Chapter Text
To say that Derek broke a handful of traffic laws to get home would be a slight understatement. He peels up the winding ribbon dirt drive, tires cutting the final curve into the clearing of the werehouse.The evasive Jeep soaks up the spill of the porch light, taunting Derek with a flair of blue metal. Blessedly, Stiles is planted on the bumper, staring at the dirt between his shoes and he jumps up like a startled cartoon character when the camaro's lights pass over him.
Derek kills the engine and hops out, stomping toward the boy who is holding his hands up, already blabbering and taking clumsy steps backward. "Okay uh oh- hang on hang on! Please don't maim me or twist me into a pretzel. Unless it's a like, sexy pretzel. Let me explain!"
Derek stops in front of his cowering anchor, taking in the dapper state of his appearance. Baby blue button-up, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, dark jeans and mostly clean sneakers. His wild hair has been tamed with product, artfully combed away from his forehead. Derek's suspicion rises a few degrees, folding his arms and regarding Stiles without much of an expression. Unless “NO” is an expression.
Derek’s voice is fresh from the refrigerator. "Remember when you said you weren't going to do anything for my birthday?"
"I said nothing fun," Stiles corrects, nervously squeezing his digits. "I know how much you hate fun."
Derek sighs, and it may as well be the last of his soul escaping his body. He takes the twelve pieces out of his pocket and holds them out. "Then what was all this about?"
"You actually got all of them?" A coy grin sneaks across Stiles' lips as he transfers the pieces into his own pocket, forming a chunky bulge. When Derek doesn't offer more than a grunt, Stiles says quickly, "I just needed you out of the house so I could, um..." He blows out his cheeks and wipes his hands down his pants a few times before he holds one out. "C'mere."
Derek lets the hand hover between their gap, examining it and the apprehensive face he'd been missing all day before giving in, letting the familiar grasp take his own. "I told you no surprise parties."
Stiles makes an irritated noise in his throat yet quietly leads him up the slope, toward the decrepit bench under the even more decrepit oak tree. He doesn't like the way Stiles' silence blankets the openness of the outside air, and wishes he would say something.
The sun has tucked itself into a bed of dark blue, taking the rest of the world to bed with it, desaturated. Cooling grass licks over Derek's boots and he wishes he was barefoot for it. Stiles stops and hunches to the ground, swiping his hands through the grass and coming up with two orange lengths of extension cord. Before Derek can ask what it is, he plugs it together and the world is suddenly, seemingly light again.
Derek squints, mouth parting silently.
Lightbulbs. Maybe a hundred low-watt light bulbs, all strung up through the oak branches, dangling down in flocks like white-gold will o'wisps. There's a table he'd not noticed, covered with what looks like a white bed sheet, two folding chairs poised on opposite ends. On the little table sits a sweating plastic pitcher of ice water, two plastic cups, two paper plates with plastic forks and a white box in the center. If he takes a deep breath through his nose he can smell it-- chocolate. Stiles pulls out a chair, inviting him to sit down.
Derek lets this new, gentlemanly Stiles help him with his chair and tries not to laugh. "You did all this while I was gone?"
"Cora helped me with the lights, but yeah," Stiles grunts, scooting himself into the table. "I know it's not exquisite or anything but the cake you wanted was almost thirty whole bucks. And I had to give Isaac twenty to even cooperate..."
The boy rambles on, fiddling with the pitcher and pouring two cups of sweaty water and Derek lets himself settle into their little party. He looks like gold under the incandescents, a sacred vision as his eyelashes dust his ruddy cheeks. Derek can’t help but reach out and touch his moving jaw, making sure he’s real.
"It's perfect," Derek says honestly, visibly taking Stiles' apprehension down a peg. "I just wish I'd had the heads up to dress better," he smiles, eyes licking across the expanse of the boy's shoulders, rounding as he takes the lid off the bakery box to gingerly lift the beautiful cake out and set it down.
Stiles brushes it off with a “hmph”. "Why do you look like a pornstar car mechanic, anyway?"
"I was under the sink when I got your messages."
"Oh. Dirty suits you."
"Like a pornstar car mechanic?" Derek prods.
Stiles' beet red cheeks offset the blue of his shirt. He unceremoniously drops a plate full of cake in front of him. "Just-- just eat your fancy cake and shut up."
The cake isn't just like he remembered having as a kid, but it doesn't matter. He eats two big pieces and Stiles makes up for the lack of taste. Halfway through his second piece, he notices the wooden bracelet on Stiles' wrist, just like his own though the letters are blue.
"Yeah, Cora made me this," Stiles says with a shake of his wrist, taking his fork out of his mouth. "You've got one too? Aw man. I thought it was a special friendship thing."
"Something like that. We've all been part of a pack since before Scott became an alpha. This... is more like a family thing," Derek supplies.
Stiles looks cowed by this information, as if having it said out loud puts weight on it. As always, his sarcasm shines through. "So's this mean you want to get personalized jackets?"
"We may as well."
Their light and their voices are the only ones for what seems like miles as they finish eating. Stiles yawns, his nose scrunches up with wrinkles almost as sweet as the ganache. The decorations Stiles and Cora executed are definitely beautiful but most likely a fire hazard, so Derek insists on turning them off before heading inside the house to put their cake away.
As Derek bends down to make room in the fridge, a wayward hand sinks into his back pocket. "Lose something?" he asks, a casual smile sneaking in.
Stiles removes his hand quickly. "Uh, nope I was just, ah..."
"Trying to be smooth?" Derek supplements after shutting the fridge, straightening up and pinning Stiles to the dining room table in one fluid move. He's impressed with it, himself.
Stiles' swallow bounces off the walls. "I admit I'm not very debonair. Unlike you, Mr. Freaking mnh--"
Derek kisses him hard, literally taking his next words out of his mouth. He breathes Stiles in, letting that initial burst of arousal crash through his body, listening to his own blood gush through his veins. Stiles fights to stay vertical as Derek pushes into him He gives up and slides back to sit on the table, Derek fitting himself between the boy's thighs. Sneakers come to rest on Derek's bum, bringing their hips flush. Less careful arms make a loop around his neck and clamy fingers card up the sharp, short-cropped hair there. Stiles' breath spills over Derek's face, hot and a little chocolatey like their first of many kisses in Stiles' bed.
After an immeasurable few minutes where he might just absorb Stiles altogether, the wolf has his normally steady hands fumbling to undo the button of Stiles' nice jeans. They slide to the floor with a little wiggling on Stiles' part, chess pieces spilling out and rolling under the table.
"Mmn--" Stiles begins to speak, pulling his lips away with a smack. "W-wait, wait," he exhales, as breathless as Derek.
Derek stills after a stolen kiss, foreheads pressed together hard. "What is it?" He asks, lips brushing over Stiles' barely stubbled jaw. God. His blood is already channeling to his cock, swelling it quicker than it has in years.
"Can we maybe not do this where everyone eats?"
Good point. Without a word, Derek scoops his anchor up and throws him over his shoulder.
"I'm not a sack of potatoes y'know!" Stiles thrashes around but not with enough real force. His heart hammers into Derek's back as he more or less bounds up the stairs to his own dimly lit bedroom, flings the door open so hard it bounces against the wall and closes again, probably leaving a dent. He heaves Stiles down (like a sack of potatoes) on the center of the bed they've shared a dozen times.
"Oof! A little gentility would be nice," Stiles snaps. He's propped belly up on his elbows, scowl painted on his face in attempt to mask his blush and freshly tousled hair. Derek gets a nice look at the hill of his erection, pushing purple briefs outward and Stiles self-consciously draws his knees together to try and hide it.
Derek kisses a smirk into that sour look and revisits the site of his anchor's clothes, deftly unbuttoning the little white buttons of his dress shirt. He can't slip the arms off before Stiles' hands are sliding up under his own shirt, testing the skin of his abdomen. Derek yanks his dirty T-shirt off in a flash, getting a whiff of his stink in the process. But Stiles returns to roaming his tacky flesh, apparently indifferent.
The wolf shivers, ducking his face into his anchor's cologne-spicy neck to plant a few suckling kisses, effectively passing his shivers on before sinking lower on the bed to bring his mouth over the sparse spiral of hair over Stiles' stomach. He kisses his navel, dips his thumbs into the elastic band of his briefs and looks up to check Stiles' expression, as his ratcheting heart isn't a definite ascension. Derek is well aware this is the first experience of this kind for him and that only makes him more desperate.
Stiles is propped up again, red-faced, clove-colored eyes half glazed with his own arousal as he stares at Derek, laying in wait between his thighs. He wets his parted lips and silently spreads his legs wider in admittance.
So Derek wastes no time freeing him from his briefs, his fat pink cock bouncing up almost comically. It's already so hard it actually smacks against his belly, leaving a pearl of pre-come. Stiles' body hitches and Derek's mouth legitimately waters with the fresh wave of pheromones crashing over him.
And... it's right about here when Derek realizes he's never in his life touched another man like this. But it can't be too confusing and now is not the time to show uncertainty. He takes it in his hand and gives an experimental tug upward. Stiles makes a soft noise between a whine and a sigh, so he takes that as a good sign to keep going.
Derek finds a rhythm in it-- squeezing hard on the way up the shaft, flicking his thumb over the head the way he personally likes. Derek licks a spilled bit of come from his knuckles, following it up over the angry red cock head and sucks him inside his mouth. What he can't swallow, he makes up for with a squeeze of his fist.
It's worth mentioning that Stiles is a wreck. Each sound he makes, every little gasp and whimper flows out of his mouth like a babbling brook, all garbled together with the occasional "oh god" and "oh Derek". His hands fist above his head in Derek's sheets, same tension in his knuckles mirrored in the pinch of his brow, his slightly open mouth, twitching thighs.
"I'm-- oh god I'm gonna--" Stiles cries out, but it's too late.
Stiles comes and comes. With a shake and a pretty arch of his back, his salty spunk fills up Derek's mouth. He has no choice but to swallow it (or else ruin his sheets), so he does. Maybe it's the heat of the moment, but it's not as bad as Derek had initially imagined.
Derek cleans him up a bit with his tongue and sits up to evaluate the panting mess that's left in his bed, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. He's still so hard it hurts, but he can't ignore the beautiful picture he's just painted.
"Holy shit..." Stiles breathes, gazing at the ceiling. "Holy shit."
He sits up, a little shaky still, and attacks Derek's pants. He could cry once Stiles finally gets his length free of its closure. Stiles takes a second to consider it before trying to get his mouth around it and take as much as he can. He goes strong with what girth he can fit in his mouth without choking. Derek feels a hand slip between his thighs, find his balls and rub a gentle circle into the soft pouch.
Derek does cry now, actually more of a feral grunt that escapes his throat as he whips his head back. His hand flies up and instinctively curls into boy's hair for no other reason than needing something to hold onto. Oh god. Either he's fifteen again or Stiles is talented.
He just watches Stiles in his lap, crouched down on all fours in delicious submission, messy mop bobbing up and down on him, squeeze-worthy ass (with a mole on the left cheek) up in the air. Derek wishes he could see his face now, that mischievous smile working around his cock, spit and come dripping from raw red lips...
"Sti-Stiles don't," Derek tries to tug him off before he comes, but Stiles only works him faster, maybe wanting to taste him.
With that single thought, Derek delivers, coming hard with another feral cry. His vision punches out all one color he can't place, body going from marble sculpture to jello mold at the mercy of his anchor's touch.
Stiles swallows once and pulls off with a small cough, only to be shot in the face with the last of Derek's come. Stiles makes a precious surprised face, wetting his abused lips. He looks up at Derek nervously, pearly trail of fluid on his cheek already congealing in the cool air.
Derek cradles his face with a trembling hand, gingerly wiping his spunk away with the pad of his thumb. Stiles rises with the touch, cradled in Derek's arms and they settle back on the bed as one.
"You're amazing," is all Derek can manage to say in an single exhale that stirs his anchor's crown.
"I might have done some research... Read some blowjob WikiHows."
Derek snorts, jostling their settlement.
"I wanted to be prepared!"
Now Derek laughs, snaking his hand up Stiles' back to make gentle circles. "You did good, all of it was good. Thank you, Stiles."
The boy mutters something like "you're welcome" into the wolf's chest, turning his head in an almost-nuzzle.
Derek lets the moment pass, post-release bliss settling on their bodies like fairy dust and thin layers of silk, putting him in a dreamy state.
Until the memory of what Scott said earlier meanders by, causing his mouth to harden into its usual frown. "Scott told me there was something you wanted to talk to me about."
Stiles stills, almost imperceptibly if it weren't for their current position. "Oh. Yeah," Stiles sniffs and Derek gives him a moment to collect his thoughts.
"So you know when you went away over the summer to become an alpha again?"
"Can't really forget it. Why?"
"Right, well... I talked to Dr. Deaton about, about the scars while you were away."
"And?"
Stiles pauses again, his heart starting to flutter. "We talked about it and he figured any alpha could help me heal. It didn't have to be just you."
Derek's heart starts sinking again, that curious feeling of pebble after pebble gathering in the well of his chest. "That would've been nice to know before I left."
"Yeah. It was a pretty stupid move. Anyway, Scott being Scott, volunteered to take the last of the visions away for me."
Scott. Scott could finally finish what Derek had started and couldn't lay to rest. A brew of joy and subconscious relief Derek didn't realize he'd needed percolates in his head. But wait.
"You still have these" Derek says, teaching the petal-soft edge of his ragged claw scars on Stiles' spine.
A shaky breath ghosts over Derek's pectoral. "That's because I didn't let Scott do it."
"But why? Why wouldn't you--"
"Because!" Stiles moves quickly, propping up on his hands either side of Derek, bearing down on him with eyes that are so sharp and intense it makes Derek start.
"Because I've never felt this way before. Ever. And yes I know it's a classic cliché thing to say. But I mean it. I've had these feelings before with Lydia, yeah, but that was a slow conquest that would have probably ended up with me in a fetal position.
This... We're different. I had no idea it could be this way, so easy and so... good. I mean I saw Scott and Allison all wrapped up in each other and it made me more or less physically ill-- same with Isaac but he's just... Anyway I get it now. The feeling like, like being hit in the gut in a good way every time I see you. I really love you. In that gross, 'no you hang up first' way. I kind of want to punch myself."
"Stiles..."
"So this," Stiles tilts his head to indicate his back, "this is a part of me now, something we share. And I don't want to lose it and I know it's totally completely crazy to think that. I'd never be happy about being physically and mentally scarred in any other circumstance."
"Stiles..."
"Not that I even have visions anymore. Besides, the scars aren't that bad. And with a little Mederma, who knows? I've heard it's pretty strong stuff."
Derek grips the boy's shoulders and squeezes gently, wrangling his stray attention span back. "Stiles."
Stiles, as rare as it is, gets completely still. "Yeh?"
"Shut up," Derek says tenderly, smile tickling at his mouth.
His brown eyes widen, probably abashed from the landslide of heartfelt sentiments he'd just let loose.
But if they're already on this page, Derek might as well ignite his natural disaster too. "You know how you asked me what I do to keep tame under the full moon?"
Stiles adjusts his position, folding his hands on Derek's chest to make a stage for his chin. "Um, yeah. I figured you'd just taken up yoga or had finally found your inner peace via home renovation."
"Nope.” He wishes. “It's you."
"Me?" Stiles echoes, then pushes himself up quickly to make eye contact again. "Me?" He repeats, sounding scandalized. "What does that mean? You anchored yourself to me?"
Derek simply nods, carefully keeping his marbles in the jar.
"Why? I’m flattered but that wasn’t a smart investment, Derek. I’m definitely the type of person who almost dies every other week."
“You’re not a savings bond, you idiot.” Derek fidgets under the pressure of Stiles' hands. "And well... You did just say it all.
I've never felt like I do when I'm with you. There have been other people, I've made many other mistakes. Attacking you just added to my ledger," Derek admits. "Then I came to be your... 'caretaker' and things were different between us. I liked having you under my hands. Your heart, your annoying voice even, became a beacon. I found solace in your just your scent."
“That would all sound pretty creepy if you weren’t a werewolf, ironically,” Stiles mumbles. Then he sits up proper on Derek’s stomach (his makeshift lounge chair), and Derek has to tuck his chin to look at him. “So let me get this straight. I make you calm? I’m sorry I just can’t wrap my head around that little tidbit.”
“It’s ironic, alright,” Derek grunts. Regardless of creature identity, being sat on isn’t agreeable. “And it’s mostly also--” he takes Stiles’ nimble hands, urging him back down and Derek sits up enough to place a kiss on his forehead, just like the first he’d ever placed on him.
“--because I love you, too.”
Stiles blinks, a tiny smile reshaping his whole face. “I love you too.”
The wolf’s smile mirrors his anchor’s, surging from somewhere deep inside and he wonders how these four frail walls could contain the absolute weight of his sanctity right now.
“Shut up.”