek that. He has his pride.

They make out in the morning and Stiles gets them both wrapped up in one hand, lets Derek thrust against him until Stiles can't take it. After Stiles spurts off between them, Derek kneels up and jerks off on Stiles' face. It's not a hardship or anything, but Stiles imagines there are a lot of porny things Derek never got to try with any of the girls he screwed around with.

They don't shower again, but Stiles at least splashes some water on his face before they have breakfast, Jimmy Dean breakfast sandwiches and shitty coffee. Stiles would never understand why a guy with buckets of money insisted on living like a fashionable hobo, but it's not like Stiles has expensive tastes either.

When it's time for Stiles to head home, they linger by the door, strangely awkward for the first time since Stiles can remember. He's got one more day in town before he has to head back to school on Sunday morning, but he's promised the daytime to his dad and the nighttime to Scott. This is going to be the last time he and Derek see each other before he has to leave, which means this is good-bye.

Surprisingly, it's Derek who finally breaks the silence.

"So, if you're going to fuck around at school, we should plan on never doing this again."

Stiles thinks his eyebrows might be trying to crawl into his hairline. "Huh?"

Derek goes tense, his arms crossing over his chest. "I don't want to be your Beacon Hills booty-call, so if you're planning to see other people, you should just tell me now."

"Is that your passive-aggressive way of asking me to go steady?"

"Fuck you, Stiles, I'm serious. I'm not built for casual relationships, so if that's what you're looking for…" Derek lets the statement trail off, the implication unmistakable.

Stiles shrugs and says, "Fine then." He pauses just long enough for Derek's shoulders to go a little tenser. "But if you're looking to put a ring on it, I'm changing my relationship status on FB and posting that picture of you- you know the one Lydia took after you fell in the lake and your t-shirt was all see-through. And I’m bragging to anyone who'll listen about how dreamy you are and referring to you as "my boyf" to people who don't know -"

Derek cuts Stiles off with a kiss. It's a little too bitey and tonguey to be considered sweet, but it works for them.

+ + +