Stiles drives out of town and into the woods. He turns the engine off while he's still moving, coasts to a stop on the side of the road, and sits there, hands still at ten and two, as he tries to force his pulse and breathing back to normal levels.
He's already hard.
This is just like the beginning of the dream he's been having for months now. Each time there's more to it, but it always starts like this. Stiles closes his eyes, sees the tank on empty. It's not. He can feel his phone in his pocket. He knows it has a full charge, but in the dream the battery is dead. He takes another slow deep breath, then he opens his eyes and gets out of the Jeep.
There's no logic in dreams. If he ran out of gas in real life he wouldn't go wandering into the woods alone, especially since he found out werewolves are real, because who knows what else might be out there?
In real life, he'd walk back down the road toward town. He smiles to himself and shakes his head. This is so like his dream that he can almost pretend that's where he is, that none of this is true.
As he steps into the woods he can feel Derek's eyes on him. All at once, he's both scared and reassured. The fear comes from before, back before he realized that no matter how much he pissed Derek off, no matter how intense the threats, Derek wasn't going to hurt him. It also comes from his dreams, when his fear is so strong he thinks he might die from it.
Stiles knows, though, that Derek is watching him, and if there's anything else in the woods tonight, Stiles will be safe from that, at least.
Stiles walks through the woods, ducking under branches, climbing over exposed roots, waiting for the telltale crack of a broken twig that will warn him, the thing that will make him start to run. For a long time it doesn't come, and Stiles starts to wonder if it will at all. Derek doesn't know about the dream. He's not a mind reader. He doesn't know the cues.
Stiles stops to rest, leaning against the wide trunk of an old tree, sliding down the rough bark into a crouch. The tips of his fingers play in the dead leaves, he looks up at the moon through the branches overhead.
It's just a tiny crack as something small breaks under a foot or a paw, and Stiles is immediately alert. The noise comes from up ahead. He can't help but be disappointed, even though he knows Derek doesn't know the script, doesn't even know that there is one, but he's going to make the most of it.
Stiles gets up and starts walking toward the sound.
He hasn't moved more than ten feet before something hits him hard between the shoulder blades, and he goes down. An enormous beast sails over his head and lands on all fours on the ground ahead of him. Stiles spits out a mouthful of dead leaves and dirt and pulls himself up on his forearms so he can see.
It's a wolf, huge, black, ragged and worn looking. The eyes glow red, and it lifts its lip and growls as it slowly approaches.
Stiles can't breathe. He's imagined Derek like this a hundred times, but he's never seen it. He thought Derek would be beautiful as a wolf. He didn't think he'd be looking at a monster, because that's what this is. Stiles heart pounds so hard he can hear it in his ears. The flight response kicks in as adrenaline floods his veins, and he scrambles back, trying to rise, but he stumbles and lands on his ass.
The wolf keeps coming, growling, baring its teeth, getting close enough to spring. It drops, close to the ground, about to launch itself forward.
"Derek, no," Stiles cries, holding his hands out in front of him, palms forward.
A blur of movement, then there's a man between him and the wolf. "Stiles," Derek growls with his customary exasperation. "That's not me."
"Oh, thank god," Stiles gasps. "You've been following me. I knew it."
Derek crouches, defensive. Fingers tipped with claws, his hands hang at his sides. "What the fuck were you thinking?" He's facing the wolf, but Stiles can see that he's as changed as Stiles has ever seen him. His ears are long and pointed, and Stiles knows that his face is covered with hair, his teeth are bared, sharp and lethal. "You knew they were out here. Why would you come alone?"
The wolf now paces side to side in front of Derek. Out of the darkness come more, all in full wolf form, all with eyes that glow red, jaws that drip with saliva, teeth that Stiles knows could rip him in half with no effort at all. There's five, maybe six of them, Stiles can't tell, they keep moving, circling, weaving back and forth as they close in on Derek and Stiles in the center.
"I wasn't alone," Stiles says, and he tries to stand, but one of the wolves rushes at him, growling over him. "Okay, okay," Stiles says, lowering himself back to the ground, a hand up in front of his face. The wolf backs off, goes back to circling and pacing.
Derek looks back at Stiles, his brow furrowed in confusion.
"Yeah. I knew you'd follow me. Why didn't you stop me, if it was so stupid?"
Derek growls, not at the wolves around them, but at Stiles.
The circle gets tighter. Wolves snap at Stiles, so close he can smell their breath. Some are more monstrous than others, some stink, their fetid breath making bile rise in Stiles' throat. Their fur is long and tangled with sticks and leaves. Others are only warm, doggy, with shorter, cleaner fur, but they all snap and circle, coming closer and closer. Stiles could reach out and grab Derek's ankle now if he wanted, but he doesn't. He sits in the center of the circle, hugging his knees, and he hopes like hell that Derek has a plan to get them out of this.
One of the wolves jumps. It flies over Stiles as he ducks out of the way and ends up sprawled in the leaves and dirt. The wolf catches Derek by the shoulders and they both go down, snapping and snarling, rolling over and over as the other wolves move out of the way.
Derek cries out as a dark stain spreads crossways, from shoulder to hip, over the front of his shirt. The wolf has him pinned down, one giant paw on Derek's chest, claws digging into Derek's flesh as he writhes in pain beneath it.
Stiles scrambles forward. "Oh my god," he says. "Derek—"
"Stay there, Stiles," Derek gasps. "Stay where you are."
"Oh my god, oh my god." Stiles curls in on himself, but he doesn't take his eyes off Derek underneath the wolf, the biggest, most monstrous of them all, so he sees when the wolf changes shape, rising up onto two legs, becoming a man—or something like it.
The werewolf that stands over Derek, one foot still holding him down, is tall, broad, and has hair that, like the wolf he was just moments ago, is thick and tangled and full of leaves and dirt. He tips his head back and howls, chest rising up, arms held back from his body. He straightens and looks back down at Derek. "Where is your pack?" he says, and his voice is deep and rough.
"They're safe," Derek says. "You can't touch them."
The werewolf tips his head back and laughs. It sounds like a rough bark. He turns and speaks again, addressing the wolves all around. "He knows," he says, then turns back to Derek. "You know why we've come."
"I won't join you. You'll have to kill me first."
"You will. When you have nothing left." He lifts his leg, and Derek starts to rise, but he's not quick enough. The werewolf brings his foot down hard on Derek's shin and the crack of breaking bone and Derek's scream echoes through the woods.
The wolves all start moving back, melting into the trees, and finally the one that hurt Derek turns back into a wolf and he leaps right over top of Stiles as he follows the rest.
Stiles waits until he's gone, then scrambles toward Derek, still writhing on the ground in pain. When Stiles sees Derek's leg he has to fight the urge to empty his stomach. "Oh my frickin god," he gasps, alternately trying to get a closer look and having to look away from the sight of the jagged end of bone that sticks out of Derek's shin. It's surrounded by torn flesh, denim, and a ridiculous amount of blood. "How are you even conscious?"
"How bad is it?" Derek gasps, his chest heaving, shuddering.
Stiles crawls away from Derek's ruined leg, up to his shoulder. "Dude, I can see your bone." He has no idea what to do, if Derek's going to be able to heal himself after this. "He cut you up pretty bad." Stiles waves his hand over his own chest.
Derek does the same, running his hand down over his torso. "I'll live." He's struggling for breath. "We have to get out of here. Help me up."
The look on Derek's face as Stiles helps him to his...foot...brings tears to his eyes. Stiles can't imagine the pain Derek must be in, passing out would be a blessing, but though his head lolls onto Stiles' shoulder, Derek keeps his eyes open, speaks when Stiles asks a question. With one arm around Derek's back and Derek's arm around his shoulders, the two of them make their way out of the woods.
It takes a long time. "Shouldn't it heal, or something?" Stiles asks when they've been shuffling their way through the woods for half an hour or so. Even in the dark Stiles can see that Derek's jeans leg below the break is soaked through with blood. He bets that if Derek put his foot down, his shoe would squish. Derek's getting heavier.
"You're going to have to put the bone back in place," Derek says. His speech is slow and soft. His arm slips and Stiles has to use both arms wrapped around Derek's chest just to hold him up and keep them moving.
"You're not going to make it," Stiles says. "We should do it here."
Derek shakes his head weakly. "They're still close. I can smell them."
That gives Stiles the boost of motivation he needs, and he grips Derek tighter in his arms and drags him the rest of the way through the trees.
"I didn't actually run out of gas," Stiles admits as he searches for his keys with one hand and tries to hold Derek up with the other arm.
"I'm not stupid."
Now that they've stopped, Stiles notices how close Derek's lips are to his throat, realizes that he can feel Derek's breath on his skin. "Keys, keys," he mutters, then his fingers find metal, and he drags them out of his pocket. "You're going to bleed all over my car, aren't you?"
"Stiles..." Derek warns. "That'll be the least of your worries if you don't get me out of here, right now." As far as Derek's usual threats go, this one is weak, and so is his voice. His hold on Stiles finally slips, just as Stiles is trying to get him into the passenger side, and by the time Stiles is in the drivers seat, Derek's head has lolled back, his eyes are closed, and his body is relaxed.
Stiles reaches out and touches his chest. His hand comes away wet. He doesn't want to look down at Derek's broken leg where he knows the bone is still sticking out of torn denim. He retches, swallows, then fumbles the key into the ignition and starts the Jeep.
"Derek, wake up." Stiles reaches out as he breaks the speed limit, and he grabs hold of Derek's arm. "I'm taking you to the vet clinic."
Derek moans and his head lolls to the side. "No," he grunts.
Stiles takes his eyes off the road and stares at Derek for far too long before he looks back ahead. "Why not?"
"Scott's working tonight."
"Guh," Stiles says, splaying his fingers out over the steering wheel while just the heels of his hands remain where they should be. "Good? He'll know what to do? A million other reasons why Scott should totally know about this?"
Derek opens his eyes and turns his head. "I'm not going to die on you, okay?" His heavy, gasping breaths can be heard even over the sound of the engine. "He doesn't need to know. Take me somewhere else."
Stiles shakes his head, barely resisting the urge to bang it against the steering wheel. When he reaches the edge of town he turns, not toward the vet clinic, but toward his own home.
He can't think of anywhere else.
When he helps Derek out of the car, he tries not to think about the blood that's dripping onto the driveway or how he's going to explain it. He brings Derek through the garage to avoid the carpet in the hall, and manages to get him up to his bedroom without too much mess. He lies Derek down on the rug in the center of his room, and then he steps back, for the first time looking at the damage in the light.
It's horrific. Slash marks in the front of Derek's cream shirt are edged deeply with blood. It glistens, and where the tears are hanging open Stiles can see the ragged cuts over Derek's ribs.
It's nothing compared to the mess that is Derek's right leg. The splintered end of his broken bone protrudes through the side of his jeans leg, and the denim from knee to hem is soaked wet with blood. It starts to pool on the rug underneath him.
"God. This is my fault," Stiles says. "If I hadn't—"
"Not now." Derek tries to pull himself up, craning his neck to look down at his leg. "Cut it off," he groans.
Stiles' head jerks up. "What?"
Somehow, Derek manages to roll his eyes. "The denim. Get it off my leg. Cut my jeans off."
"Oh, thank god," Stiles gasps, and he runs for his desk and rummages in his pencil cup, throwing things out onto the floor. He finds the box cutter and moves back to Derek, sinking to his knees beside the pool of blood. "For a minute there..." He gets to work, careful not to cut into Derek's skin—not that it would make much difference to the situation—and he peels back the sodden jeans to expose the mess.
There's a tear in Derek's calf through which the bone protrudes. Blood pools at the wound, then overflows, running over the skin, dripping onto the floor, but it's not pumping out. Stiles figures that Derek would be dead by now if it was.
"You need to..." Derek stops to take a few shallow breaths. "Pull my leg out. Put the bone back where it's supposed to be so I can heal."
Stiles shakes his head. "I can't do that. I don't know where it's supposed to be."
"It's trying to heal. I can feel it. It can't because nothing's where it should be. I'll know when it's right. I'll tell you. Just please..." Derek stops, screws up his face and moans. He starts panting, short shallow breaths.
Stiles can almost feel his pain. He shuffles around and sits on his heels behind Derek's foot, still in his blood soaked shoe. "This is going to hurt, isn't it? A lot."
"Doesn't matter," Derek hisses from between clenched teeth. "Just do it. Now, Stiles. Do it now."
Stiles wraps his hands around Derek's ankle, locking his fingers tight. Blood squeezes out of Derek's sock and runs over Stiles' fingers. He swallows bile. "Why am I the one who has to be always cutting things off you, or... or putting things back on? It's disgusting." He slowly pulls back.
Derek lets out a low growl that becomes a sound like someone choking a cat, then, as Stiles watches the bone slide slowly back into the wound, it becomes more like a human scream. The sharp end of the bone slips back inside the torn flesh.
Stiles keeps pulling. Bone scrapes against bone, jagged edge rubs against jagged edge. He has to fight against Derek's shuddering jerks of pain now, but he holds on tight.
Something slips into place. Stiles doesn't let go, afraid it might pop out again. He keeps up the backward motion, and he feels it when it catches. Like... Like Derek's leg has grabbed the broken end, like it's clinging to it. "Is that it?" he asks, looking up at Derek's face.
But Derek's head has fallen to the side. His hands lie palm up on the floor, relaxed. He's passed out again.
Tentatively, Stiles unclasps his fingers from Derek's ankle. His lap is soaked with blood, he feels wet and sticky and warm. He reaches out with both hands, very carefully pressing the torn edges of skin together to close up the hole. He doesn't want to hurt Derek any more than he already is.
Stiles hands are slick to the wrist with blood. He wipes them on his jeans, and he prepares to rise to his feet, wanting to clean up while Derek... Sleeps or heals or whatever it is he's doing.
But the man spread out in front of him moans and moves. Derek opens his mouth, his forehead, a moment before relaxed, creases up, and he writhes, arching up off the floor before falling back down with a thud. He cries out, groaning in pain.
Stiles leans forward, pressing his palms to Derek's thighs before he can even think about what he's doing. He has an overwhelming urge to comfort, to try to ease Derek's pain, but he doesn't know what to do. All he knows is that he wants to touch Derek, to make sure that Derek knows he's there.
He knows he's successful when Derek's hand clamps down on his wrist. Derek's grip is so hard it hurts, but Stiles holds on as Derek jerks and writhes on the floor. Stiles looks down as his hands smear bloody hand prints over the front of Derek's jeans.
The way Derek's hips move as he groans and thrashes in pain catches Stiles' attention. "Huh," he says as his cock gives a twitch. The last thing he should be doing is checking Derek out when a minute before he was practically in pieces, but now Stiles watches as Derek arches and twists, as his strong thighs ripple beneath Stiles' palms, as they clench and rub together. Stiles' eyes are locked to the bulge in Derek's jeans as it moves, as his thighs force it up, forward, and as Derek's movement slowly eases, as his cries fade to heavy breaths, Stiles finds himself rock hard.
Derek's eyes fly open. He stares up at the ceiling, mouth open and gasping.
Derek's eyes flick to Stiles. He stares for a beat, and then his arm shoots out, fingers clamping around Stiles' throat, and his body follows.
Stiles hits the floor and Derek comes down on top of him. Choking, trying to speak, his hands scrabble at Derek's wrist to no effect.
"Are you a complete idiot?" Derek growls.
Stiles struggles to speak, but all that comes out of his mouth are choking sounds.
Derek looks down, his eyes moving over Stiles' chest, down to where they are joined, Derek's hips pinning Stiles to the floor. His hand slides from Stiles' throat, fingers hooking into the neck of Stiles' shirt.
Stiles sucks air into his lungs. "Yes? I... I know. I'm sorry. I almost got you killed."
Derek's fingers lock into the fabric of Stiles' shirt and he yanks, jerking Stiles off the ground and slamming him back down with a thump. "You could have been killed," he growls. "Damn it, Stiles," he adds, his voice softening. His eyes flow down again, and his breathing quickens, deepens, every breath making his chest rise and fall so Stiles can see it.
Derek shifts his hips.
Stiles sucks his breath in with a rasp. He gapes up at Derek with wide eyes. "I wasn't."
"You're alive." Derek moves his hips again, and then he drops his head, dragging his lips over Stiles' cheek.
Stiles freezes. The dream he tried to turn into reality became a nightmare of fear and blood, and now that it's reached the end he's not sure what to do, whether he should do anything at all. At least in his dreams, in his wildest fantasies, he wanted this, now that it's happening he doesn't know whether to encourage Derek or push him off.
If he even could.
There's a part of Stiles that is aroused by the thought that if Derek wanted to do anything to him, Stiles couldn't stop him. Stiles is powerless.
A rush of intense lust fills his belly and flows outward, making him moan and shudder. Derek rolls his hips. Hard, thick length slides the length of Stiles' cock, through layers of denim wet with blood. His shirt tears down the front, Derek's hand splays over his bare chest, and Derek rocks his hips again.
"Oh... oh god." Stiles clutches at Derek's shirt, pushing it up, looking for bare flesh. He finds it, slides his hands up Derek's back. The skin is hot under his palms, he puts as much pressure as he can on Derek, pulling him down, however ineffectual it might be.
Derek's hips thrust against Stiles, Derek's lips open on Stiles' jaw, blunt teeth biting down gently, nipping.
"Oh god," Stiles blurts. "This is my first time." He grunts as Derek rocks against him. "With another person. Watch the teeth. Derek? Oh god."
Like he's trying to shut Stiles up, Derek's lips come down hard on his. Stiles' mouth is filled with tongue, Derek's teeth bang against his, rough stubble scratches his chin. He can't get away from it, he's not getting enough air, and he can't stop moaning into Derek's mouth. It's scaring him, but at the same time spasms of need and want and pleasure jolt through his body as Derek finds a rhythm of hard steady thrusts. Stuck between panic and the need to come, Stiles hooks his legs behind Derek's knees and pushes up to meet each thrust.
Derek pulls back, bares his teeth and growls. Stiles, mouth hanging open, stares up into Derek's eyes. They flash red and Derek drops his eyelids to hide it, but Stiles has seen it. Adrenaline pumps through his veins, he grabs a handful of Derek's shirt, arches up off the floor, gasping. He starts to come, squeezing his eyes shut tight as a release so intense it's like pain explodes inside him and sticky heat fills his shorts.
Stiles collapses to the floor, winded, gasping, still shuddering from his orgasm. "Oh my god," he whimpers, fingers still locked tight in the back of Derek's shirt. "God."
Derek stops moving. It takes Stiles a half-minute to notice. He opens his eyes.
Derek looks away. He rolls off onto the floor, panting.
Stiles feels suddenly cold. "Don't you want to finish?"
Derek's eyes are on the ceiling. "I shouldn't have started." He sits up, climbs to his feet, standing normally on a bone that was snapped in half only minutes ago, staring at anything but Stiles. "That was a mistake. I'm sorry."
Stiles lifts his head, shaking it because he doesn't understand. "Ahhh," he says, pushing himself up into a sitting position. He cringes at the squidgy mess in his jeans as he twists to look at Derek. "Mistake?" He swallows past the lump in his throat.
Derek glances down at him, then back at the window. "You're a good guy, Stiles." He takes a deep breath, then in two long strides crosses the room and pushes the window open. "But you're not what I want."
Stiles scrambles to his feet. "We're just fooling around." He attempts a smile as he moves toward the window then pulls a face. "This isn't going to get awkward is it?"
Derek sets his jaw, purses his lips. His eyes slowly move toward Stiles and linger there for a moment. Then he leaps headfirst through the window.
"Nah," Stiles whispers. "This isn't going to get awkward at all."
Stiles runs through the woods. It's night, but the moon hangs full in the clear sky, lighting his way. His heart is beating fast and hard, his lungs are burning from lack of breath. Behind him, he can hear the heavy, all-fours steps of a werewolf, hot on his heels.
Stiles knows he can't get away, but he keeps running, and even when he feels the wolfs hot breath on his skin where his shirt rides up and knows it's all over, he doesn't stop.
The paw that hits him between the shoulder blades pushes him forward, and he hits the ground with force, knocking what breath is left in him out in a rush. Claws rip through the fabric of his shirt and pierce his skin, and he cries out. His throat burns as the sound is ripped from his tortured airway.
As abruptly as he went down under the weight of the wolf, the animal is gone, and in its place lies a man. Fingers dig into the wounds on his back, strong legs press his own together, trapping him in place, and the mans erection digs into the back of Stiles' thigh.
Just as fast, the man bunches the back of Stiles' shirt in his hand and rises, pulling Stiles with him. Stiles doesn't have a chance to get his feet underneath him, he's flung backward, and he hits a tree. There's no breath left in him, he gasps for air before he tries to see, and so the man is a blur as he throws himself against Stiles, pressing the length of his body against Stiles, grasping his wrists, holding them above his head against the rough bark.
Derek—because it's Derek, it's always Derek—drags his nose down the length of Stiles' throat, puffing hot breath, inhaling through his nose. He growls, rolls his hips, and Stiles' heart falters, skips a beat, then pounds harder than before and Stiles wonders if he'll simply die from his fear.
Stiles wakes up. He's panting, sweating, the blankets tangled around his legs. His heart is pounding so hard he can hear it in his ears. His throat is sore, like he's been yelling, and his dick is hard and aching, the head pushing insistently against the elastic waistband of his shorts.
Stiles draws a line with his pen that follows the one printed in his chem notebook. All the way across the page, down, back, up to seal it off. He starts at the top left corner, drawing short angled lines that gradually lengthen to fill the space.
"I have to go see Derek after school," Scott whispers.
Stiles jumps, and his pen goes through the paper. He looks up at Scott, opens his mouth, but his mind goes blank.
He looks back down, tears out the torn page and balls it in his fist, then starts scribbling again on a fresh one.
"I have to convince him to trust the Argents," Scott hisses, and Stiles can feel him staring, waiting for a response. When Stiles continues drawing, Scott continues. "Are you going to come with me?"
Stiles keeps his head down. "Can't. I have a thing," he whispers. Harris may have his back turned, but the man has ears like a bat.
Scott laughs under his breath. "What thing?"
Stiles stops his scribbling and looks up. He pulls an expression, one he knows Scott will understand, one that loosely translated means 'what the fuck?' "I can have a thing."
"Stiles, this is important. We can't go up against the Alpha Pack without the hunters. I have to, somehow, convince Derek. I need you there."
Stiles jerks his hand across the page, tearing that one, too. Tossing his pen across the desk, he throws up his hands and scoots back from the desk. His chair legs scrape loudly across the floor. "What can I do? Trip over my own feet? Piss Derek off? Make sarcastic remarks?"
Something small and hard hits him in the center of the forehead, and he goes still as a piece of chalk bounces off the desk, onto the floor, and rolls away.
Harris stands at the front of the class, face thunderous. "Do I have to say it, Mr. Stilinski?"
"Detention?" Stiles squeaks.
Harris blinks. "You'll be joined by Mr. McCall."
Scott sits up in his chair. "What?"
Harris has already turned his back, ignoring him.
Scott's head hits the desk. "Thanks a lot, Stiles," he whispers.
Maybe he's paranoid, but Stiles feels like he's being watched. It doesn't matter if he's walking through the halls or across the parking lot at school, when he's filling the Jeep at the gas station, even when he's at home, he feels like someone's eyes are on him, like someone's listening.
Someone being Derek, of course. It's driving him crazy, feeling like Derek's there, all the time. It has a particular effect on him that he can't seem to shake.
Battling a semi as he carries the garbage bag from the back of the house out to the street, trying to do it fast, he thinks that maybe he should buy some looser jeans.
He really needs to stop thinking about Derek Hale.
Stiles dumps the bag into the trash can, and in his rush he knocks the entire thing over. The bag he's just put in there isn't tied properly, and it falls open, trash tumbling out onto the curb. As he scrambles to pick up soggy coffee filters and empty juice cartons, the feeling grows stronger, prickling the back of his neck and making the hair on his arms stand on end.
He looks up from where he's crouched and scans the street, but in the darkness he can't see anything. He knows Derek's there, though. He can feel it. Scooping the last of the trash back into the can, he whispers, "Stalker, much?" knowing Derek will hear him.
The feeling doesn't leave. Derek's watching, and like this morning in the shower when Stiles allowed himself to imagine that Derek was just outside the curtain, watching, listening, he's immediately rock hard. Derek has to know, he's got to be able to tell. Knowing makes Stiles harder still. He clings to the trash can, trying to control his heavy breaths, his racing pulse, though what difference does it make? It's not just some random recurring dream anymore, Stiles has it bad.
Derek drags his nose down the length of Stiles' throat, inhaling, puffing hot breath. He growls, rolls his hips, and Stiles' heart falters, skips a beat, then pounds harder than before and Stiles wonders if he'll simply die from his fear.
With his arms pinned above him, Stiles can do nothing to stop his legs from being kicked apart, and Derek pushes his hips and the impossibly large bulge in his jeans against him. Derek starts grinding, lips moving over Stiles' face, hot breath spreading over skin. Stiles turns his head away, and Derek mouths his exposed throat, biting with human teeth that still seem to graze. Stiles whimpers, moans, and he goes limp, surrendering.
With his free hand, Derek grabs the neck of Stiles' shirt, and with one swift jerk, tears it down the front. His hand roams over Stiles' skin, and he lifts his eyes as he tucks his fingers into the waist of Stiles' jeans.
Stiles stares back. Derek's eyes flash red for a moment, then cool air washes over Stiles' skin, and he can feel Derek's naked body against him. It doesn't seem strange that they're both suddenly naked, or that the blood that rushes fast though his veins and the desperate struggle for breath now heralds not fear, but intense and desperate desire.
Derek releases Stiles' hands, Stiles wraps them around Derek's neck. Derek lifts him, arms beneath his knees, and he wraps his legs around Derek's waist.
Derek's lips don't move when he speaks. "I need to be inside you."
Stiles tips his head back, exposing his throat. "Do it. Fuck me, Derek."
Stiles wakes up. The blankets are tangled around his feet and he's slick with sweat. He can't hear anything but the pounding in his ears as his blood races through his veins and he gasps for breath. Before he can catch it, his hand moves to his cock, shoving his shorts down to his thighs. It only takes a few strokes before his body stiffens, his back arches off the mattress, and he comes with an intensity that is almost painful. He cries out, and wet heat splatters down onto his T-shirt, soaking through the fabric. Stiles throws an arm over his eyes and waits for his heart to stop pounding, for his breathing to even out. A breeze blows over him. It cools the come on his chest and belly and makes him shiver.
He makes himself sit up on the edge of the bed. He pulls his shirt off over his head, balls it in his fist and uses it to wipe the rest of the mess up, then he drops it to the floor beside his bed. He hopes that he didn't wake his dad up. He talks in his sleep sometimes, and that dream is not something he wants his dad to hear.
Just as Stiles is about to lie back down, his eyes pass over his window. The blinds are crooked, hooked up on the edge of the frame, and he stands to pull it down, to block out the moon. He pulls his shorts back up to his hips and looks out into the darkness.
Someone walks across the road outside Stiles' house. Stiles knows, with a certainty that sends his heart into his throat, that it's Derek. The breeze, the blinds...
Derek was in his room. Derek heard. Derek watched.
Stiles' heart jumps up into his throat. As he watches Derek walk away, Derek turns and looks up at the window. Their eyes lock together for a moment before Stiles stumbles back out of sight, pulse racing, lungs burning because he can't get enough air.
He crouches on his bedroom floor in the dark, fighting to breathe, wondering what the hell is going on.
Stiles drives out of the school parking lot in the middle of the day. He's cutting Econ for this, but it's got to be now because he's already seen both Jackson and Isaac heading toward class and it's the only chance he's going to get to see Derek alone.
When Stiles gets to Isaac's house, it looks like no one's home. The curtains are open, but there's no movement. Derek's car is in the driveway. Stiles parks on the road and turns off the engine.
When there's no answer to his knocking after five minutes, Stiles tries the door handle. It's unlocked, and the door swings open. "Derek?" Stiles calls, his voice shaking. He ventures into the hall, scans the kitchen—where a single cereal bowl sits abandoned on the table—and keeps going. "Derek? Are you...still sleeping? 'Cause it's like one in the afternoon."
All Stiles sees is a blur, and then he hits the wall behind him, Derek's hand clamped around his throat.
"Stiles?" Derek drops him, stumbles back. "What the hell are you doing here?"
Stiles rubs his throat, coughs. "Looking for you." He looks Derek up and down. He's wearing loose track pants, no shirt, and there's a bite on his shoulder that looks fresh and sore. "What happened to you?"
Derek's eyes track to the bite. They stay there. He grinds his teeth. "You should leave."
"You were in my room last night," Stiles blurts. "You know I saw you."
For long moments, Derek is frozen where he stands. Then he turns and limps back into the dark bedroom he came out of.
Stiles looks down, wondering if the leg Derek broke didn't heal properly.
He tries to pull the door closed behind him, but Stiles puts his foot in it and pushes it open, following Derek. The air in here is heavy, warm, smelling faintly of blood and sweat. "Look, Derek, this isn't easy for me, either. You might have gone completely stalker, but I'm the one you were watching." His face burns and he breaks out in a sweat as he forces himself to keep talking. "I was dreaming about you, okay? I have been for months. If you want to watch the aftermath, hell, if you want to be involved, just ask." He fakes a grin. "I'm okay with that. I don't like finding out after the fact. Do you know how entirely mortifying that was?" He shudders.
Derek sits down heavily on the bed. He lifts his eyes to Stiles. "Stop talking."
Stiles walks toward the bed. "Seriously, dude. It's not cool to watch someone in the privacy of their own—"
"Stop talking," Derek snaps, "or I will rip the tongue right out of your head."
Stiles can see teeth, he's sure Derek's eyes flash red, just for a moment. He presses his teeth together hard out of shock and, he has to admit it, fear.
"You've got a little crush," Derek says, his eyes on the wall somewhere to the left of Stiles' head. "Forget about it. It's not going to happen. Ever."
Stiles makes a 'tttt' noise. "Like I'm the only one. You were all over me the other—"
"Shut up, Stiles_._" Derek comes halfway off the bed, winces, sits back down, his face screwed up in pain.
Stiles approaches the bed, slow, because to be honest he doesn't think Derek has a terribly firm grip on his humanity right now. "Are you okay? Is it your leg? Did I...not put you back together properly and isn't that just the weirdest thing I've said all day?" His hand comes down on Derek's arm.
Derek shoves him away. "I don't need your help." He tries to stand, but his leg goes out from under him, and he slips to hands and knees, panting.
Stiles looks down. "Well, I think obviously you do." With his arms under Derek's, he hauls the werewolf back onto the bed, pushes him so he lies down. "Is this another wolfsbane bullet thing? 'Cause we know how to fix that."
Derek shakes his head, shoves Stiles' hand off his shoulder weakly. "Alpha bites. My leg."
Stiles lets his eyes slide down Derek's body. He lifts the edge of the pants leg, just to take a peek. He can't see in the dark, but the fabric sticks and Derek whimpers. "Hang on, just let me..." He pulls the fabric up further, shifts his body so that the light from the hall will fall on it.
His eyes widen. "Oh, my god." Derek's calf and ankle are a mass of bites, so bad that Stiles can't see where one ends and another begins. "Dude, you should be in the hospital or something. This is really bad."
"They'll heal. They just need time. Go away, Stiles. I don't want you here."
"See, no, they won't." Stiles climbs onto the bed, starts tugging at the waist of Derek's pants. "The pants are sticking to it, you have to get them off, get in the shower, at least."
The next instant, Stiles hits the floor as Derek shoves him off the bed.
"Touch me again and I'll tear your hands off. Now get out."
Stiles runs through the halls, desperate to catch Isaac coming out of class. The bell's already rung, but Stiles missed Chem as well, and Harris is notorious for keeping the whole class behind.
He passes Lydia coming the other way. He slides to a stop and turns. "Lydia, is Isaac still back there?"
She shrugs, strolls back to meet him, books clasped to her chest. "Didn't see him. You're coming this weekend, right?"
"This weekend? Huh?" He looks back down the hall, but he still finds it very difficult to walk away from Lydia.
"Yeah. End of school party at my house. You have to come, Stiles."
Stiles does a double take, wondering exactly when he ended up on the 'you have to come' guest list of Lydia Martin's parties. "Uhh, Lydia? School doesn't end for another week."
"Full moon next week," Lydia says. "Probably not a good idea lest some of the guests eat the others, and I want Jackson there."
"I'll be there. Definitely." Stiles is about to walk away, but he turns back. "Is Derek going to be there?"
"Huh." She smiles like she knows something. "I don't know. I'll make sure Jackson invites him. Since you want him there."
Stiles takes a step back. "I didn't say—"
"You didn't have to, sweetie." She turns on her heel and strides down the hall, leaving Stiles staring after her.
He's still staring when Isaac walks past him and he remembers why he came back to school in the first place. "Hey, Isaac," he calls, running so he can catch up and tell the beta to do something about Derek.
There's no hallucinogens in the punch this time, thank god, Stiles thinks as he tips back a glass of pink liquid that tastes vaguely alcoholic. He has noticed, though, that most people are avoiding it. Scott walks past with a beer in his hand. Isaac sits on the edge of the pool, jeans rolled up to his knees, feet in the water. He's got beer, too.
"How's the punch?"
Stiles turns around as Lydia dips her glass right in the bowl. "We're sharing our saliva now?"
She shrugs, drains half the glass. "No one's drinking it." She pouts.
Stiles holds his glass high to show the finger of pink still in the bottom. "I am." He gestures around. "All the other boys are drinking beer though. Should I be worried?"
Lydia shakes her head, sending her curls bouncing. "Pink looks good on you."
He grins. "I'm comfortable with my sexuality."
"Yeah. But is Derek?"
Stiles spins around. "Is he here? Is he coming?" He can't see him. It doesn't mean he's not here.
"I haven't seen him," Lydia says. "Jackson doesn't know if he's coming or not."
Stiles deflates. He doesn't know why he's worried. Derek was a dick last time he saw him. He might as well get drunk. He drains his glass and holds it out. "Punch me."
Lydia finds the ladle and fills Stiles' glass. He pours it down his throat and holds it out again for more.
Then he feels a prickle on the back of his neck.
"Don't look now, sweetie." Lydia lifts her eyes, her chin, staring past him.
He turns around, looks across the pool, and the music and the shouts of those in the water all fade away to nothing.
Derek stands at the gate, looking in.
"I said, don't look." Lydia grabs Stiles by the front of his shirt and pulls.
Stiles stumbles as he lets her lead him indoors. He tries to look back, but when he does, Derek's gone.
The music is almost deafening inside. Stiles tries to understand what Lydia's trying to tell him, but he can't hear and he's too distracted to concentrate. He shakes his head, waving his hands around his ears. "I can't hear you," he says, and his voice is swept away by the bass. He looks back out the door, tries to walk out there, but Lydia drags him back.
She starts walking again, pulling Stiles behind her, arm over her shoulder like he's a shopping bag. Down the hall, to the bottom of the stairs, then she drops him and turns around.
"Don't you dare go looking for him," she says, then purses her lips prettily and lifts one shoulder. "You make him find you."
Stiles turns away from her, drawn to the place he saw Derek, but then he turns back. "He's not here for me. Something must have happened. The Alpha Pack. He's here to get Jackson and Isaac, I bet."
"Well, he can't have them." Lydia steers him at the stairs and gives him a push. "Up you go. Run away from the monster."
Stiles steps onto the first rise. "There's nowhere to go."
"That's the whole point." Lydia smiles, then she turns, a mass of bouncing strawberry blond, and she disappears.
Stiles steps up onto the second rise. 'Upstairs'. The lamest trope of horror. Nowhere to go. Nothing to do but wait for the killer to come find you. He should be running, but he doesn't see the point. Derek's not here for him. He's made his feelings quite clear—he wants nothing to do with Stiles.
It doesn't stop Stiles from glancing back every few steps in hope that Lydia is right. He's halfway up the stairs when Derek steps into the hall.
Stiles freezes, eyes locked to Derek's as he stares back, all angry eyebrows and thin lips.
A million thoughts crash through Stiles' mind, every one of them conflicting. He could stand here, halfway up the stairs, and wait. Or he could go to Derek. Part of him wants to go to Derek, but he's tried that already, and it didn't work. Maybe Lydia's right.
Stiles turns and starts to run up the stairs. Something deep inside him screams that it's the wrong thing to do, the part of him that wants to be close to the man despite the mean words and violent threats. Stiles keeps running, even when he hears Derek's feet on the stairs behind him. He stumbles, falls forward, knees hitting hard on the edge of the risers, but he scrambles up the final few steps on all fours, and even when he feels fingers close on his ankle he kicks at them.
His shoe comes off, and he leaves it. Jumping to his feet at the top of the stairs, he doesn't look back. He runs down the hall lined with closed doors.
Derek's stopped running, but he's still behind him. Stiles keeps going. He tries the door handles, but they're all locked.
All except for the one at the end of the hall. Stiles barrels through it and closes the door behind him. It's a bedroom, bland, generic, Stiles guesses a guest bedroom. There's a couple in the bed, bodies moving rhythmically under the covers.
"Sorry," he says, pressing himself back against the wall behind the door, palms out in front of him. "I'll be out of your hair in just a— Oh. Hey, Danny." Stiles cranes his neck, trying to see who the other person in the bed is, but the door handle rattles.
His eyes flick around the room, searching for a way out. The only option is a pair of French doors, opening out onto a balcony. He waves at Danny and whoever he's got in bed with him, and he runs across the room, turning the key and tripping out onto the small balcony.
The music hits him like a wave. Directly over the back of the house, over the party, from the balcony he can see straight down onto the pool. He could jump, he figures, and the water should stop him from hurting himself too badly, but the pool is full of people. There's no way he can guarantee he's not going to hurt anyone else on the way through, and anyway, it all seems just a little too melodramatic.
So he presses himself back against the wall in the darkness, and he fights to ease his heavy breaths, and he wishes that his heart would stop beating altogether.
From inside the room, he hears gruff speech, but he can't make it out over the music that pumps up from downstairs.
The door beside him eases open.
Derek slips out, closes the door behind him. He stands at the edge of the balcony, looking down onto the party, just as Stiles did before him. His fists are clenched at his sides, and his whole body moves with the deep breaths he's taking. He turns, staring right at the place where Stiles is hiding, and he moves forward slowly, one tiny step at a time.
Stiles loops his fingers into the ivy that grows down the wall, wishing he could melt into it, but he can't. Derek's brow is heavily furrowed, he looks pissed.
Stiles wants to speak, wants to reach out and touch, but he locks his fingers into the ivy, and he keeps his jaw shut tight.
When Derek gets close enough, he reaches out, locking his fingers around Stiles' wrist. He pulls it away from the wall, tearing vines away with it, and he lifts it, pressing it to the wall above Stiles' head. He does the same with the other arm, and he does it slow. Stiles keeps his fingers locked around the ivy, tendrils fall onto the top of his head, tickling. He lets them fall, leaves tumble past his face and he spits them away, blinking, then he sneezes.
Derek blinks, takes the last step, bringing his body flush with Stiles', turning his head, breathing hot puffs of air over Stiles' cheek, down the side of his neck. "I tried to stay away," he whispers. "Tried to keep you away." He presses his lips to Stiles' throat.
"Ahh," Stiles says. He's barely breathing, but his heart is racing. "So you're saying... What exactly are you saying?"
Derek moves against Stiles, a long slow roll of his hips that shoves Stiles against the wall and makes him immediately hard. "This isn't how it's supposed to be." His lips move up Stiles' throat, over his chin, and hover over his lips, barely touching. "I grew up in a big family. That's what I want. You can't give me that, but I can't stay away. I know what it means now. I have to accept that you're my mate."
Stiles jerks, shakes his head, but he can't move. "What?" He wriggles, twisting his wrists in Derek's grip, but Derek only grips him tighter. "Don't say that. That's freaky." He shudders, gives his hands another jerk, and then relaxes in defeat. "Please don't say that again."
Derek presses his lips to Stiles' mouth, licking at his lower lip. "It's true," he says, then licks again, presses hard against Stiles' mouth, prying Stiles' lips open with his tongue.
Stiles can't breathe, and he doesn't care. The music fades away, so does his concern for the semi-public spectacle they're making of themselves. When Derek's kissing him, none of it matters. He's disturbed by the whole mate thing, weird werewolf, but he pushes it into a far corner of his mind because Derek's kissing him, and he's moving against him again, thrusting that hard bulge against his cock, and he starts looking forward to the orgasm it's going to bring.
Though, there's no handy shower here and he really doesn't want to drive home with come in his jeans, not to mention trying to get out of the party without anyone noticing. He pulls his head away. "Umm, Derek? This again? Really?"
Derek frowns, but shifts both of Stiles' wrists into one hand, and moves the hand he's just freed down to Stiles' belt and starts to unbuckle it.
Stiles looks down. "Whoa." He watches as Derek slides a hand into his jeans, pulls out his cock, strokes it. "Oh god." Then Derek is kissing him again, and every one of his words is swallowed up, but he doesn't stop trying to speak as Derek moves his hand over Stiles' dick.
Derek is, slow, methodical, stroking his hand from base to tip, sliding his thumb through the precome that makes Stiles moan every time more of it oozes out, back down to the base. It's as if he's figuring it out, how to get it done the opposite way to what he's used to. Stiles isn't complaining, it's his first handjob, he's not about to risk it ending prematurely.
He does think that there's something missing though. "Let me loose," he says, struggling, and Derek lets his arms drop.
Immediately, Stiles pulls up Derek's shirt at the front and starts to fumble with Derek's belt buckle. He keeps getting distracted though, sliding his palms over the hard length in Derek's jeans, but eventually he gets back on target, and manages to pull the end of the belt out. He's just pulling it back to loose the pin, when Derek stops him, grabbing his wrist, pulling it away.
"Why not?" Stiles is panting now, Derek hasn't stopped stroking his cock and he's starting to tense up.
"Not yet," Derek says, presses his lips to Stiles mouth again. Taking his hand from Stiles' cock he grabs Stiles by both hips, and with one last long lick into Stiles' mouth, he drops to his knees.
Stiles' eyes almost pop out of his head as he gapes down at Derek on his knees. "Oh my fucking god," he blurts.
Derek looks up. "I've never done this," he says, and there is a pleading in his eyes that Stiles has never seen before.
"No time like the present," Stiles squeaks. His cock is standing out from his body, only inches from Derek's face. Derek's not moving, like he's waiting for something. "It's my first time too, like that isn't obvious," Stiles says. "I'm not in a position to be judging." Then he thinks of something else. "Just, you know. Watch the teeth."
Derek moves his head just enough for Stiles to interpret it as a nod, and then he drops his eyes and presses his lips to the end of Stiles' cock.
Stiles almost hits the roof. It's not the contact, it's the thought that someone is about to give him his first blowjob. More than that, it's Derek. Why this is so momentous, he's not entirely sure. Okay, so he's been dreaming about him, fantasizing about him, Derek's been the focus of a quick and intense crush, but that's all Stiles thinks of it as. Stiles has no clue what Derek's 'mate' thing means, nor does he care right at this moment. All he cares about is what it looks like when Derek's lips slide over the head of his cock, what it feels like when Derek sucks gently.
It feels good. Better than anything he's ever felt. Too good. Stiles twists his fingers into Derek's hair, and he grips hard enough to hurt as his orgasm looms down on him, quick, far too quick, but he's too far gone already to care. Finally, Derek slides his lips down Stiles' cock, takes the whole length into his mouth, and he lifts his eyes.
Stiles has never seen anything like it. In Derek's eyes, there's pleading and hunger, hunger like he's starving and Stiles is food. This thought sticks in Stiles' mind and he can't shake it. He's going to come, but he can't even warn Derek because he can't make his lips form the words. He struggles, and, wide eyed, he finally manages to mouth the word, "Now," but it's already too late. He's coming, right down Derek's throat.
Derek's eyes go wide, but he swallows, gripping Stiles' hips, pulling his cock deeper as Stiles hunches forward, hands sliding down over Derek's back.
"Oh my frickin god," Stiles breathes as his cock pumps inside Derek's hot mouth. "This is awesome." His cock gives one final spurt, and he moans through it, sliding his hands in circles over Derek's back.
The moment his cock slips from Derek's mouth, Stiles drops to his knees. "Dude, that was awesome," he whispers, searching out Derek's lips.
Derek won't kiss him. He holds Stiles face in his hands, and he looks into his eyes. Derek still looks angry, scary, intense. That's just him. "Yeah," he whispers, "It's you." He seems pained, his eyes are wet, glistening. "It's definitely you."
Derek kisses him, and Stiles tastes his own come. Derek's hands move over Stiles face, through his hair, and eventually Derek's arms wrap around him, holding him tight against Derek's body.
Derek pulls away. "You're mine," he whispers. "My—"
"Don't say it." Stiles puts his hands over his ears.
"You're my mate. No one else can touch you, okay?"
Stiles groans, and he drills his fingers into his ears. "Please don't say that again."
Stiles wraps his arms around Derek's neck as Derek lifts him, presses him against the tree. He wraps his legs around Derek's waist.
Derek's lips don't move when he speaks. "I need to be inside you."
Stiles tips his head back, exposing his throat. "Yeah. Fuck me, Derek, please."
The head of Derek's cock pushes insistently against Stiles' ass. Derek pulls him down, penetrates him, sinks deep, and there is no pain, only a throbbing fullness that consumes Stiles completely.
He wakes up, hard and gasping. He's on the verge of coming, the sheets are tangled around his feet, and he knows that Derek's in the room with him.
Stiles looks into the darkness as he covers his cock with his hand. He needs to come, and it's not going to take much to bring him off. He moans as he trails a finger up the big vein, all the way to the head, and then he pushes his shorts down to his hips. "Gonna watch again?" he pants. "That's a little creepy."
Derek walks out of the darkness and presses his knees against the edge of the bed. "Did I do it?" he asks as he pushes Stiles hand away and wraps his own fingers around Stiles' cock. "Did I fuck you?"
Stiles moans and arches at the feeling of a hand on his cock that isn't his own, and at the memory of Derek pushing inside his body. He can still feel it, the fullness, but now that he's awake and he knows it could be real if he just asked for it, fear mixes with his arousal. "Just a dream," he breathes.
"Subconscious desires," Derek counters, and he strokes his hand slowly over Stiles' dick. "Tell me. Did I fuck you?"
"Yes," Stiles gasps, his toes curl, his cock jerks in Derek's hand and the first spurt of come arcs up and splashes down on his chest.
Derek's mouth comes down on the head of his cock, hand still wrapped around the base. "Oh god yes," Stiles blurts, shaking as Derek sucks the final drops from him.
Derek climbs onto the bed, hovering over Stiles as he licks at the cooling streak of come on Stiles' chest. Stiles looks down as he does it, pulling a face. "That's... That's kind of gross. But hot. I'm very confused right now."
Derek lifts his head. He licks a drop of semen from his lips. "I need to be inside you."
Stiles feels his heart racing at the echo of his dream. "Oh." His lips form the beginnings of words, but no sound comes out. "Can I... Can I say no, at this point?" he finally manages.
Derek blinks, his eyes flick over Stiles' face for long moments. Then he gives a single nod. "Yeah." He rolls off to the side, reaches down and pulls the sheet over the both of them. He wraps his arms around Stiles, laying his head beside Stiles' on the pillow.
With awkward movements, Stiles pulls his shorts back up to cover his now soft cock, and he wriggles, turning toward Derek. He can barely see the shine of Derek's eyes in the dark. "I want to get you off," he whispers, reaching for Derek's belt.
"Not yet." Derek pushes Stiles' hands away.
"I don't mind." Stiles turns his wrists, escaping from Derek's loose grip.
"Go to sleep."
"I want to." Stiles tugs at Derek's belt.
This time, Derek's grip is hard enough to hurt. "Go to sleep, Stiles," Derek growls.
"Right. Okay. Sleeping." Stiles shuts his eyes tight. He knows he's not going to be able to sleep. Not with Derek Hale in his bed.
Derek's waiting for him in the parking lot after school on Monday.
Stiles starts walking faster. "Get in the Jeep, Scott," he mutters, averting his eyes, trying to pretend he hasn't seen Derek.
It's a waste of time. When Scott reaches the Jeep, Derek's already there, standing in front of the passenger door.
"Derek?" Scott says. He tries to step around him, but Derek blocks his path again. "What the hell?"
Derek glances over the hood of the Jeep at Stiles. "You didn't tell him?"
Stiles has avoided telling Scott what happened at the party, what's happened since, not because he doesn't want his best friend to know, and not because he's ashamed or anything. It's just going to be a weird conversation. Derek can be really intense, and the whole mate thing freaks Stiles out more than a little bit, but not enough to stop doing what they've been doing. He's sixteen for Christ's sake.
"Tell me what?" Scott says.
Deep down, Stiles also suspects that Derek wouldn't take 'go away' for an answer, and he's not sure what to do with that. "Well, Scott," he stammers. "Derek... Well, he thinks—"
"I know," Derek growls.
Stiles marches around the front of the Jeep, grabs Derek by the arm, and thankfully, Derek allows himself to be led away. "Do we have to do this now?" Stiles hisses between his teeth.
"His scent is all over you, do you know that?" Derek says. "It's driving me crazy. I don't want you alone with him." Derek pulls himself up to his full height, which isn't that impressive, considering Stiles is the same height, but when he crosses his arms over his chest and his brows draw together, he looks damn scary and Stiles' instinct is to cower and do what he's told.
Since when has he ever done as he's told? "He's my best friend," Stiles says, mirroring Derek's posture as he crosses his own arms over his chest. "And you're not the boss of me."
Derek blinks, and Stiles turns on his heel and heads back to the car. He starts the engine, then leans over and pops open the passenger door. Derek and Scott glare at each other and Stiles is afraid it might come to a fight. "Get in the Jeep, Scott," he says. "Get in the frickin Jeep, now."
He breathes a sigh of relief when Scott tears his gaze away from Derek long enough to get in, but they only glare through the window then, so Stiles pulls out of the lot as fast as he dares.
They're halfway to Scott's house before he speaks. "You... and Derek?"
Scott turns his head to face Stiles. "How long has this been going on? How did I not know?"
"Since Lydia's party, sort of, and I was maybe afraid to tell you because I thought you might freak out," Stiles says in a rush.
"Well I am freaking out. What the hell are you thinking? Derek? What about Lydia? What about all the other millions of people you could have hooked up with? Derek? Oh my god, Stiles." Scott leans forward, cradling his head in his hands.
Stiles struggles to keep his eyes on the road. "In case you hadn't noticed, Scott, Lydia and Jackson are back together. Her and all the other millions of people I could have hooked up with weren't interested, and the only other person who has shown interest was a crazy werewolf bitch, so before you start questioning my choices—"
"Derek is a werewolf. Not only that, he's an Alpha. How do you know he's not messing with you? How do you know he's not planning on turning you? He won't accept the Argents help, maybe he's looking to increase his pack numbers again."
"He's not messing with me," Stiles says, but his words are subdued. He doesn't know that for sure—he can't—but something tells him Derek's sincere. Stiles is sure the whole thing wouldn't be so creepy if it wasn't for real. Besides, that's not how Derek goes around making new werewolves.
He pulls into Scott's driveway, but he keeps the engine running.
Scott doesn't move. "I don't like it."
"That's your right." Stiles grips the steering wheel, hard, twisting his fists over the vinyl until he can feel calluses forming.
"Is it just because he showed an interest?" Scott asks.
Stiles shakes his head. "I might have, maybe, unintentionally, been the one to show an interest first."
Scott's head jerks around. "Why didn't you tell me?"
Stiles shrugs. "He sort of scared me at the same time. Still does, sometimes. I thought it was weird."
"It is weird." Scott sighs. "Call me, okay. I can be at your house in five minutes."
Stiles bites his lip, but nods his head to appease Scott. Maybe. "Pick you up in the morning?"
"Yeah." Scott pops the door open. "Call me, okay?"
Stiles nods his head again, and pulls out of the driveway.
Stiles needs a haircut. He lets the toothbrush hang out of his mouth as he tugs at inch long strands. He's going to need to buy a comb if it gets any longer.
He gets back to brushing his teeth, scrubbing hard and fast. Foam drips from his lips, leaving a white streak down his chest that makes him snort as he wipes it off with the corner of the towel wrapped around his waist.
He spits into the basin, shoves the toothbrush back between his teeth, then looks around for his shorts. Did he drop them in the hall? Must have.
Toothbrush still hanging out of his mouth, Stiles pads barefoot down the hall toward his room. His shorts are lying on the floor in his open doorway where he dropped them.
As he bends to pick them up, the breeze rattles the blinds. The window was shut before he got in the shower, he made a point of closing it. He always does. "Derek?" he mumbles around the toothbrush as he pulls himself to his feet. Foam drips onto his chin.
Derek comes at him fast, palm flat on Stiles' chest, pushes him across the room. Stiles hits the wall hard, he's winded, fighting to breathe as Derek stares at him with eyes that glow red.
"You think you can wash it away?" Derek growls. "His scent? You think taking a shower means I can't smell him all over you?"
Stiles spits out his toothbrush and gasps for breath. His chest hurts where Derek pushes against him, and he's going to have bruises on his back in the morning. "My dad..." he rasps. "Downstairs."
Derek doesn't seem to care. "You're making me crazy." He shoves harder against Stiles chest. "You're mine."
Stiles cringes. His heart falters, skips a beat. Can't Derek feel it? "You're scaring me."
Moments pass. Finally, the red fades from Derek's eyes, and he steps back. Stiles almost slides down the wall, but locks his knees, forcing himself to stay on his feet. "And could you keep it down?" he hisses. "I'm not quite ready to explain to my dad why there's a lunatic werewolf in my bedroom." He looks down. "And why one of us is naked." Quickly he stoops, picking up his towel from where it's puddled around his feet, using it to wipe the toothpaste foam out of his mouth, off his face, tucking it back in around his waist.
"I'm sorry," Derek says. "I need to keep you safe."
"I'm safe," Stiles says, scooping up his toothbrush, tossing it onto his desk. "Totally able to handle myself in my car, in broad daylight, with my best friend." He pulls his shorts on under the towel, deciding Derek doesn't deserve another eyeful just yet.
"Scott's a werewolf," Derek says, like Stiles doesn't already know. "He's not part of my pack. I can't control him."
Stiles pulls on a T-shirt. "I'm not part of your pack either. You don't get to tell me who I can and can't hang out with." Grabbing the cord that hangs beside the window, he pulls the blinds up. "Go away, please." He's angry, still scared, chest still hurting.
Derek's brows draw together. "I can't."
Stiles eyes his phone on the desk. "I'll call Scott. Or my dad. He'd love to arrest you."
Shaking his head, Derek slowly walks toward the window, but his eyes are locked to Stiles. "I'm sorry," he says. "I can't leave you. I have to be with you." Somehow, he lowers himself while still standing so his eyes are an inch lower than Stiles'. He closes his eyes, hangs his head. "Don't ask me to go."
Stiles doesn't know what to do. Scott's right. Derek's unpredictable, probably dangerous. Stiles isn't prepared to stay away from his best friend just because it makes Derek crazy, he shouldn't have to. "Deal with it," he says, trying to inject his voice with confidence. "Deal with Scott. He's my friend, and he's no threat to me...you...whatever this is. Or... Or we're done here."
Derek looks up, shakes his head. "I can't stay away from you," he says, reaching out, placing his hand gently over the sore place on Stiles' chest. "It's too late."
"So you're gonna leave Scott alone?"
Derek's jaw moves, and he averts his eyes. "You have to understand—"
"No more attacking me in my room."
Derek's eyes shoot up and lock with Stiles'. "I'm sorry," he says quickly, and then to Stiles surprise, Derek drops to his knees and presses his cheek to Stiles' stomach. "I've never felt more out of control. You're my mate—"
"Oh my god," Stiles says, stepping backward quickly. "You have to stop saying that."
"—and I have to protect you." Derek looks up, and he drops to all fours, getting up off his knees, walking, wolf-like, on his hands and feet, toward Stiles.
Stiles backs up until he hits the edge of the bed, and he falls backwards onto his elbows as Derek approaches and then settles, sitting on the floor at Stiles' feet. He lies his head on Stiles' thigh, wraps his arm around Stiles' calf. "I need to claim you, then no one can touch you. Then it won't be like this. I won't be like this."
Without thinking, Stiles lets his hand fall on Derek's head. He strokes Derek's hair and sighs. "Then claim me already," he says, shrugging. "Whatever that means."
Derek's lips stretch into a tight smile. "You won't let me."
Stiles lifts his hands into the air and pulls a face in an exaggerated shrug. "Huh?"
"Sex, Stiles. We have to have sex."
"Oh." He stares, blinking, down at Derek for some time. "Umm..."
Derek drops his eyes and sighs. "I can wait." Then he pulls himself up and sits on the edge of the bed. "Lie back."
Stiles does what he's told, swinging his legs up onto the bed. Propped up on his elbows, he watches as Derek rises and sits on the edge of the bed.
"Take off your shirt."
Stiles sits up and peels off his T-shirt, tossing it to the floor.
Derek does the same. Stiles drags his eyes from Derek's abs for a moment to look down at his tented sleep shorts.
"Take them off," Derek says, following Stiles' gaze.
Stiles swallows and shucks off his shorts, kicking them down to the end of his bed. "You too?"
Derek tips his head to the side and shrugs. Stiles isn't sure what that means, but then Derek stands, unbuckling his belt.
"Oh, yes. Finally," Stiles says, and then presses his lips tightly together when Derek gives him a look. "Shutting up," he adds, but he can't resist touching his cock as he watches Derek undo the buttons of his jeans, opening them to reveal black boxer briefs. Stiles can see the clear outline of Derek's hard cock, long, thick, and his mouth waters as he looks forward to seeing it.
Derek kicks off his shoes and jeans, and then climbs onto the bed, placing one knee carefully between Stiles' legs.
Stiles rolls his eyes. "Lose the shorts. Puhlease."
Derek lowers himself over Stiles, holding himself up on his elbows. "No." Then he reaches out, pulls open Stiles' drawer and rummages around in it.
"You've got nothing to be shy about," Stiles says, then his eyes track the length of Derek's arm just in time to see him pull the tube of lube out of the drawer. "Oooohkay," he stammers. "See, I thought you said 'I can wait' but you must have said 'I can't wait' and maybe you should learn to enunciate more clearly and—"
"I can wait," Derek repeats. "I'm not going to fuck you, Stiles." Derek drops the lube on the bed and leans over. He licks at Stiles' lips until they open and let him in. When he pulls back from the kiss, he leaves Stiles gasping for air. "I like things a little slick when I jerk off. How about you?"
Stiles nods. He feels a little lightheaded after that kiss. "Yeah. Slick is good. Slick. Slippery. Slide...y. Oh, fuck." Derek hasn't touched his cock yet, but a wave of intense pleasure rolls down his spine, making his guts clench and his cock ooze precome. He shudders at the sound of the lube cap cracking open, and he looks down as Derek squirts a generous amount into his palm.
Derek pushes the front of his shorts down slowly, only exposing about half of the length of his cock.
Stiles props himself higher up on his elbows so he can see. "Oh my god. You're uncut? Dude, that's frickin awesome!"
"Shut up, Stiles," Derek pants, and he wraps his hand around the end of his cock, slicking it down to where it disappears into his shorts.
"Is that what you were worried about? God, no, man. It's hot. I want to...You have to let me suck you off." Stiles pants for air. Just the thought of it is enough to make him arch up off the bed, searching for some kind of contact for his dick.
"Too late," Derek breathes as he strokes himself, pulling his foreskin over the head on the upstroke, down to expose the head. "And shut up." He lowers his hips, opens his hand, grabs Stiles dick in his fist, presses their cocks together, and starts stroking again.
Stiles moans and his head falls back into the pillows as he feels Derek's cock for the first time pressed against his own. Breathing hard, he reaches blindly, grabs the tube off the bed and pulls it up so he can see it, then lets it fall. "Strawberry flavor. I'd so do it."
"Stiles," Derek growls. He stops stroking, holds his fist still, tightening it. Then he snaps his hips forward, thrusting against Stiles' cock.
"Oh god," Stiles moans. "That's—"
Derek does it again, then again, quicker this time.
Stiles can't hold himself up any longer. He drops his arms flat to the bed, his head sinks into the pillow and he stares at the ceiling as Derek... It's like he's fucking his own fist, Stiles thinks, like he's fucking Stiles' cock along with it. "So hot," he breathes. Making a gigantic effort, he lifts his head. "Kiss me," he demands.
Derek's eyes flick up. "Soon," he grunts, still thrusting hard and fast into his own fist. His eyes remain locked to Stiles' face. He does something with his fingers, forcing the underside of Stiles' cockhead right into the path of his thrusts.
Stars burst behind Stiles' eyes as one of the most sensitive parts of his cock gets the most attention. His hands fly up, fingers locking onto Derek's shoulders, and he clings on for dear life as he feels his orgasm coming.
It hits him hard and fast, he shakes, groaning with the violence of it, fingernails digging into Derek's flesh. Almost immediately, Derek lets go of Stiles' cock, letting it slap onto his belly where it continues to spurt, and Derek keeps thrusting.
Another few snaps of his hips, and he starts to grunt, another few, then he suddenly stops moving. He stares down into Stiles' eyes, his face screws up, and he lets out a low whine. Stiles feels hot fluid hit his belly. It doesn't spurt, just seems to flow out in bursts, splashing down onto his skin.
Derek starts to breathe again, but he's still coming, Stiles can feel it. There's a warm puddle on his stomach now, until Derek lowers himself down onto Stiles, then there's just come everywhere, but Stiles forgets about the mess as soon as Derek kisses him, just like he promised. Derek's lips are warm, wet, and for the first time Derek's kisses are slow and gentle.
Stiles can still feel come leaking out of Derek's cock. He doesn't care. Nothing seems to matter. Post orgasm kisses, he decides, are awesome.
Five minutes pass, ten, it might be a whole hour for all Stiles knows. Finally, Derek pulls away. He's smiling.
"Holy god. Are you feeling okay?" Stiles grins back at him.
"I feel great," Derek says. Then he levers himself up and looks down.
Stiles follows his gaze, but before he can see the damage, Derek's hand is on his belly, smearing come all the way up Stiles' chest.
"Eww." Stiles wrinkles his nose and squirms. "Gross, dude. What the hell?"
Derek keeps smearing, holding Stiles down with one hand as he rubs come into his chest, up his neck, down his arms. "I'm marking you," he says, with a smirk on his lips.
"You're doing what now?" He struggles, but Derek just pushes him back down. "You're disgusting. I'm going to have to take another shower."
"You won't be able to wash away the scent. It'll linger for days. It's not ideal, it's not permanent, but Scott's going to know you belong to me." Satisfied, he rolls off and sits on the edge of the bed.
"Oh my frickin god," Stiles says, horrified.
Stiles showers after Derek leaves, then he gets up and showers again in the morning. Scrubs until his skin is pink, then does it again. That's gotta do it, he thinks.
As he pulls into Scott's driveway, he starts to reconsider. He could have faked a flat tire, told Scott to ride his bike. He could have skipped school altogether.
He sniffs as he leans on the horn. Nothing but dusty Jeep and Axe.
Scott opens the door. He's halfway into the passenger seat when he recoils, leaping back out onto the driveway. "Oh my god, Stiles."
Stiles drops his head onto the steering wheel, wishing the universe would just swallow him up. "I'm going to kill him," he whispers. "Rip his evil werewolf heart right out of his chest."
"You're having sex with him?" Scott says. "You're having sex with Derek?"
Stiles lifts his head. "No!" He pauses. "Hang on. What exactly constitutes sex?"
Scott pulls his phone out of his pocket, starts tapping away on the screen. "I... I'll get Allison to pick me up."
"What?" Stiles pulls the front of his shirt up to his nose, inhales. "What? I can't smell anything. Is it that bad?"
"He did that on purpose," Scott says, pacing back and forth across the open door. "Are you going to let him do that? He's just trying to keep me away from you. You're with him. Okay. Whatever. But are you going to let him do that to you?"
Stiles pulls his face out of the neck of his shirt. He still can't smell anything out of the ordinary. "No. Like I'm going to do what he tells me. He can't tell me who I can hang out with. We'll still hang out."
"Not if you smell like that."
Allison pulls in behind Stiles.
"I'm sorry, Stiles," Scott says, and he closes the door.
Lydia walks the floor of Stiles' bedroom. She wanders around, poking at things, picking things up between two delicate fingers, then putting them down again. It soon becomes apparent to Stiles that she's pacing, because every time she passes the window she slips her fingers into the blinds, pulling them apart so she can see the road.
On her final trip to the window, still finding nothing out there, she turns to look at Stiles where he sits at the desk, turning the box cutter over and over in his hands.
"Why am I here?" she asks.
"Jackson dropped you off," Stiles says. They both know this, Lydia was there, after all, when it happened.
Lydia rolls her eyes. "Like I'm not safe in my own home." She pouts, then turns back to the window, pulls down the blinds again, lets them go with a sigh and a rattle.
"Derek thinks," Stiles says, rolling his own eyes, "that we need to know what we're dealing with. And Scott's place is closer to mine than yours, if we need to call him."
Lydia sits down on the edge of Stiles' bed. "He should have called Scott and Allison."
"Derek doesn't trust Allison. Or Scott, by association. He doesn't want the hunters involved."
"Derek's an idiot."
"I know," Stiles says. School ended a week ago, and so far it's been a tense beginning to the summer. Scott can hardly look at Stiles, they've barely spoken, and Jackson won't let Lydia out of his sight—and he's supported by Derek, who thinks Lydia is going to talk to Allison about his plans. Their group has been split down the middle. "They're going up against an entire pack of Alphas. I've seen them, there's half a dozen, maybe more. Against four? Peter's still practically useless, Isaac's a beta, and Jackson..." He glances up at Lydia, giving her an apologetic look. "Sorry."
"It's okay," she says. "He's as crazy as I used to be."
Lydia's phone rings, the sound coming from her bag on the floor by the window. They both look toward it.
"That's Jackson's ringtone," Lydia says.
Stiles jumps up, grabs the bag, and tosses it at her. "Answer it."
She rummages, pulling the phone out and putting it to her ear. "Jackson?" Stiles can hear the worry in her voice.
Lydia's face shifts through a myriad of emotions. "Slow down," she says, then listens again. "Okay." She hangs up, lets the phone fall onto the bed beside her. "They found the pack," she says. "Derek's hurt. It sounds bad."
Stiles gapes at her. "Where?" He runs to the desk, grabs his keys and heads for the door.
"Wait." Lydia grabs hold of Stiles sleeve. "They're coming here." She turns, looks around the room. "He kept talking about the blood."
"Blood," Stiles breathes. "Okay. There's towels in the bathroom, bring them all. Bandages and stuff in the cabinet." He starts pushing stuff against the walls, his desk and chair, shoves the bed against the wall, kicks items of discarded clothing into the corners, rolls up the rug he's just replaced after Derek bled all over the last one, exposing the bare floor. "Blood," he whispers.
A car pulls into the driveway and he rushes over, sliding his fingers through the slats, pulling them down so he can see. It's the Porsche. The passenger door opens, and Jackson tumbles out onto the pavement. He lands on his ass, rocks onto his back, holding his arms up in front of his face. He's shaking hard. His hands are covered in blood.
"Lydia!" Stiles yells as he runs for the door. He passes her in the hallway. "They're here. Drop it. Drop it!"
She drops her load of towels and bandages in the hall and follows. "What? What's wrong?"
Stiles clatters down the stairs. "Jackson. Freaking out. You just worry about him, okay?"
The words are barely out of his mouth, Lydia pushes past him, and Stiles wonders how she doesn't fall in those heels.
When they get the garage door open, Isaac is waiting for them. There's blood on him as well, it's running down his neck from four parallel cuts across his cheek. Stiles can't see anything else, because Derek's in his arms, limp, bleeding from his stomach, arms, head, everywhere. There's blood all over him. Stiles' instinct is to reach out, to take Derek from Isaac, but after a brief moment of shock, logic kicks in. "This way," he says, and he heads back inside.
Through the garage, up the stairs, he scoops up Lydia's discarded bundle on the way, flicks a couple of towels out on the floor of his bedroom. "Put him down," he tells Isaac, and then he drops to his knees beside the unconscious werewolf. He finds a washcloth among the tangle of bandages, a bottle of rubbing alcohol. "Isaac," he orders. "Box cutter on the desk." He holds out his hand for it.
Isaac moves fast. The knife is in Stiles' hand before he can blink.
"Thanks." He starts cutting. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah," Isaac says. "It's just the face. Derek... He was protecting us. That's why he got so messed up. I don't even know why they just let us take him."
"They want him alive," Stiles says as he peels back scraps of shirt to expose Derek's stomach and chest. He swallows bile. The skin on Derek's torso is slashed open with five long, deep cuts that run from his shoulder and angle down across his body. "God," he huffs. "I think I've seen enough of Derek's insides." He wets a cloth with alcohol and starts to gently wipe away the blood.
As he works, Lydia and Jackson walk into the room. Stiles glances up quickly, to see that the blood that covered Jackson's hands is gone, but it still covers his clothing. He pushes the bottle of alcohol toward them and then gets back to work.
"Jackson's fine," Lydia says. "Not a scratch."
"Derek's blood," Jackson whispers.
Stiles nods. "Isaac then. Lydia?"
He feels them move away, sees Isaac sit down on his desk from the corner of his eye, Lydia beside him.
"Why aren't you healing?" Lydia asks.
"It's from an Alpha," Isaac says. "They don't heal the same."
Stiles wipes the last of the blood from Derek's chest and lays down the cloth, picks up a roll of bandages. He's not sure what to do or how to do it. At least it seems to have stopped bleeding. "Derek is an Alpha. Is he going to heal?"
"I don't know," Isaac says. "He never explained that part of the rule."
Stiles is cleaning the bite on Derek's arm when Derek opens his eyes.
"Don't get up," Stiles says, exasperated, and pushes Derek back down to the floor. It's sickeningly easy for him to do.
Derek looks down at the bandages wrapping his torso, holding his torn flesh together. "Who did this?" he says. His voice is weak, soft.
"I did," Stiles says. "Isaac helped, 'cause, dude, you're heavy."
Derek looks around, sees Isaac, Jackson. He sighs. "Peter?"
Isaac shakes his head. Jackson turns his face away, buries himself in Lydia's hair.
"Oh." Derek presses his lips together in a tight line. He turns his head toward Stiles. "Stiles," he whispers, and then he closes his eyes and goes still.
"Derek?" He's too still. Stiles drops the cloth he's holding and gropes at Derek's throat, looking for a pulse. He can't find one—he doesn't even know if he's looking in the right place. "Derek, don't you dare," he says, his voice rising to a panic.
"He's fine," Isaac says, kneeling beside Stiles, pulling his hands away from Derek. "I can hear his heart. He's just tired."
Stiles looks up. "Is he healing?"
"Yeah. I think so. Look."
The bite Stiles was cleaning is noticeably smaller. He stares for a while, trying to figure out if it's still shrinking, and he thinks it might be.
"It's just taking longer. He'll be okay. I can take him back to my place if you like?"
Stiles shakes his head. "No." It feels right to keep him here, and he thinks this is where Derek would want to be anyway. "Could you put him on the bed before you go?"
Isaac and Jackson and Lydia leave, and Stiles is left alone with Derek. He wanders around, cleaning up blood and soiled towels, putting the room to rights, and then he lies back in the chair and tries to sleep. It's a long time before he does.
He opens his eyes, blinking up as Derek looms over him.
"Are you awake?"
"Good. We need to talk."
Stiles shakes his head to clear it. His neck is stiff from sleeping in the chair and his mouth is dry. "What?" As his eyes adjust, he takes in the sight of Derek, shirtless, five dark lines bisecting his torso. He sits up. "You healed," he blurts.
"That's not important. The Alpha Pack—"
"Hell yeah, it's important. Dude, your insides were on the outside."
"—know about you. You're in danger. You're their biggest target now, you shouldn't even be here."
Stiles jumps out of the chair. "Me? What? Why?"
"You're my mate."
"Argh!" He throws his hands in the air. "How many times—"
Derek grabs his arms and pins them to his sides. "Get used to it, Stiles. You're not who I would have picked had I had the choice, but it's the way it is and its not going to change. They know about you and you're vulnerable. If they get to you, it'll make me weak. You're a bigger target than Isaac or Jackson now, and you're easier to kill."
Stiles' mouth drops open, and he gapes like a fish. "What do we do?"
Derek sighs. "You're vulnerable because I haven't claimed you yet. Once I do, no werewolf will be able to touch you. You'll be safe."
"Oh." Sex. Like, proper sex. Penetration. The fact that he's suddenly rock hard suggests to Stiles that he's not entirely opposed to the idea. And it's life or death. That makes the decision easy. He nods. "Okay. Yeah, okay." He peels off his shirt, drops it to the floor, walks past Derek to the bed. Then he turns around. "How does it work?"
Derek looks uncomfortable.
"I mean... I know about sex." He rolls his eyes. "I mean, how does it make a difference? Whether we have sex or not? 'Cause Scott already thinks we're doing it."
Derek looks even more uncomfortable as he walks toward Stiles. He stands in front of him, chewing the edge of his lower lip. "When I'm inside you," he says slowly, "we'll be... It's like a bond. For a while afterward—I don't know how long, maybe half an hour—we'll be... We'll be tied. Together." He closes his eyes, screws up his face like he's in pain.
Stiles is confused. "Is it like, an emotional thing? Aww, that's sweet. Will I be able to read your mind? 'Cause that would be cool."
Derek shakes his head. "It's physical. We'll be tied, physically."
"Huh?" He's even more confused now.
Derek looks as though he's going to cry. "There's a knot..."
Stiles stares at Derek for a long time as it sinks in. "What... Like dogs?"
Derek's eyes roll up to the ceiling. "Yeah, Stiles. Like dogs."
Acid rises up in Stiles' throat, burning. "Oh my god," he chokes. "That's why... Oh my god. No." He pushes past Derek, scoops his shirt off the floor and pulls it back on. "You couldn't have clued me into this little earlier?"
Derek is still frozen beside the bed, staring up at the ceiling. "I knew you'd react like this."
"Well, yeah?" Stiles doesn't know what to do with himself. He had enough to worry about when it came to sex with Derek before this little revelation. He figured, if he didn't like it, if it hurt, Derek would stop. Having that option taken away scares the hell out of him.
Plus, there's the whole dog thing. "I think I'll take my chances."
Derek finally moves, crossing the room to where Stiles leans against the wall, holding his head in his hands. Derek surrounds him, arms, warm breath, and despite the shock, Stiles is comforted, calmed by it. He wraps his arms around Derek's neck. "I'm sorry," he says.
"It's okay. I'll find another way to keep you safe."
Stiles shoves the keyboard across his desk and pushes his chair out. "I'm bored out of my tiny little mind," he says.
Derek looks up from his magazine. "When does your dad leave for work?"
Stiles looks at his phone. "Half an hour. Why?"
Derek lifts an eyebrow, and he pulls his phone out of his pocket, and starts tapping away, ignoring Stiles' question.
Stiles turns back to the computer. "Fine," he says to himself. He clicks randomly around the web, but his mind isn't on what's on the screen. He can't stop thinking about Derek's recent revelation.
In all his research since Scott was bitten, nothing was ever mentioned about what Derek calls the tie.
He thinks Scott could have mentioned it, at least in passing. How rude.
He wishes someone had mentioned it, it might have prepared him a little better for a start, because there's nothing he regrets more than his reaction, the exact reaction Derek expected.
Stiles isn't really horrified or disgusted, because it does make a certain kind of sense when he thinks about it. The teeth, the ears, the hair... Well, werewolves are just different. Stiles just isn't sure that he's physically capable of being on the receiving end.
"Are there many gay werewolves?" Stiles asks, while he stares at a Wikipedia article about cheese. He's not even sure how he got there.
"I'm not gay," Derek says, without looking up from his magazine.
"I'm not that, either. You're my—"
Stiles twirls around in his chair. "Oh my god. If you say the 'M' word, I'm going to scream."
Derek's eyes flick up, then back down at his magazine.
Stiles turns back to the computer and clicks a random link. "You sucked my dick," he says under his breath.
"I heard that."
"Of course you did." He clicks away from 'Nightmares'. "Who says I was talking about you, anyway?"
"There's a pack in Canada. The Alpha has a male mate." He turns the page without looking up.
Stiles turns around, interested. "Yeah? And?"
Derek lifts his eyes. "What?"
"And... Tell me about them. What do you know?"
"That's all I know."
"There must be something. I mean..." He's obsessed now, he knows this. "Do they... You know."
Derek closes his magazine and drops it to the floor. "How would I know?" He shakes his head. "I guess they must do. I know I..." He swallows. "I can't stop thinking about it."
"Yeah. It's an instinct. It doesn't make any sense to me. Mating—"
"—is about procreating, strengthening the pack." He rolls his eyes up to the ceiling, like he's waiting for a sign from god. "Even if it weren't for the fact that you're a guy..."
"Stiles, you're human."
"Maybe you're meant to bite me."
Derek stares, unblinking. "Is that what you want?"
"No. But what if it's necessary? This Alpha in Canada. Is his...mate..." Stiles shudders. "Is he human?"
Derek shakes his head.
"See? You do know more."
"That's all I know. Is that what you're worried about?" Derek looks down at the floor. "That I'll hurt you if we have sex?"
"Maybe." Stiles tries to smile but it's more of a grimace. "Virgin over here."
"I can't promise you that it'll be fine."
Stiles hears his dad pull out of the driveway. "Like I said. Maybe you're meant to bite me." He gets out of his chair and crosses the room, sinking to his knees between Derek's spread thighs. "In the meantime, maybe if I...get used to the way things are..." He puts his hand on Derek's belt buckle.
Derek stares down at him. "I don't want you to be my beta, Stiles. I don't want you to have to do what I say." He picks up his phone and taps on the screen, puts it down again, then looks around the room. "You might want to take your posters off the walls."
"Scott then. He could do it." His brain catches up with his ears. "Huh?"
"I don't want you to be Scott's beta, either. We're doing some...renovations." Derek pulls Stiles' hand away from his belt.
"Renovations? What the hell are you going to do to my house?"
Derek gets up, Stiles falls on his ass. Derek goes to the window and looks out. The rumble of a pickup coming down the street gets louder until it pulls into the driveway.
"What the hell?" Stiles climbs to his feet, but Derek has already disappeared out his bedroom door, so instead of looking from the window, he follows.
Scott's boss gets out of the pickup. Stiles looks from him, to the truck, and back to the man again, utterly confused.
"It's a rental," Deaton says.
Derek comes up behind Stiles, resting his palm on the small of Stiles' back. These small, intimate touches are becoming more frequent now. "We're lining your room with Mountain Ash. It means you'll be safe there, even when I'm not."
"My dad's going to freak," Stiles says when he sees the ash wood as Derek lifts out a box of tools and half the load. He watches as Derek disappears through the garage.
He turns around.
Deaton stands beside the pickup, making no move to follow Derek. "I've worked with werewolves for many years. I know a lot about their physiology, their...habits. If you ever have any questions, something you don't feel you can discuss with Derek? Feel free to ask." Then he turns away, pulling half the remaining load into his arms.
Stiles' mind floods with questions, but he can't bear to ask any of them. He's pretty sure 'will Derek's cock tear me apart' would be a good start, but also that he'd rather die than ask it. "I'm good. Thanks." He lifts his own load and leads the way into the house.
Stiles looks around the room. It seems quiet now that the sounds of hammering have faded. It looks weird, but he's too tired to put his posters back up just yet.
"Shouldn't it feel different?" he asks. "All magic and stuff." He wiggles his fingers as he says the word magic. He can't think of any other way to describe what the Mountain Ash wood that now lines his walls and his window frame is supposed to do.
"It feels different to me," Derek says. As soon as Deaton left, he went back to his magazine. It's got a car on the front, but Stiles isn't really sure what it's about.
"It's safe in here," Stiles muses, looking around at the bare walls. There's a tightness in his chest that seems to dissipate, one he didn't even realize was there. "So are you."
A wry smile stretches Derek's lips.
"What about Isaac. Jackson. Lydia?"
"They did Isaac's house yesterday. Jackson's just across the road. When the pack goes out again we'll send Lydia here."
Stiles jerks. "You can't go looking for them again. You almost died last time."
"I have to. I can't just let them come, and this can't go on. Do you want to be locked up here forever? It has to end."
Stiles leans so far forward in his chair that he almost slips off into the floor. "It'll end with you dying. Peter's already dead." A tight band wraps around his chest, tightens. "You have to talk to Scott. The Argents could help. There'll be more of you—"
Derek growls, drops the magazine. He looks as though he's about to speak, but then he sets his jaw and looks toward the window.
Stiles takes a deep breath. The sun is setting. His stomach growls and he realizes he hasn't eaten since breakfast. "Do you want to go get something to eat? I mean, let's go out."
Derek looks back. "What. Like a date?" He looks horrified.
"No, dumbass, like a burger. I'm starving." He gets up, grabs his keys. "Come on."
"It's not safe."
Stiles stands by the door and grins. "I've got my big bad wolf to protect me." He walks out the door, knowing Derek will follow.
"That can't be good for you," Stiles says as he looks sideways at the remains of Derek's burger. A corner of thick steak sandwiched between bread oozes blood. "Did they even bother putting it on the grill?"
Derek ignores Stiles and puts the whole thing into his mouth at once.
"You're disgusting." Stiles drops his leftovers back into the bag and tosses it into the back of the Jeep. He'll probably find it a week from now when something starts to smell. Right now he doesn't care.
He watches as Derek chews and swallows, then turns his head expectantly. Stiles doesn't turn the key. He doesn't pull out of the deserted parking lot they found. He slides out from behind the wheel, climbs onto Derek's lap, straddling his thighs.
"What are you doing?" Derek's hands fall onto Stiles waist.
"Taking off your shirt," Stiles says, doing just that. He runs his hands over Derek's chest, where there is no sign of the injuries he recently suffered. "So we can fool around in the car."
Derek groans. "Stiles..." He lifts Stiles up, pulling him firmly toward him, settling him right over his cock.
Stiles squirms, making Derek moan softly. "See? This could be fun."
"It could be frustrating," Derek grumbles.
Stiles bites his lip and reaches for Derek's belt. "Or not." Derek lets him.
For the first time, Stiles gets his hands on Derek's cock. Curiosity trumps his apprehension, and he pushes his fingers deeper into Derek's jeans, sliding them down the shaft toward the base.
Derek's cock is long, thick, uncut, but as far as Stiles can tell, completely normal. Stiles makes a noise of confusion.
"Just before I come," Derek whispers, panting small, warm puffs of air over Stiles' cheek.
Stiles shivers. "Okay." He wants to do it. Wants to make Derek come. He's only ever jerked himself off before, and he has to adjust for the angle as he works his hand over the thick length in his fist. He likes to think he's well practiced at it though, and he's rewarded by a series of soft grunts from Derek.
Derek's hands move from his hips. One slides up his back, settling between his shoulder blades, pulling him close. The other plays at the back of Stiles jeans, dipping into the band at the back, brushing over the crack of his ass. "Have to get inside you," Derek whispers, lips brushing over Stiles' mouth, almost, but not quite, kissing. The hand at Stiles' waist comes forward, flicks open the button of his jeans, gets his fly down. Derek licks at Stiles' lips, pulls him forward.
The kiss is hot, wet, then it's over and Stiles feels a tug at the back of his neck as Derek tears his shirt open down the front. Stiles whimpers. "I love this shirt," he laments.
"Sometimes I think I could tear you open," Derek says. Something sharp trails down Stiles' chest. "Crawl inside where it's warm."
Stiles looks down at the single claw and the stinging line it traced down his front. His pulse pounds in his ears and a hot flood of heat washes over him so fast it makes him dizzy. His stroke falters.
Derek covers Stiles hand with his own, setting the pace. Derek's other hand slides around to Stiles' back, and the same finger that scored a line on his skin slides into the crack of his ass, thankfully, without the claw.
Still, he can't help the tightening in his belly that urges him to shrink away from the way Derek touches him. He doesn't have that option. Derek holds him tightly and all Stiles can do is rise up on his knees.
All that does is give Derek the space he needs to push his finger deeper into the crack. His fingertip pushes against Stiles' hole.
"Oh god." Stiles rises up again, trying to get away from the pressure. It's not like he hasn't touched himself there, it's not like he hasn't pressed his own finger inside himself, just to know what it feels like, but his body is tense and Derek's finger is dry. If he doesn't run away, it's going to hurt, and Stiles knows it. "Derek," he begs. "No."
Immediately, Derek pulls away, wraps his arm around Stiles' waist and pulls him back onto his lap. He's still guiding Stiles' hand on his cock, faster now, with more pressure. "I won't hurt you," Derek says, his mouth against Stiles'. "But I need to know what you're like inside."
Stiles can't talk, because Derek's tongue is in his mouth. He can't move, because Derek's arm is around his waist. Derek guides his hand faster, and Stiles wraps his free arm around Derek's neck to steady himself, to make him feel like he has some kind of control.
Derek starts grunting into Stiles' mouth. And Stiles doesn't realize at first that anything has changed, until Derek stops forcing his hand in quick strokes up and down his cock. But when Derek stops, holding Stiles' fingers tight at the base, he begins to feel it.
Hard flesh swells beneath his fingers, forcing his fist open wider and wider. Derek whines, long, low, squeezing Stiles' fingers around the growing knot until Stiles can barely feel them any more.
He feels the pulse, the surge, then hot fluid flows over their joined hands. Derek shudders, then takes a breath deep into his lungs and lets it out slowly.
He's still coming.
Derek's arm slips from Stiles' waist, comes between them, then returns to Stiles' bare back, slippery with come. "I have to get inside you," Derek moans, and pushes messy fingers down the back of his jeans.
To Stiles' own surprise, he rises up on his knees, still holding Derek around the neck. He pulls himself up, spreads his legs as much as he can on the passenger seat of the Jeep, and he leans forward. Derek's fingers slide over his hole, there's pressure, and one slips inside.
Derek's still coming.
Stiles isn't prepared for Derek's long thick finger to thrust in as far as it will go. It's more than he's ever done to himself before and it burns as it stretches him, and it aches deep inside. "Derek," he whimpers. "Easy," and another surge of warmth flows over his fingers.
"Hot," Derek says. "So fucking tight." He moans, and he searches for Stiles' mouth, finds it, licks at his lips.
Stiles is tight. He feels so full, just with one of Derek's fingers inside him. He doesn't know how he's ever going to take Derek's cock, let alone the bulbous knot that won't even fit in his closed hand. Despite that, he can't help imagining it. Feeling it swell inside him, being stuck for god knows how long.
Stiles cock hardens, gives a twitch, and he unconsciously rocks his hips, moaning as Derek's finger moves inside him.
"Stiles," Derek says, like he just wants to hear the name out loud. "Stiles, Stiles."
"Yeah." Stiles moves his hips again. "God, yeah."
Then Derek's hand releases his, and he's left holding the swollen base of Derek's still oozing cock alone. Derek wraps slick wet fingers around Stiles' cock, strokes firmly. There's come everywhere, pooling on the front of Derek's jeans, dripping from Stiles fingers, now coating Stiles' cock. "You're still coming?" Stiles asks in disbelief as more flows out over his fingers.
Derek moans in response, then pumps his finger into Stiles' ass. "Going to fill you," he says. "You're going to feel it."
Stiles slides his fingers over the knot. "I don't think that's in question." His belly clenches as he imagines being that full, of come that doesn't seem to stop coming, of Derek's cock, of the knot, and he pushes back on Derek's finger. Now that the burning has faded, it feels good, really good, but he wants more. "Could you..." He whispers, and rolls his hips. "I want... "
"More?" Derek slides his finger out, presses two against Stiles' hole.
"Yeah." Stiles pushes back, they slide inside, Derek slowly driving them home. Stiles groans as the burn returns but he knows it's going to fade. With Derek's hand still moving over his cock, and long thick fingers in his ass, Stiles decides he's going to come soon. He takes his hand from Derek's cock—which seems to have finally stopped oozing, though the knot is still thick and hard—and wraps both arms around Derek's neck, and he rocks his hips. "Make me come," he says, looking down into Derek's eyes. "I want to come with your fingers in me."
Derek's eyes roll back, and he moans. "When I fuck you, I'm going to make you come over and over again, while we're tied, just so I can feel it."
Stiles whimpers and writhes, thrusting forward into Derek's hand, back on his fingers. He wants it now, wants it badly, and he presses his lips tightly together so he won't say it out loud. It doesn't stop him imagining it though, Derek pressed to his back as he slowly fills him with come. Nowhere for it to escape because his ass is plugged tight with the knot. Stuck like that for god knows how long while Derek makes him come over and over and over again.
"Please," he cries. "I want it. I want you to fuck me. Please fuck me." Stiles jerks, clamping down on Derek's fingers as he fucks onto Derek's hand, and he starts to come. The first spurt streaks up his throat, the second over his chest. Derek's mouth clamps down on his throat, licking, sucking. Derek's fingers slide out of his ass, arm wrapping around his waist, pulling him down onto Derek's lap. Stiles wants to feel the head of Derek's cock against his hole but his jeans are in the way. He pushes down anyway, unable to stop himself. "I want you to fuck me," he says as his cock gives one last spurt.
"It's not the same," Derek says. "We have to tie."
"I don't care." Stiles pushes down, grinds through denim against Derek's cock. "Damn it." Giving up, he lifts and settles on Derek's lap, straddling his thighs with their cocks between them. Derek's still hard, Stiles is softening fast, they're both covered in come.
Stiles doesn't care.
"You and Jackson. How's that going?" Stiles asks. Lydia's here again, not because the pack are out looking for the Alphas—Derek learned his lesson after the last time and he's not willing to risk losing another member of his pack so soon—but because Stiles is sick to death of being here alone and called the only friend he has that he's still allowed to speak to.
Lydia shrugs, tossing her hair over her shoulder. "The same. Not the same as before, but the same as last week. Stuck at Isaac's house, same as you're stuck here."
Stiles nods. He knows what it's like. "Are you... Umm, you know?"
Lydia looks at him blankly.
Stiles rolls his eyes up to the ceiling. He really doesn't want to say it, but he has to know. "Having sex," he blurts. "Are you having sex. With Jackson."
Lydia lifts one eyebrow. "Well," she says. "That's a bit personal."
Stiles rubs the soles of his shoes over the bare floorboards, staring down. "Yeah. Yeah I know, but, you see, werewolves? They're different. From us." He looks up.
Lydia narrows her eyes. "Obviously."
Stiles sighs. "I don't mean just, you know, a little hair, claws, fangs, turn into a crazy person who tries to murder all their friends on the full moon different."
"You're talking about sex," Lydia says, very slowly.
Stiles nods frantically. "Yeah. That kind of different."
Lydia turns her head, making her hair bounce. She pulls at a strand, tugging it toward her mouth, then she drops it. "Yeah, we're not sleeping together right now. Not since... Jackson's not..." Her eyes flick toward Stiles. "But we can totally talk about you and Derek, if you like."
Stiles grimaces and shakes his head slowly. "Nah. I was hoping we could..." He drops his head into his hands. "Compare notes?" His voice is muffled. "Oh my god, I can't believe I just said that."
"I can," Lydia says. "Girls do it all the time. Compare size, skill, endurance. It's totally cool."
Stiles' head snaps up. Suddenly, and for the first time ever, he's glad Lydia and he never hooked up. "Not a girl," he blurts.
"No, but you do have a boyfriend." Lydia looks up and to the right. "You should totally talk to Allison." She nods. "I know for a fact that her and Scott are doing it."
Stiles lifts his feet off the floor, rocking back on the edge of his bed. "You're not even allowed to talk to Allison. What makes you think Derek's going to be okay with me doing it? Besides, that would be weird. Scott is...was...is...my best friend. I can't talk to his girlfriend about their sex life."
Lydia nods. "Right. You should talk to him."
"Derek won't let me."
Lydia turns to the desk, presses the pad of her thumb against the surface and twists it.
"Shut up," Stiles says. "What am I supposed to do? He text's me every half hour to make sure I'm home."
"I know for a fact that Scott's home alone tonight," Lydia says. "Go see him. It's about time you two made up anyway, Allison says he's been unbearable."
"You've been talking to Allison," Stiles realizes. Of course she has. Derek has no control over Lydia, not like he has over Jackson and Isaac.
"Go." She stands, picks up her bag off the floor. "You can drop me off at home on the way."
Stiles pushes up the sash of Scott's bedroom window and pokes his head through. "You don't call. You don't write," he quips as Scott pokes his head out of the bathroom, toothbrush held firmly between his teeth.
"What the hell?" Scott mumbles around a mouthful of foam as he pulls the toothbrush free. "Stiles?"
"The one and only." Stiles pulls himself through the window, landing on Scott's bed. "Hey."
Scott shakes his head, goes back into the bathroom, spits, rinses, and turns off the faucet. Still hidden from Stiles' view, he speaks. "What are you doing here, Stiles?"
"I needed to talk to you." About sex with werewolves, Stiles adds in his head. Nice self-editing, he thinks, proud of himself.
Scott appears in the doorway. "About what."
Stiles blinks. "Oh. Stuff. You know, like, why the hell didn't you tell me about werewolf sex?" Stiles hits himself in the forehead. "Damn it. I was going to ease into that."
Scott stares at him, jaw hanging open. "What the hell happened? Did he hurt you? I'll kill him."
"Whoa." Stiles climbs off the bed, sits down on the edge. "Nothing happened. Much. Yet. I just figured you might have mentioned the fact that you get stuck like dogs when you fuck."
Scott looks at him like Stiles has completely lost his mind. "What the hell are you talking about?"
Stiles starts to get nervous. "The 'tie'?" He scrubs his hands over his face, through his hair. "That's what Derek called it."
Scott frowns, confused. He stares at Stiles for a long time. Then suddenly something seems to dawn. His eyes widen, his lips part. "No way," he whispers. "You're doing it while Derek's in wolf form? Are you crazy?"
"What? No." Stiles holds his hands out in front of him, palms forward. "We're not. We haven't done anything. Much. And no wolf, okay? God."
"Then what are you talking about? What tie? Dogs?" Scott pulls a face and shakes his head. "And what makes you think you can just come round here? You should have called."
Stiles flinches like he's been punched. Yeah, things have been weird, they haven't spoken since school ended, but he didn't think Scott would turn him away.
"It's not safe for you out there alone. The Doc told me about... Well. That you're Derek's mate." Scott sighs. "How it makes you a target. Stiles, I don't know why Derek won't meet with us. We could beat them if we worked together. It's been driving me crazy, knowing he won't let me do anything to help make sure you're safe."
Scott crosses the room, pulls the chair out from underneath his desk and sits down. "He hasn't told you any of this?"
"Target, yeah, got that." Stiles twists to face Scott, draws a circle on his chest. "Can you please not say the 'M' word, though?" He shudders. "He's acting like it's all up to him. He won't let Isaac and Jackson out anymore, not since..." He pauses. "Peter's dead."
Scott's frown deepens. "We thought that before."
Stiles lifts an eyebrow. "That was a thing. Lydia's immunity, the bite..." He shakes his head. "Doesn't matter."
"Derek's going to get himself killed, and the Alpha Pack will still be here and we'll have to clean up the mess. Allison's dad doesn't think we can do that on our own—or we would have done it by now. We need Derek and his pack, too."
"We? You sound like you've joined them. The hunters."
Scott drops his eyes to the floor. "I'm with Allison. I get along okay with Chris. I think he trusts me."
"So you have, then."
Scott's head jerks up. "Stop acting like we're on opposite sides, Stiles. We're not. We should be working together, but Derek's not listening to me, he didn't listen to Peter, and he's not listening to his pack. If someone doesn't convince him to at least meet with Chris and talk about it, people are going to die. Jackson. Isaac. You. And if Derek doesn't join them, maybe him too. Is that what you want? You've got to talk to him, Stiles. You've got to convince him."
"Me? What can I do? Derek doesn't listen to me. I'm the last person he's going to let tell him what to do."
Scott smiles, but there's nothing funny about his expression. "You're his mate. Even I know what that means."
Stiles shudders. "Damn it, Scott. I told you not to say that word." He tries to stay silent, but he can't. "Okay, tell me what it means, because all I know is he wants to rip your head off if you so much as look at me, and he won't stop saying really inappropriate things."
This time, when Scott smiles, there's warmth in it. "It means he'll listen when you talk. It means he'll do anything to keep you safe. It means you are the most important thing in his life. It means forever, Stiles."
Stiles can't fathom forever. He can't grasp it. "Is that what it's like for you, with Allison?"
When Scott shakes his head, it's such a small movement that Stiles almost misses it. "I'm pretty sure it's just an Alpha thing. Allison's my girlfriend. That's all. If I have to, I can stay away. I bet you anything Derek can't stay away from you."
Stiles remembers the night of Lydia's party. Derek, obviously distressed. I tried. I can't stay away.
Something else occurs to him. "An Alpha thing?" That's why Lydia couldn't know anything. That's why Scott doesn't know anything. "Oh my god."
"What?" Scott says.
Stiles' phone pings. He pulls it out and quickly sends a reply to Derek's text asking where he is. He lies. "Nothing." He looks up. "That stuff about sex? Forget I asked." The phone pings again and he unlocks the screen.
I know you're not at home, because I'm at your house.
"Shit," Stiles says. "I've got to go." He crawls over the bed, toward the window.
He looks back.
"You can't leave. It's too dangerous."
Stiles lifts the sash anyway. "I'm totally busted. That was Derek. I have to get back before he figures out where I went."
Stiles doesn't think that Scott had enough time to get to the window and block his path, but he doesn't know why he's surprised. "Scott, he's going to freak out if he finds me here."
"I'd rather he was pissed at me than let you go out there alone. The Alpha Pack would love to get hold of you."
Stiles sighs and sits back on his heels. "Fine." He pulls out his phone and sends Derek a message, telling him exactly where to find him. "You've probably got less than five minutes before he gets here. You might want to be elsewhere. I think he won't kill me, but he might kill you." He rolls his eyes.
Scott backs up across the room, presses his back to his closed bedroom door. "He was already half way here when you sent that message."
"How do you know?"
Air rushes past him as Derek leaps in through the window. He clears the bed and lands on all fours in front of Scott, completely wolfed out and growling.
Scott still looks completely human. He holds his hands above his head, palms forward, looking like surrender. "I didn't touch him," he says calmly. "He came to me."
Derek slowly rises to his feet. He tips his head up, scenting the air, and then he turns and glares at Stiles. "I thought they had you," he says, and while he speaks he shifts back to normal. Then he steps up onto the bed, grasps Stiles by the wrist and tugs him toward the window.
Stiles looks back at Scott just before he climbs out after Derek.
"Talk to him," Scott mouths silently. "Or he'll die."
Derek takes Stiles' keys. The whole way home, he says nothing.
When they arrive, Stiles wanders slowly into the middle of his bedroom. Part of him is waiting for Derek to lose it. Part of him can't stop thinking about Scott's warning. Derek could die, as easily as Stiles himself. Twice now, Derek's been injured badly by the Alphas, twice they've let him live, hoping, Stiles guesses, that they'd get the rest of his pack—Stiles included. How much longer are they going to wait?
"Why?" Derek asks. There's something in Derek's voice Stiles hasn't heard before. Anguish. Pain and fear and suffering.
Stiles turns around. It's all there on Derek's face, but Stiles can't help himself. "I was bored shitless," he says. "There's only so many hours a day you can play World of Warcraft without turning into a crazy person, and believe me, I never thought I'd be saying those words."
Derek doesn't seem to know what to say. His lips move, making the shapes of words, but no sound comes out. His eyes are wet. Then he seems to give up on trying to speak, and he crosses the room in two quick strides.
Stiles flinches, stumbling back, but he can't get away. Derek wraps him up in strong warm arms, pulls Stiles against him. "I thought you would be dead. I thought I'd lost you."
"No." Stiles' voice is muffled. "I had the Jeep. I took Lydia home, then went straight to Scott's. It's not like I went wandering into the woods."
"It's not safe." Derek loosens his grip, pushes Stiles back so he can look at him. He stares, reaching out, pressing his fingers to Stiles' cheek, brushing his thumb over Stiles lower lip. "I can't lose you. It would kill me."
"Come on," Stiles says, trying to pull away. "You don't even like me. You're just stuck with me because of some weird wolf thing that for some unknown reason makes you want to screw me. You can't just supernatural your way into someone's pants, you know. This isn't some glittery vampire movie where giant tree dogs hone in on small children."
Derek won't let him go. "Is that what you think about mating?"
Stiles flails, finally shoving away from Derek's arms, stumbling back a few paces. "Stop. Just stop saying that. I don't understand it, I don't know what it means and it freaks me out. So just stop."
"I can't. Nothing's going to make it go away."
"Then find another way to say it. I don't understand what it means. Scott said forever, but I'm sixteen years old. I have no concept of what that means." Stiles turns away, stares at the wall. Even with his posters back up, there's no hiding the ash wood that lines his bedroom. He hasn't had to explain it to his father yet.
"I love you."
Stiles slowly turns to look back at Derek, eyes wide.
Derek moves toward him, one slow step at a time. "When I think about losing you, it hurts here." He puts his hand over his heart. "When I look at you, I can hardly breathe. Do you think I'd be here every day if all I wanted was sex, Stiles? If I didn't care about you?" His hand drops to his hip, his fingers pick at the seam of his jeans, he looks away. "My family is gone. I should feel alone, but I don't because I have you. You're my family, part of my pack. I thought that was something I would never have, but I have it because you're with me. You're human, but you're strong. You make me stronger and that makes the pack, the family, stronger." He lifts his eyes to the ceiling, then drops them back to Stiles. A smile twitches at the corner of his lips. "Even your constant talking. The sound of your voice, the things you see, the way you think, and," the smile turns into a grin. "I could listen to you talk for hours, just to watch your lips move."
"My lips?" They feel warm, tingly all of a sudden. Stiles pulls the lower one into his mouth, scrapes his teeth across it. Derek comes closer, and he doesn't stop until their toes are touching and their faces are an inch apart. Derek brings up his hand.
His middle finger drags at the center of Stiles' lower lip. Stiles can feel a pulse, but he's not sure if it's Derek's or his own.
"Your lips kill me." Derek says as he leans in.
Warm breath ghosts over Stiles' mouth. He's waiting, but the kiss doesn't come. Finally, there's contact, but it's so slow, so soft, and Stiles wants more, but Derek holds him still, holds him back as he slowly presses his tongue into Stiles' mouth.
Derek's not really kissing him, Stiles realizes. He's not letting Stiles kiss back, he's just holding Stiles there while he has a taste.
Derek pulls away, and he touches his fingers to Stiles' lips again. "You might not understand it, Stiles, but I do."
"Okay," Stiles murmurs. "You like my lips. Among other things." He pauses. "You...love...my lips?"
Derek smiles. "Keep talking," he says.
Of course, Stiles' mind goes blank. He tries to think of something to say, but his thoughts keep going back to Scott, and the thing Scott said Stiles had to do, what only Stiles could do. "You have to team up with the hunters," he blurts.
The smile on Derek's face fades. "I can't. The Alpha Pack are here for me. I don't have the right to risk anyone else's lives. I don't care if they're hunters or wolves. This is up to me." He closes his eyes, turns his head away. "Can we just...forget about that right now?" He opens his eyes, but he doesn't look up. "Right now, I'd like to pretend that there's nothing outside of this room. It's just you and me."
There's a finality to Derek's words, a farewell in his voice. Stiles' heart starts to pound. He doesn't know what Derek's thinking, but his refusal to consider the hunters as allies, his insistence that it's just him against the entire Alpha Pack suggests some kind of surrender. Stiles doesn't want to say it out loud. He's afraid of what it might mean. He's not ready to admit to himself yet that what he feels for Derek might be anything near what Derek feels for him. "Okay," he says. "Just you and me. No world. No Alpha Pack. No nothing."
Derek lifts his eyes. There's gratitude there, but he doesn't say anything.
"So. Lips," Stiles says. "I betcha you'd love my lips down here." He drops to his knees, dragging his hands down Derek's body, tucking his fingers into the waist of Derek's jeans, and he looks up, smirking. "Been wanting to do this for a while now."
Derek's mouth hangs open, his chest rises and falls rapidly. "You're sure?"
Stiles pulls the end of Derek's belt from the buckle. The pin falls out and the belt goes loose. "Sure. Right now, just this. But afterward, you listen to what I have to say." He unzips Derek's jeans and pulls them open, slides his hand over the stretched out fabric of Derek's briefs. "Deal?"
Derek grabs Stiles' wrist. "This isn't a game, Stiles."
Stiles drags his eyes away from the damp spot on Derek's underwear and looks up. "I know that. It's life or death."
"And I want you alive. I want my pack alive. I want Scott alive, and Allison alive, I even want Chris alive, for god's sake."
Stiles stares up into Derek's eyes. "I want that too. But I also want you alive." His eyes flick down to the damp spot. "Not just because I want to suck you off." With his free hand he pushes up the front of Derek's shirt, palm sliding over his stomach. "Not just because I want to wash my tongue on your abs." He looks up again. "Not just because I've been dreaming about you for months." Still looking up, he presses his mouth against the dark fabric, opens his lips, exhales warmth onto Derek's cock. He inhales through his nose and his eyelids flutter. He might not have werewolf senses, but the warm, musky, male scent of Derek is enough to make him crazy with want and need. "I want you alive because I want you and me. Not just blood-soaked near death sexperiences after I put you back together. I want us."
"We've been us for weeks," Derek whispers.
Stiles shrugs and turns his head, rubbing his cheek over Derek's fabric covered cock. The heat coming off him is phenomenal. "I know that." He smiles. "I haven't really had much of a choice. My hormones and your 'M' word have kept us pretty close. I just wanted you to know that I'm okay with it. Mountain Ash under my posters and a summer spent locked in my room notwithstanding, I want you here. With me. Not just for this." He pulls down the waist of Derek's briefs, exposing the head of his uncut cock, and he presses his lips against the tip. "I'm going to suck you off anyway."
Derek releases Stiles' wrist, moving his hand to rest on the back of Stiles' head. With gentle pressure, he holds Stiles to him. "Okay," Derek says. "After, we'll talk."
Stiles rewards him by opening his lips, dragging his tongue over and around the head of Derek's cock, before pulling the head inside his mouth. "Mmmm," he says, hoping the tone of his hum conveys his approval. Then he forgets about it all, tugging down Derek's jeans, his underwear, sucking Derek's length into his mouth.
Derek shifts, stepping his feet apart, holding Stiles' head between his hands. He's almost shaking, like he's a mass of barely controlled energy. It makes Stiles' heart beat faster, harder. He thinks Derek probably wants to thrust, and it makes him a little nervous. This is the first time Stiles has had a cock in his mouth, and he's fairly certain that he can't take much more than he already is without gagging. His lips are stretched wide and only halfway up the shaft. He'd like to make Derek come, but he has a feeling he's not going to be able to do it like this and still have a good time himself.
He slides his mouth off, leaving Derek's cock wet, glistening. "Tell me what to do," he says. "Tell me what you want."
Derek frowns. "I want you to do what you want."
"I want to make you come."
Stiles hasn't done that on his own yet. He's worried that he can't. Something tells him Derek needs hard, fast stimulation to get to the point of orgasm, and Stiles is fairly sure he's not ready to have his throat fucked. He slides his hand down to the base of Derek's cock, wraps his fingers around the place it'll swell, and he sucks the rest into his mouth, taking as much in as he can. The head hits the back of his throat and his eyes water.
For some reason, Stiles is surprised when Derek moans. He did that. He strokes his hand over the base of Derek's dick, and he sucks as he moves his mouth over the shaft. He wants so badly to make Derek come, to feel the knot swell under his fingers, to see it. He wonders when it changed from weird to totally hot.
Stiles' belly clenches up and his cock jerks, insisting it get some attention. Stiles ignores it, but he can't help moaning as he sucks Derek's cock down deeper, twisting his hand around the base.
"Let me fuck you," Derek says. He puts gentle pressure on Stiles, encouraging him to release the cock in his mouth rather than forcing. "I need to be inside you."
Stiles is tempted. He wanted it that night in the Jeep, he begged for it. If it was regular sex, with a regular cock, like the one he's sucking, stroking, he'd do it, knowing that if he didn't like it, he trusted Derek enough to stop. But Derek's cock doesn't stay like this. Once Derek gets close to coming, there'll be no pulling out, no stopping. Stiles isn't ready for that.
He shakes his head, but he doesn't want to open his mouth and let Derek's cock go. He might not get it back. Derek's just going to have to wait. Stiles really, really, wants to make Derek come. He wants to taste it, wants it to overflow his mouth, wants to feel and see the knot grow. Stiles moans and his eyelids flutter closed. He has to touch his cock, so he rubs his hand over the front of his jeans even as he sucks harder, moving hand and mouth faster on Derek's cock.
"Stiles, fuck," Derek says, and his hips jerk forward. The head of his cock hits the back of Stiles' throat and Stiles gags, spluttering. He pulls off—or Derek pushes him off, Stiles isn't sure—and he coughs, rubbing his throat.
"Sorry," Derek whispers as he drops to his knees beside Stiles. Derek kisses him, pushing him back onto the floor, and Stiles can't stop him. Derek's using force now, a hand on his chest pinning him down, but his kisses are slow and gentle. "I need..." Derek says between kisses. "Need you." He pumps his free hand over his cock a few times, then yanks open Stiles' jeans, pulls out his cock, holds them both together.
Stiles arches up at the feeling of Derek's hand on him, of Derek's cock pressed against his. Derek jerks them both swiftly, but his kisses are still soft.
"Your lips," Derek says, panting between the words. "Around my cock. So good."
"I want you to come in my mouth," Stiles moans. If he's not careful, he's going to come before Derek. That hardly seems fair.
Derek grunts, squeezes their cocks tightly down at the base. "Close."
"Thank god." Stiles squirms out from under Derek, gets to his knees. "Stand up," he orders, his hand on his cock, stroking slowly so he doesn't come before Derek.
Both of them have their jeans around their thighs, underwear pushed down to their hips, both of them have their hands on their cocks. Stiles kneels on the floor, Derek stands in front of him, jerking his cock hard and fast.
Now, Stiles thinks. It's going to be now. He shuffles forward on his knees, one hand still on his cock, the other reaching out, ready to wrap around the base of Derek's. He's got to feel it swell. He has to.
"Now," Derek chokes, and his free hand whips out and takes Stiles by the wrist, pulling him in close.
Stiles takes over from Derek, stroking his cock as Derek holds Stiles by the shoulders. Derek's cock slides between Stiles' lips again, Derek holds him, pushes it in like he's fucking Stiles' mouth. Stiles keeps his eyes open, watching as his fingers are forced apart by the swelling lump at the base of Derek's cock. It's right in front of his eyes, thick, veiny, hard. The first flood of heat that fills his mouth makes him choke and splutter. Come dribbling down his chin, he takes the head of Derek's cock back into his mouth and swallows the next wave.
He never takes his eyes off the knot.
Feeling it in the darkness is one thing, seeing it in the light another completely. He swallows again as bitterness fills his mouth, spills out over his lips, and wonders how it's ever going to fit inside him.
His eyes flick up to Derek. Derek stares down, fingers digging almost painfully into Stiles' shoulders. Stiles lets Derek's cock slip from between his lips. Come splatters against his throat, soaks the front of his shirt. Derek drops to his knees, still staring into Stiles' eyes. He opens his mouth, like he wants to say something, but nothing comes out.
Stiles twists his hand over the knot, thinking about what it might feel like inside him. "Will it hurt?" he asks. "I'm thinking yes. And by then neither of us will be able to do anything about it."
Derek drops his head onto Stiles' shoulder. He shakes, wraps his arms around Stiles, holds him tight. He's still coming, Stiles skin and clothes are wet with it. "I need..." Derek moans. "I can't wait..." He sounds like he's in pain, and it makes Stiles hurt too.
He slides his hand over the knot again, feeling every vein, every bump. It's hot, hard, twice as thick as the rest of the shaft of Derek's cock, if not thicker. It swells so fast, too. Imagining what it might feel like growing inside him is both arousing and terrifying, and Stiles wraps his free hand around his forgotten cock and starts stroking. "That some kind of wolfy compulsion? It'll get to the point where you can't stop yourself? 'Cause that's kind of scary."
Derek shudders. "Instinct," he whispers. "If you weren't in so much danger it would be easier to resist."
Stiles thinks that it might just be better for everyone if he gives in. Pain is temporary. He's seen porn where men have put things way bigger than this inside themselves.
He's pretty sure none of them were sixteen year old virgins, but Stiles can't stand to hear that pain in Derek's voice.
It's amazing the relief he feels when he makes the decision. He says nothing, not yet, he doesn't have to do anything about it tonight, but he can imagine it. Derek filling him, like in his dream, then the knot swelling, locking them together so they can't separate, even long after they've both stopped coming.
"Ugh." Stiles comes with his hand on his cock and an imaginary ache in his ass. Derek's mouth comes down on his, the kiss is messy, wet, clumsy. They end up on the floor, Stiles sprawled out on his back, Derek heavy between his legs, and even when the kiss ends, when they've both stopped coming, they lie there, breathing into each others throats for a long time.
"So," Stiles says, after it seems like they've been lying on the floor for hours. "Can we have that talk now?"
In return for agreeing to meet with the Argents, Derek makes Stiles promise to stay home, stay in his room, stay safe.
The problem is, half an hour after Derek leaves to meet Scott, Stiles' stomach starts growling and he remembers that there's no food in the house.
Option one. Text Derek. Unacceptable. Stiles isn't going to risk Derek abandoning the tentative alliance, providing he hasn't already messed it up himself by being a dick.
Option two. Wait. There's a possibility they all might go out after the Alpha Pack if the meeting goes well and they could be hours. There could be blood and dismemberment and Stiles really doesn't want to have to do that on an empty stomach.
Option three. Make a quick trip to the gas station. The tank is pretty low anyway, Stiles can kill two birds with one stone, and it's brightly lit.
The choice seems clear. Stiles knows it only seems that way because his brain chemistry isn't fully equipped to process risk. It's one of the pitfalls of being a teenager. It still doesn't stop him from grabbing the keys and leaving the house.
He feels ridiculously smug when he pulls into the gas station unmolested and almost wishes Derek was beside him in the passenger seat so he could gloat about it. The gas station is empty, so he jumps out of the Jeep unconcerned and heads into the store. He registers another vehicle pulling in as he walks through the automatic doors, but he's not concerned. He's done this a million times.
Chips. Candy bars. Ooh, Pixy Stix! Probably not a good idea, but the sugar high could be useful for post Alpha Pack clean up. He pays and heads back out to the Jeep to fill the tank.
The other car is a big black SUV. No one climbed out, and the engine is still running. Stiles was in the store long enough to consider that unusual.
Suddenly Stiles doesn't feel so smug anymore. He looks back at the store, but he's closer to the Jeep, so he quickens his pace. He gets the door open before he sees any movement from the other car, but just as he climbs into the Jeep, one of the SUV doors pops open and there's a blur of movement.
Stiles is yanked backward, his shirt cutting into his throat, choking him. "Help," he squawks, falling back on advice given to him by his mother when he was four years old. 'If anyone tries to take you, kick and scream' but he can't kick and his voice is gone, restricted by the tight band around his neck.
Something hard hits him on the back of the head. His last thought before everything goes black is 'Derek's going to kill me'.
He's in the woods again, running. Clouds cover the moon, but he knows it's full. Something's different this time, the terror is closer, more real, the paws crashing through the undergrowth are louder, the panting breaths hotter, and when he goes down, teeth clamp around the back of his neck, piercing skin, drawing blood.
It's very different. The wolf on him tears away his clothing, leaving him sprawled naked in the dead leaves, and when he gets to his hands and knees and tries to scramble away it jumps on his back, gripping his hips with strong forelegs, thrusting against him with snapping hips, growling the whole time. Something long and slick stabs at him, hurting him, and he screams as it penetrates him in one thrust, all the way to the hilt and he can feel fur, the muscular back legs of the wolf, pressed against his ass.
The wolf thrusts hard and fast, and then it goes still. Stiles screams again as the thing inside him starts to grow, stretching him beyond his endurance. He thinks he might split in two. His insides flood with heat as the monster on him, in him, whines pitifully.
Face streaked with tears, Stiles lifts his head. Only feet away, Derek stands and watches, his face a mask of grief and loss and pain.
Stiles wakes to the sound of cruel laughter and a pounding in his head that threatens to split it open. He's lying face down on a hard surface, gritty dust against his cheek, crusted at the edge of his lips. He tries to lift his head, but the world spins and he drops it back into the dirt before he throws up.
The laughter starts again. He cracks one eye open, and he can see legs. Human legs in jeans and muddy boots. A pair of dirty bare feet, black fabric swirling around feminine knees. Paws. Lots of paws.
Stiles closes his eyes. "Don't suppose anyone has a bottle of Tylenol handy? Like, the whole bottle? Pretty sure I could use it right now." He slides his arm out over the dusty floor, palm up. "Thanks to whoever hit me over the head."
The laughter starts again, and Stiles groans and presses his hand to his head.
Soft footsteps cross the wooden floor. Stiles figures it's the girl with bare feet so he doesn't bother opening his eyes. The air shifts beside his outstretched arm, dust settles. It shifts again. Warm bare flesh comes down on his forearm, holding it firmly to the floor.
Stiles' eyes snap open. "Hey," he rasps. "Hey." He struggles, trying to get free, looking up at the girl in the black shoestring dress, untidy blond hair falling around her face. She stares down at him. "Do you think he'll hear you scream?"
Stiles jerks, trying to pull his arm away. His stomach roils, he tastes bile. "Please," he begs. "You totally don't have to do this."
The girl smiles, showing stained teeth. Stiles gets lost in blinding pain as her foot comes down on his arm, grinding the bone to fragments.
When he screams, he hopes Derek can't hear him. Stiles knows he's bait, or he'd be dead already.
Stiles has seen the other werewolf before. He's the one from the woods the night he put Derek's leg back together. The one he's nicknamed Greyback in his head, because, really, the resemblance is uncanny, and if Stiles could think past the pain in his head and in his arm, he'd make a joke about it.
If Alphas have Alphas, Stiles guesses Greyback is the one.
There's four wolves, actual wolves, just wandering around the room, and the girl, who keeps coming back to hurt him some more, like it's her favorite game. His arm is already swollen, dark with bruising, and he can't bear to move it. He's broken bones before, but never like this. He's going to bruise in other places too, and he thinks one of his ribs might be broken.
He's got no idea what time it is, how long he's been here, if Derek even knows he's missing. He passed out again after the bitch broke his arm, woke up after a fucked up dream that a wolf had ripped open his guts and was eating them while Derek looked on. Stiles wasn't aware you could dream when you'd been knocked out, but apparently his mind has issues it needs to work out and it doesn't trust that Stiles will ever get the chance to work them out during normal sleep again.
Stiles is pretty sure he's going to die tonight.
That bothers him for reasons he doesn't fully understand. He expected to be afraid that it might hurt, that he's not going to graduate, go to college, lose his virginity. He should worry about his father, losing his only son as well as his wife.
All Stiles can think about is Derek. What will happen to Derek, once he's gone? Stiles believed him when he said it would weaken him, but Stiles doesn't know how. He figures Derek will end up dead too, too stubborn to surrender, too proud to give up his pack to save them.
Stiles is to blame. He blinks, wipes the wetness from his lashes with his uninjured hand, because he won't let the werewolves gathered here think he's afraid to die.
He's not. He's only afraid of what will happen to Derek.
A familiar chime rings out. Stiles looks for his phone. It's definitely not on him, the sound comes from over by Greyback. The motley Alpha takes something off the stair behind him, reaching through broken banisters. He taps the screen and turns his head, giving Stiles a smile that makes his blood run cold.
"Derek," Stiles whispers.
The girl Alpha dances across the floor toward him. She bends at the waist, turning her head to look down at Stiles. Her hair falls toward the floor in a cascade of blond tangles. "He's looking for you. Your mate, he's looking for you. How long will it take him, do you think?" She wrinkles her nose as she smiles down. "How long's it been?" she asks, still looking at Stiles but not addressing him. "Two hours?"
"Three," comes the gruff answer from the stairs.
"Three." She snorts. "That long, without even checking up on his vulnerable human mate? Maybe he doesn't care at all. Might as well just kill you now, you're no good to us."
"No." Stiles pushes himself up off the floor. Apparently he does care if he lives or dies. He pulls a face that has nothing to do with pain. "Damn it. No, he's not coming. No, I'm no good to you. Sorry you wasted your time. You could let me go?" He manages to pull himself to his feet, holding his broken arm to his chest. "You don't even have to drop me off. Just point me at the nearest road and I'll get out of your hair under my own steam."
The girl straightens, looks back at Greyback. "What do you think, baby?"
Greyback lifts his head from the phone he's turning over in his hands. "He might tell the Sheriff."
Blondie turns back. "That's right. Daddy is the Sheriff. We can't have that." She steps toward him.
"I swear, I won't say a word. My dad doesn't know anything about werewolves and I'm cool with it staying that way."
"But how," says Blondie, "will you explain this?" She takes one step forward, her arm swings past her body and Stiles braces himself for a blow that could knock him clear across the room.
She doesn't hit him with her fist. Fingers outstretched, tipped with claws, the blow enters his body, holds him there. She rips through fabric and skin and muscle, hooking her fingers into the soft flesh of Stiles' stomach. "What we need," she says, "is a little more blood. So when he does get here, it makes things that much more interesting." She pulls her claws out.
The blow forces all the air from Stiles' lungs in a rush. His heart stops beating, then pounds in his ears. Heat makes him dizzy, shock takes away his ability to think. He sees droplets of blood arc through the air as she pulls her hand back. Warmth flows out of him, soaks the leg of his jeans, moves downward. His legs fail, and he slumps to his knees. "Thanks," he says in a hoarse whisper. "You've completely cured my arm pain. Do the other side. Might fix my headache." He holds his hand over the wound, but he can't stem the flow of blood.
Blondie laughs. "You just keep talking, don't you?" Then she backhands him across the face.
Stiles hears his jaw crack, pain flares like white light through his head, and he tastes blood as he goes down. Stunned, cheek pressed to the charred floorboards, he blinks as blood spreads out in front of him. This might be it, he thinks. This might be the end. Derek will be too late. The worst thing is, Stiles won't get to see him again.
A single tear escapes from the corner of his eye.
The cold, he thinks, means he's lost a lot of blood. But he hasn't lost it. He knows exactly where it is. There, on the floor in front of him. It's just not where it should be. He figures he'll pass out eventually. He waits for it. He won't hurt anymore, at least.
Derek. He tries to say the word, but he can't. He manages a moan, and one of the wolves looks at him as it passes. It trots over, sniffs him, sniffs at the pool of blood on the floor, then laps at it.
That's mine, Stiles tries to say. You can't have it.
The wolf steps back, then shifts. Crouched on the floor beside Stiles' blood there is a man, perhaps Derek's age or a little older. He's slightly tidier than Greyback and Blondie, shorter hair, cleaner feet. He's entirely naked, but that doesn't surprise Stiles, he's pretty sure clothes don't shift with the werewolf. And he's hot, or he would be if Stiles could find a single fuck. He's pretty much given himself up for dead.
The werewolf looks down into Stiles' eyes. "He'll fight when he sees you," he says. "If you're still alive, tell him not to. Tell him to give in. It'll be better for him. If you want him to survive, tell him to give in."
Stiles works his jaw. It clicks, but maybe it's not broken. "Fuck you," he rasps. He closes his eyes.
"I'm trying to help you," the werewolf whispers. "It's what they do. They did it to me, to my pack, my mate. You can't stop them."
"We can hear you, Nick," Blondie calls from across the room. She walks across the floor, Stiles can pick the soft sound of her feet on the floorboards. "You'll have to excuse Nick. He's still new."
Stiles opens his eyes.
Stiles has seen enough werewolves shifting not to be surprised when Blondie's face changes. Suddenly her mouth fills with jagged teeth, a ridge forms between her brows, and she snaps at Nick.
He walks away, shifting back into a wolf again. He slinks back amongst the other three wolves.
Stiles stares after him, trying to remember Nick's markings so he can tell him apart from the other wolves, but he can barely keep his eyes open. He's so cold he's shivering.
He feels though, when Blondie crouches down beside him, brings her face close to his. "You know what? I don't think Derek's coming for you. Perhaps he doesn't care about you at all. Perhaps he's afraid. He knows his pack is nothing against us. He'd rather let you die."
"Fuck. Off." Stiles is so weak the words are barely a whisper. He knows that right now, Derek is frantic, searching for him. He knows Derek will find him here.
He wishes Blondie was right. He wishes Derek wasn't coming, because then Derek would be safe.
Stiles feels the air move when she leaves without another word. He feels feet, paws, running on the boards beneath him. He cracks one eye open.
Greyback and Blondie stand by the stairs, looking up, the other four werewolves in wolf form gathered around them. Their stance is threatening, they growl, teeth bared, tails low.
Stiles sees Derek's shoes on the top stair. He hopes, just for one fleeting tiny moment, that he's brought the others with him, but it's only Derek. He drops to all fours, bounds down the stairs, as wolfed out as Stiles has ever seen him, scattering the wolves at the bottom. Greyback and Blondie step back, letting him through into the room.
Derek's eyes come to rest on Stiles.
Stiles knows he probably looks dead already, but Derek can hear his heart beating. Stiles can't feel it beating, not this time, it doesn't pound in his ears like it usually does when Derek is near. It feels like it should, because Stiles is fucking terrified. There's probably not enough blood left inside him.
Stiles drags his gaze to the edge of the pool of blood he lies in, then he can't keep his eye open any longer.
Derek howls and the house shakes around them.
He's right there, Stiles can feel him, close, warm, Stiles can smell him. Derek puts his hands on Stiles, one on his shoulder, one on his hip. "You're not going to die," Derek says, but he's lying, and Stiles doesn't have to be able to hear his heartbeat to know it.
"Do what they want," Stiles tries to say, but no sound comes out.
"I can't. I'll die before I join them." It almost sounds like Derek's crying.
Stiles opens one eye, then the other. It's almost ridiculous, seeing Derek all scary, with the hair and the teeth and the eyes and the ears, and tears on his face, but Stiles doesn't have the energy to be amused. The pain is less though, the exhaustion not quite so debilitating. "Don't. Fucking. Die." Sound comes out that time, raspy whispery words. His eyes flick up as two shapes come into view over Derek's head. Greyback and Blondie.
Before Stiles can warn him, Derek springs from his place beside Stiles. He turns in midair and then the three of them are a blur of teeth and fur and claws. While Greyback holds Derek from behind, Blondie shifts mid-lunge, becoming a tawny wolf with open maw and teeth dripping with saliva. Stiles cringes as her teeth sink into Derek's shoulder with a sickening crunch.
Derek's scream hurts Stiles' ears. He tries to push himself up, needing to do something, even if all it is is distract the wolves for just a second, to give Derek a chance, something.
As he sits, he realizes that the wound in his stomach is wet, but the bleeding has stopped. His clothes are soaked with blood, but it's not gushing out anymore. He drags himself backward across the floor, leaving a trail of blood behind him, and he backs himself up to the wall and uses it to pull himself to his feet. He watches the three werewolves, Greyback, Blondie, and Derek, fight.
Derek's not doing so well. The other four wolves don't even need to get involved. Derek's bleeding, limping, getting weaker and weaker, and when he falls to the ground, Greyback—still on two legs—and wolf-shaped Blondie circle him, Stiles prepares himself. He's going to watch Derek die. No matter what they say, he refuses to give in, refuses to join them, and the next blow will kill him and Stiles will have to watch.
He can't do it. His feet carry him forward with no thought. "Stop," he cries, as he stands, broken arm held close to his body, between the circling wolves and his boyfriend. Stiles, human, nothing special, just a teenager who talks too much and distracts easily. He shakes as he stands there, because he knows that there's nothing he can do to stop them, but he stands there, between the Alphas... And his Alpha. His mate. Stiles stands between Derek and death, knowing that it'll take him first, but prepared to die with him, if not for him. "Please," he says. "Please."
He doesn't know what he's asking for because he knows nothing he can say will convince the Alphas to just walk out of here and leave them. It doesn't stop him trying.
Greyback's lips curve into the mockery of a smile, slowly exposing rotted teeth. A deep, harsh chuckle comes out of him, then he throws his head back and laughs. He turns his eyes on Derek. "Should've claimed your boy," he says. "Hell, you should've turned him." Then he raises his arm, claws outstretched.
Stiles sees it coming like slow motion. He feels Derek move behind him, feels the air shift, hears him cry out in pain and fall back to the floor. The boards underneath Stiles' feet shake, and all Stiles can do is stand frozen and watch as Greyback's claws whoosh through the air toward his throat.
He's definitely going to die tonight.
There's a shout from behind him, distant, feet on floorboards, another whoosh and a thud and the claws stop in midair only inches from Stiles' throat. An arrow sticks out of Greyback's chest. Stiles stares in confusion, and then, as Greyback roars in pain and anger, Stiles turns.
He looks into Scott's eyes and his knees go out from under him. He lands on top of Derek. He's not sure whether the blood is Derek's or his own, but he doesn't care, because Derek's breathing—Stiles can feel it, warm on his cheek—and Derek clings to him, blunt human fingernails digging into Stiles' skin.
Around them, a fight erupts. Scott and Allison fight side by side to hold Blondie back, Isaac and Allison's dad take on Greyback, Jackson's further back with a bunch of guys with crossbows and handguns that Stiles can only assume are hunters, taking on the other four wolves. Two escape up the stairs. One fights savagely and takes a crossbow bolt in the throat. The final wolf lowers itself to the floor, looking up at Jackson and a hunter bearing down on it. Stiles can see the whites of it's eyes. He thinks it's Nick.
Stiles presses himself close to Derek, holds him down when he tries to rise and join the fight. It's not necessary. They don't need him.
It's over quick, and Greyback, Blondie, and another wolf lie on the floor, each in two pieces. Nick, in human form and with a ragged blanket covering him, cowers in a corner with a crossbow trained on him. Six Alphas were never a match for the combined might of the Beacon Hills pack, not when it includes the men who used to hunt them.
No one speaks.
Stiles pulls himself up, pulls Derek's head into his lap, but Derek's healing already. The scratches and bites are still there, but he pulls himself up and off Stiles, testing broken bones. Chris Argent looks over, watches Derek.
Stiles nudges his boyfriend. "Hey." Jerks his head toward Chris.
Derek looks up when Chris walks over, takes the offered hand, lets himself be pulled to his feet. The two men stare at each other for a few moments.
"We're stronger in numbers," Chris says.
Stiles can hear Derek breathing. "Yeah," Derek says. "Thank you." His voice breaks.
"Morphine is awesome," Stiles says. "But they say I don't need it anymore." He glances at the tiny paper cup on the white plastic night stand. "It's just me and my old friend Tylenol now."
Derek picks up the cup, looks inside, rattles the two small pills, then puts it back. He sits down on the edge of Stiles' hospital bed. "I've never taken Tylenol."
Stiles pulls himself higher in the bed, winces and puts his hand—the one not in a plaster cast—to the bandage low on his own stomach. "What? You never had a headache?"
"Werewolves metabolize it too fast. It never gets a chance to work." Derek turns his head toward the closed door. "Your dad's coming." He stands up.
Stiles reaches out with his broken arm, snags the edge of Derek's sleeve with two fingers. "You don't have to go. I have to get this over with, might as well do it now."
The door creaks open. Stiles thinks the hospital needs to put a can of WD40 in the budget. "Hey, kiddo," the Sheriff says, coming in backwards, arms full of bags. He turns as the door swings closed and spots Derek standing beside the bed. He frowns. "Oh. Hey." His eyes flick to Stiles. "Got the stuff you wanted." He puts the bags on the end of the bed. "Why is Derek Hale here?"
"Thanks, Dad." Stiles reaches, winces, and sits back against the pillows. He looks up at Derek. "Pajamas that don't show my butt when I get out of bed. Computer. Just the essentials."
"Stiles," His father says in a warning tone. His eyes haven't left Derek. "Does this guy have anything to do with the group that mugged you?"
"Noooo." Stiles shakes his head. "Wasn't there, didn't know, nothing to do with it." Stiles would like to tell his father that Derek came to his rescue, that Derek risked his life to save him, but he can't. It wasn't on the police report.
The Sheriff still hasn't taken his eyes off Derek. "Why is he here?"
Stiles grins. "We're seeing each other."
His dad's eyes slide from Derek, to Stiles and back to Derek. "Right. What's the real reason?"
"Seriously, Dad, he's my boyfriend. For like, the last month or so."
"Five weeks, three days," Derek says.
Stiles smiles wide, winces, puts his hand to his jaw. It's black and blue, apparently he's lucky it wasn't broken. "You're keeping track? Aww."
Sheriff Stilinski shifts from one foot to the other. "You're not gay."
Stiles jerks and winces. "Dad. God. I could totally be gay." He glances down at the hospital gown covering him. "And you can't insult my outfit this time. Hospital issue. They had to cut my clothes off me, you know. Soaked in blood. Okay, so I like girls too. I can be both."
Stiles' father grimaces, shakes his head. "But him?"
"Yeah," Stiles says, looking at Derek, smiling. "Him." His eyes flick back to his laptop bag at the end of the bed. He reaches for it and winces, covering the wound on his stomach with his hand as he sinks back into the pillows. "Could one of you just...?"
There are five scars on Stiles' stomach, varying in size from an inch long to the length of his middle finger. Derek's lips press against them, one by one. "Are you sure you're ready?" he asks, for what Stiles is convinced is the hundredth time.
"Ready, willing, waiting." Stiles stretches his arms above his head. The cast on his broken arm hits the shelf and he jumps and looks behind him. The arm's taking longer to heal than the rest of him. He'll be lucky to play when lacrosse starts again.
Derek lies his head on Stiles' belly. "There's no rush. I don't need it like I did before. There's no danger."
Stiles is still trying to arrange his arms. He gives up, letting his cast fall back to the bed beside his hip, his good arm he leaves on the pillow behind his head. "That means we can do it because we want to, not because we have to." He's acutely aware of the fact his cock is pressed against Derek's throat. He shifts his hips, hoping Derek will get the hint.
Derek grins, moves his head, and his breath washes over Stiles' cock. "You want to?" His lips press against the underside of the head, his tongue darts out and flicks once.
Stiles' back arches off the bed and he groans. "I know what you're doing."
"What am I doing, Stiles?" He opens his lips, holds the head of Stiles' cock between them.
Stiles lifts his head, rests it on his good arm, watches as he lifts his hips and pushes his cock into Derek's mouth. "You're trying to distract me. Yes, it's working. Damn you." Awkwardly, he puts the hand of his broken arm on the back of Derek's head. The cast clunks against Derek's skull and Stiles is rewarded with a look. "Sorry." He presses instead with the tips of his fingers, pushing Derek's head down as he thrusts his hips up. "Oh, god." Watching his cock disappear into Derek's mouth almost wipes his mind clean of anything else, but this is his dad's last night shift for at least another month, and it's the only thing that guarantees no interruptions. If they're going to do it, it needs to be now.
Groaning—because, oh god, it feels good—he pushes Derek's head away. "Now," he says. "Yeah, I want to. Now."
Stiles is getting used to seeing Derek smile. He smiles back as Derek crawls up his body and licks at his lower lip.
"Turn over," Derek says.
The smile falls off Stiles' face. "Oh no," he says, wrapping his legs around the back of Derek's knees and holding on tight. "We are so not doing it doggy style."
Derek drops his head onto Stiles' shoulder and shakes with laughter. "Yeah, we are." He turns his head, his lips brush against Stiles' cheek. "I don't know how much we're going to be able to move afterward. If I'm behind you, we can lie down. Can you imagine being stuck like this?" He shifts his hips, spreading Stiles' legs further apart, bending him almost in half as he simulates being buried in him, balls deep.
Stiles gasps, stomach clenching as the base of Derek's cock presses against his hole, as the length of it puts pressure on the area behind his balls. He can't help but imagine it like this, can almost feel it inside him, how full he's going to feel, how deep Derek's cock is going to go.
Derek thrusts against him, lower lip caught in his teeth, breath warm and quick. "When I get off you," he pants, "You're gonna turn over, okay?"
"Yeah." Stiles nods. Derek's cock slides, dry, over his perineum, head slipping lower with each thrust. "Oh," Stiles says. "Yeah, I'm ready for this. So ready. Derek, fuck, please."
Derek thrusts again. "You want me to fuck you?" His voice is hoarse, rough.
"Yeah. Derek, please."
Derek moves fast, pulling back, releasing Stiles' legs to fall back down to the mattress. "Turn over. Get on your hands and knees."
Stiles does, moving as quickly as he can manage with his forearm in a cast. He can't stretch his palm flat like he can with the other hand, so he lowers himself down to his elbows. He glances behind him, feeling ridiculously exposed with his ass in the air, but he catches a glimpse of Derek's expression just as Derek's hands come down on each of Stiles' hips. It makes Stiles lose his breath.
Derek moves up behind him, pressing his hips against Stiles' ass cheeks, his cock wedged between them. He shifts, rubbing his cock against Stiles' hole, then bends over, hands on the mattress each side of Stiles, his chest against Stiles' back, his lips on the back of Stiles' neck. He reaches up, grabs the tube of lube from the shelf above Stiles' head, then slowly kisses his way down Stiles' spine.
Stiles' heart pounds. "This is it," he whispers. "This is it." He lets a slow breath out through pursed lips.
"Shhh," Derek breathes against his lower back. He puts the lube down on the bed beside Stiles' knee. His tongue paints a slow wet stripe to the crack of Stiles' ass. It dips inside as Derek gently spreads Stiles' cheeks, and slides down until it finds the hole.
"Ungh," Stiles says, eyes widening, body quivering. "Oh god."
Derek's tongue circles the hole, presses flat against it, flicks up and over it. He cups Stiles' balls in his hand, slides it forward, strokes once over the length of his cock.
Saliva runs down Stiles' perineum, drips off his balls. His hole is wet, slippery, Derek licks, circles it with his tongue, presses against it, sucks, until Stiles moans, squirms, begs for more. Derek shapes his tongue into a point, presses against the hole. Stiles moans, feeling it, wanting it. He pushes back, so ready. "Yeah, please, inside," he begs. It's all he can think about.
Derek's tongue pushes inside, out again. He tugs at the rim, gentle little flicks that make Stiles feel open, loose.
"More. Deeper. Fuck." Stiles presses his forehead against the mattress, rocks back into Derek's mouth. His cock aches, oozes precome that drips onto the sheet in a spreading patch of damp. When Derek grasps his hips and drives his tongue deep inside him Stiles arches up. That's what he wants. The stretch of something thicker than before, the tingling burn, sends heat spreading over his flesh and he feels alive, completely. "Thank you, god," he whimpers, reaching for his cock.
He spreads precome down the length of it, gives it a few slow tugs in time with the movement of Derek's tongue. "Oh," he chokes, "Oh, fuck. Just how long is your tongue, anyway?"
Stiles feels a rumble, a vibration, before he hears it. "Fuck, Derek," he gasps, "Are you purring?" But wolves don't purr. It's a growl, a soft gentle rolling growl, and it feels amazing, makes his insides quiver. He strokes his cock, his stomach muscles tighten, his balls draw up. "I think I'm going to come," he says.
The tongue in his ass slides out, the bed shifts as Derek moves up behind him. "Wait," Derek says. "I'm going to be inside you soon." He places two fingers against Stiles' hole, with gentle pressure they slide inside.
The most noticeable thing Stiles feels is surprise at how much he likes the stretched feeling, how much he likes the burn. He fights to hold back, dropping his cock, groaning into the mattress as his ass grabs hold of Derek's fingers and he tries not to come. "Too much," he moans. "No no no no no," he says as Derek draws them back out. "Put them back, put them back in or fuck me now Derek I need to come, holy god, I need to come." He pants hard, his heart racing, one fist clenching in the sheet, the other gripping the edge of the cast so hard the tips of his fingers tingle.
Derek's fingers slide back in, slicker this time—lube, Stiles' brain supplies—and the stretch is more, the burn is hotter. "Three?" Stiles whimpers.
"Too much?" Derek's voice is hoarse and rough.
Stiles shakes his head. "Just... God. Oh god. Easy."
Derek's free hand strokes Stiles' back. The three fingers inside him are still. Deep inside him, but still. "We can stop," Derek says. "We can still stop."
"No." The burn slowly fades. Stiles rocks back against Derek's knuckles. "More."
Derek's hand keeps stroking. "More is my cock, Stiles. You're so tight. It'll happen quick. I wanna fuck you. Once I start fucking you, god. I don't know if I'll be able to stop and it'll be quick."
Stiles writhes and moans, trying in vain to get Derek's fingers deeper. "Need you, fuck, inside me. God, I need your cock inside me. Hurry up and fuck me."
Derek removes his fingers and Stiles is left feeling empty and alone. But then Derek's cock pushes against him, Derek's hips press against his ass, Derek comes down over his back. "Could be our last chance to stop," Derek whispers as he guides his cock, pressing Stiles open just a little.
"I want it." Stiles rocks back. It's not enough force to get the head inside himself. "Please," he says, pushing himself up, reaching back to grasp Derek's thigh. Muscle quivers beneath his fingers. Derek's hands on his hips shake. Stiles lifts his eyes, meeting Derek's.
Derek pants, like he can't catch his breath. Then he catches his lower lip between his teeth and pushes.
Stiles can see the look on Derek's face, the concentration, the restraint, as he feels Derek's cock stretching him open. Everything's slick, slippery, it goes in easy but there's so much pressure and Stiles feels as though he's going to be split open. It's nothing, he tells himself. This is nothing compared to what's to come. He hangs his head, forehead brushing the sheet, and he breathes.
Slowly, Derek pushes forward, and Stiles feels every tiny fraction of an inch as it spreads his insides, opening him up, filling him. This is nothing. He breathes.
"You okay?" Derek says, then lets out a soft grunt and pushes his hips hard against Stiles' ass. "Fuck, Stiles. Fuck. Tell me you're okay."
Stiles can barely think. He's consumed by heat and throbbing, aching fullness and he can't find the words he needs. He moans, nods his head. He's frozen, can't move, he can't quite describe the feeling as pain, but he needs it to fade. He breathes.
"I can stop." Derek's voice is harsh, an articulate, breathy groan. "Do you need me to stop?"
This is nothing. Soon, it'll be... More. Fuller, hotter, harder, and there'll be no way out. But despite the ache, the burning stretch that is slowly fading, despite the fullness that seems all he can take, Stiles doesn't want it to go away. He breathes, and he lifts his head, shakes it. "Give me a minute," he whispers.
Derek's hands slide over Stiles' skin, from his hips, up his sides—Stiles quivers, he's ticklish—down his arms. Derek bends at the waist, covering Stiles' with his body, lips coming down between Stiles' shoulder blades. Their breath comes together, in, out. Stiles turns his head, just enough to look over his shoulder and meet Derek's gaze. "Your cock feels fucking enormous," Stiles says.
There's a brief flicker of a smile on Derek's lips before it fades. "It's going to get worse," he says.
Stiles holds Derek's gaze for as long as he can hold his head in that position, then he drops it back down. The overwhelming ache has faded. He can think. "I don't want you to go." He shifts, very slightly, feels Derek move inside him, sighs. "I want you to move."
Derek moves, a very slow roll of his hips. "Slow?"
Stiles moans, nods his head. "Yeah."
Derek does it again, rises a little, slides one hand down to hold Stiles' waist, the other rests on his shoulder. He moves again.
Stiles feels everything, feels Derek moving inside him. "More," he whispers.
Derek pulls his hips back.
"Oh, oh god." Stiles doesn't know why Derek pulling out, just a little, feels so good, but he wants him back inside, and when Derek pushes back in, it feels so much better. "Yes," Stiles says. "Yes, god yes. Derek, god yeah, that. Do that."
Derek lets out a little moan, pulls out, pushes back in again. He does it again, and Stiles leans back against him. It's good, keeps getting better and better as Derek's thrusts come quicker, go longer as every time he withdraws he pulls back a little further.
Then Derek slows.
"No, don't stop, please don't stop."
"Last chance," Derek gasps. "I have to—"
Stiles shakes his head frantically. "Don't stop. Don't fucking stop. I want it. Fuck me, hard, I wanna feel it." He moans, writhes, fucks himself back on Derek's cock. He reaches for his cock, then puts his hand back down on the mattress. "Wanna come with it in me, with you stuck in me. Fuck." He pushes back again, hard.
Derek groans and rises up straight, hands sliding to hold Stiles' waist, pulling almost all the way out and then jerking his hips forward fast.
Stiles arches his back, eyes wide and staring at the shelves at the head of his bed. Derek thrusts into him again. The shelves rattle and books fall over. Derek's thrusts come quicker, harder, deeper, over and over and Stiles can't tell if it's his own harsh grunts or Derek's that fill the room, perhaps both. His throat hurts and he doesn't care. He aches deep inside, all over, his hard cock bounces beneath him, sweat trickles down his throat, his inner thighs, Derek's fingers bite into the flesh at his sides and he thinks he'll bruise and he doesn't care.
Derek thrusts hard, his hips slap against Stiles' ass one last time, and he stops. His whole body shakes, everywhere they touch Stiles can feel it. He looks over his shoulder, Derek's eyes are shut, his lips hang open, and pressure increases quickly inside him.
There's a few split seconds between 'oh my god that feels so good' and 'I don't know if I can take anymore' that Stiles thinks he should be afraid because he doesn't know what to expect. He's got nothing to compare it to save the fucking he's just received, but he's not afraid. Then, when he thinks he can't take anymore, when he thinks Derek's cock really is going to break him in half this time, when the burn and the stretch become so great that he tries to claw himself away, Derek holds him fast, comes down to cover him, to hold him and stroke him, his back, his arms, his thighs, over his belly where the scars feel tight and itchy, and Derek keeps him there so he can't hurt himself, whispers words he can't understand, and he calms a little. Relaxes enough so when the knot grows even thicker, he can take it.
His insides flood with fluid warmth. Derek's fingers brush over his cock, having softened while the knot was growing, it starts to harden again. Stiles rests on his elbows, Derek wraps an arm around his chest, a hand around his cock, and he strokes.
Stiles feels full, so full, getting fuller all the time. He feels every pulse of Derek's cock, of the knot, and he thinks Derek might never stop coming. Derek's hand moves over his cock in time with the spasms inside him, brings him slowly, slowly to the point of coming, and when he comes, he feels his ass clamp down on Derek's cock, on the knot, locking them together completely.
Nothing else exists until Stiles opens his eyes. The roughness of Derek's cheek resting against his shoulder, the tight band of Derek's arm locked around his chest, Derek's sticky hand on his thigh, the hot, hard, enduring pressure in his ass. "Oh my god," he rasps, his throat sore, though he can't remember yelling. He gulps in air, desperate to gain back the breath he lost.
Derek is so still he could be sleeping, slow warm breath spreads over Stiles' skin. When Stiles catches his breath, he reaches back, running his fingers through Derek's damp hair. "You alive up there?"
Derek hums, nuzzles Stiles' hand. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah," he says. "You're getting a little heavy though." He tries to stretch his back, but he can't move.
Derek lifts his weight off. "I'm going to lie us down. Just let me do it, okay?"
Stiles nods, lets Derek roll them both with his arms around Stiles' waist. The knot tugs a little, making him ache, but it eases as soon as he's on his side, Derek behind him, hips pressed close to his ass. Breathing at the same time, long seconds pass. Stiles turns his head on the pillow, looks up at the ceiling. Derek's face comes into view.
Stiles looks up into Derek's eyes. "I guess I'm stuck with you now."
"Funny." Derek cracks a smile, and once again, it fades. "Does it hurt?"
It aches, but in a comforting way. Stiles shakes his head. "It's okay."
Derek still looks worried.
Stiles reaches up, loops his arm around Derek's neck, pulls him down for a kiss. With the taste of Derek in his mouth, Derek's cock still in his ass, Stiles feels... Right. This feels right.
He tries to wrap his other arm around Derek's neck. Plaster hits wood, then bone, Derek jerks back, wincing.
"Shit," Stiles says. "Sorry."
"I'm here, I'm here," Stiles says as he barrels through the open front door of Isaac's house, six pizza boxes balanced in his arms. One of them is still in a cast, and the top box threatens to slide out from under it.
"In here," Scott calls, and Stiles follows his voice through into the living room where he can smell beer and hear the FBI warning as a DVD begins.
It's the first time they've come together as a group since the Alpha Pack fight, and there's only a week before the summer ends and everyone, bar Derek, goes back to school. Stumbling blindly, he finds the coffee table and dumps his load in the center, then looks around. Every seat is taken. He sighs, then prepares to sit on the floor.
Before his ass hits the carpet, both Jackson and Isaac are on their feet. As one, they say, "You can have my seat."
The two betas look at one another. Isaac shrugs and finds a seat on the floor. Jackson looks uncomfortable, then slides onto the carpet at Lydia's feet.
Stiles throws himself onto the couch between Scott and Derek. He spreads out, sitting sideways, leaning into Derek's side. "Someone beer me."
Isaac and Jackson both rise from the floor. Jackson's half way to the kitchen before he stops, turns around. "What the hell?" Isaac keeps going, returns with a beer from the fridge, twists off the cap, and hands it to Stiles, before dropping back to the floor.
"Thanks." Stiles grins.
Lydia pats Jackson on the head when he finally returns. "You two did it, didn't you?" she says.
Stiles twists around to look at her. "What?" He can feel his face heat as she stares back, a knowing look on her face. "What? No. Maybe." He glances at Derek, who lifts his bottle to his lips and says nothing, then back at Lydia. "How did you know?"
She lifts her chin, looks at Derek. "He's the Alpha. You're his mate. That makes you sort of an Alpha too. The betas have to do what you say. It's obvious, really."
Jackson jerks. "What? No way. I'm not—" He looks at Stiles. "I don't—" He slumps, closes his eyes. "Fuck."
Stiles sits up straight. "Really? That's awesome." He looks at the top pizza box. "Scott, pass me a slice of pizza?"
Scott snorts. "Get it yourself." He smirks. "Derek's not my Alpha."
Final epic thanks to sapphirescribe and venis_envy. They've been awesome, fitting me in around their own fandom and real life stuff. Thank you so much, girls!