Chapter Text
I let you get your teeth in me
'Cause I just need your hands upon my body
Feel the way you want me
You're holding me
I know you only love me when I'm on ya
Want me when you wanna
Piranha
“Fuck, Der,” Stiles moans as he comes, head thrown back and spine arched against the mattress. Derek presses further into him as he follows, shoving his face in Stiles’ neck and grunting as he suddenly stills. Stiles gasps as he’s filled, clutching Derek’s hair and the back of his neck, clinging onto the wolf.
As they both finish, they collapse together on the bed, still pressed together tightly and panting. Derek’s breath is hot on his neck, and his mouth is open against his skin, and Stiles knows he’s scenting him, whether it’s subtle or not. Marking him from both the outside and in.
Derek gives a wet suck to the vein in Stiles’ neck, then makes his way down, nipping here and there and licking easily as if Stiles tastes amazing. When he reaches Stiles pec, he bites down fully, human teeth gently digging into Stiles’ skin. There will be a slight mark, but no blood.
Stiles gasps again, arching his back once more, but he doesn’t make it very far with Derek’s weight on top of him. The bite felt possessive, claiming, and there’s a snarl around Derek’s mouth when he lets go and licks soothingly over the mark in a silent apology.
The wolf bites him all the time when they do this, when they — get together. Stiles cringes internally at his own thought process, but there’s really no better phrase for it. They’re not together together, not dating or anything, they just — do this sometimes.
Derek comes over to his apartment or texts him to come by the loft. They rant about their days briefly, what’s stressing them out if they feel like it, but then use each other as their stress relief. And it’s good — it’s so good.
Derek’s passionate, attentive, sometimes acting like he’s nearly obsessed with Stiles, gripping his thighs tightly as he rocks into him and sucking possessively on his neck. Biting his jaw, his ear, his bicep, his stomach, his thighs — everywhere except his neck.
Stiles tries not to care, knows Derek would never want him like that anyway, that he doesn’t see him as a mate but just as someone who’s convenient to fuck, to let out his stress with. The wolf isn’t really obsessed with him, he’s just glad he can let go with Stiles, find pleasure in him after the burdens of his life.
So Stiles trains himself not to read too much into this, expect too much and end up getting hurt. He tells himself he’s fine with the bites, that at least Derek still thinks he’s worthy enough to mark, to find solace with, to be with in the first place in such a vulnerable way, something that must be hard for Derek after all he’s been through. Stiles attempts to convince himself that this is enough, for now. Just until they both find someone else.
For the time being, Stiles makes himself savor Derek’s kisses, the feel of him in and on his own body, how soft Derek’s hair is when he pulls it, how his abs clench when he runs his pale hands over them. Derek’s tongue in his mouth, his attention on him, the desperation he sometimes conveys, silently begging Stiles to distract him, make him feel good, let him make Stiles feel good in return.
Now, with Derek lying heavily over him in Derek’s bed, Stiles finds himself feeling safe and comfortable for the first time since… since the last time he was with Derek. So he’ll take what he can get. He’ll keep coming back. Even if what they have is superficial, temporary, he’ll keep coming back.
“Stop thinking,” Derek grunts, voice rough and deep and used. His teeth find Stiles’ stubbly jaw again, and bite down gently till Stiles shivers. Someone definitely has a biting kink, Stiles thinks, closing his eyes briefly in pleasure.
The thinking is easier to stop when Derek’s doing that, when he continues leaving short, wet kisses all along Stiles neck, snuffling into where it meets his shoulder, licking up the sweat from his collarbone. Werewolves.
“You done with the tongue bath, there, big guy?” Stiles croaks out, attempting to shift again underneath the wolf, before remembering Derek’s still inside him.
Derek only huffs and nips Stiles’ skin once more in answer. Now I’m done.
It doesn’t mean anything, this is just how he is, Stiles tries to remind himself. Don’t get attached, is what lies underneath.
In a moment, all the wonderful warm weight leaves Stiles at once, as Derek slides out of him and sits up on his knees, grabbing a tissue from the nightstand. He eyes Stiles’ torso like he’s reluctant to clean him, and Stiles knows what he’s thinking.
It’s not that it’s disgusting; it’s that for some reason, he smells so good to Derek, Stiles being all marked up with their combined scents, intertwined with someone so close to him, that it’s a shame to wipe it away.
Still, Derek does it anyway with an annoyed huff. He cleans Stiles gently, carefully, then himself, and tosses the used tissue onto the floor.
The next part is always a toss-up between if Derek will leave, or prod Stiles into leaving, or if he’ll collapse back on top of Stiles and lay on him the rest of the night. While Derek looks better than before they crawled into bed together, there’s clearly something still bothering him, and he’s sullen-looking, with furrowed brows and a still-possessive streak in his eye.
As Stiles tugs the wolf forward, allowing him to rest on his own sweaty body and be Stiles’ weighted blanket for the night, he pets Derek’s hair idly, and observes how easily Derek lets him. It must be nice, Stiles thinks, for Derek to have someone of his own again after all this time.
Not that — he knows they’re not really together, that he can’t say Derek is his just as Derek can’t call Stiles his. But as long as they keep pretending, keep acting whenever they’re in bed together, maybe imagining they’re each other’s just for a short hour or so a few nights a week, that could be enough for now.
Stiles swallows where his chin rests against Derek’s hair, sweaty and damp still, curling at the edges.
It’s not like he’s the best at sex, Stiles knows this about himself, knows he’s nothing compared to Derek. But if he can let Derek find solace in him for a brief while, if he has to drive home straight after with the seat of his boxers still damp, if he must cover up the new hickeys he’s collected before work the next day — it could be enough. He could make it enough.
For now.
In a brief moment of unguarded affection, he brings his lips to Derek’s forehead. Derek snuffles where his nose is once again buried in Stiles’ throat. Where it smells like pack, like… them.
Eventually, as the night grows on, and the sky gets darker, and the stars twinkle brighter and brighter, Derek’s breaths even out where his chest presses into Stiles’. He sleeps at last, and Stiles pets his hair, stuck in his thoughts, still awake with a whirling mind and a sinking feeling that he’s in too deep.
That somehow, somewhere along the way, Derek’s been leading him to deep waters slowly but unintentionally, luring him in with his shy smile and his kaleidoscope eyes, and his lovebites, and his kisses, and the way Derek sinks so heavily and real inside him, bringing him closer and closer to the dark depths of no return.
*
Derek’s on top again, his large palms spread out onto Stiles’ chest as he rides him, pressing Stiles down onto the bed. Stiles grips his hips in return, fucking up into the tight heat over and over, staring enthralled at Derek’s blissed out face, eyes clenched as tightly as his ass as his eyebrows pinch in. He bites his own lip like he wants to moan but won’t let it out. They don’t make eye contact, but Stiles sees through him anyway.
He brings a slightly shaky hand up to Derek’s lower lip, pulling it free of his canines and rubbing a thumb over the punctured skin. It heals in seconds, and Derek grunts as Stiles gives a particularly hard thrust up, and so what if he only did it to get a noise out of Derek?
“Fuck,” Derek moans breathily, still quiet like he thinks he’s not allowed. He tips himself forward to bury his face in Stiles’ neck, his apparent favorite place, but Stiles knows it’s just convenient, just smells familiar and comforting because Stiles is familiar.
“Come on, Der, you gonna come for me?”
Derek spasms and moans again, moving his hips to meet Stiles’, fucking himself on the man below him.
“You first,” Derek huffs into Stiles’ skin, nipping down his neck again until he gets to his sternum, dipping his tongue in there and then sucking. Stiles moans back, hand on the back of Derek’s head to keep him there, the other hand wrapped around Derek’s thigh, sweaty and moving and dusted with hair.
It’s when Derek sucks right over Stiles’ Adam’s apple, sinking his teeth in ever so slightly, that Stiles falls over the edge, filling Derek easily, intimately, with a loud groan that he doesn’t care to bite back himself.
Derek shudders and follows immediately, closing his eyes and pressing his whole face into Stiles’ neck like he can hide himself there, as he gasps and rocks through his peak.
To Stiles, it feels good, special, right, as if he’s being handed something rare, a way to take care of Derek tonight after his shitty day, a way to make him feel better, safer.
But he knows it doesn’t go that deep for the wolf, even if he himself can’t help but sink deeper into it every time they meet.
He longs to kiss Derek now, savor what he tastes like after he’s come, after he’s all loose and relaxed and languid. Stiles knows from experience what Derek is like afterwards, when he’s not still pissed off or grouchy or tired. When he lets Stiles suck on his tongue and bite his lips and have his way with his mouth, and Derek goes easily, and their noses brush and their breaths mingle.
But sometimes it feels too intimate, more intimate than what they’ve just done, and Stiles gets scared all over again that he’s going to mess this up, overstep some invisible boundary, encroach on Derek’s space and intrude, make him back off or lose him entirely. And although this isn’t real, not truly, what they have together — he still hates himself by pretending it is.
So Stiles doesn’t chance it. Doesn’t kiss Derek’s lips or his forehead or his hair as badly as he wants to, doesn’t give in to the intimacy he craves, wants to convey to Derek, wants to impress upon him like the wolf deserves.
It doesn’t feel like how the other night did, in the dark, quiet loft. Something about Derek still feels wound up, his muscles tight against Stiles’ palms, stiff like he’s holding himself back from something or burdened from his day. The quick fuck helped, and Stiles is glad to provide, even if he has to keep reminding himself that that’s all this is.
A kiss now would be too invasive, somehow, too personal, when Derek isn’t nearly as relaxed as he sometimes is after they’ve been together. The moment’s over, anyway — Derek lifts himself off him and moves to sit on the side of the bed, cleaning himself up with a stray tissue, then handing another one to Stiles. He doesn’t look back as he gets up to pull on his clothes.
Something’s different about them tonight, about their dynamic, but this happens sometimes, and with Derek’s track record of being emotionally constipated and guarding his feelings like a dragon hoarding treasure, Stiles doesn’t push it. He’ll take the intimacy when he can get it, some of the other nights, and give Derek his space tonight.
Derek doesn’t owe him anything. They’re not anything to each other. Not really.
*
It’s a kissing night again. It’s a few days later, a quiet Friday night, after a too-long day for both of them, and impatience and lust are thick in the air around them.
Derek backs Stiles against the wall of the loft, cupping his face in his large palms so his fingers protect the back of his head from the brick. He tilts Stiles’ face to slide their lips together easily, and practically attacks Stiles’ mouth with his own, insistent and greedy and desperate.
Stiles’ tries to catch up, but Derek’s fucking him with his tongue now, mimicking what he wants to do to Stiles in bed, or against this very wall, if Derek gets impatient enough. They’ve done it before; it’s not very comfortable, but it’s them. Where they started.
“Off,” Stiles mumbles into Derek’s mouth, tugging at his belt pointedly, and Derek nips Stiles’ lower lip in agreement. In a moment, the werewolf is stripped, meeting Stiles’ mouth again like it had been hard to break away. He works on Stiles’ clothes now, unbuttoning his pants and nearly ripping his plaid off before Stiles makes him slow down.
“Shh,” Stiles breathes against Derek’s lips, breaking away for a second to kiss across Derek’s stubbled jaw and over to his ear. “We have plenty of time. I’m yours all night,” he whispers, voice a bit husky from his own lust.
“Want you,” Derek grunts back, sucking at Stiles’ throat again, his favorite place. He tugs Stiles’ shirt over his head, barely breaking himself away to do so, and dives right back in as soon as he can.
“You have me.” Stiles presses their groins together and they both moan, Derek pressing Stiles back into the wall again to grind against him with only Stiles’ boxers in the way now.
They’re plaid and soft and a little worn, because Stiles didn’t expect to come over tonight, really, but they’ve been with each other so many ways by now, in so many states of disarray, that it hardly matters what he wears anymore. Half of it will be ripped to shreds by the end of the night, anyway, and the other half will be removed in a hopefully gentler way at some point as well. It’s what’s underneath the clothes that Derek cares about the most, after all.
If Stiles’ head weren’t overfilled with a heady amount of lust and desire for the man in front of him, practically every other night, now, he wonders if he’d feel used by Derek, only wanted for his body and what he can give Derek in return, how he can make him feel. A way to get out his aggression and frustration and distress, like it doesn’t matter who Derek has in bed with him as long as he feels better during and afterwards.
The thoughts still flicker through Stiles’ mind at inconvenient times, but his haze of want overpowers them, because he needs Derek just as much for those same reasons. Plus, he knows Derek wouldn’t bite just anyone, even if his human teeth never sink below the surface of his skin, even if he seems to have a biting kink in general (perks of fucking a werewolf).
Something about Stiles seems safe to Derek, and Stiles is just happy he can provide this space for the wolf to let go in any way he needs to.
He’s not holding his breath for more; he snuffed out those thoughts months ago when they first started hooking up, knew it would only make things worse for himself. So what if Derek only texts him now for sex and supernatural business; that’s all the more time Stiles will get to see him, be with him, even if it’s not in all the ways he secretly yearns for.
He’ll take what he can get, give what he can.
“Come ‘ere,” Stiles slurs before pressing their lips together again, his boxers on the floor across the room now, taken off hastily before Derek had a chance to tear them off his body. These are some of his comfiest boxers; it’d be a shame to sacrifice them to werewolf claws. Still, maybe he could’ve kept them as a memento, after.
Needing no further invitation, Derek covers Stiles’ mouth completely with his own, possessive and insistent all over again. Stiles’ palm finds its way to the back of Derek’s head as he clutches him close, kissing back just as hard.
Somewhere in a drawer, through their mad desperation, they find the lube, and stretch Stiles out, and in no time, Derek is pressing into him, lifting him up till his back is against the wall and his long legs are wrapped around Derek’s waist. It’s one of their favorite ways to be with each other, and Stiles clings on tight, palms cupping Derek’s face, letting the wolf use him, fuck into him as hard as he needs to.
Derek pants against his neck, and Stiles encircles his shoulders with a bare arm, bringing him closer, until Derek can’t help but gnaw gently on his collarbone, and Stiles can’t blame him — it’s right there.
The wolf palms Stiles’ ass with his huge hands, holding him up easily, effortlessly, as he continues thrusting, Stiles grinding right back, mouth falling open against Derek’s forehead. His fingers lace through Derek’s sweaty hair, pulling slightly, but Derek only groans against his skin.
So Stiles tugs harder, bringing Derek out of his hiding place, making them kiss again, claiming Derek’s mouth once more, demanding and needy.
Words of yearning and desperation, hidden feelings he’s not allowed to say are pushed down as he swallows against his emotions, shoving them to the back of his mind like he always does, and focuses on Derek’s hot mouth against his, just as willing, just as enthusiastic.
Derek’s whining now, little sounds he’s probably not even aware he’s making, as his thrusts quicken and pound harshly into Stiles. It feels good, after the day he’s had, they’ve both had, like something feels real and great and right for once.
Even if it’s not.
“You gonna come for me, big guy?” Stiles gets out, voice husky and panting, gripping onto Derek like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.
Derek only nods and bites at the top of his shoulder, the skin moist and soft and probably smelling of sweat and lust-ridden pheromones.
“Come on,” Stiles encourages breathily, “Come in me, Der.”
The wolf snaps his hips as he snaps his teeth in midair, letting out a long groan into Stiles’ skin, mouth open and wet against him. He nearly howls, ears turning pointed and face growing hairier, and Stiles comes himself from the feeling of Derek filling him up, seeking pleasure in his body, trusting himself with Stiles like he does with no one else.
They move together for a moment after they finish, riding it out, gripping on to each other tightly, holding each other like lovers, like two people who truly care about the other.
Stiles loses himself in his fantasy for a moment, holding Derek’s shifted head against him and breathing heavily with his eyes closed, pretending, just for the time being, all he allows himself apart from his nights alone in bed, that someone loves him. That someone cares about him as much as he cares about them. That the way Derek kisses him, holds him, actually means something.
They come down slowly, Derek blinking his red eyes open lethargically and shifting back to green all too soon as he laps at the shallow bite mark on Stiles’ shoulder, kissing it briefly afterwards as if he’s hoping Stiles won’t notice the action.
The bite still isn’t where Stiles wants it, where he craves it, where he hardly admits to himself how much he needs it.
But each day it’s getting closer.
*
“I don’t think I can do it anymore.”
Stiles’ head is in his hands, elbows on the table across from Lydia at the café.
“He doesn’t mean anything to you?”
“On the contrary,” Stiles laughs bitterly, running his fingers through his hair now. “He means everything to me,” he says under his breath, still avoiding eye contact.
“Well, why don’t you just tell him?” Lydia says expectantly, like it’s obvious, and Stiles just knows she has her perfectly manicured brow raised and her eyes rolled, an impatient look on her pretty face.
“And lose what we have? Are you crazy?”
“Stiles, you just said you couldn’t do it anymore! Make up your mind!”
“That’s not what I meant!” Stiles backtracks, meeting her judgemental eyes now. “The sex is too good to stop,” he mumbles. “I don’t wanna make things weird with him. I just mean that I need to stop feeling things. Gooey, gushy, stupid things that make my heart skip when he can definitely hear it.”
“If he can hear it, then why doesn’t he say anything? Maybe he feels the same way.”
Stiles gapes. Lydia obviously doesn’t understand; she’s not in the situation herself, and it’s not on her shoulders if he messes it up. Still, she knows the alpha enough to know he’s terrible with feelings, runs away from them more than he’s ever run away from any monster of the week. Who’s to say he wouldn’t run away from Stiles, as well?
“You know how he is,” Stiles sighs. “Feelings will just push him away. He comes to me for — for comfort, after the bad days, y’know? I don’t want him to have to lose that. I like being able to… help.”
“Oh, is that what you’re calling it?” Lydia smirks. “Seems like there’s been an awful lot of bad days recently. Don’t you think that’s a little odd?”
“Not for Beacon Hills, and especially not for Derek Hale,” Stiles challenges, eyeing her. “Even with things a bit calmer now, he’s still Derek. He still puts himself through shit on a regular basis. At least he talks to me about it before we fuck,” Stiles says. “So at least that’s something.”
“Mm, it is definitely something,” Lydia hums faux-cheerfully, sipping her matcha and narrowing her eyes. “Has he ever given you any indication that he wants you back?”
Stiles balks at the question, sitting back in his seat and fiddling with the rim of his coffee. He’s tempted to say no, that only in his imagination at night does Derek ever express any interest in him that’s more than just sex, but… there’s something.
“He bites me. A lot,” Stiles laughs a little, like he’s brushing it off. “But he’s a werewolf. It doesn’t mean anything.” He avoids Lydia’s eyes again.
“Stiles, are you an idiot?” she hisses. “You know that’s like an admission of love for a werewolf!”
“No, a bite on the neck is,” Stiles counters, “the mate spot. He doesn’t go anywhere near there. Not with his teeth, anyway. The other spots are just… fluff, there’s no way he wants to claim me. It’s just sex to him, that’s all it is.”
If Lydia hears the sadness and resignation in Stiles’ voice, she doesn’t comment.
“Are you hearing yourself? A werewolf biting you anywhere is just fluff, now? You don’t think that means something?”
“I — how can it?” Stiles falters. “He would’ve done something by now. Just because I think about marrying him twice a week doesn’t mean he feels anything like that for me. Forget it,” he huffs, sipping the lukewarm coffee now with a grimace.
“You are hopeless,” Lydia sighs, rolling her eyes again. “You clearly don’t see the way he looks at you,” she says vaguely, sipping the earthy green drink again after her too-casual remark.
Stiles’ head snaps up. “What? What look? How does he look at me? Like he wants to eat me? Because I already knew that, but that’s just his sex look—”
“No, you dumbass—” and Stiles thinks Lydia has really been hanging around him too much to stoop to his nickname level, “—like he wants you. Like he can’t look away from you. Like he can’t figure you out, but he keeps trying all the same.”
Stiles squints, looking more and more like his father every day. “Lyds, no offence, but are you sure you don’t need to go back to Eichen?”
At Lydia’s frosty glare, he backtracks. “Too soon? Sorry,” he winces, squeezing her hand over the table. “Look, you know I’m too familiar with seeing things that aren’t there. But he’s never looked that way to me. I can read all his expressions, remember? Fluent in murder-brows? I think I’d know if Derek’s secretly in love with me.”
“Then maybe it’s still a secret to him, too,” Lydia says wisely, tucking a stray piece of strawberry blonde hair behind her ear. “Maybe his… murder-brows just haven’t gotten the memo yet. What am I saying,” she huffs, covering her eyes with her hand and sighing heavily as if she can’t believe how much of Stiles’ dumb language has rubbed off on her.
“Well, the other day, I brought him pizza when I came over, and he looked like he was on the verge of tears, like someone brought him a piece of his mom’s pie or something. He was all over me that night—” Stiles grins while Lydia pretends to cringe, “—so I’ll let you know if he ever makes that face because of me.”
“Stiles, that was because of you!” she nearly cries, exasperated. “I thought you were supposed to be a genius!”
“Pretty sure that was you, babe,” Stiles winks, taking another sip of coffee. He shudders at the temperature. Maybe he should tone it down on the yapping, if cold coffee is what it gets him.
“I’m done trying to talk sense into your thick skull,” Lydia shakes her head, only looking at him slightly fondly through her resignation. “Now help me pick a new nail design.”
*
“Stiles,” Derek gasps out against the man’s mouth, more vocal tonight for some reason. They’re moving slowly together, rocking into each other on the bed, Derek’s palms wide on Stiles’ thighs as they’re tight around Derek’s hips.
Derek fucks into him lethargically, but deeply, and Stiles can’t help but let out a long moan, sounding a bit wet towards the end. Something about their rare languorous pace tonight is killing him, stirring up all the emotions he was trying to repress, and the way Derek’s looking at him — not with love, yet, but with hunger — heats something up deep in his belly, laying heavy on his chest, like being tempted with something he wants so desperately but is unable to have.
Stiles cups Derek’s stubbly cheeks again, always longing to hold the wolf in his hands and keep him close. Derek rests their foreheads together, and Stiles’ pulse jumps. He cringes inwardly, knowing Derek can hear his heart, but the action took him by surprise at how intimate it was.
They’re breathing into each other’s mouths now, panting and clinging on, and somehow Derek still feels so perfect inside him, and he can’t imagine anyone else in his place. Even if they can’t be what he wants them to be, even if they never progress past— whatever this is.
Even if he has to keep Derek at an arm’s length just to have him, just to keep him at all… he’ll do it. He’ll do anything, if it means holding onto Derek for just a little bit longer.
With a grunt, Derek moves to hit that spot inside Stiles, and Stiles lets out a broken whine, followed by a whimper that he tries to muffle against Derek’s mouth. Derek claims his lips greedily, and this feels familiar, at least.
Stiles wants to say so many things, declarations of love and need and something about the utmost importance that Derek plays in his life, how much he fucking means to him, how he can’t fathom losing him, in any capacity — but he can’t, can’t say it, can’t risk it, can’t let this go. So he kisses Derek back like that will make up for everything he’s not allowed to voice.
“Come on, baby,” Derek says roughly into Stiles’ mouth, and Stiles loses it. Derek never calls him petnames, never calls him anything but Stiles, and the word is so tender, speaking of everything Stiles tries to convince himself he doesn’t want, can’t have, that something breaks in his chest.
He comes with a cry, a sudden sob of heartbreak and desperation and love, but Derek’s not allowed to hear that either. So Stiles stifles his sound into Derek’s skin, biting down in the crook of his neck unthinkingly, preventing any more embarrassing, telling noises from coming out and ruining this sacred thing they have together.
At the touch of Stiles’ teeth digging into his skin, into that spot, Derek comes with a roar, pounding into Stiles like he’s trying to make sure he’s real. His own human teeth bury themselves shallowly in Stiles’ neck, at last, and Stiles yelps, but it turns into a moan, and this is a noise he’s finally allowed to make. He clutches Derek’s head to his neck and rides out the rest of their wave together.
And shouldn’t it mean something, he thinks idly in his haze of emotions, that they usually end up coming together?
“What,” Derek pants dumbly, after his hips finally stop moving for the most part. “You love me too?”
Stiles’ heartbeat is too loud in his ears, and for a second, he doubts what he’s hearing.
“What do you mean, love you too?” He meets Derek’s eyes hurriedly, desperately. There’s a ring of red around the edges. “Since when do you love me in the first place?” He can hardly catch his breath, and he thinks he might sob again.
“I don’t know,” Derek furrows his brow, and he’s not even panting anymore, the werewolf bastard. “I just do.”
Stiles gapes at him. This isn’t happening. But he doesn’t want to remove his hands from around Derek’s head to count his fingers.
“I do, too,” he gets out, sex-stupid and love-drunk. “I love you, too.”
Derek grins, and maybe he looks like someone brought him a slice of his mom’s pie, again. “You bit me. I know.”
Stiles’ face lights up, matching Derek’s, and he laughs giddily. “Did you just Han Solo me, you dick?” Stiles says, nearly hysterical with disbelief and joy. He slaps Derek’s bare shoulder lightly with the back of his hand, gaze flitting all over Derek’s face, a mirror of his own glee.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Derek rumbles, ducking his head to nuzzle the bite mark he left on Stiles’ neck, licking it carefully, cheeks flushing only slightly.
“Shit, did you give me a mating bite? Are we mated now? Are we, like, werewolf married?” Stiles gasps, fingers running through the damp hair on Derek’s nape.
Derek leaves his neck with a soft kiss and an even softer look on his face. “No, you idiot. I wouldn’t just do that to you without your consent. Wolves just bite each other sometimes, when they like each other. I thought you knew that.”
“Well, you thought wrong!” Stiles laughs wetly, thumb petting over Derek’s stubbly, blushing cheek. He cannot believe this man. “I had no fucking clue. I thought you could hardly tolerate me as a person and only wanted me for sex,” Stiles furrows his brow as his worldview changes. “Wait, so if that’s not the mating bite, would you call it… a dating bite?”
“Shut up, Stiles,” Derek growls, nipping at the bitemark again just to be a dick. Stiles moans. “Why would I keep fucking you if I couldn’t tolerate you? Why would I talk to you about my problems and kiss you?”
“How should I know?” Stiles explodes, “I can only read your brows, not your soul—” and Derek really should have pulled out, by now. It’s kind of a long conversation to have when they’re still —
“Wait,” Stiles says again, “do you have a knot? Have you been holding out on me? Can you knot me if we’re mated? How ‘bout dating? Can—”
“Stiles,” Derek snaps, nipping Stiles’ jaw again, then up to his lips to claim them all over again. Stiles melts into it for a minute, reveling in the fact that he can finally have this now, what he’s been wanting for months, all he’ll ever want again.
When they break apart, Stiles keeps talking, much to Derek’s eyeroll. Really, he should know what he’s getting into by now.
“I thought you just told me that stuff because, um, you didn’t have anyone else,” Stiles says, shrugging a little. “I wanted to be there for you, since I know you don’t have a lot of people to talk to—”
But as soon as it’s out of his mouth, he knows it’s the wrong thing to say.
“Stiles,” Derek says with a forced calm, finally pulling out of Stiles now like an afterthought, but still keeping him pinned to the mattress. “Were you fucking me out of pity?”
The words sink like lead into Stiles’ stomach.
“What? Nonono, of course not, absolutely not, that was the last thing on my mind,” he tries to reassure, brushing his fingers through Derek’s hair again to try and calm him. “Listen to my heart,” he begs, “I care about you. I love you, I told you.” His voice breaks.
Derek still looks suspicious, a little broken and a little betrayed and a little unsure all at once.
“I shouldn’t have bit you,” he says quietly to himself, getting up on his knees now beside Stiles, while Stiles tries desperately to keep clinging onto the wolf, to no avail. “It was wrong. I should’ve asked first.”
“No, it was fine, I loved it, couldn’t you smell that I loved it? That I love you? Use your damn nose, Derek!” Stiles cries, sitting up now and attempting to wrap his arms around Derek’s torso where Derek sits on the side of the bed, feet falling to the floor.
“I don’t want to be your project,” Derek mutters, glancing around the room for his underwear and standing up once he spots it.
“You’re not, fuck, you’re everything to me,” Stiles pleads for him to know, voice breaking again as his eyes fill too quickly with tears. “I know it’s not easy for you to believe, with your past, that someone actually cares about you without wanting something in return.”
His voice is shaking now, but he tries to keep it calm. “But I need you to believe me, Derek. You can let yourself have this. Let someone love you. Please.”
Derek’s face is red when he picks up his boxer briefs and slides them on, back turned away from Stiles. The other man’s bitemark on Derek’s neck is far faded by now.
“I need some time,” Derek gets out, still avoiding Stiles’ gaze. He moves around the loft, picking up their string of clothes from the floor and throwing Stiles’ gently at him where he still lies stiffly in bed.
“For what, brooding and feeling sorry for yourself again?” Stiles explodes. “I’m right here, Derek. I’ve been here for you, for months, and now is when you decide you don’t trust me? What else do I have to do? I’ve already given you all of me.” He’s out of bed now, scrambling to shove himself in Derek’s face again so the wolf will at least look at him again.
There are too many emotions flitting over Derek’s face, but Stiles recognizes the main one creasing Derek’s brow: guilt.
“It’s not you—” he starts.
“Don’t fucking pull that shit on me,” Stiles demands. “You’re not in the wrong, here. You’re not allowed to blame yourself again. I wanted to help you, and fuck you, and you wanted to open up to me, just like I opened up to you. We’re friends, Derek, and I thought we were more, just now. I’m sorry it’s scary for someone to care about you, I really am. But I do care. And I’m not gonna stop.”
Stiles is panting now, glaring daggers at the stubborn wolf in front of him who’s gazing off towards the floor with his brows tipped in again, looking angry and hurt and embarrassed and overwhelmed.
“I need some time,” Derek finally repeats, to Stiles’ eyeroll. Nothing’s ever easy with them. Still, he can’t deny that he gets it. From what Derek’s gone through, it can’t be easy to let someone in, or trust that he’s really cared about for once.
To imply that Stiles was pitying him by listening to him rant about his shitty days, or licking his wounds, literally, just because he had no one else to talk to, no one else he allowed close to him — it only makes Stiles want to help him more, love him more, show him he’s worth loving in the first place.
Stiles knows he has a habit of playing therapist with his friends, but it’s just because he truly loves them and wants to help them. Derek’s no exception. He thought the wolf knew that by now.
“Fine,” Stiles accepts, grabbing Derek’s hand as he moves to walk away again. He catches it too easily. “But I care about you. For real. You have to know that by now. I did all this because I love you. Not out of pity, or to feel better about myself, but because I love you, Derek.”
His voice is soft and sad, but strong. If Derek paid attention, he’d know by his heart that Stiles isn’t lying.
Derek only nods, giving no indication that he believes Stiles. His own trauma is still too large, but Stiles can only keep trying.
“Call me when you realize I’m telling the truth,” Stiles mutters, grabbing his clothes at last and pulling them on haphazardly. Derek sinks onto the couch on the other side of the room, away from Stiles, and buries his head in his hands, fingers sliding through his own hair and heaving a pained sigh.
Stiles’ heart breaks for the man and what his brain must be telling him. What Stiles is feeling isn’t pity; it’s empathy.
“See you around, Sourwolf,” Stiles whispers as he heads to the door, knowing Derek can hear him. He can’t even be bothered to lace up his shoes.
All this time he had been under the impression Derek was using him for his body, didn’t care much about him more than that. As it turned out, Derek felt the same, somewhere underneath his mess of emotions and insecurities. It’s a lot to take in. For both of them.
As Stiles slides the loft’s door closed behind him, Derek doesn’t follow.
*
Stiles makes his way down shakily through the seventeen flights of stairs of Derek’s hellish building. He rummages in his pocket for his keys, fingers trembling too much to pull them out on the first try.
When he finally does, he jams the key into his jeep, but the engine won’t start. Stiles sits there, stewing, trying to fight back tears of frustration, and not just because of his car.
The damn thing still won’t start as he sits in the empty parking lot a few minutes later. Stiles sniffs, vision blurred as he hits the steering wheel with an anguished cry, bowing his head till his forehead collides with the leather. He can’t break down in Derek’s parking lot; it’s too embarrassing. And he definitely can’t ask him for a ride.
He considers calling his dad, sighing at the thought. He just wants to be alone right now after the rollercoaster of a night. It’s too late to bother his dad as well, but the alternative is Lydia, who’s busy with a new boyfriend; Scott, who’s busy with a new girlfriend; or an Uber.
Stiles huffs again, pulling up the app, screen a bit wet now with a few droplets, when something pounds on his door.
“Jesus Christ,” Stiles exclaims, spinning around to meet Derek’s eyes once more. They’re faintly glowing under the light of the moon, and Stiles isn’t sure if he’s relieved or dreading seeing the wolf.
He rolls down the window. “Need a ride somewhere?” he offers dryly. “‘Cause I do. Stupid car won’t start,” Stiles mumbles, wincing at his own words. He always regrets talking badly about his mother’s old car.
“Get out here,” Derek says softly, tugging open the door easily and latching a hand into Stiles’ plaid to pull him out as well.
“I thought you were mad at me,” Stiles says a bit nervously. Derek still has trouble meeting his eyes.
“I was mad at myself,” Derek shakes his head, eyes flitting up to Stiles’ briefly. “I could never be mad at you. No matter how annoying you are,” he says, the corner of his mouth ticking up ever so slightly.
“I am pretty annoying,” Stiles winces, daring to move a bit closer. “And dramatic. But I guess we both sorta are,” he tries to match Derek’s smile.
Derek huffs, lips spreading a bit wider. “I was considering moving to Brazil with Cora after you left,” Derek admits.
Stiles laughs, admiring how pretty Derek’s smile looks on him, no matter how small it is. “Running away that soon? I haven’t even asked you to marry me yet!”
“Who says you’ll be the one asking?” Derek furrows his brows, stepping a little closer, the tips of their shoes touching now. Stiles’ laces are still undone, and it’s a wonder he hadn’t tripped all the way down the many flights of stairs. Well, okay, he tripped a few times.
“I just have a hunch,” Stiles says with a smirk, bringing his palms up to rest over Derek’s broad chest, sadly covered by a shirt by now. It’s really a shame.
“I’m sorry,” Derek says seriously, hands gripping Stiles’ hips gently and tugging him in until Stiles can feel the heat radiating off Derek’s body. “I’m an idiot.”
“No — well, yes, but no, you’re just protecting your heart. I get it. I don’t blame you for it, not at all. I just wish you’d let me in,” Stiles whispers, nose brushing Derek’s.
“I want to,” Derek swallows, closing his eyes briefly like the words are hard to say. “Let me prove it to you. Let me bite you, for real, one day—” so I can’t run away, so I can show you how much I want you too, how much I need you and trust you and care about you in return. Let me give you everything I have, since you’ve given it to me.
“Yes,” Stiles breathes, accepting Derek’s words easily, both what’s been said and unsaid. “Now, do it now, I’m all yours.”
Derek’s eyes shoot open in disbelief. He shakes his head a little at Stiles’ eagerness. “Not yet, I need you to be sure—”
“I’m sure! I’ve been sure! I’m so sure, you have no idea—”
“We can’t rush something like this, Stiles, there’s no going back—”
“Good! I’m in this for life, Derek, if you’ll let me,” Stiles insists, “I’ve wanted you for years. I had you for months. But not all of you. Not like this,” he strokes Derek’s cheek again with a thumb, palm cupping his jaw. “Let me,” Stiles says against Derek’s mouth. “Let me show you how much I love you.”
Something in his scent must finally convince Derek, thank god, and the wolf scans Stiles’ eyes with his own, back and forth, then the rest of his face as if making extra sure the man is telling the truth.
It speaks to Derek’s past how unsure he is, how hard it is to trust that someone really cares about him like this, and how hard it is for Derek to let him in in return, to trust that it won’t be taken away again, that Stiles isn’t being facetious, that he’s wormed his way into Derek’s heart with purely good intentions, the best intentions anyone’s ever had for Derek.
It’s just… difficult to believe. But Derek wants to try. For Stiles.
“I’m not biting you here in the parking lot,” Derek raises his brows, and Stiles grins widely, throwing his arms around Derek’s neck and tugging him close, closer, until there’s hardly any space left between them.
“How ‘bout the forest?” Stiles smirks, and Derek just rolls his eyes as he leans in and kisses Stiles for the first time as his partner.
As his mate.