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When Scott and Braedyn dragged Derek’s teenaged body out of the church, he lifted his head, eyes blearily passing over Malia, Kira, Lydia. Then he looked at Stiles, eyes wide, mouth falling open. Stiles was quite sure he saw Derek’s nostrils even flare but, well, Stiles was having his own moment of shock and panic, so he wasn’t exactly paying close attention.
On the long drive home, when Stiles grew tired and entrusted Scott with the last few miles, he clambered into the backseat, squishing a half-spot for himself against the passenger door at the end of a Malia-Lydia-Derek pile as Kira took his spot in the front seat. Only the half-spot became more like a proper spot because Derek, after a few audible sniffs, curled into Stiles’ side before sleepily clambering into his lap. He fisted Stiles’ shirt and Stiles flinched, waiting for an angry rip of fabric or something, but Derek only pressed his face into Stiles’ chest and sighed.
“Umm, Scott?”
Scott cleared his throat and looked over at Stiles, visibly struggling against a smile. “Yeah?” he asked, tone light, as if nothing was out of the ordinary.
“What’s — what’s going on?”
“He’s, uh, scenting you?” Scott said, his smile more sheepish now.
“Why?” Stiles stage-whispered because Derek, currently pressed against Stiles’ front and nuzzling his face into Stiles’ neck, had made a disapproving noise at their voices.
“Maybe he finds you comforting?” Scott said, more unsure than Stiles would have preferred.
“Umm,” Stiles said. His arms stuck out at his sides, unsure of what to do. Then he heard a small sniffle and felt a shudder against his chest. “Hey, hey,” he murmured, awkwardly letting one of his hands rest against Derek’s back. “Um. Hey. It’s okay.”
Derek made a small, broken noise, crowding even closer against Stiles.
“Remember, this isn’t the Derek you know,” Deaton had said, giving Scott and Stiles each a significant look. “He’ll be less in control of his emotions, and therefore his shifts. He might pose a physical danger, especially to you, Stiles.”
But right now, the only danger he posed was getting the front of Stiles’ shirt a bit wet and Stiles sighed, heart sort of breaking for the guy. He wrapped both his arms around Derek’s back and gave a gentle squeeze. When he heard a soft, gasping breath, he gave into an impulse to bend his head down and rest his cheek on the top of Derek’s head.
They had just told him about his family.
(They had also just told him they were not in the year 2005 anymore, but Stiles was pretty sure Derek wasn’t that upset over the loss of skinny jeans.)
Derek insisted on staying with Stiles. He was wary of Scott, an unfamiliar Alpha, and kept staring at Stiles with these wide, beseeching eyes that were impossible to reconcile with present day Derek’s perpetual scowl. At home, he trailed Stiles around like a silent, lost duckling; Stiles wanted to say the only peace he got was from short trips to the bathroom but, well, this Derek wasn’t exactly a bother. At worst, he was a bit needy; but it was hard to find frustration in that when the kid was grappling with the loss of almost his entire family, a loss which hadn’t even occurred yet, at least not in his chronology. And sometimes he looked at Stiles like Stiles — meant something, or held all the answers, maybe.
“He hangs onto your every word,” Stiles’ dad said one night, with a bemused smile.
But that wasn’t quite right, Stiles thought. He didn’t know what this was, exactly, but it was something else.
This Derek was deeply invested in Stiles’ throat. He nuzzled at it as often as Stiles would tolerate, and wouldn’t sleep until he could curl up against Stiles and rest his head in the crook of Stiles’ neck, or against his underarm — which Stiles quickly decided was the worst of two evils so neck it was.
One painfully memorable morning, Stiles awoke to rhythmic lapping sounds that turned out to be Derek actually licking his neck. Stiles had yelped and jumped up in such alarm, he fell out of bed. Derek just stared at him, rubbing at his eyes as he blinked in sleepy confusion that would’ve been adorable on anyone else. (Okay, it was adorable on him, too.) Then he turned bright red and ran out the door, yelling something about a shower.
So, yeah. It turned out something about Stiles’ neck was an irresistible Werewolf balm to this Derek, which was. Fine. Definitely fine.
A shaky noise roused Stiles from sleep. He grumbled, reaching out a hand to pat at his now-familiar sleeping buddy. His hand thwacked empty bedding and he stretched out further, only hitting cool sheets.
“Derek?” Stiles said, pushing himself up. Squinting his eyes open, he looked around the room, settling on a vaguely Derek-shaped lump at the foot of his bed.
The noise came again, more recognisable now as hitching breaths.
“How did they die?” came a quiet, awful voice. “You never — never told me.”
Alarm shot through Stiles’ body, forcing him wide awake. He held out one hand, placating, as he reached over to turn on his bedside lamp. Derek barely flinched at the flood of lights, his green eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot. His face was soaked in tears, and his lip trembled.
It had been naive, and selfish, for Stiles to think that maybe Deaton was wrong about this Derek’s weakened emotional control. That against all logic and reasonable belief, Derek had simply skipped the stages of grief after hearing about his family (save for that brief cry in the vet’s office while clinging to Stiles) and jumped straight to acceptance. It hadn’t really crossed his mind that Derek might’ve been in prolonged shock after hearing about his family. Maybe that was why he followed Stiles around like a lost duckling.
“Maybe we should talk to Scott first,” Stiles said, slowly, if only to stall for time. This was not the kind of conversation he wanted to have with an emotionally volatile teenaged Werewolf, much less an emotionally volatile teenaged Werewolf that was Derek Hale.
Derek growled, eyes flashing bright blue as he bolted forward, baring his razor-sharp teeth at Stiles.
It was not even in the top fifty frights Stiles had received from Derek, but it was enough to have his pulse quickening.
And then Derek was leaping out of bed, stumbling, really, with a lack of grace Stiles had never seen from him. “You don’t have to fear me,” Derek said, in that awful, trembling voice. Despite his words, Stiles hard the snick of his claws coming through. Derek looked down at his own hands, eyes wide, then back at Stiles. “I just wanna know.”
Before Stiles could say anything, Derek’s expression slackened and his face was so expressive like this, at this age, that Stiles could literally see as he realised something. Unfortunately he didn’t feel like sharing his epiphany with Stiles, because he then vaulted over the bed, threw open Stiles’ window, and jumped out.
“Fuck,” Stiles muttered. He fumbled around for his phone. “Hey, Scott? We’ve got a problem.”
There was a lone figure when Stiles pulled up to the Hale house in his Jeep, Scott right behind him on his motorcycle. Derek’s whole body was shaking, wracked with sobs as Stiles jumped out of his car. He was about to rush forward when Scott’s hand on his shoulder held him back.
“Wait,” Scott said, and sure enough — the sobs turned to agonised screams, which bled into growls, vicious and guttural. As Derek’s head threw back, Stiles could see the silhouette of his fangs and the altered profile of his face.
Derek jumped to his feet and ran up the porch steps, slamming into the door before grabbing it and ripping it straight off its hinges. His snarls carried through the open door, along with crashing, tearing, and guttural cries.
“Dude, we have to do something!” Stiles yelled.
They made it halfway to the porch when Derek stumbled out, growling, doubled over. He was covered in soot and dust and a bit of blood, and his body heaved into the railing.
Stiles hesitated. Scott took another step forward and Stiles looked over, and —
“No, no,” Stiles said, waving his hand as he saw Scott’s eyes flash red. “He’s not a part of your pack. He’s already freaked out by you. You’re gonna make it worse.”
“Then what are we supposed to do?” Scott hissed.
Stiles made a frustrated noise, pulling at his hair as he looked between Scott and Derek, who, from the sounds of groaning wood, was about to break the railing under his hands.
Stiles thought of that lost duckling, curling up on the Stilinski couch as Stiles popped in Lord of the Rings: Return of the King (because Derek said his family had just bought the recently released DVD and he hadn’t had a chance to watch it) and instead of glancing at the screen even once, Derek had pressed his face into Stiles’ neck and fallen asleep within minutes. He thought of Derek, a bit nervous around the Sheriff, quietly clutching at Stiles’ hand whenever he was around. And Derek, eyes watery as Scott told him for the first time that his family was dead, refusing to shed a tear until his face was safely burrowed against Stiles’ throat.
“Derek?” Stiles called out. He half-bent his knees, keeping himself low, and held out both his hands as he approached the steps. “It’s okay. Everything’s fine but you need to calm down, okay?”
Derek snarled but his eyes were wide with panic, mouth quivering.
Stiles may be reckless, but he didn’t have a death wish — he didn’t want to risk bringing those sharp, snapping fangs down against his throat, even for the sake of calming Derek down. So he did the next logical thing: he wrapped his hands around Derek’s biceps, pulled himself against Derek’s front, and nudged his head under Derek’s jaw. Closing his eyes, he tried to mimic what Derek always did — took a few deep breaths, rubbed his nose along the column of Derek’s throat, his cheek.
Derek was gloriously warm, his skin soft. Stiles didn’t have a superior sense of smell but he thought maybe there was something to this, after all; Derek smelled warm, woodsy with a little spice, and pleasantly familiar.
He was distantly aware when the snarling stopped; not so much because of the lack of noise, but because the vibrations of Derek’s chest stopped. Stiles made a soft noise of relief, rubbing his face into the crook of Derek’s neck, and Derek made one back.
“Um, dude?” Scott called from the yard. “I think he’s more than okay.”
“Hmm?” Stiles, with some effort, pulled away to take in Derek’s expression. Derek’s eyes were half-lidded, face slack, mouth fallen open on shallow pants. He listed on his feet, prompting Stiles to tighten his grip on his arms. When Stiles didn’t cleave back to him, he whined lowly and tilted his head, exposing his throat in unmistakable invitation.
Stiles, for reasons he couldn’t quite name, lifted a hand to grab the back of Derek’s neck and give a gentle squeeze. That low whine became a keen, and Stiles’ own mouth fell open in surprise.
“What… what just happened?” Stiles said.
“I’m yours,” Derek murmured. There was a hazy, almost blissed-out quality to his voice. “Please.”
“Oh. Wow, okay.” Stiles cleared his throat and took a step back, his face flushing at this very unexpected, very confusing reaction. Derek whined again. “Um. Let’s get you home first, okay? Maybe have a little chat.”
Derek was completely malleable under Stiles’ very human hands, clutching at Stiles’ wrist and quietly walking to the Jeep as Stiles guided him. Stiles tried to leave him at the passenger door but he just leaned against it, panting lightly. Opening the door was beyond his capabilities, apparently; luckily for Stiles, he was able to pull himself up onto the seat, but only after Stiles carefully instructed him and, when that failed, physically pushed at him. Instead of sitting normally, he curled up with his legs to his chest, forehead pressed to his knees.
Slamming the door, Stiles shot Scott a ‘what the fuck’ gesture with his hands, which Scott returned before straddling his motorcycle. Stiles jumped into the driver’s seat and almost had the car in reverse when he glanced over and noticed Derek hadn’t moved.
“I know you have super healing,” Stiles said. “But you still gotta wear a seatbelt, okay?”
Derek didn’t move.
With a sigh, Stiles shifted until he could reach over and tug the seatbelt across the fronts of Derek’s shins and buckle it in. He had his hand back on the stickshift when Derek asked, in a small voice, “Can I have your jacket?”
Stiles opened his mouth, then closed it. Shrugging, he peeled off his jacket and draped it over Derek. Derek made a small noise, clutching at it, and was silent for the rest of the ride home.
“I’m sorry we didn’t tell you,” Stiles said, after explaining the Hunters and the fire to Derek’s home. He still didn’t explain everything. And he didn’t mention it was the Argents who were responsible, which left an awful feeling in his chest, but he couldn’t find the words to explain Kate Argent to the fifteen year-old boy who didn’t even know yet the role she had manipulated him into playing in his own family’s deaths.
“They suffered so much,” Derek said, voice hardly a whisper, as if he could only barely bring himself to even say it.
Stiles squeezed Derek’s hand. They were sitting side by side on Stiles’ bed. Derek had clung to his hand ever since they had arrived home and Stiles had coaxed him from the Jeep.
Derek turned to face Stiles. His eyes were swollen, cheeks lined with tear tracks through ash and dirt, and his nose red. Stiles opened his mouth, unsure of what he was even going to say, when Derek’s lips were suddenly on his. Stiles twitched in surprise, which had the unfortunate effect of moving his mouth against Derek’s, which had the even more unfortunate effect of feeling really good, and Stiles was pretty sure they kissed for a solid few seconds before he finally found the wherewithal to pull away.
“Derek, no,” Stiles said, jerking back. “We can’t… do that.”
“Why not?”
“I — I can’t do that to you. I mean, the you that I know. The you I’m used to.”
Derek’s brows furrowed. It was an echo of a familiar expression, only instead of angry, he looked more — confused. “Why not?”
“We’re not dating…?” Stiles said slowly, raising an eyebrow.
Derek’s frown deepened as he tilted his head. “Yes, we are.”
Laughing mirthlessly, Stiles said, “I think I’d know, dude.”
“But you smell… you smell right,” Derek insisted. “You smell like home. Like family.”
“I…” Stiles scoffed. “No, look, I’m sorry, but… you must’ve hit your head or something. Or it’s a part of whatever freaky magic did this to you in the first place, I don’t know.”
Derek’s mouth fell open. His brows pitched upward as his green eyes grew devastatingly wide. “So, in the future… I have no one?” Voice quivering, he asked, “Not even you?”
“I — you, you have me,” Stiles stuttered. “I guess? It’s, I mean, we’re just friends?”
It wasn’t until Derek turned his gaze back to his lap that Stiles registered an ache in his chest. He noticed Derek’s hand, still clasped in his, was trembling slightly.
“Hey, why don’t we try to get some sleep?” he asked softly.
Derek didn’t move. Stiles was about to force him to lie down (he was pretty sure, in this odd state, a single push to his shoulder would be all that was needed), when Derek finally said, “I wouldn’t do that to just anyone, you know. That…” In the lamplit room, Stiles could see a flush of colour across Derek’s cheeks and the tips of his ear. “Back there. I wouldn’t just… submit to anyone.”
“Submit?” Stiles said. “Is that what you were doing?”
“The only other person you submit to is your Alpha — but not like that. Like that, it’s only…” Derek’s voice cracked.
Stiles did not ask. He couldn’t bring himself to ask, because he did not want to hear the conclusion to that sentence. But Derek turned to him again and stared at him so longingly that it hurt.
“Let’s just go to sleep, okay?” Stiles said.
Derek looked back down, shoulders slumping. He didn’t make Stiles manoeuvre him into bed. He laid down willingly, curling up on his side in a tight ball. As Stiles settled into his own side of the bed, Derek did not turn toward him as usual; he remained facing the other way.
“Derek?”
“I thought it would be okay,” said Derek suddenly. “I thought I could get through it, because I might’ve lost everyone but at least I had — I had my…” Derek cut off with a miserable noise.
Shifting closer, Stiles tentatively touched Derek’s side. Under his shirt, his muscles were quivering.
“Is this okay?” Stiles asked. Because suddenly his arms felt empty, like his own body felt the need to wrap them around Derek’s body.
“Do we do this?” Derek asked.
“No. Never.”
The whine that rose from Derek’s throat was pitiful. “Could you… could you try?” Quickly, he added, “I’m not asking you to — But contact is important for wolves. Physical contact. Please, when I’m… When you know me again?”
“Yeah,” Stiles rasped. “Yeah, Derek, of course.”
Left arm slinging over Derek’s torso, Stiles settled with his chest pressed against Derek’s back and legs slotted against Derek’s thighs and calves. As he nudged his head forward, he hesitated.
“Is this okay? I don’t wanna make you, uh, submit again.”
“It’s okay,” Derek murmured. “I promise. I’ll be good.”
That wasn’t — that wasn’t what Stiles meant; it wasn’t like Derek had been bad. But Stiles thought it would be too much, for both of them, to try to explain that, so he just made a small, comforting noise and pressed his nose into the nape of Derek’s neck.
Stiles should have explained all of it, should have explained Kate Argent, but he only truly understood this when he came back into his room just in time to see her climbing out of his window.
“Fuck!” Stiles cursed.
His own persistent need to avoid uncomfortable conversations meant he had just catapulted a young, grieving, and naive Derek right back into Kate’s arms — a Derek who thought he had no one else to care for him.
Stiles was there when Derek first changed back, pushing himself to his feet and looking over at them with his familiar face and body. Stiles watched as he grimaced and rubbed at his mouth as if he was trying to wipe away the traces of something that disgusted him.
And everything Stiles had assumed turned out to be correct: whether it was the weird de-aging magic, or some naiveté of Derek at fifteen, he had simply been confused about his relationship to Stiles in the present day.
In the immediate aftermath, they held a Pack meeting at Derek’s loft, because of course they couldn’t be afforded even a couple hours to process the events of the past few days. Derek stood even farther away from everyone else than usual, the lines of his shoulders extra tense. At the end of it, Stiles, despite everything in him screaming to flee, forced himself to stay.
He waited until everyone emptied out of the loft before he said, “I’m sorry. I get you probably want to brood in peace instead of talking about it, but this is —” Stiles sighed. Derek had his back to Stiles and hadn’t turned around. Which, honestly, was probably going to make this easier on them both. “I never meant for it to be like that. Our first kiss, I mean. I need you to know that, okay? I’m not like — her.”
Derek turned around, incredibly slowly, though that could’ve been Stiles’ panic. “What?”
“I’m sorry,” Stiles said again. He looked down at his hands, where his fingers currently rubbed and twisted against each other nervously. “I didn’t mean to — but that doesn’t matter. I’m sorry I took advantage of you like that.”
In the awful silence that followed, Stiles forced himself to look up. Derek was staring at him silently but he didn’t look angry. Well, no more than Derek’s baseline anger, at least. He seemed sort of baffled and Stiles’ stomach dropped as something occurred to him.
“You remember, don’t you?” he asked, eyes widening in horror. “Everything that happened when you were —” He made a downward gesture with his hand that he hoped sufficiently said younger.
“Yes,” Derek said slowly. Brows furrowing, his head slightly tilted as he repeated, “Our first kiss.”
“Yes,” Stiles said. He felt dizzy with this drawn-out humiliation. “I-I thought you just said you remembered.”
“You never meant it to be like that,” Derek said, echoing Stiles’ words again. He was walking now, toward Stiles; slow, and it felt unmistakably like being stalked. Stiles had the urge to put distance between them, or to flee the loft altogether, yet he was rooted in place. “Our first kiss,” Derek said again. He was mere feet away now, and his eyes dropped to Stiles’ mouth. “You’ve thought about it.”
Stiles’ face flushed. Hell, his whole body flushed, a heated mix of embarrassment but also indignation. “Of course I have, you asshole,” he spat. “Is that what this is? Your turn to get even, to humiliate me now?”
Derek stopped short. His head shook lightly, like he was confused again. “Stiles, no, that’s not —”
“I saw, you know,” Stiles said. “When you came back to yourself. You —” He pantomimed wiping his mouth. “And you were disgusted. Which you should be! Because it’s wrong, to go around kissing someone who doesn’t even know themselves —”
“Stiles,” Derek cut in. He closed his eyes briefly, pinching the bridge of his nose as his mouth curled with disgust. “Kate. It was Kate. She… When she convinced me to go with her, she kissed me.”
“Oh,” Stiles whispered. And then, because he couldn’t help himself, “Ew.”
Derek laughed. It was a sharp, humourless sound. But his expression softened as he looked back at Stiles. “I wasn’t myself,” he admitted. “But I wasn’t wrong, either.”
Stiles opened his mouth, made a small, strangled sound, and closed it. “You — How long have you — When were you — How could you not —”
“One question at a time,” Derek said, the corner of his lips twitching. He took another step closer, which put him dangerously in kissing range.
“Were you ever going to tell me?” Stiles asked.
“No,” Derek said, simply, as if that wasn’t devastating. “There were a hundred reasons why it would’ve been a terrible idea —”
“But you love terrible ideas,” Stiles cut in. “And so do I! See? We’re perfect for each other!”
“But most importantly,” Derek continued, speaking right over Stiles. “Was that I never thought you’d feel the same.”
Stiles snorted. “I’m pretty sure you’ve smelled my feelings on that front plenty of times.” Whether it was the two of them forced into small quarters hiding from some creature, Stiles losing his mind as Derek’s hard body pressed against him, or Stiles simply zoning out and drooling over Derek’s biceps during a Pack meeting.
Derek’s expression hardened. “I’m not talking about physical attractiveness, Stiles.”
“Okay,” Stiles said. He rocked on his feet and threw his hands up. “Even better! I’m still on board. I’m on board even harder, actually.” Then he snickered, because he was still a teenage boy, as Derek rolled his eyes and probably re-considered all his life’s choices.
And, because Derek was annoying and stupid and stubborn, and he had technically made the first move even though he hadn’t been himself at the time (which sort of meant it was Stiles’ turn, right?), Stiles pushed up onto his toes and kissed Derek.
It took him a moment to respond — Stiles supposed he was really re-considering those life choices — and then he was kissing Stiles back, and he was moving forward until they were pressed up against each other properly, only he kept walking forward even then, and Stiles stumbled a bit, and he really didn’t want to trip and hit his head during their first (real, proper) kiss, so he threw his arms around Derek’s neck and just sort of leapt up, wrapping his legs around Derek’s torso.
It was probably not what Derek had intended at all because he grunted and took a few more steps and then Stiles’ back was pressed against the wall he must have been leading them to. But Stiles felt his method was pretty damn effective, too.
Derek crowded him further into the wall until Stiles made a small noise, his skull beginning to throb from the pressure. But Derek took it as some kind of cue to start kissing and sniffing and licking at Stiles’ throat, and Stiles hummed, eyes fluttering half-closed.
“Is this — am I submitting to you?” he asked, blearily. “Is that what I was doing the whole time?”
Derek’s laugh huffed against his skin and oh, that was a lovely feeling, hot breath against his licked-wet skin.
“No, Stiles,” Derek said. “It has to be deliberate. Your scent is just comforting.”
Stiles made a small, considering noise, absently scratching his fingers through Derek’s hair because that was something he could do now. “What if I wanted to?”
Derek pulled back with a sharp inhale, gazing up at Stiles with flashing eyes. “You’d tip your head back and bare your throat to me,” he said. “But it’s more than that.” With a groan, he pressed his forehead to Stiles’ cheek. “I don’t know how to explain it. There are chemosignals that I’d detect. But it won’t ever feel the same to you; to me, it feels — it felt… like peace.”
Stiles smacked his lips as he shifted in Derek’s grip. “Look, I’m feeling a lot of things right now and peace isn’t one of them. But I — I want to try.”
Derek nodded. He kept staring up at Stiles, eyes soft in a way that made Stiles’ stomach ache, not moving. Stiles licked his lips and, trying not to feel silly, lifted his chin a little.
On a deep breath out, Derek bent forward to nose, almost questioningly, at his throat. Stiles let his eyes fall closed as he tipped his head further back and then to one side. There was no kissing, this time; it was Derek’s nose pressing into him, and running along his skin, and his fingers intermittently squeezing at Stiles’ hip bone and thigh. Stiles tried to focus on relaxing his muscles which was difficult, because his whole body was thrumming with the exhilaration of a make-out, but slowly, his shoulders dropped, and his jaw softened, and his body felt weightless in Derek’s hold.
Derek made a soft, pleased sound as he began rubbing his cheek up and down and side to side against Stiles’ throat. Stiles’ breath caught as a new feeling overtook him; something raw and vulnerable and on the edge of frightening, something that tightened his throat yet made him feel warmer than ever.
Derek’s soft noises rose in pitch and he travelled up to a spot behind Stiles’ ear and snuffled. “That’s good,” he murmured, lips teasing Stiles’ skin now. “Stiles, you’re doing so good.”
“Oh, fuck,” Stiles cried out, slapping a hand over his mouth as he moaned. His hips jerked forward and his face burned with humiliation because he had just rutted against Derek’s stomach. “You can’t just say that!”
Derek’s chuckle warmed Stiles’ skin even as Stiles grumbled that he was an asshole. He pulled away, grasping Stiles’ chin with his forefinger and thumb to lift Stiles’ head upright.
“Do you, um, wanna —?”
“Yes,” Derek said and Stiles’ eyes dropped to his throat. “But not here.”
It wasn’t until they were halfway up the winding stairs that Stiles finally realised: “Wait, what, so you let me get my horny chemosignals all over the place for everyone to smell but you get the privacy of a room?”
Derek tugged Stiles up the last few steps and pushed him against the wall, kissing him until Stiles forgot what he was annoyed about and possibly also his own name. “Your horny chemosignals are already all over the place,” Derek said, and laughed as Stiles squawked indignantly. Really laughed — loud, head thrown back, eyes crinkling, and Stiles almost tripped over himself the last few feet to the bedroom because it was such a beautiful thing to behold.
“What do I do?” Stiles asked when they were in Derek’s bedroom, Derek sitting at the edge of the bed.
“You already know,” Derek said on a heavy sigh. He spread his knees and motioned Stiles to come stand between them. “Just do what feels right.”
“Can I kiss you?” Because that technically hadn’t been a part of the first time.
“Whatever feels right,” Derek murmured, reaching up to curl his hand around Stiles’ neck and tug him down.
They kissed for a long, glorious moment, until Stiles was on the edge of forgetting what he was supposed to be doing.
Derek pulled away, green eyes heavy and mouth sinfully soft. “Is this a dream?” he murmured, eyes flitting over Stiles’ features.
Smirking, Stiles held up his hands. “How many fingers do I have?”
“Eleven,” Derek said, and Stiles choked on his next breath, staring at his hands in horror before Derek huffed. “Stiles, you have ten fingers.”
“That’s not funny,” Stiles rasped, fingers trembling in the air between them.
“I’m sorry,” Derek said, solemn. He grabbed a hold of Stiles’ hands. “Count with me, okay?”
They counted, from one to ten, with Derek giving each of Stiles’ fingertips a tender kiss as they went along. On the last one, Stiles swallowed thickly and gave a small nod. He spared Derek a nervous look before lowering his nose under Derek’s jaw. He rested there, just breathing against Derek, a nervousness building under his skin until he finally felt Derek’s chin tip upward, an invitation for Stiles to duck his head closer. His cheek rubbed against Derek’s jaw and he pressed his nose against the thudding pulse of Derek’s heartbeat. He nudged his nose up and down from Derek’s jaw to the juncture of his shoulder, before deciding he liked it best just under Derek’s jaw, angled forward towards his chin.
Derek became boneless against him as his head tipped further to the side. It was lovely but Stiles’ back was starting to complain from bending forward and he decided Derek probably wouldn’t mind if he settled on his thighs instead. But as he swung his first leg onto the bed, accidentally kneeing Derek’s stomach, he was surprised to find Derek sort of just — fell back against the bed.
“Is this okay?” Stiles asked as he clambered on top of Derek and straddled his waist. Derek made a soft, pliant noise and watched Stiles with heavy-lidded eyes.
When Stiles leaned down over Derek’s prone form, he grabbed onto one of Derek’s forearms, teasing, really, as he pretended to force it over Derek’s head. But there wasn’t any force required — Derek’s arm stretched without any resistance, completely malleable as Stiles experimented with pressing Derek’s hand into the mattress. Biting his lip, Stiles tried it with the other arm, and felt a surprising thrill as he sat over Derek with both of Derek’s arms pinned into the mattress.
It wasn’t real, of course; Derek could snap his neck before Stiles could so much as blink, probably, but even the illusion of power and control was heady. Derek just watched him with a glossy, distant gaze, mouth slack.
“This is really hot,” Stiles informed him, flushing even as the words left his mouth. He watched Derek’s mouth quirk before Derek tipped his head to the side, drawing Stiles’ gaze back to where he wanted him.
This time, Stiles incorporated his mouth; he thought that would be okay, and it certainly seemed okay from the hardness pressing into Stiles’ stomach when he shifted to sprawl on top of Derek, tangling their legs together.
As Stiles reached down a hand to push up Derek’s shirt, he glanced up, biting his lip, waiting for a reaction. It felt illicit, spreading his fingers across Derek’s hard, muscled skin. But as Derek pulled a hand from the pretend cage of Stiles’ hold and gripped the back of his neck, it was only to pull Stiles in for a hot, wet kiss.
“Derek,” Stiles whispered. “Can I, um.” Stiles groaned, embarrassed, as his hips shifted.
Next thing Stiles knew, he was gasping, on his back, his arms pinned above his head, this time, and oh, fuck, this was really hot, too.
“You drive me insane,” Derek growled. “When you left your jacket here, I had to throw it out.”
“I — what?” Because Stiles might be too horny for basic math, but even he knew that logic didn’t quite add up. “Wait, that’s what happened to my blue jacket? Man, I really liked it!”
“I’ll get you a new one,” Derek said, quickly, dismissive in a way that should’ve been frustrating but was kind of working for Stiles’ libido in the moment. “I wanted to keep it, Stiles. I wanted to bury my face in it and bring it to my bed.”
“And do what?” Stiles asked, wagging his brows suggestively.
Derek glared at him. “And just sleep with it,” he said, soft voice in sharp contrast to his glower.
“Wait, that’s actually really — ngggh.” Stiles let out a humiliating sound as Derek abruptly shoved up his shirt and licked a stripe up his stomach.
“I want to taste you,” Derek said, nibbling at the skin just below his belly button.
“Yeah, okay, whatever you want,” Stiles babbled.
“You’re going to kill me,” Derek groaned right before he shoved his face into Stiles’ crotch, sniffing louder than ever and rubbing his face across Stiles’ dick, and oh, God, Stiles was pretty sure he was going to combust. Or bust. That was more concerning, really.
“You might wanna hurry,” Stiles warned, which made Derek snarl and clutch at Stiles’ stomach with hands that weren’t entirely human.
Stiles wasn’t sure how he lasted — probably only because Derek worked at his pants and boxers so fast, it was like Stiles went from clothed to naked before his mind perceived the difference. And then Derek was licking him, growling and lapping at Stiles’ cock almost like he was pissed off about it, because of course Derek approached sex like he had a vendetta against it.
Stiles didn’t last long because, duh, of course he didn’t. Derek had his mouth around Stiles, and Stiles barely had a fleeting thought of Are his fangs out? when Stiles came right in Derek’s mouth. No warning; Stiles himself had no warning, really, and he knew that was bad etiquette, but Derek was sucking him down like a man starving, so he didn’t feel so bad.
Stiles was trying to figure out how to ask Derek if he also wanted a blowjob in a way that was sexy but also tempered expectations, given zero dicks had ever entered Stiles’ mouth, when Derek pulled himself up and buried his face back into Stiles’ neck, seeking out that spot just behind his ear.
“Like this,” he said, and from his hand’s movements between them, Stiles was pretty sure he was working to get his own cock out. Derek paused, pushing up on one elbow to eye Stiles. “Is that okay?”
“Oh, my God, yes.” Stiles rolled his eyes. “But can I?”
“Please,” Derek murmured, husky and straight into his ear, and Stiles shuddered. Stiles shuddered some more as Derek guided his hand onto his cock. Which was stupid big, seriously, was there even an evolutionary advantage to something that size?
“I want to keep you,” Derek murmured into Stiles’ throat. The words were dragged out, almost slurred.
“I'm here,” Stiles said, and, “You can. Always.”
Derek was silent when he climaxed, clutching at Stiles’ cheek and jaw as he spilled all over Stiles’ belly.
“Stay?” Derek whispered, a little later, after he had cleaned them both up because Stiles refused to stop luxuriating in his afterglow.
“Dude,” Stiles said, pulling Derek down against him. “You’re not getting rid of me that easy.”
Derek arranged them as he wanted, with his body curled around Stiles, their fingers and legs intertwined. He pressed his face into the nape of Stiles’ neck and Stiles felt a warm, happy pulse as he remembered doing the same to Derek just the day before.
“You should do this more,” Stiles said, remembering Derek’s own words: Contact is important for wolves. “With the Pack.”
“What?” Derek said, alarmed.
“No, uh, I mean — be close. Cuddle and stuff.”
Derek’s sigh was heavy with relief, as if he had feared Stiles was signing him up for some kind of Pack orgy. Then he made a noise, not exactly agreement but not refusal either, and settled back against Stiles.
Progress, thought Stiles.