Chapter Text
Stiles stumbles out of the car and takes several steps forward on unsteady legs, eyes locked on his Jeep.
Derek did that for him. He has no doubt in his mind. This is what Derek's been doing for the past two weeks. The symbolism isn't lost on Stiles, not even a little bit. Derek couldn't fix him so he fixed Stiles' Jeep instead.
He hears the screen door bang open and he knows without looking that Derek is standing on the porch, watching him. Stiles can't lift his head right now. He's too busy getting his hands on cool metal, fingertips brushing over the hood.
Everything looks brand new. Hell, it looks better than it did before the accident, new tires and rims, new grill, headlights, and hood. The engine's probably been rebuilt, must have been. He peers through the replaced windshield and sighs. The original interior is intact, though, with only a new seat belt dangling on the driver's side.
It's his Jeep, his -- his mom's.
Stiles is shaking. His breath wavers as he lets it out, leaning heavily against the door, forehead pressed to the cold glass. He's not sure what he's feeling. This isn't what he was expecting. This isn't anything he could prepare for, create a scenario in his head and rehearse a speech a thousand times.
Taking a steadying breath, Stiles tries to calm himself, tries to come up with something to say, anything at all. When he opens his eyes and turns around, he's not surprised to see Derek isn't on the porch. Instead, Stiles finds him directly in front of him, standing there with an expression that's about 80% his normal pissed off stoicism (which doesn't even make sense, how can a person look pissed off and stoic at the same time?) and then 20% vague concern.
It's what Stiles privately refers to as Derek's go-to Alpha Expression for Emotional Occasions.
"Shouldn't you still be at home? Resting?" asks Derek, apparently foregoing any kind of greeting or well wishes or a damn explanation in favor of being a pushy jackass.
The mystery swirl of emotions in Stiles' gut very suddenly and very severely resolves, and he realizes two things at once.
He's in love with Derek Hale, and he's absolutely furious.
"No," he snaps. "But I guess you couldn't be expected to know that since, you know, you never came to see me."
Derek's face goes slack with surprise, but only for a few seconds before it quickly flashes to frustration. "You know why I couldn't come to see you. The pack kept me updated on how you were doing."
"Oh well, that makes it all okay then," says Stiles, a hint of hysteria in his tone. His breath rasps as he tries to keep a measure of calm. "It's not like you've never used your crazy creeper skills to sneak into a hospital before or anything. Oh, wait!"
"That was different. I couldn't risk --" Derek breaks off, huffing. And then he completely switches gears. "Can we go inside? It's too cold for you to be out here. You're still healing and you'll get sick."
Stiles scowls and jabs a finger at Derek's chest. "No way, buddy. You're not distracting me. You couldn't risk what? Getting arrested? You and I both know my dad wasn't going to arrest you as soon as he knew the truth."
Derek rolls his eyes like Stiles is the unreasonable pain in the ass. "I couldn't risk making things hard on you, Stiles. You almost died, and you needed time to recover. You didn't need to deal with any complications."
"Complications. Complications, Derek? That's what we're calling it? Great, good to freaking know that a witch almost getting both of us killed because we're magically bonded or werewolf married or whatever is a complication!" Stiles is so angry, he feels like he could punch Derek in his stupid chiseled jaw and not regret a single fucking thing.
He actually gets a growl in response. Which-- Good! Let Derek be mad. Let him feel even a little of what Stiles is feeling.
"I thought respecting your dad's wishes would make you happy," Derek says through his teeth.
Stiles sort of wants to scream. Like he needed anymore reasons to feel like a bad son. "No. You do not get to use my dad against me on this. That is not how this goes."
"Then how does it go? You tell me because clearly nothing I do is right. And I get it, you know? I've understood for a while, but I'm just -- I'm tired, Stiles, and I can't be something I'm not." Derek sounds weary and defeated, and Stiles flashes to that moment before Derek left to go track down the coven and his heart breaks all over again.
Stiles stares, motionless for who knows how long. Because really, Derek cannot be serious. "You're an idiot," says Stiles, actually astonished by the level of Derek's idiocy, by his complete inability to grasp the truth here. "You don't understand anything!"
Derek turns away, throwing up his hands. "Thanks, perfect, that's really helpful --"
"Shut up." Stiles grabs a hold of Derek's shirt and yanks, trusting that Derek will let him, will give in to the momentum of the tug.
Derek doesn't disappoint, his eyebrows shooting up and his body lurching forward, looming over Stiles. Which shouldn't be so obvious since Stiles is almost as tall as Derek, dammit, but Derek's bulk makes Stiles feel small. It's really -- wrong. And unfair. And distracting.
"Stiles, what are you --"
"I said shut up," repeats Stiles, and if he's a little breathless now, well, that's only because his lungs are still not 100%, okay? That's all.
He realizes belatedly that he's staring at Derek's mouth. He huffs and lifts his gaze, meets Derek's stupid freakin' rainbow eyes with confidence, dammit. His body is less convinced of his boldness, though, because his heart is hammering and his throat and mouth have gone dry.
"Just -- Listen to me, you stubborn, impossible, pain-in-the-ass, Alpha-tripping, amazing, kind-hearted, loyal, caring, idiot," starts Stiles, and he knows he's rambling but that seems unimportant compared to getting Derek to understand something very essential that he is repeatedly, willfully missing.
Stiles takes a shaky breath. "What I need is for you to not decide what I'm thinking and feeling for me. And trust me, I realize that I am also in desperate need of listening to my own advice. Only -- only you know, in reverse. About you. I think. Obviously, there are some details I am missing that I am really looking forward to you filling me in on, but the point is -- The point is that you are being really freaking obtuse."
Derek has that little quirk to his eyebrows, that very slight wrinkle between them that usually indicates confusion of some kind. Stiles groans, looking away from Derek. God, maybe he was too harsh. Maybe he should try to give some positive reinforcement too?
Fuck. He shakes his head and opens his mouth, feeling the word vomit about to come out. "Well, except -- except the Jeep. That was actually pretty astute, I mean, right on the money, really. Because you know, it means a lot to me, and even more that you would think to do that for me because it, uh, it was --"
He breaks off, startled because Derek's hand is now cupping the side of his face and Derek is a lot closer. Stiles can see exactly where Derek's eyes go from green to gray to the ring of amber around his irises and it's disconcerting. It's really -- it's --
Derek kisses him, eyes wide open, just a chaste press of lips before he pulls back. "It was your mother's. I remember."
"You do," breathes Stiles, and he can't figure out if he's asking a question right now or not. To be honest, he's pretty sure his brain stopped working about ten minutes ago.
A hint of a smile makes Derek's mouth curl to one side, lopsided and hopeful and so boyish it makes Stiles' stomach ache.
"Stiles, answer a question for me," says Derek, and Stiles can feel the vibration of Derek's words, the low, rough rumble of them passing from Derek's chest to his own.
"Okay," says Stiles.
"What do you want?"
"You." It's out of Stiles' mouth before he can think better of it. Which always seems to be the way of things that come out of Stiles' mouth.
Derek's grin is blinding and Stiles' eyebrows draw together in a frown.
"Like it was some big secret," says Stiles, half tempted to stick out his tongue. "It's not my fault you mistook my natural sarcasm and acerbic wit for dislike, dude. I thought you had a super sniffer, huh? Couldn't you like, smell it on me or something?"
"You just smell like you. You smell good to me," says Derek, head tipping down as he noses at Stiles' neck like he's trying to confirm it. He takes a deep breath. "Like cinnamon and a little like apple, like warm, spicy cider."
Derek's lips are tickling Stiles' neck as he speaks, his stubble scraping skin and probably turning it red. This is not going to help the 'no really, I wasn't dating Derek' case with his dad.
"You probably say that to all the boys," says Stiles, laughing breathlessly, nervous for so many reasons.
"You know there hasn't been anyone else."
Stiles does know that, wondered at it sometimes even. Now he feels extraordinarily dense, especially pressed up against the Jeep Derek spent so much time and energy on just for Stiles. Derek's body is a wall of heat, his hands firm but careful as they hold him still.
"I'm still mad at you," says Stiles, switching topics because he can't think about what Derek is admitting to him, how he's been waiting for Stiles. His fingers curl into the fabric of Derek's henley.
"What for?" Derek's tongue draws a warm, wet line from Stiles' collarbone to the hinge of his jaw.
Stiles shivers. "For going after those witches alone, for staying away after it was all done. For never telling me I was -- I was your --"
"My mate," Derek finishes for him.
"Yeah," says Stiles.
"I was working up to it." Derek's barely paying attention, though. He seems more interested in making Stiles' throat a splotchy disaster area.
Stiles closes his eyes, tipping his head back even more because apparently all that stuff about his willpower is crap. He has absolutely none.
"You kissed me and ran away!" gasps Stiles, hips jerking against Derek.
"You caught me by surprise." Derek's breath is hot and raises goosebumps, tickling Stiles with every word.
Stiles moans, can't hold it back anymore. This is all very rapidly slipping away from him.
"Fu-uck," he bites out. "Derek -- Derek, wait just... Oh god, why am I the way that I am? I mean -- ugh, don't answer that. It was a rhetorical question. For me! A rhetorical question for me because I'm asking you to stop and that's just stupid except it's not and oh dammit."
Derek nips at his ear, but then very slowly, he pulls back. "What's the problem, Stiles?"
Stiles so doesn't care how pathetic he sounds, he totally whines, eyes squeezing shut. "Um, god, so many things? Mostly that I really am not supposed to engage in any, uh, strenuous activity. In fact, my doctor kind of told me specifically that hanky panky might kill me. She actually used to words 'hanky panky.' I'm still looking into whether or not that's grounds for a sexual harassment suit."
Silence meets his ramble and after far too long, Stiles lifts his head again. He peeks through one eye and immediately gets a load of Derek shaking with silent laughter. Stiles smacks him in the shoulder as hard as he can manage. "Oh my god, I hate you. I hate you so damn much. I can't actually think of a punishment severe enough for this but I will and then you will live to regret your cruel mockery of my pain."
"I wasn't planning on having sex with you right now anyway," says Derek, entirely too smug. Laughter still crinkles his eyes at the corners and Stiles wants to kiss him and punch him, which he's decided is probably going to be a theme with them.
Mouth falling open, Stiles makes an outraged sound and hits Derek again. This time, Derek catches his wrists and pins them to his sides, leaning in to kiss the indignation right off of Stiles' lips.
It's another slow, sweet kiss, but this one deepens. Derek's tongue sweeps into his mouth, and Stiles is caught in a rush of want and realization because this is Derek. This is someone for whom Stiles' feelings have been a mess almost as long as they've known each other.
If someone had told him two years ago that one day he'd be standing in Derek's driveway being kissed like he's the only thing that matters in Derek's whole life, Stiles would have laughed in their face.
And then maybe had their head examined for good measure because this? This wasn't in the cards for them, this is impossible. When Derek breaks the kiss, Stiles is starry eyed, dazed as he stares at Derek's lips, the way his tongue flicks out and licks them like he's chasing Stiles' taste.
"Will you at least come inside now? I was serious about you getting sick," says Derek, unfairly calm.
Has Stiles mentioned lately that he hates werewolves?
He gives himself a shake and says, "Yeah, okay. You can feed me breakfast and explain... everything, and I will decide how much groveling I'm gonna need before I let you in my pants."
Derek snorts but steps back and tangles his fingers with Stiles', pulling him toward the house.
--
Stiles sits at the kitchen island while he watches Derek fry bacon. He feels like he can actually think again, which is good. He knew it would be a lot, seeing Derek after everything, but the Jeep added an extra level that made it difficult to really process. It made most of the questions he wanted to ask fly out of his head. Now, sitting here with Derek, they're back, rolling around in his head.
Derek lifts the bacon from the pan and onto a paper towel lined plate before he turns to open the carton of eggs. He doesn't need to ask Stiles how he wants them cooked. He knows from countless pack breakfasts. For some reason, that hits Stiles hard.
"How long have you known?" he asks, managing to surprise even himself.
Derek's shoulders hunch for a moment before he rolls them, visibly forcing himself to relax. "A while," he says. "Can't really pinpoint an exact moment for you. There was something about you from the beginning, but I ignored it for a long time, until I couldn't ignore it anymore."
Stiles nods, absorbing that information. "And after that, why not say something?"
"Just because I wanted you forever didn't mean you would want me at all. And yes, that's what being mates means: forever, always. You were young, and I didn't want to put that on you. You're still young and you're going away to college soon."
"In like nine months," says Stiles, feeling oddly defensive.
"Did you miss the forever part?" asks Derek, looking over his shoulder, mouth pursed in his pissy little glare.
Stiles rolls his eyes. "I got that. I'm just pointing out that I wasn't planning on leaving tomorrow or anything. We have time to figure out how to make... forever work."
Derek turns all the way around, spatula in hand, face impossibly hopeful. Sometimes it hits Stiles like a hammer over his head, how much Derek's life has consistently turned to shit, how little has ever gone right for him. Stiles knows that feeling, knows how precious and rare hope can be.
"What are you saying?" asks Derek.
Stiles sighs. "I'm saying what I already said, Derek. I want you. You are -- god, why is this so hard to talk about? We're mates. Our... bond kept you alive, helped save our whole pack. So yeah, I want you. I just haven't had as much time as you to figure out what it all means."
It's mostly the truth. Stiles may have realized he loved Derek, but up until very recently he thought, or -- or he pretended, anyway, that it was the same way he loves everyone in their pack, the way he's loved Scott since they were kids. But he's never felt for Scott the way he did when the witches took Derek, that gut-wrenching panic that landed like a sucker punch, winding him.
"Okay," says Derek, turning back to the stove where Stiles' eggs are starting to burn.
Stiles shoves down his annoyance at Derek's response. He's not sure what Derek could have even said to that anyway. This is just all a lot harder than it has any right to be, and fuck it, really.
Might as well go for broke.
"Do either of us have a real choice in this?" he hears himself asking. "Or is it set in stone? Is it -- Does it matter if we love each other?"
Oh god, Stiles is going to throw up.
For his part, Derek doesn't respond right away. He flips the stove top off and puts Stiles' eggs on a plate before he wipes his hands and faces Stiles again, dropping the plate in front of him.
Derek doesn't look overly angry, but then sometimes it's hard to tell for sure. He certainly doesn't sound happy when he answers. "We have a choice, to some extent. It's more complicated for me. There's -- I'm never going to want someone else the way I want you, but you're human, so it doesn't affect you like that. You... you could be satisfied with someone else, happy even. And as far as love, no. It doesn't matter if we love each other."
Stiles' heart lands like a cannonball in his stomach. That isn't exactly what Stiles wanted to hear. Then again, it's almost a relief. It lets him know for sure that this is a choice, even if it is one heavily biased by biology or magic or whatever. They're still free agents at the end of the day and the way Stiles feels for Derek, that means something.
Or it might not. Because there's still the part where Derek has to want him, if not love him.
He looks down at his plate and picks up a fork, poking at it like it might actually give him the answers he wants. No such luck, though, seeing as it's an overdone egg and not the inside of Derek's head. Not that Stiles would poke around in Derek's head or anything. Without permission. Fuck, what if that's a real option with all this mates business?
Seriously, Stiles has to wonder how this is his life.
Lifting his gaze, he finds Derek staring at him, which... no shock there. He sighs. "So is that it? That's all you have to say? No clarification?"
"What else is there to say, Stiles? You want to know if I'm really your only option. The answer is no. Did the part where I kept this to myself for years go over your head? Did you forget? I don't have any interest in trapping you into this." Derek crosses his arms and has the gall to look like Stiles is the asshole here.
Stiles' fork clatters onto the plate as he drops it. "That is not what I was asking," he says, pushing away from the counter and standing. "That is actually the opposite of what I'm asking."
Snatching up his plate, he walks over to the sink and promptly dumps the burnt food down the drain, turning on the water and flipping on the garbage disposal until the hum rings clear. He turns it off and spins around, glaring at Derek.
Derek stares back, being unhelpful and silent, as per usual. Stiles wonders how it's possible to find someone so appealing and crazy-making at the same time. Man, Derek is doing so much freaking groveling for making Stiles do all the heavy lifting here.
"I'm trying to understand how this works," says Stiles after a moment, "I'm trying to decide if I can live with not being sure if you have a real choice. So thanks but your concern over my consent isn't really needed. Not the issue. I consent. Wholeheartedly. I -- ugh, I love you, dumbass."
Derek's eyes widen.
"You look confused," says Stiles, because suddenly he's nervous and why isn't Derek saying anything? Did Stiles just completely misread the situation? Oh god. "Did you not understand? Should I try repeating it in Spanish? Te amo, idiota --"
"Stiles."
"-- I could try Greek, too. My mom's grandma was Greek, you know. S'agapo, re vlaka. Or was it s'agapao? Yeah. S'agapao, re vlaka!"
"Stiles," growls Derek, stepping toward him.
Stiles' mouth snaps shut.
Derek's silent for a beat. He looks uncomfortable in his own skin, like he has no idea how to be a real boy at all, which Stiles kind of already knew.
And then he says, "Je t'aime." It sounds like this: jay tim.
"Is that... was that supposed to be French? That was not one of the three language options on the table. That wasn't even good French. You know, Lydia speaks French. It's actually pretty hot, but that --"
Stiles is cut off by Derek's lips being on his. All in all, it turns out way hotter than Lydia's French ramblings have ever been, even if there is no hanky panky in Stiles' immediate future.
He has a hard life.
Except for the part where Derek loves him. That part is pretty okay.
--
"So there were trolls," says Stiles' dad as they eat dinner. Stiles made lasagna, and by made, he means he picked up a frozen one from the grocery store.
It's always a good time for breaking the news that he's maybe, a little bit, definitely involved with Derek now, as opposed to how it was all theoretical before yesterday.
Stiles nods. "Right, and then witches, we covered this."
"And now he's your... mate?" He looks like he's struggling to accept something, whether it's the concept in general or the terminology, Stiles isn't sure. To be fair, he sort of struggled with both himself.
Being honest with his dad is turning out to be an odd situation. It's nice because he always hated lying about such a huge part of his life, but then it's also supplying a lot in the way of awkward conversations.
"Well, he was always that, I guess. It's a thing. Anyway, the point is, um, I'm dating Derek, which I guess you already thought. That explains a lot about why you disliked him so much, but that wasn't really fair because we weren't dating then. We are dating now." Stiles takes a breath, his face scrunching up as he looks hopefully at his dad.
His dad sighs. "It sounds more serious than dating, Stiles. Are you sure --"
"Dad," groans Stiles, dragging the word out. Whining probably doesn't help his case, but Stiles figures he's entitled at least a little bit. His life is full of werewolves. "I'm sure. There's love and bad French and the whole nine yards. You saw the Jeep."
Stiles' dad stares at him.
Stiles stares back for a while, but then his brain wanders. He thinks about how it really bugs him that there's no official origin story for the phrase, 'the whole nine yards.' Like, how did they completely manage to lose the thread of that colloquialism? It's not even that old comparatively in the aggregate of colloquialisms that Stiles knows and has inevitably researched because that is what he does.
He realizes he's zoned out when his dad clears his throat. Stiles startles and blinks rapidly. "Um."
"Right, so don't start failing your classes because you're mooning over him. You're still going to college, and he comes over for family dinner once a week," says his dad, shaking his head as he pushes away from the table and stands. "I have to go now. I'm going to be late for work."
Jumping up, Stiles hugs him tight, grinning ear to ear when he steps back. "Okay, yes, that is reasonable and fair. You are wise and gracious, oh amazing father of mine. I'm not even going to make fun of you for using the phrase, 'mooning over.' That is how much I love you right now."
"Well, I love you, too, kid, but don't you think you're laying it on a little thick?" His dad's got a hint of a smile so Stiles knows he's golden.
"Nah, it's all true, so I'm good. I'm so good, I'm great."
Sighing, his dad pats him on the shoulder. "Yeah, you are. I'll see you tomorrow, Stiles."
"Bye!" Stiles calls after him, watching from the screen door as his dad makes his way to the driveway.
Stiles turns his attention to cleaning up and doesn't even care that he has the biggest smile in the world on his face right now.
--
Telling the pack is considerably easier than telling his dad. For one thing, they pretty much already know. For another, Stiles is making Derek do all the hard work because Derek owes him. He kicks back to enjoy a burger and watch Derek glare his way through announcing that Stiles is the love of his life and made of sunshine and rainbows and the whole pack needs to show him the respect he's due as the mate of an Alpha.
Okay, so that's maybe wishful thinking.
Really, it's more like Derek gathers everyone in the living room, opens his mouth to talk, and Erica says, "So, are you two banging yet, or what?"
Stiles laughs so hard, he accidentally inhales a piece of lettuce and sputters for a moment while he coughs and then laughs some more.
Jackson and Scott both groan, and Jackson says, "Oh my god, I do not need that kind of information, Reyes!"
"That's none of your business," says Derek to Erica, and Stiles thinks he means to be more menacing, but it just comes out despairing.
"Is that what this whole meeting was for? To announce that you two are a thing? I don't think anyone missed that memo. You rebuilt his Jeep like your name is Dean Winchester and it was the only way you knew how to deal with your pain," says Isaac.
Boyd punches Isaac in the shoulder. "Oh man, that show was so good the second season. Jo Harvelle is hot."
"Was hot, she died," says Lydia in a crisp voice. "I like Castiel."
"Oh god, don't say that. How did I not know that? We're going to have to break up," moans Erica, clutching her chest.
Lydia rolls her eyes.
Derek looks over at him and Stiles shrugs. "Hey, they're your betas. I didn't pick them."
"You picked me," says Scott, smiling big. Allison laughs and leans her head on his shoulder.
Stiles snorts, but he grins back. "That so doesn't count. I was twelve. I made lots of bad decisions then, like seeing Spider-Man 3 and trying to grow my hair out like Joe Jonas."
"Is that what you were trying to do?" asks Lydia, like the mystery of why Stiles looked like that in junior high has been plaguing her for years.
Stiles scoffs. "Like you even noticed."
"I did, but then I also noticed Nathan Reed's perfect jump shot and never got around to asking if you had a phobia of scissors or if it was some kind of social experiment." Lydia gives him a smug smile.
"This conversation has gotten away from me," laments Derek, dropping down next to Stiles.
It distracts Stiles from replying to Lydia. He can't help but laugh. He leans close and whispers, "Chin up, big guy. Your future looks bright. I'm in it."
Derek leans the rest of the way in and kisses him.
Jackson shouts, "Ugh! This is cruel and unusual. Why do we have to be subjected to this? Just... get a room, preferably one far enough away that I can't hear what's happening in it."
Stiles' skin flushes hot and he hides his face in Derek's shoulder. Erica laughs because she has no soul, but Stiles can't be too mad. Derek makes all the werewolves run laps while Stiles, Allison, and Lydia play Call of Duty. Allison kicks both their asses, and Stiles doesn't even care.
--
Stiles has to go back to school next week. It's the beginning of the spring semester and the home stretch of his senior year. He's looking forward to it. He's also really looking forward to being taken off any physical restrictions.
Because lacrosse.
That's his story and he's sticking to it if anyone (his dad) asks why he's so excited about his doctor's appointment today.
"So," says Stiles. His feet dangle off the exam table, and he swings them back and forth because sitting up on these things always makes me feel like a little kid.
His doctor tilts her head. "Yes, Mr. Stilinski?"
"Um, right, well... I was kind of hoping... because the lacrosse season is starting and tryouts are next week, and I feel a lot better and my scars look completely healed. So, that means I'm not on any restrictions anymore, right?" Stiles gives her his best innocent look.
She lifts an eyebrow. "You had surgery four weeks ago."
He huffs. "I'm aware. I was present."
"And you want to play a high contact sport?"
"I was thinking about it!"
"Well, think again."
Stiles tries really hard not to pout. His success is arguable.
Dr. Welch continues Stiles' examination, talking with him about his recovery, asking him questions. She nods at all his answers, apparently satisfied. "You seem to be doing well, a little ahead of schedule even."
Stiles opens his mouth.
"And no, that does not mean I will sign your release form to play lacrosse."
Stiles closes his mouth.
Dr. Welch looks down at the tablet in her hand. "Your dad mentioned you had a new boyfriend," she says, nonchalant in a way that makes Stiles squirm like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar (if only, he thinks).
"My dad is a rat," mutters Stiles. "And I've been good. No hanky panky! I do not need anymore embarrassing lectures, thank you."
She looks up from tapping something out on his chart, looking very nonplussed. "While I can't release you for lacrosse, Mr. Stilinski, so long as your sex life doesn't involve being tackled to the ground repeatedly, I feel confident you'll be just fine."
"Um." Is he hearing that correctly? Oh god, please let him understand what she means. Let it be what he thinks.
She sighs. "Yes, I am telling you it is safe to have sex with your boyfriend. Now go away before I change my mind."
Stiles feels his face heat but he's too busy being grateful to care. He's out the door with a scoot in his step, already texting Derek by the time he hits the lobby.
MY BODY IS READY.
He pauses, wonders if he should clarify. Better safe than sorry. He types another message.
THAT MEANS HOT SEX IS IN YOUR IMMEDIATE FUTURE, FYI.
AFTER I HAVE LUNCH WITH MY DAD.
THAT IS PROBABLY A WEIRD THING TO SAY. OH WELL. SEE YOU SOON.
--
Stiles does not speed when he drives out to Derek's. He wants to, but he really doesn't. Having a near fatal wreck will do that to a person.
When he pulls up, the Corvette and the Camaro are out front. He narrows his eyes. Boyd and/or Isaac will not be cockblocking him today. He has waited too long. He has waited since birth, okay? He is so done with this virginity thing.
And yes, he gets that virginity is a heteronormative social construct and that he won't be a different person upon receiving an orgasm from another human being. He is down. He understands. It is a tool of the man to assign unnecessary value and pressure to something that should be personal. All the same, he'd really like to count himself among those brave and daring souls who have, in the words of the poets, gotten their freak on.
He's up the steps to the porch in a flash, pushing through the front door like he owns the place because hey, sex! He finds Isaac and Boyd watching TV in the living room.
"Where's Derek?" he asks.
"Out for a run. He left his phone here, said to howl if there was an emergency. We weren't sure you texting for a booty call qualified," says Isaac, turning to give him a horrible smirk.
"By the way, you were right. It is weird to talk about having lunch with your dad two seconds after talking about sex," adds Boyd, because Boyd never did like him, Stiles is sure of it.
"Hot sex, it was hot sex, Boyd. Don't forget," says Isaac.
Stiles hates them both. "Well, that was sufficiently embarrassing. Great, I'll just... go look for my dignity upstairs."
He turns to leave and Boyd calls after him, "You're probably not going to find it in Derek's bedroom."
"I hate you!" yells Stiles, cheeks burning as he takes the steps two at a time.
Stiles wanders down the hall to Derek's room, stripping off his coat as he goes. He tosses it on the dresser and toes off his shoes, climbing right onto Derek's bed. He's been up here once before. It was last weekend and it ended in a lot of cuddling and almost no groping.
That is totally not happening this time. Well, okay, the cuddling can happen, but there will be lots of groping. Lots and lots, and there will be other miscellaneous sexy time touching, and Stiles Stilinski will have an orgasm! With someone else present! Who knows that it's happening!
What?
Nothing, nevermind.
Stiles stretches out on the bed, dragging one of Derek's pillows under his head and pressing his nose to the fabric. It smells like Derek, and while Stiles isn't at werewolf level or anything, it's still comforting, still viscerally satisfying.
He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes and reveling in the fact that he's allowed to do this.
--
Stiles wakes when he hears an engine start. The sun is lower, streaming in through the west-facing windows and casting Derek's room in long shadows and golden light. He sits up and blinks several times before he processes that he must have fallen asleep waiting for Derek.
"Hey."
Stiles turns and sees Derek standing in the doorway. "Hey."
"You should have had them call for me," says Derek, coming the rest of the way into the room and sitting on the edge of the bed. "They said you've been here all afternoon."
"You like your runs," says Stiles, lifting one shoulder. He offers a small smile. "Plus, I guess I needed a nap. Did Boyd and Isaac leave?"
Derek nods, reaching out to push his fingers through Stiles' hair. Stiles is sure it's a mess, flattened and sticking out in weird directions. He pushes into Derek's touch, though.
"Did you, uh, see your phone?" he asks, his grin going sheepish.
"My phone?" Derek's poker face is so good, Stiles can't tell if he's bluffing right now or if he really didn't see it.
Stiles groans. "Yeah, your phone! You know, the device with which you might receive the texts that I sent you detailing some very important, pertinent information?"
"Oh that, yeah, I think I remember that, now that you mention it," says Derek in his best deadpan, but Stiles can see the start of a grin on Derek's face.
Launching himself at Derek, Stiles gets his arms around his neck and drags him down onto the bed sideways. Derek's arms come around him automatically, pulling Stiles close and keeping him from taking the weight of their fall. Stiles laughs and presses a kiss to Derek's cheek, and then his mouth, which Derek responds to easily.
Kissing Derek is always a bit of a revelation. Stiles never feels unsure of himself with Derek. He doesn't think that's the mates thing, either, although that probably helps. It's the part where he's known Derek for two years, the part where they're friends.
It's the part where he trusts Derek, and best of all, now he knows Derek trusts him, too.
Derek's stubble scrapes against his chin and cheeks, his lips plush and firm against Stiles'. Stiles is no expert, but he's of the opinion that Derek's mouth is the perfect kind of mouth for kissing. His tongue is also pretty great.
Stiles moans when Derek's hand slides down his back and over his ass, taking a handful and hitching Stiles closer. Derek pushes a thigh between Stiles' legs, tangling them together and Stiles can feel his own heart thumping in his chest.
"Derek," he sighs, letting his head fall back so Derek can nose at his throat. He clutches at Derek's shoulders, bunching up the thin fabric of Derek's shirt.
"Is this what you want?" Derek draws Stiles' ear between his teeth, teasing with soft nips on the tender flesh."You want me?"
"I'd prefer less clothes in the way, but generally yes. That is the idea." Stiles smiles, curling his leg up around Derek's side, trying to get leverage to roll their hips together.
Derek hums, lips meandering across Stiles' jaw. "You've never done this before."
"Um yeah, something to mark in the column in favor of doing this, if you know what I mean." He's trying hard not to whine. He was hoping for this to be less than horrifying and embarrassing. More along the lines of a little awkward but ultimately sexy and awesome.
"It's more than a mark in a column, Stiles," says Derek. He pulls back from kissing Stiles all over, and that is damn tragedy in Stiles' book.
Stiles makes himself focus on Derek's face, looking into his eyes which are clear and so, so green right now. He blurts, "Oh god, you're going to be earnest and romantic, aren't you?"
Derek scowls. "So? You deserve it."
His face goes hot, and honest laughter bursts out of Stiles, his head tipping back as his mouth goes wide. "Oh my god, oh my god!"
"It's not funny!"
"But it is, it so is," wheezes Stiles, slapping Derek's shoulder. "You're an actual romance novel hero! You could be on the cover of one of those... those dirty books for soccer moms!"
Derek grabs a handful of Stiles' hair and tugs.
Stiles gasps and shoves at Derek's shoulder until he rolls, dragging Stiles on top. Derek's pouting. "I'm not like that."
"Well, that's good, because I'm not one of the heroines in those books either, in case you forgot. I'm an eighteen year old who's never had his dick touched by anyone but himself. So while I appreciate the romance, what I'd really like is to get to the fucking." Leaning down, Stiles kisses him hard.
Sometimes direct is the best approach with Derek. It seems to work out for him, too, because Derek responds with a growl and rolls them again, pinning Stiles to the mattress with his weight and mouth. After several minutes where Derek makes a decent effort at sucking Stiles' tongue out his mouth, he sits up and yanks his shirt off.
"Oh holy god," says Stiles, eyes gone wide. He scrambles to push himself up and get his own shirt off. Derek helps.
When Stiles falls back on the mattress, Derek follows with his tongue, tracing the line of Stiles' collarbone and then sliding down his chest until his lips fasten over Stiles' nipple, teeth scraping the puckered tip. Stiles arches up, lips parted with what can only be described as a whine. Stiles may die of shame if Derek's mouth doesn't get him first.
His cock is throbbing in his pants and he buries his fingers in Derek's hair, panting as Derek shifts to his other nipple. Stiles can't say that he's ever really given his own nipples a lot of attention when having special alone time, but he clearly overlooked a gold mine of potential.
And then Derek's fingers find Stiles' surgical scar, the pink and red line that's mostly healed now but stands out against his pale skin. It'll fade like other scars have until it's nothing but a silvery stripe of raised skin, but right now it's stark and obvious.
Derek touches it like it's a sacred thing, fingertips hovering and brushing with delicate unease. He curls down and presses soft kisses into Stiles' skin, reverent in a way that makes Stiles shake.
"Hey, hey," says Stiles, pulling on Derek's hair to get his attention, needing to cut off the ache building in his chest. Derek looks up. "I think you should take off your pants."
Derek's thumb is still tracing the outline of the scar, but he smiles at Stiles. His amusement softens all of his features in the most striking way. "Oh yeah?"
Stiles' heart flutters but he manages a nod, breath catching for a moment at how sweet Derek looks like that. He licks his lips and says, "Yeah, yeah, mine too. Let's just get naked. Let's do that."
"Okay," says Derek. He lifts up and they spend several frustrating seconds attempting to struggle out of their remaining clothes while not actually leaving the bed.
When they're finally naked, Derek's gaze drags up Stiles' body like a physical thing, raising goosebumps and making Stiles squirm. He reaches out and pulls Derek down, spreading his legs for Derek to slot between them even though it makes him blush.
Derek kisses him then, immediately bypassing any teasing and going straight for a deep, suggestive kiss. Which is fine by Stiles because Derek is naked and he's naked and Derek's cock is pressing against his and it's really freakin' great.
Derek's hands bracket his face, holding him. It doesn't feel like a restraint, it feels reassuring, safe. Stiles sighs into it as he wraps his arms around Derek's shoulders, and he tries to just enjoy it for a while, to enjoy that he gets to have Derek like this.
Even Derek's patience runs thin after a few minutes, though, and Stiles feels the subtle rock of his hips against him, the rub of their cocks pressed together between their stomachs. He moans into Derek's mouth, and one of Derek's hands skims down Stiles' side until it reaches his knee and pulls it up, guides it around Derek's hip. He thrusts against Stiles again and it sends a pleasant shock through Stiles' body.
"Stiles," says Derek, lips dragging against Stiles' neck, over his collarbone and throat. "You smell so good."
Shivering, Stiles clutches at Derek, dizzy with his arousal. "Yeah? Well, you -- you feel good. You feel so good, Derek, I want you to f-fuck me." He stutters only a little over the word, pulling confidence from the way Derek's hands tighten on him momentarily, the moan Derek lets escape right next to Stiles' ear.
Derek seems to take a moment, taking deep, calming breaths, but eventually he nods and moves away, rummaging in the nightstand. When he comes back, he sits back on his knees and shifts Stiles' legs until they're spread wide and draped over Derek's thighs. Stiles bites his lip and tries not to squirm too much at the feeling of being exposed.
He wants to be exposed in front of Derek. He wants this. He wants Derek.
Slicking his fingers, Derek reaches out and slides two fingers over the length of Stiles' cock, from the tip to the base, and Stiles almost comes from that, from the shock of it.
Stiles feels dazed from the simple bit of contact, and then Derek's wraps his whole hand around Stiles' cock. "Oh god!"
Stiles' hips jacknife off the bed of their own volition, and Derek smirks, his other hand curling around Stiles' side and easing him back down. He presses firmly, holding Stiles in place while he starts jacking him off in steady strokes.
It's not like Stiles is a stranger to a hand on his cock, but this is different, this is so different. He wasn't prepared for how different this would be. Derek's hand is smooth, no calluses because of his freaky werewolf healing, and he feels a few degrees too warm. It's perfect, slick with lube and not quite tight enough, which Stiles would have assumed would be a bad thing, but it's... it's just good.
It's winding him up without pushing him over. Stiles spine bows, head tipped back and throat stretched and vulnerable as he swallows compulsively, breathing hard. "Derek, Derek, oh my god, that-- don't stop, no no no, don't --"
Derek's grip loosens and his hand travels south, cupping Stiles' balls. Stiles is torn by how good it is and how much he wants Derek's hand back on his dick.
"Oh fuck, okay, okay, that's... yeah," breathes out Stiles. Derek's hand is going even lower, slick fingers pressing at the stretch of skin behind his balls and then finally gliding over Stiles' hole.
"I like you like this," says Derek. His fingertips rub circles against Stiles' rim, a steady rhythm that's letting Stiles adjust, letting him coax himself into relaxing.
Stiles wipes sweat off his face with a clumsy hand, blinking rapidly. "Like -- like what?"
"Like this, talking to me, telling me what you like," says Derek.
"I always talk to you." Stiles shoves himself up on his elbows. He means to look at Derek, but he gets distracted by looking down at himself. His cock is hard and flushed at the tip, leaking precome against his stomach, and his skin is slick with sweat, legs spread wide around Derek. It's the filthiest thing he's ever seen in real life.
Derek chuckles, sounding warm and pleased and relaxed in a way that belies his own hard cock, jutting up between his legs and so close to Stiles. Stiles licks his lips and finally makes himself meet Derek's eyes.
Derek looks so fucking happy. It steals Stiles' breath for a moment. "Yeah, but I don't know, I like that you still do, I guess."
"Are you trying to tell me --" Stiles breaks off, feeling laughter bubbling up from inside him. "Are you trying to say that you're relieved I'm not speechless in the face of your mad skills?"
Derek's face darkens in a very appealing way. "I'm saying that I like you mouthy, Stiles."
Stiles opens his mouth to respond, but Derek says, "Now bear down," and without further warning, he smoothly presses one finger inside of Stiles.
Stiles gasps, skin tingling as he clutches at the bedding and falls back, doing as instructed. He's done this to himself a few times, but again, it's just not quite the same. The angle is better for one, easier to adjust to as Derek starts a slow rhythm, sinking his finger into Stiles again and again.
He drifts with it for a while, the stretch and strange fullness that stings but feels good, and soon enough Derek's pushing in a second finger. He starts purposefully teasing against Stiles' prostate and Stiles loses track of the sounds spilling from his own mouth, the words tumbling out that are everything from, "Oh god, oh god, oh god," to, "Please, yeah, yeah, right there. Don't -- yeah, just keep... keep... Oh fuck, Derek."
There's no point in being embarrassed anymore. He's sure he looks ridiculous, sounds even worse. He doesn't care. He doesn't give a damn because it feels so good, and it's Derek doing it to him. He doesn't know how he got so lucky, but he knows better than to look a gift horse in the mouth, knows better than to question anything good he's lucky enough to get. He just knows to hold on and never let go.
When Derek's other hand wraps around his cock again, Stiles knows he's not going to be impressing anyone with his stamina. He is going to come and he's going to come hard. Derek seems particularly interested in that outcome because he takes the opportunity to push a third finger inside of Stiles, angling right for his prostate while he fists Stiles and jerks him fast.
"Oh you asshole," gasps Stiles, his whole body tensing up, toes splaying as he comes over Derek's fist with a ragged moan. He streaks his stomach, all the way up to his chest, and as soon as the last of his orgasm rolls through him, Derek bends low and licks him clean.
"Oh my god," he says. He feels weirdly small suddenly, wide open and defenseless. He wants Derek on him, over him. He wants to feel safe. He reaches out, grabbing at Derek wherever he can reach, pulling at him. "Just -- just fuck me, please, I want -- I want you inside of me."
"Okay, it's okay," says Derek, pulling his fingers free, and lining himself up. Stiles barely has time to register the fact that Derek's about to be inside of him before he is, before he's filling Stiles up with one hard stroke and coming down to catch Stiles' mouth in a messy, hungry kiss.
Stiles gives over to it, lets himself float on the fuzzy edge of his last orgasm and the overwhelming intimacy of having Derek in him. The pain is hazy, distant and removed, only serving to highlight the good, the sparks of pleasure every time Derek glances his prostate like misfiring wires shocking him, the rub of Derek's sweat slicked stomach against Stiles' oversensitive cock, the feel of Derek's almost-beard rough against his face, his mouth marking up Stiles' neck. It's all swirling together, leaving him edging on the far side of his last orgasm until he feels like he might tumble into another.
It's too much, and he can only wrap himself around Derek and let it happen, wants it to happen. Stiles wants anything he can have from Derek.
Derek is panting in his ear, hot breath tickling his skin. Stiles' scalp prickles with sweat and he knows his hair must be plastered down. Nothing matters but Derek's hips thrusting, his cock working deep. Stiles crests again, an unexpected rush that has him crying out, his blood pounding in his ears and fingernails digging into Derek's skin.
Derek comes not long after, human teeth digging into Stiles' shoulder briefly before he kisses away the hurt with murmured adoration and apology. Stiles doesn't care. He's boneless and so utterly gone he might not be back until next week. He'd laugh at his own stupid joke, but he doesn't even have the energy for that.
Thankfully, Derek doesn't make Stiles hold his weight. He eases himself out and rolls away, shifting around until he's on his side next to Stiles. He touches Stiles all over, petting him, kissing his shoulder until Stiles drifts asleep, utterly exhausted.
--
It's late evening when Stiles wakes up again. At least that's what he's guessing because the room is dark and the sun is long gone, the sky bright with a three quarter moon. Derek's not in bed, but it doesn't bother Stiles. He can see the hall light on, and there's noise drifting up from the living room. It sounds like the TV.
Stiles gets up slowly, taking stock of the various new aches in his body, none altogether unpleasant, just... different. His ribs are a little sore. It's nothing out of the ordinary and he's breathing fine, so he guesses Dr. Welch knew what she was talking about.
After he goes to the bathroom (because holy crap does he need to pee), Stiles grabs his jeans and tugs them on, foregoing his underwear. He gets his cellphone out of his jacket and heads downstairs to find Derek.
He's halfway down the steps when he freezes, eyes locked on his phone's screen. On it is a text from Scott.
Derek must smell his shift in mood or hear his heartbeat pick up because suddenly he appears at the foot of the steps. "What's wrong?"
Stiles rereads the text. I'M IN THE TRUNK OF A CAR. THIS IS YOUR FAULT STILES!!!
He can't help it, he laughs. He feels like someone should be speaking from overhead going, Stiles Stilinski, this is your life! He shakes his head at Derek and sighs.
"Um, I think Scott's been kidnapped by faeries?"
THE END