Chapter Text
Deaton shines a light in his left eye. Then his right. Then he flicks it between the two until Stiles gets dizzy and makes a pitiful noise like eugh.
Scott's tearing Derek a new one somewhere at the back of the clinic but Stiles can tell without looking that Derek isn't the least bit sorry. Wouldn't be surprised if he was stood with his arms folded, rolling his eyes; the full package of Hale bull-headedness.
“We're a pack, we're supposed to do this stuff together! Do you have any idea what we thought when you disappeared—“
“I didn't have time to think about it, okay? Karlin said now, and he said alone—“
“We could have made a plan!”
“We did make a plan, and it was a disaster.”
“What happened to thinking things through and being cautious, huh?”
It goes around and around like that while Stiles tries not to be sick on Deaton's shoes.
“What's the damage, doc?” he asks hoarsely.
Lydia rubs a hand across Stiles' shoulder reassuringly; she's that one hand on him the entire time they've been here like she thinks he might poof out of thin air if she doesn't keep him on a leash. She's shaken up, quiet and watchful and moving stiffly like she's not sure she's still fundamentally herself anymore; Stiles can sympathize.
“Honestly? I'm not sure. You seem okay but it's difficult to tell what goes on inside the mind.”
“We're winging it, then?”
Deaton gives him a small, wry smile. “Something like that, yes. How are you feeling?”
Cut up, bleeding, bruised, jostled, aching. His head feels split down the middle. He's frozen down to his bones.
But everyone lived, so dammit if he doesn't feel somewhat smug.
“Like I could sleep for six months.”
“You probably need it. It's the only thing I can really recommend, plenty of rest.”
He intends to do a lot of that for the foreseeable future. No monsters, no woods, no mortal danger. Although if he's being realistic, Stiles will be lucky if that lasts six weeks, let alone six months. What he does intend to do a lot of, however, is Derek. So that's an upside.
The second he'd gotten through the clinic door, it'd been hug-city; a sheer chaos of Deaton trying to wrangle him up onto a table to check him over while he and Scott stuck, leech-like, to one another the entire time. Derek had given him the space, armfuls of Cora to contend with, but Stiles can't quite smother down the urge to check every few minutes to make sure he's still here and he's not even gonna feel the least bit embarrassed about it; Derek nearly died tonight after all.
Finally, Deaton cleans the triple set of claw lines on Stiles' neck with antiseptic. They sting like a motherfucker and he hisses air through his teeth, fisting his hands tight in his lap.
Scott sidles up in front of him, stern-face firmly in place. “You're lucky I don't strangle you, dude. Don't you ever disappear on me like that again, I'm serious.”
“Less disappearing, more getting kidnapped, Scott.”
“Whatever, all I'm saying is—“
“Not really whatever! It's a pretty big distinction!”
“All I'm saying is,” Scott repeats louder. “You'll be lucky if I let you out of my sight again for the next fifty years.”
Stiles looks at him, really looks at him, at the stiff way he's holding himself and the little groove between his eyebrows that looks permanently embedded, and drops his gaze to his lap. “So. Think we'll still be doing this in fifty years?” he asks softly and waits.
It takes a few seconds but Scott finally huffs a laugh. “Old man werewolf?”
“And his old man human wingman, you bet.”
“I'll still be keeping an eye on you.”
Stiles quirks a half-smile up at him. “Yeah, likewise, buddy.”
“Might wanna keep the other one on Derek,” Scott says and then, louder, “we need all the eyes we can get on Derek,” and Stiles looks across the room and watches Derek purse his lips.
Stiles rolls his eyes. “Give him a break, dude. It's not like you've never bolted without an explanation before and worried me half to death.”
“That was then. Things are gonna be different from now on,” Scott says decisively. “I gotta, y'know, alpha up. Take charge and stuff. We need rules and, like, strategies and, y'know, crap like that.”
Derek comes up behind him, clapping a hand over Scott's shoulder and squeezing. “Crap like that, sounds legitimate.”
Scott ignores him. “Rule number one, nobody runs off without at least one other member of the pack knowing where they're going.”
“We're implementing a buddy system?” Lydia asks, one eyebrow raised.
“Do we have to hold hands?” Cora adds.
Scott is decidedly unimpressed with the lot of them but before he can chew them out, the front doors to the clinic open with what sounds like the force of a bear charging through them.
“Where, is he? Where's my—“ It's his dad's voice and Allison close on the sheriff's heels. The second he sees Stiles, he actually does charge him, wrapping both arms around him like he hasn't seen him in months, like he thought maybe he never would again. “Stiles.”
Stiles notices everyone shuffle away, giving them space.
“I'm okay, Dad,” Stiles mumbles into the sheriff jacket. He's told his dad this twenty-five billion times already on the phone in Derek's car but he can't stop saying it now, moisture leaking from his eyes so he squeezes them shut tight and rubs his face against his dad's shoulder to scrub away the tears and quite possibly snot. “I'm okay.”
“I should've been there, I should never have left for work.”
“Stop it,” Stiles says sharply. “Don't start doing that, I mean it, I'll get so mad, don't even test me.”
His dad huffs a laugh against his ear and hugs him tighter. He pulls back, holds Stiles' face and examines him. “You look like hell, kiddo.”
“Yeah, thanks, so everyone keeps telling me.”
“Is—is Karlin, y'know?”
“He's gone. For good.”
“I swear, I half wish he wasn't just so I could kill him myself.”
Stiles gives him a dry look. “Sorry, Dad, me and Derek beat you to it. Which I think is only fair since we were the one he was continually being an asshole to.”
“Definitely fair. And, uhh—“ He turns, spots Derek and takes a few slow steps towards him, Derek watching, stock-still and carefully neutral. “Derek.” His dad holds out a hand. “Thank you for bringing back my son.”
Derek doesn't react much for a second—Stiles sees his eyes go a fraction wider but that's all. Then he nods, reaches out and shakes the sheriff's hand and Stiles exhales slowly, feeling a little light-headed. There's not a lot that could surprise him anymore but that one pretty much filled his quota for the night.
“Now, if you'll excuse me.” His dad looks at Deaton. “I'd really like to take him home now.”
Deaton smiles. “Be my guest, Sheriff.”
In the resulting disorder that follows, everyone makes a move to leave; except Stiles, his ass firmly planted on the table and very little inclination to be otherwise until he absolutely has to. His dad quietly interrogates Deaton at the back of the room in that way where he doesn't want Stiles to know he's talking about him and while Stiles is straining to hear, Allison blind sides him a little by slipping her arms around his neck for a brief hug.
“Good to have you back.”
“It was touch and go there for a while. Miss me?”
She makes a non-committal noise and Stiles nudges her until she laughs. “I might have shed a tear, just the one.”
“That's 'cause you love me.”
“Maybe a little bit.”
“What happened at the house? Everyone's tiptoeing around it, s'like they think I'm about to have a meltdown.”
“Are you?” she asks seriously. He shrugs and doesn't really have an answer; these things rarely hit him full-force until he's alone, usually in bed and in the dark—optimal time for a small nervous breakdown. “Lydia was screaming. It was—it was bad. She wouldn't stop, we thought for sure you must be dead. One of your neighbors called the police, that's how your dad found out you were missing. He sent out an entire patrol looking for you, me, Isaac and my dad went along to help. And then Derek disappeared, I thought he was gonna go do something so stupid, he was just—even Scott couldn't calm him down.”
“Pretty bad, then?” Stiles asks weakly and Allison scoffs.
“Just a little.”
“So. What now?”
She looks almost as lost as he feels. “I don't know. I guess we go home, rest up, and wait for the next one.”
“Sure you don't miss sitting on the bench?”
She glances around, gaze sticking on Scott, and when she speaks, it's soft and indirect. “It's our choice to be here in the end, right?”
Stiles considers it. No, this one wasn't his choice, but if it had been, if it'd been one of the others possessed by Karlin, trying to murder Derek, he'd be here just the same, front line and facing down the oncoming volley of gunfire like he always is.
“D'you think we have a chance?” she asks him, eyes still on Scott and she's clearly not talking about Beacon Hills and its disproportionate draw of nasties.
“Scott thinks so.”
“Scott's optimistic.”
“Okay, well, I'm not. You know me, I'm like, the guy with the bell screaming the end is nigh from street corners,” he says and watches Derek across the room. “And I think so too. I think if there's even a half a chance, then you should take it. Could work out.”
She gives him a sweet half-smile. “Take care of yourself, Stiles. Don't make me and Lydia come over and force-feed you more cookies.”
“Yes ma'am.”
He hugs her and Scott goodbye, watches Deaton go over a checklistwith his dad, listens to Lydia make plans to go back to the loft with Cora for the night, and eventually catches Derek's eye.
Wasn't hard, Derek was already looking.
“What're they saying?” Stiles asks, gesturing to Deaton when Derek steps close.
“Something about brain damage.”
Stiles swats him. “Dude, not cool.”
“I'm serious! Deaton's giving your dad the number of a neurologist, wants you to get checked over.”
“Well that's incredibly worrying.”
“Think it's just a precaution, your dad's panicking, that's all.”
Stiles would disagree, thinks it might be more to do with his mom than panic but he doesn't say that, doesn't have the energy for that right now but it occurs to him that he will tell Derek that one day, he'll share that painful part of himself willingly. “So you think I'll live?”
Derek gives him a glance up and down. “You better.” Stiles face cracks into a grin before he can help it and he shakes his head, Derek giving him the raised-eyebrows of Derek-sign that mean what?
“It's bizarre hearing you say stuff like that.”
“It was two words.”
He lowers his voice to a murmur. “Fuck me is only two words but it still—yeah, see.” Stiles points a finger at the faintest twitch of Derek's lips. “Still makes you react.”
“You're ridiculous.”
“Yeah, well, you gotta thing for ridiculous so I think I'm gonna be oka—”
“And could you maybe not say things like that with your dad in the room?”
“What? Fuck me or talk about your thing.”
“Aren't you supposed to be traumatized right now?”
Stiles twists his mouth into a wry grimace. “It'll hit me later, trust me. S'how it usually works.”
Derek frowns, looks like he has something to say on the subject but the sheriff beats him to it, business card tucked in his front pocket and some folded papers in one hand. He spares Derek an odd look before asking Stiles, “You ready to go?”
He hops down off the table and looks awkwardly between his dad and Derek. “Well, I guess I'll—“
“I'll see you later,” Derek finishes and then cringes. “If you need anything—“
“Yeah. I'll—“
The sheriff folds his arms and Stiles feels the pressure in the near vicinity rise to painful levels. “Really boys? Really?” Stiles looks at him in alarm, nerves tightening and he could really do without it. Then his dad turns to an equally startled Derek. “If you're coming inside my house tonight, I want you using the front door like a normal human being.”
It takes a few seconds, Derek opens his twice in an aborted attempt at speech and it takes until he says, “Yes, sir,” for Stiles to really catch up.
“Wh—dad?” is about as articulate as he feels, heart doing a weird swoop.
“You think I don't know you two have been sleeping over for weeks now? I'm the sheriff, son, I'm not an idiot. And I expect you not to be too, if you get my meaning.”
Derek gives the floor one huge, wide-eyed look of horror but it vanishes faster than Stiles can get his wits about him and he stands up straight, looks his dad straight in the eye and nods it out like a fucking boss. Stiles is insanely proud, as well as completely mortified but whatever.
“I have to get Cora and Lydia back to mine first though,” Derek says, catching Stiles' eye and he realizes he hasn't actually contributed to this conversation yet. “It's a forty-five minute round trip, you're exhausted.”
The sheriff claps one hand against Derek's shoulder. “Just knock. I won't be getting any sleep. I've got pages of reports to write up about our shapeshifter and somehow I have to come up with enough plausible lies to explain what happened tonight in, oh—” He checks his watch. “Six hours.”
“Say it was all my fault, that usually goes down pretty well,” Stiles suggests.
His dad throws an arm around Stiles and starts to steer him towards the door. “There's only so many times I'm gonna be able to get away with that before they actually throw you in jail.”
Derek walks with them to the reception. He says a hushed, “I won't be long,” to Stiles, head tipped down towards him, all of him just soft and sweet and private; it's enough to make Stiles' knees go weak.
Outside in the parking lot, Stiles leans heavy against his dad and tells him, “Thanks,” and “I love you,” and makes a private promise that he's gonna say those two things at least bi-weekly as long as he lives.
***
He wakes up with a jolt—
—breath catching in his throat, ribs constricting, can't be, it fucking can't—
“Stiles, shh, it's me.”
It's dark, he's on his back and there's something leaning over him, something blocking the moonlight from the window; a black shape haloed in silver. He feels something warm press against his pounding heart—an open palm.
“It's just me, just me.”
Stiles chokes out, “Derek?” but in his head it's black eyes, lipless mouths, pain and cold and terror and he can't—he can't do it again, it'll kill him.
Derek stays right there, hovering over Stiles. He presses their foreheads together and runs his thumb against Stiles' cheek over and over until the fog clears, the black eyes recede back into the dark. He's shaking and nauseous, head aching, and Derek's whispering soft sentiments, “sshh,” and “I got you,” and “you're safe.” Touching Stiles like he can still take away the pain.
He doesn't know how long they stay like that, until Stiles' chest can rise and fall evenly again, until his heart rate slows under Derek's hand. He inhales leather and pine and remembers, feels the steady presence of Derek like a familiar anchor.
He reaches up slowly, limbs heavy, and rubs at his eyes, realizing his hair's damp and he's only wearing boxers. All he remembers is getting home, almost falling asleep in the shower and then collapsing onto his bed, immediately passing out.
“Time's it?”
“Almost four,” Derek whispers in the dark, slipping off his jacket and what sounds like his shoes, the faint scrape of a zip and rough noise of folding denim. “Go back to sleep.”
Stiles doesn't say anything, just watches Derek move with the curious sensation that everything's happening in slow motion. He climbs carefully over Stiles' body and drags the comforter from the bottom of the bed up and over them both. Stiles rolls onto his side with all the speed of sixteen ton boulder, feels too heavy and his senses all confused and overwhelmed to move much more than that.
“Derek,” he chokes out again hoarsely.
“Yeah?”
It wasn't really a question, he doesn't know why he said it, just needed to say it out loud or something, give it some weight and fact; Derek's name in this room, Derek's name in the quiet dark, Derek's name on Stiles' lips. There are no words that can make it through his throat to express what he's feeling right now, something a little too swollen inside him and taking up so much room.
He swallows thickly and tries not to stutter. “Nothing.”
Derek shuffles closer, sliding an arm across Stiles' body and curling fingers against the skin at the bottom of his back. Stiles closes his eyes and feels Derek's breath on his nose and he thinks I can't lose you so loud he's surprised Derek can't hear it.
***
It's two in the afternoon before Stiles wakes up.
Derek wants to use his computer but Stiles wants some fresh air and deservedly, Stiles ends up winning. Derek says there's only one official breakfast—“I don't care what time it is, you just woke up so it's breakfast, shut up,”—allowed for sick days. And that's pancakes.
“Not that I'm complaining,” Stiles starts—because he's not, he's really not complaining; if Derek wants to drive them out to a diner and buy them pancakes for breakfast then Stiles is going to enjoy the ever-loving fuck out of them, “but who wrote this official rule?”
“Laura.”
“She used to feed you pancakes when you were sick?”
Derek shrugs, sipping his coffee. “She wasn't all that responsible when we were younger.”
“No, but it sounds like she was hella awesome.”
“It was just our thing, didn't you have things with your mom?”
It's not even weird, that Derek can ask questions like that now. Stiles doesn't even flinch, just shoves his mouth full with another small pile of pancake bits and considers the question. “When my dad worked the nightshift, we'd stay up late and watch—“ He pauses to grin around his food. “It's kinda weird but we used to watch stuff like The Twilight Zone and Tales From The Crypt.”
“Explains a lot.”
Stiles wiggles his eyebrows. “Doesn't it?”
Derek swallows down his food, licks the syrup off his bottom lip distractingly and asks, “That what you thought when Scott got bitten? That'd it'd be like a TV show?”
He considers it. “I admit, I thought it would make a pretty epic superhero origin story.”
“Like Spiderman but with wolves instead of radioactive insects?” Derek smirks over the rim off his coffee cup.
“And without the spandex bodysuit. I love the guy but that would just make me uncomfortable.” Stiles yawns, big enough for his jaw to crack, and Derek narrows his eyes warily. “Don't! Don't even—if you ask me if I'm tired, I'm gonna—“
“Gonna what?”
“Make you wish you hadn't,” he finishes lamely.
Derek leans back in his chair. “And how're you gonna do that?”
“Talk excessively and with massive TMI about my childhood.”
“Be my guest, I wanna know.”
Stiles cocks his head, a little bloom of heat spreading under his ribs. “Really?”
“You know that's pretty normal, right?”
“Normal for—“ Stiles trails off, wants to make Derek say it. It's different here in the day, tucked up against the window with the sun glaring off the snow-covered ground, no post-near-death experiences to hide behind, and Stiles wants to see how far he can push, see where they're at now that everything's calmed down. Derek rolls his eyes and sighs, shifty in his seat, and yeah, he's embarrassed, Stiles has actually managed to fluster him. “Aww, look atchu. It's okay if you can't say it, Derek. We can't all be out and proud.”
“Oh my God.” Derek presses a hand against his eyes.
“Can I call you Shy Wolf from now on?”
“If you wanna walk home, sure.”
“Did I say Shy Wolf? I meant Fly Wolf.”
Derek haughtily picks up his coffee mug and takes a sip like he's trying to prove a point. Stiles grins, he can't help it.
“So, what d'you wanna do for the rest of the day?” Derek asks eventually after some endless period of staring that starts to make Stiles' hands feel tingly.
A molten glob of heat slicks about in his stomach. “Hmm, what can we do?” he faux-ponders, scratching his chin. “What. Can. We. Do?”
Derek leans forward, elbows on the table. His eyes go dark, mouth parting, it looks frankly obscene in such a public place and Stiles wonders why nobody's told them to take it somewhere else yet. He realizes it's because this is what he refers to in his head as Derek's naked face, stripped down to the bare bones and far too private for a diner. Stiles wants to get up and cover Derek with his body so no-one else can see; they've no damn right, Stiles is the sole protector of Derek's naked face, he's just made the executive decision.
“Come on,” Derek says and starts to stand and Stiles is so with him, a heavy throb in his dick foreshadowing a serious and inappropriate hard-on any minute now; it's been too long, far too long, fucking sorcerers and near death experiences seriously cutting into his orgasm time.
They're halfway across the diner parking lot when Derek abruptly turns to face Stiles mid-step, gripping his wrist and pulling him close and licking inside his mouth like he owns the thing. Stiles fists his hands in Derek's hair and arches close, thrills at the thought of people looking out the windows and seeing them like this—like a couple of horny, love-struck idiots trying to stumble their way home whilst sealed at the mouth.
Stiles' back hits the Camaro and Derek presses into him, hands tight on his hips. He holds Stiles just so, angled where he wants him, and grinds one firm, lazy thrust between Stiles' legs that has Stiles gasping.
“Derek,” Stiles whines—actually whines. “Unless you're about to get on your knees and blow me in front of a dozen people eating a late lunch, we really need to get the hell in the car like yesterday.”
Derek mouths at the corner of Stiles' lips, rubs his thumbs against Stiles' sides, murmurs, “You want me to blow you in the car?” and Stiles wants to make some un-Godly noise of Hellish frustration and drop his pants here and now and tell Derek to have at him, whatever the hell he wants to do, fuck the CCTV camera footage his dad has a very good chance of coming across when they get deservedly arrested for public indecency.
Stiles tips his head back and away, trying to get some air in his lungs that doesn't smell like Derek and sex. “Jesus Christ, you—I could—“ He gives up with a rough sigh and lets his head fall back until he can see the sky.
“I'm not normally like this,” Derek tells him in a low voice and Stiles swallows, Derek's lips moving over his Adam's Apple as it bobs. “In public like this, I don't—it's just you. This is pretty tacky.” Stiles barks a laugh, feeling dizzy and delighted by the admission and so fucking desperate he could cry. “I don't even care. What've you done to me?” Derek asks, eyeing him suspiciously.
“My reckless, horny teenage boy hormones must be addling your wolf-senses.”
Derek makes a non-committal noise. “Or it could be something to do with this,” he says, one hand pawing Stiles' ass and dragging them together, half-hard dick on half-hard dick and far too many layers of denim in between. “Or this,” he goes on, cupping Stiles' jaw and pressing a thumb to his bottom lip, dragging Stiles' mouth open and kissing him, trailing his lips across Stiles' cheek until he feels melted and disorientated, a barely-standing pile of mush.
He asks, dazedly, “Are you kissing my mole?”
And Derek blatantly lies, “No.”
“Oh my God, get in the—“ Stiles pushes at Derek shoulders. “Get in the car, I'm so serious right now.”
Derek stumbles back all loose and amused and grinning that smile that Stiles once admitted to loving what feels like years ago but was actually more like last week. He does, however, head to the driver side of the car, so Stiles considers it a double win.
“It's totally weird just sitting in a car acting normal when I know that I'm going home to get thoroughly fucked,” Stiles finds himself saying, mouth on full autopilot now in some desperate attempt to cling to words to stop from vibrating out of his skin.
Derek slants him a look. “That what we're doing?”
“If that's all good with you, then yes, I'd really like to get fucked today.”
Derek does this five second pause, a smirk on his mouth that Stiles suspects is smug as hell. “It's good. I got an idea anyway.”
Stiles' heart kicks and skips and his stomach does flipping, sickening somersaults. “You gotta what now?”
But Derek won't tell him and Stiles is seriously about to come inside his jeans just from the expression on Derek's stupid face. Stiles calls him an asshole six times and Derek laughs and says, “Yeah,” like Stiles is actually complimenting him; which he kind of is and isn't that just their relationship neatly summed up?
He fumbles his keys into the front door lock, breaks the line of mountain ash across the threshold and reassembles the whole security system so impatiently anyone would think he hadn't been kidnapped from this very house and almost killed yesterday. He turns to Derek in the hall and feels time stop and stretch, sealing them up tight in a bubble separated from the rest of the world.
Derek slips two fingers into the neck of Stiles' hoodie and pulls him close, drops his hands to the hem and tugs it up and over Stiles' head in one smooth motion. After that it's pretty much on, Stiles' hands on Derek's belt and Derek's palms spreading wide and greedy up the back of Stiles' t-shirt.
He tosses the belt somewhere with a loud clatter, kicks off his shoes and hears Derek do the same, wrestles Derek out of his jacket, trying to keep his tongue in Derek's mouth the entire time and when that fails, at least somewhere on his skin, his jaw, his throat, the soft ripple over his thundering pulse. Stiles spots the stairs and pushes Derek into a messy sprawl across the bottom four, throwing down onto one knee on the step between Derek's splayed legs and looming over him. He slides both hands into Derek's hair and rocks against him, Derek turning his face up and pulling in stuttering breaths inches from Stiles' hovering mouth.
Stiles doesn't close the gap, just stays right there and watches Derek's damp lips parting under him, the smudge of his eyelashes against his cheeks where he's watching Stiles' mouth right back. Derek's so hot against him, Stiles can feel the shape of him completely hard in his jeans.
Derek's sort of mumbling against him through the haze of Stiles' delirium, “Stiles,” and Stiles finally pulls back just enough to take in all of him, loose and hard and spread across Stiles' stairs like some kind of delicious spread on a cracker.
“Yeah?” he asks dumbly and Derek blind sides him like a sneaky bastard by yanking off Stiles' t-shirt while there's room.
“I'm not fucking you on the stairs.”
Stiles takes a couple seconds to right himself, gravity gone all warpy and lopsided while he was busy with more important things. Then he blurts out, “Race you,” and scrambles over Derek's body to crawl up the stairs. He wonders if he did it because he knows how fast Derek is, but it's pretty much confirmed when Derek grabs his ankle and drags him down three steps into a half-kneeling sprawl, boxes him in against the carpet with both palms to either side of Stiles' shoulders and grinds his dick against Stiles' ass through his jeans.
He breathes rough against the back of Stiles' neck, “Nice try,” and Stiles pushes back into it, ducks his head low so Derek can get at more of his skin with that mouth and all that scratchy stubble.
“Thought you said we weren't doin' it on the stairs,” Stiles goads, hitching and soft, and Derek strokes a hand down his body, curving around his waist and down between his legs. Stiles pushes into it, “Yeah, come on,” because he's beyond desperate at this point, covered in Derek like a blanket, the smell of him everywhere.
Derek rubs against his dick with a broad palm. “I said I'm not fucking you on the stairs.”
Stiles' knees feel weak, his arms shaky from propping himself up. Derek drags down Stiles' zipper, tugs at his waistband until cool air hits his cock and then it's gone, Derek's hand wrapped around him and all his muscles tensing painfully with the suddenness of it.
“Jesus.”
He pushes into the tight circle of Derek's fist a few times, turning his head over his shoulder to get at Derek's mouth. Derek kisses him but just for a second and he's gone, Stiles making a pathetic little whimpering noise like wha—bu— that sounds ridiculous.
And then Derek shushes him, jacks his dick nice and slow and kisses the top of Stiles' spine all open-mouthed and wet and it's good, so good Stiles can only clench his fists in the carpet and hold on. He realizes, hazy as he is, around half a minute later that Derek's tongue is three quarters of the way down his back and still moving and Derek's shuffling down the steps and Stiles has a moment of blinding holyshit where he almost comes just from sheer adrenaline.
“Fuck, Derek—“ Derek; Derek who's guiding one of Stiles' knees gently onto a higher step, Derek who's mouth is sucking sloppy kisses into the base of Stiles' back, working Stiles' jeans down his thighs. He's spread open already, air hitting shocking against his ass, all his skin violently pricking up into goosebumps.
“Stiles,” Derek says lightly, the smug little bastard, rubbing his chin against Stiles' skin and making him feel raw. He thumbs the head of Stiles' dick and Stiles groans, tries to push into it but Derek shakes his head, Stiles feels it against his back. “Uh-uh, can't get come all over your dad's hall carpet.”
“Oh, I fucking hate you,” Stiles grinds out through his teeth and feel Derek's teeth against his skin like a grin turning into a soft bite and then Derek's lips sucking down, down, one hand gripping Stiles' ass cheek and spreading him wide open, Derek's tongue flat against his balls and swiping all the way up in one smooth, slow drag. “Holy fuck, I take that back.”
Seems good enough for Derek; glorious Derek whose mouth Stiles wants to build an altar to the way he's tonguing against Stiles' hole, sucking softly, all of Stiles' over-sensitive nerves there firing off and a hot ache throbbing through his entire pelvis in time with his racing heart. He can hear blood rushing in his ears and his head feels too heavy so he drops his forehead to his fist in the carpet, getting dizzy off his own warm, recycled breath.
Derek palms the spit dripping down his balls and uses it to slick up his dick in slow, loose strokes. He presses a thumb against Stiles' hole alongside the wet tip of his tongue, slipping both past the ring of muscle until he's fucking Stiles into a slippery kind of Heaven and it doesn't matter than he's hardly touching Stiles' dick because he's pretty sure he could come from this alone.
And he almost does, every muscle in his body seizing just before Derek pulls back; pulls him back, stroking both hands up and down Stiles' back, stretching back over him and kissing his shoulder.
“Oh, God, just—just fuck me here, seriously,” he manages to whine.
“Too messy, come on.”
Derek has to physically help him roll onto his back while Stiles wrestles his jeans up just enough that he can climb the rest of the stairs—gross feeling of spit between his legs that really shouldn't be this insanely hot. His knees are shaking, Derek's flushed and barely-restrained, breathing like he's run miles and this wild look in his pupil-swallowed eyes and they stumble against the hall rails, Stiles' shaking hands pushing up into Derek's shirt until it's falling over the side and landing on the steps.
They make it into Stiles' room and he immediately presses Derek back against the door, can't bear to not be touching all that skin right now and there's even more under Derek's jeans and boxers so Stiles' addled brain figures out that's the next place to tackle. He shimmies and kicks off his own in the process of battling with Derek's in an impressive display of multi-tasking and all while Derek's got both hands firmly buried in Stiles' hair, mounting a physical assault on the inside of Stiles' mouth with his tongue.
He thinks he's muttering, “Bed, get to the—come on, bed—“ or something like that, definitely the word bed, and Derek grips his thighs and Stiles gets with the program, pushing up into Derek's arms, legs around his waist, Derek's dick all hard, hot friction against his own pressed between them.
Derek gets them—finally—to the bed, pressing one knee into the mattress and leaning low, letting Stiles' weight pull them both down.
Stiles fumbles in his nightstand, blindly flailing his hand around because he's a little too preoccupied with kissing Derek to use his eyes. His fingers find plastic and foil and he actually pushes the condom up between their faces because stopping on his own willpower feels impossible. Derek jerks back and frowns, dazed, and then huffs a laugh, condom poking right under his nose. He grips the corner with his teeth and Stiles pulls it, tearing the wrapper.
“Fucking teamwork right there,” Stiles says around a grin.
Derek spits out the corner. “Brought down a sorcerer and everything.”
“Hell yeah, we did.”
Stiles can hardly kiss him around his stupid, goofy smile, but they manage it, a soft, sweet press of lips. He wraps his arms around Derek's neck and pushes up until Derek eases off, Stiles flipping them over until he can straddle Derek's hips.
He makes a fist around Derek's dick, watching his chest hitch when he jacks him, and says distractedly, “I've never even ridden a horse before.”
Stiles doesn't even realize he's said it out loud until Derek chokes a half laugh, half groan. “Oh my God.” He looks so fond and bright-eyed; warm and flushed and easy, like it works, this thing they've got. Derek sits up, curling one arm around Stiles' back and Stiles rolls the condom carefully onto him and hands Derek the bottle of lube from his nightstand. He rises up on his knees until Derek can press slick fingers against his hole, still slippery with spit.
It doesn't take much to get him ready but that was a given, Stiles feels like Derek could jam his dick in right now and Stiles would part for him like the Red Sea. But Derek's careful, like always, fucking him with long, clever fingers, turning Stiles' spine into a slinky. His hands feel bruising on Derek's shoulders, he can't stop the compulsive roll of his hips, his dick trailing precome across Derek's stomach and the feel of Derek's rubbing up against his balls; this whole thing is gonna be over so quick.
Derek kisses him through the stretch as Stiles lowers himself open, thick length of Derek's cock inching rough and tight up inside him.
He sits in Derek's lap, sweating with his head thrown back, trying to gulp down air and adjust to the sensation; it's overwhelming, is what it is. Really fucking intimate like this. Derek's mouth opens over Stiles' throat, gentle over the claw marks Karlin left as a parting gift, and he's right there, every bit of their skin pressed damp together. Not like before with Karlin's curse messing with their heads, turning every impulse into pleasure. It's real, raw and painful and stealing his breath.
Better, so much better.
He tips his forehead to Derek's and rocks slowly, Derek gripping his hips, this incredible look on his face that's completely open and a little awestruck. He breathes rough gasps of air against Stiles' mouth as they find a rhythm, Derek's cock nudging against Stiles' prostate if he angles his hips just right. He feels heavy and melted and rippling with sensation, up to the swelling behind his ribs that's making him feel a bit like a cartoon character with its giant, red, valentines-shaped heart bursting out of its chest.
Derek sighs his name, palms at his skin desperately; he's close and Stiles just wants to make it good, blow Derek's mind or something. He cups the back of Derek's neck, fists a hand into the mattress somewhere close behind him and grinds down hard, uses the new leverage to actually ride him and it takes less than a few minutes before Derek's arms slip tight around his middle, face pressing against Stiles' collarbone and bending him almost backwards with his weight. Stiles strokes the damp hair at the back of his neck while he shakes, groaning out muffled cries into Stiles' skin while Stiles pulls his orgasm out of him.
And Stiles hasn't forgot how quickly Derek recovers, he's just enjoying his moment of pride when Derek fists a hand around his dick moving in solid, satisfying strokes. Stiles' hips stutter and Derek picks up the slack, shallowly fucking him with tiny upwards thrusts. He buries his hands in Derek's hair and aches, gasps and feels his orgasm rise from the bottom of his balls like a pulsing wave. He comes over Derek's fist, face pressed into his throat, and then kind of loses time somewhere between the dick in his ass and the hand on his cock and the smell of Derek's skin smushed up against his nose.
He just clings on, seconds or minutes passing like trickling water, leaking out like his brain but all pleasantly buzzing, a kind of heavy wash of calm.
When he opens his eyes he's on his back, Derek throwing the comforter over him and not that sure how he got here. Derek looks like he might be moving away and Stiles grabs out for him very slowly, feeling a bit like a baby. His hand closes around some of Derek's hair and he drags until Derek's face is above him.
“Where'y'goin'?”
Derek smiles; softest little smile Stiles has ever seen. “I need to use your computer, remember. You're exhausted, go to sleep, I'm not going anywhere.”
Stiles makes a noise like, “eugh,” and then, “you're sneaky, just wanted to wear me out, didn't you?” and Derek laughs, smooths Stiles' hair back and presses a kiss to his forehead.
“You got me.”
“I need to get all the—the clothes,” Stiles tells him, waving his arm about. “Hall's full of 'em.”
“I'll get them, don't worry about it.”
Stiles slips Derek's hair through his fingers and stares up at him, openly fascinated by his soft features and lazy expression. Derek Hale, scowly and sarcastic and impatient and downright violent and Stiles will never get over this difference, probably not in his entire lifetime.
“S'like I'm petting you. Pet you like a good boy.” Jesus, Stiles really is too tired for these rapidly swooping emotions.
Derek nods slowly, one eyebrow raised. “Sure thing, dopey.” He pulls Stiles' hand away, presses a kiss to his wrist and places it carefully over his stomach.
He moves off the bed and Stiles turns on his side to watch Derek's naked ass walk away to collect up their battle-fallen clothes. He shuts his eyes and drifts a little but he's not entirely comfortable, feels like he can't let go of consciousness and it's making him itchy. At some point he hears Derek typing and the sound grates on him but not for any obvious reason.
After a while, Stiles mutters, “You know, they say that starting a relationship under fire is a bad idea.”
And Derek doesn't sound surprised that he's still awake. “Yeah? Who's they?”
“Y'know. They. The people that say that kinda stuff. The old proverbial folks.”
“Right. And why do they say that?”
“Y'know, all that stress and drama and then you go back into real life and realize the stress and drama is the only thing keeping your relationship interesting.” Stiles cracks open one eye and watches Derek tap away at the keyboard in just his boxers; such a bizarrely domestic site. “Although, I guess that shouldn't be a problem for us.”
Derek huffs a laugh. Doesn't turn around, though.
“I could be wrong, however,” Stiles says pointedly at Derek's back and—nothing. “No, Stiles, you're not wrong. I still find you interesting and sexy and funny—“
“No, Stiles, you're not wrong, I still find you—“
“Ha ha,” Stiles drawls.
It suddenly occurs to him that actually, he really has no idea what Derek wanted to use his computer for. He squints at the screen and then feels dumb because it's all the way across the room. He's gonna pretend it's nothing to do with the fact he's got this anxious pit in his stomach about falling asleep right now when he swings his shaky legs over the side of the bed, pulls his boxers out of the pile of clothes dumped on the floor and heads over to lean heavily against Derek's back.
“What are you doing?”
“Writing it all down.”
“All?”
“What happened to us.”
“All the stuff with Karlin?”
Derek hums. “Blame Lydia. Ever since she asked me write down my memories, I've kinda thought it might be—“ He rubs his chin awkwardly with his knuckles. “You know, a good idea.”
Stiles grins. “It's a great idea. It could turn into a comprehensive record of all the crazy shit that happens around here. Very useful for future generations.” He watches Derek's fingers across the keys, quick and deft. He loves Derek's fingers, his hands and wrists and how he smells, like laundry and aftershave and pine and right now like sex. How Stiles wants to always, always be touching him. “Can I read it when it's done?”
“Well, you're in it, so.”
“How've you written me? Like, strong and heroic and stuff? Wait, are you gonna write about fucking me?”
“Yeah, Stiles,” Derek deadpans. “I'm writing gay porn.”
“Come on, it's at least sixty percent a romance novel. Did you at least write about the bit where you confessed your undying love to me on the forest floor under the moonlit sky—”
He feels Derek physically cringe under him. “Oh my God, shut up.”
“You totally did, dude. Can't even deny it.”
He tries to shrug Stiles off his back. “I swear, you are so—“
“Loveable?” Stiles suggests, gripping Derek's shoulder and spinning him in the chair. “Because you totally love me.”
Derek folds his arm like a stubborn kid and looks up at him, unimpressed. “I think the part I love best is how subtle you are.”
“Eh,” Stiles shrugs. “That doesn't really sound like me.”
He slips to one knee between Derek's parted thighs, hands sliding into his hair. It's half because he's too exhausted to stand upright and half because he knows he can touch Derek like this whenever he wants and that knowledge is an incredible thing, only just truly settling into Stiles' skin. Derek wants this, all of it, there's no half-measures here, no need for Stiles to wonder what if?
Derek tips his head back and raises his eyebrows, presses his fingers into Stiles' hips. “Do you mind? I'm doing important stuff here.”
“Eh. That doesn't really sound like you either.”
“You're supposed to be sleeping.”
Stiles shrugs and Derek rolls his eyes. Then he stands and walks Stiles back towards the bed, pulling the covers back and bodily wrangling him underneath them. Only it's better this time, because Derek gets in too; might've been Stiles' goal in the first place but whatever.
“What happened to your important stuff?”
“I'll never get it done with you yapping in my ear.”
Stiles scoffs. “Did you just make a dog joke?”
Derek shakes his head against the pillow, slings an arm over Stiles' body and pulls him close, tucks him up against his chest. “You're clearly delirious.”
He can't think of anything smart to say about that because he's so comfortable. “You're delirious,” he counters intelligently. “With love.” He can almost hear Derek rolling his eyes. “I wrote you that poem, by the way.”
It takes a few seconds for Derek to cock his head back, look of pure bafflement on his face. “Are you serious?”
“Uh huh. Wanna hear it?” Derek nods, wide-eyed and the traces of a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. “Roses are red, wolfsbane is—sort of—blue. You don't suck, but I like when you do.”
Derek stares at him with that expression fixed on his face for a seriously long time, enough for Stiles to get worried his majestic poetry might have fried his brain. Then he snorts, not a haughty, Derek Hale snort of derision, no; a full-on undignified snort right from the throat of the likes Stiles has never heard before. And before Stiles can comment, Derek gets there first and quite successfully throws Stiles off his game.
“Think I must be delirious.”
He lets the statement sink in, the fact that Derek's heartbeat is thudding against Stiles' chest.
In a voice that's only slightly shaking, he replies, “Well, I know I am,” and watches Derek's breath catch.
fin