By Any Other Name 3/4
Title: By Any Other Name 3/4
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Pairing: Derek/Stiles
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: 2x12
Word Count: 32,000
Warnings: Amnesia, violence
Disclaimer: In no way mine, or anything to do with me, I own nothing.
Summary: He doesn't know his name, he doesn't know who he is, and neither does the werewolf he's on the run with. But he's pretty sure they hunt monsters, because they seem to be really good at it.
Stiles stares at himself in the motel's bathroom mirror. His face is red on one side, most of it centered on his cheekbone, but there's a curve of colour waiting to appear around his eye. He thinks it'll be bruised tomorrow, that there will be significant bruising tomorrow. He's shaking a little, but he thinks that's the adrenaline, the realisation that they could have died today, or at least ended up hurt worse than this. He has to wonder how many times he's felt that. How many times they've gone back to - wherever they usually go to when the dust settles, with the knowledge that they could have both died.
Or maybe they're both so badass that they just don't do that any more. Maybe they don't even think about things like that any more - and he doesn't know whether that thought reassures him, or just makes him horribly sad. Either way, they're almost certainly better at it than he feels right now. Better at dealing with it, accepting the consequences of it, maybe? Though something about his face, with its soft edges and ridiculous nose, something about the way it looks haunted. It says he still feels like this sometimes. It can't be as easy as he thinks it is. Maybe his other self - maybe he struggles with it too.
He throws his shirt over the rickety chair in the corner, wets the towel and presses it against his eye. It doesn't really hurt yet, it just feels hot and tight, sensitive to the touch.
When he looks in the mirror again, Derek's standing behind him.
"Yeah, the lurking in the background waiting to jump out at people never gets old, or is in any way disturbing. You're a complete creeper, you know that?"
Derek comes close enough to curl his hands around Stiles's bare arms, more gently than he's expecting. They fold there and hold him without squeezing. As if Derek just wants to touch him. Stiles lets the towel fall into the sink, twists until his ass hits the porcelain. Until he's leaning away from the width of Derek's chest, warmth curling off him, eyebrows pulled together, and Stiles can see his eyes working their way over the side of his face.
"I'm fine," Stiles says quietly. Because it's almost the truth. He's fine - he will be fine.
Derek's palms move over him, with the sort of familiarity which he should probably want to examine closer. Stiles knows that he's checking him over, making sure that he's not hurt anywhere else. He knows Derek wants to see for himself that the scrape on his cheek, and the bruises up his arm are the only marks on him.
"I'm fine," Stiles says again, not forcefully, because he's in no hurry to push Derek's hands away from his skin. The warmth of them, there's something reassuring about that, about the way they hold him still, ground him in the too-bright, shitty, motel bathroom. "I'm fine," he says, and tries to make that the last time, hopes he sounds it, if only to reassure Derek. He's still a little shaky, but he's not longer shaking. Because it's really hard to feel like the world is collapsing in on itself when Derek has his hands on him. Stiles doesn't know what that says about him, what that says about them.
His own hands are in Derek's shirt, not moving, just curled in the fabric. Some stupid attempt to make sure he stays. As if Derek wasn't going to do that anyway - and he doesn't know how he knows that, he just does.
"Derek," he says, because he can. They're both alive, and this thing viewed from the outside has to be insane. What they're doing is insane, and terrifying. But Stiles thinks that they saved people today, and he doesn't even know what to do with that. He doesn't know how to feel about that. One of Derek's hands has made its way up to his throat, curled there, thumb brushing where his pulse is jumping under the skin. Stiles had almost forgotten the fist that had pushed into his windpipe. He wonders if there's a mark there.
The low, unhappy noise that Derek makes tells Stiles that he doesn't know what he's doing either - and then Derek's leaning in and kissing him, where he's backed up against the sink, waist held almost too tightly in Derek's hand. He's kissing Stiles like he never wants to stop, all open mouth, and heat, and wet slide of tongue. Stiles has a hand fisted in Derek's shirt, the other curled behind him on the sink. Something clatters there, and Stiles pushes harder into the kiss, feels the scrape of stubble against his skin, the way Derek tenses like he wants to hike him up against the sink. But he's restraining himself. Stiles tips his head back, swears when his mouth falls free.
"Tell me if you want me to stop," Derek says, biting the words into his jaw. "Tell me if you don't want this."
Stiles doesn't have to ask what he means, because it's them, it's everything. It's whether to be what they used to be, and it's getting harder and harder to ignore the fact that they both want that. Stiles hauls Derek closer, by his shirt, kisses him again. Because he can safely say that this is the only thing he wants in the whole damn world right now. He tightens his fingers, struggles to talk through the roar of blood, and the sharp, sudden greed of his own body.
"This is good," he manages, but that's not enough. "I want this, this is me telling you that I definitely want this. You have no idea, God, Derek." His fingers tighten in Derek's shirt, strangle the fabric and he watches it pull down, expose the smooth curve of Derek's throat, the hard ridge of his collarbone. It makes him sigh out a breath.
"I want you to smell like you're mine." Derek makes it sound so rough and honest.
Jesus, how can he just say things like that, like they're normal? Because it makes Stiles's insides twist into some sort of aroused knot. He doesn't even really know what he means, but it's ok, it's all ok.
"Oh my - yeah, ok," Stiles is trying to haul him closer, even though that's a physical impossibility right now. "Lets go with that."
They stumble through the door into the bedroom, and Derek just shoves the bag off the bed, letting the contents cascade out of it, into a spray on the carpet. Then he sits on the bed, hauling Stiles in, between his spread thighs, and biting at the naked warmth of his stomach. Derek pulls his jeans open without looking, and Stiles is already hard under the edge of his hand, harder when Derek palms him, and tilts his head back so he can see his face.
Stiles is watching it all, pushing his fingers through Derek's hair, resisting the urge to grip it tight and tug it, tip Derek's head back further, lean down and kiss him - God, he wonders if he would have done that before. If he would have been brave enough to do all of that. Fuck it, he does it anyway, before he can talk himself out of it, before he can think too much about what he would and wouldn't do. He clutches Derek's hair tight and pulls, and then leans down and opens Derek's mouth with clumsy kisses. Derek's pushing him out of his jeans, big hands sliding into his boxers and taking them too. The quick thump of adrenaline is still making everything feel jittery and unreal. But Stiles lets Derek strip him, lets him lay his hands on his skin, grip tight and haul him down the bed, mouth hot and open on his chest, wet against his throat - and then pressed hard against his own mouth.
Derek's still sliding his hands on Stiles like he doesn't think he's allowed.
"I want to fuck you," Derek says, thready and rough. "Tell me I can do that, tell me you want that." It sounds more like a demand than a question, but Stiles doesn't even care.
"Yeah," he says quietly, heart slamming in his chest, thighs tensing. He feels hot and strangely greedy at the thought of it. "Ok." Because he does, he does want that. You can be nervous and still want something. You can want something without really knowing what it will feel like, what it will mean.
There's lotion in the bathroom, and Stiles thinks maybe this is how it goes for them, fight evil witches, stop in shitty motel rooms, and fuck using bathroom supplies. Like a pornographic version of Supernatural, only without the awesome soundtrack and the incestuous overtones.
He ends up with his legs spread, one hand thrown over his head and fisted in the sheets, while Derek breathes against the naked line of his cock, close enough to open his mouth there. Stiles is groaning before anything even happens, at just the thought of it, biting down on his lip, and pushing a knee into Derek's armpit in a way that says 'please, please, you bastard.' He's not sure how to ask, not sure if he can, throat locked up with anticipation, and nerves, and lust. Derek nudges his thighs open around his shoulders, slides there like he was made to fit, until one of Stiles's legs is looped over the muscled length of his forearm, spread in a way he'd feel embarrassed about, if Derek wasn't currently running the flat of his tongue along the entire length of his dick. Nothing in his head - no last, lingering self consciousness, or embarrassment can survive that. All the air catches in Stiles's throat, and he clenches, tightens all over, and just begs.
"Oh my God, don't stop, please don't stop -"
The words cut off completely when Derek opens his mouth and takes him in. It's all burning heat, and stubble, and shivery wet suction, and Stiles cannot stay still for that. Jesus Christ, it's like he's never done this before, and he just wants to fist his hands in Derek's hair - he lets one slide down, touches tentatively at Derek's shoulder, neck, and the dark spikes of his hair. Only to let it slide away again. Until Derek catches his wrist and pulls it back - and, oh, that's good, he can do that, that's totally permission to do that. Derek lets him tug, lets his hips jerk, and twist, and rock up into him, and it's all a shuddering, beautiful mess of Derek, and Derek's huge impossible shoulders, and his mouth, open and wet and all the way around him. All of which Stiles is stuttering out loud, too embarrassed to think about what he's saying, but too stunned to keep it all in, voice a garble of words, cut through occasionally with Derek's name. It's too much, and Stiles doesn't know how to stop it.
"I'm going to come," he says, soft and a little apologetic. But he wants it so much, wants it desperately. He doesn't care if it's too soon. He just needs it right now. "Derek."
Derek pins him still and sinks down, all the way, and Stiles's orgasm leaves him stuttering half words, and clenching his hand so tight in Derek's hair.
"Oh my God, oh my God, Derek."
Derek lets him slip free, into the chill air of the room, and he makes a shaky noise of loss. But he can't form words any more, because Derek has completely ruined him. Derek has ruined him forever. He's spread out, and still shivering a little, and Derek is biting the muscle of his thigh with blunt teeth, breath flaring hotly against the skin. Stiles can hear the snap of plastic, and it doesn't make sense until Derek's easing his thigh to one side, pushing a slippery finger into him. It's strange and foreign, and Stiles isn't sure what to do with it at first. But Derek's making soft noises in his throat, pressing in, and easing him open with a thumb so he can see, and Stiles should probably be embarrassed, but the way Derek just grunts out a breath is so fucking hot. He spreads his legs a little more, and Derek adds another finger, watching his face, watching for his reactions. But it doesn't hurt exactly, it's just different, weirdly intimate. It's more what's going to happen, what Derek wants, what he's going to do. Stiles stretches a hand down and digs his nails into Derek's shoulder.
"You good?" Derek asks roughly.
"So good," Stiles manages brokenly, still a little wrecked. "So very much of the good."
Derek's three fingers deep now, it's a stretch that aches, body protesting a little, but Derek's other hand is clenching and relaxing on Stiles's thigh, and his eyes look savage. Stiles wants to know suddenly, if Derek used to look at him like that all the time. Because he can see how that would break someone open. That naked, almost aggressive desire. Stiles's cock twitches against his stomach. Heel sliding in the sheet. He draws in a breath when Derek effortlessly rearranges his body to make it easier, to make his fingers push deeper.
Stiles thinks he really wants to be fucked.
"I don't remember how to do this," he says, rushed and apologetic, but he needs to say it, needs to explain it. "I thought it would be instinctive, but I don't remember. I don't know how good I'm going to be."
"You'll be amazing," Derek says, he kisses the bare curve of Stiles's hip, scrapes his teeth there and pulls him closer. "You already are."
God, Stiles knows that everyone says stupid things when they have sex, but that is so - this is going to be ok. Derek stretches up to kiss him, to bite at his mouth, before he's leaning back and away, stomach tensing. Stiles is rolled in the sheets, and pulled up to his knees, and he can't help the quiet snort that escapes, because of course they're going to do it in this position. He's shaking again, which is stupid because he knows they must have done this, but he doesn't remember it. He doesn't remember anything, but this feels right. This feels like something that they can do.
Derek's fingers are back inside him, stretching him out again in quick, hard pushes, before sliding free. The bottle hits the carpeted floor. Stiles is breathing too fast, teeth pulling at his lower lip, hot and nervous when Derek spreads him open, when he pulls him back by his hips, presses in and pushes. It hurts a little, everything is too big, and Stiles doesn't know where to put his knees, how to brace himself on his hands. Derek makes this low, punched-out noise when he sinks deeper, and Stiles hisses, tries to adjust to it. Because that is a large intrusion into his personal space. Derek growls, harsh in his throat, like he wants to just fuck deep into him, and Stiles really hopes he's not going to do that just yet, because everything feels too much already.
"Wait," Stiles says, because he needs just a second. "Please, just wait a second."
Derek goes still, hands tight on his skin, but he lets Stiles settle, lets him adjust, lets him press his forehead into the pillow and breathe - shift his body into the push to try and make it easier.
"Stiles," Derek says eventually, low and gritty, and Stiles can feel him trembling where he's curved over his back. He can feel the tension in him, gone tight in stillness. The flex of fingers on his waist, the tension of thighs against his own, and Stiles has no idea how much it costs him to be gentle, to go slow.
"God, yeah, ok, gently." There's so much to go in, and Stiles is breathing in gutted little groans, trying to adjust to it.
It's an awkward rhythm that never really gets completely comfortable. Stiles doesn't remember how to move into it, doesn't know how to take it any more. But Derek goes slowly, takes it easy, and every so often there's a spark of gut-tightening pleasure, and Stiles huffs out a gasp. He's half hard, body not sure if it's being punished, or rewarded, but interested just the same. Derek is heavy and burning hot, strong enough to put Stiles wherever he wants. But he's making noises, low, breathy whimpers and cracked groans, like Stiles isn't the only one who's dealing with too much. It's good in a way that's sharp and almost overwhelming. Until it becomes something that Stiles finds himself pushing back into, driving those broken noises out of Derek every time.
Stiles tries to touch himself, wants so badly to touch himself, but he can't hold himself up on one hand.
"Fuck, please, I can't, please." Frustration punched out in a rough fall of words. But Derek's hand moves from the bend of his waist to the heavy jut of his cock, all hot fingers and tight grip, and Stiles hisses gratitude and pushes into it.
Derek folds over his body, fingers biting into his hip. Until he's curled tight over him, all the way inside him, when Stiles comes with a gasping noise that sounds like a sob. His whole body clenches, and Derek makes a low noise in his throat, bites, hard but brief, at his shoulder, before going still, letting him ride it out. Until Stiles is shivery and loose, listening to his heart pound and whimpering through the comedown. Derek starts moving again, his hands slide up Stiles's back, and grip around his shoulders. Stiles just relaxes into it, and lets Derek take what he needs, body bending until he's down on his forearms, ass raised. Derek says fuck, over and over, rhythm broken into something jagged and greedy. It's good, and it hurts a little, but Stiles is clawing at the sheets, and turning his face against the pillows, skin burning
"Derek."
Derek shudders to a stop, stream of words bitten off when he comes, and Stiles can feel it, he's not expecting to but he does. Derek pants his way through it, claws blunt human nails against Stiles's skin, and then Derek just curls over Stiles's body like he doesn't want to stop, drags his teeth over the bowed curve of his neck, in a way that feels so intimate that he shudders.
"Oh my God," Stiles says thickly. He feels sweaty and achy and so, so good.
Derek groans agreement and eases out gently. Stiles's limbs just give up completely, and he has his face in the pillow, finding a space to breathe, eyes shut, fingers curled weakly in the sheet. He's still shivery with the lassitude of post-orgasm awesomeness. But there's a sharp ache there too, and his insides feels bruised and disarranged.
Derek's hot palm is spread low on his back, which feels a little possessive. But Stiles is sort of glad of that at the moment. Because he feels thin and light, and weirdly fragile, like this is a place where things could go wrong if he doesn't say the right thing, or do the right thing, or something. But Derek's the one who's curling closer, body pressing in warm, heavy lines along Stiles's side. He presses his nose into Stiles's ear, breathes there, quiet and steady. Which is unfair because Stiles's chest still feels tight, back sweaty and damp, pulse tripping in every breath.
"Stiles, can I -?" Derek starts. But he doesn't seem to know how to finish the sentence.
"I'm gonna go with, yeah, you can do whatever you want," Stiles mumbles out, and he sounds a little drunk, but he just let the guy enthusiastically fuck him, so he's pretty sure they can work everything else out.
But Derek is already sliding down the bed, spreading his thighs wider and sinking down and, oh my God, running his tongue where Stiles is still warm and sore, and slick with Derek's come. He should maybe protest, but he's too busy biting back a groan, because that is so wrong, and yet - he's spreading his thighs, and making choked noises in his throat.
"This is a werewolf thing, isn't it?" Stiles says hoarsely, and gets a hot stab of tongue for his snark.
Not complaining, so not complaining.
*****
He wakes up to find Derek dragging his teeth over the bend of his throat, all hot breath and sharpness - and oh fuck, if Stiles wasn't already hard that would have done it. It's not morning yet, the room's still mostly dark, heavy and warm, and it's strange to wake up tangled up with Derek after they - after they'd had sex. Stiles hadn't had a chance to think about what it all meant yet, to think about what this changed. Now they were...sleeping together, it's different. That's what they're doing, he assumes, sleeping together. Together? He doesn't know, he's forgotten how their relationship works. He's forgotten how to have a relationship. But he'd really, really like to have this one. If that's an option.
"So you don't regret the whole sex thing then?" Stiles says carefully. Which sounds overly loud and destructive in the quiet of the room. Because that's more of his insecurity than he wanted to show.
Derek growls, and mouths across his neck and the bend of his shoulder, teeth scraping in gentle pulls.
Stiles is going to take that as an emphatic no, and he's immediately shivery with relief - not just relief. Derek's dragging him in, pressing tight against his back. He's hard again, all wandering hands and hot mouth and obvious, obvious interest in continuing what they started yesterday. Stiles had expected that there'd be more talking, and awkwardness and - things that weren't this. Is it really this easy?
"Maybe you should - oh, God, I can't make sentences when you do that."
Derek rolls and stretches over him, until he can crush all Stiles's words under his mouth.
"I like kissing you, you feel so fucking new." Derek's voice is all early morning roughness, and promise.
Stiles can't help the way his hands lift to Derek's waist, fingertips pushing into the skin.
"I'm seventeen, and I have an unbelievably hot, werewolf boyfriend, I think I only feel new because you don't remember me. Or maybe you don't kiss me, maybe you just roll me over and -" Stiles can't finish that. Even after having Derek all the way inside him once already. That doesn't mean he isn't thinking about it though, or wanting it.
"Do you want me to?" Derek asks, and Stiles is pretty sure that if he says yes Derek will do exactly that. All he has to do is say yes and Derek will tug him up to his knees and fuck him again - and he can't think about anything but that now. Stiles has a hot boyfriend he can have sex with whenever he wants. His brain is kind of an asshole for holding out on him, because he thinks remembering that would be - will be amazing. Though there is a small flaw in the otherwise awesome morning plan.
"Don't think I wouldn't say yes," Stiles says. "Because I would. Constantly, if I could get away with it, you and sex are an awesome combination. But my ass is still kind of - not up for a repeat round yet."
"Mine's fine," Derek murmurs into his skin.
Which - oh my God - fuck, yes. Yes.
*****
They do both get in the shower eventually. Though it takes a while to get to the whole cleaning part.
*****
It's hard to settle down with the stuff they took from the house, to open the cases and bags, and search through the belongings of the people they'd killed. Stiles tells himself that they all wanted the stone. They were all prepared to power it, and use it, and he shouldn't feel sorry for any of them. They were bad people. But they were still people, and their stuff just makes it more obvious. Tangled phone chargers that had been badly rolled up, keyrings, pens without lids and chewed ends, receipts and notes, and grocery lists. Their jackets and bags aren't full of evil witch paraphernalia, they're just full of people things. The most important things might be Marcus's phone, and the laptop belonging to the woman, Christie. Though the laptop is password protected, and Stiles has no idea how to get into it. Because computer hacking skills are clearly not part of his muscle memory. He has no idea if he was good at that before, but he's worse than useless now.
Marcus's bag has less people things in it, and more creepy shit (which is probably not a technical, magical term, but it applies, so Stiles doesn't care.) There are thin sticks in plastic bags, that smell incredibly suspect, feathers and tattoo ink, and what looks like a set of knuckledusters for a man with seven fingers. There's a pendulum on the end of a long piece of string, with what looks like blood on it, inside a plastic case. Which seems familiar but he's not sure how. Oddly shaped bones, and sheets of paper with writing Stiles can't read. He doesn't really want to touch any of it of it (and some things he wants to touch significantly less than others,) so he just pokes it with a motel pen instead. Also, there are books, old books with tiny cramped writing, and few pictures. Stiles doesn't think they were written for anyone whose knowledge of magical theory isn't bewilderingly deep. It's almost like if someone with a vague interest in astronomy was given a thousand page essay on string-theory. He doesn't have a hope.
Derek's sitting loose-limbed, and half-naked and beautiful against the headboard. Stiles's ability to concentrate on dry, centuries-old magical history? theory? is severely damaged by that. Especially now he knows what Derek feels like. Now they're together again, properly, or something like it. He's not used to the way Derek touches him like he can't believe he ever stopped. Which Stiles isn't sure he's ever going to get used to.
But it's pretty freakin' distracting. He chances a look over the book he's flicking through.
"I don't know enough about magic to know what half this stuff is. I mean, I could make a guess but I'd probably be wrong at least half the time, and it's safe to say these books are almost completely impenetrable, to me at least." He drops them on the table, and drifts over to the bed, lets Derek pull him close enough to kiss, and Stiles doesn't resist, doesn't even remember how to want to resist. If he'd known Derek would make it this easy to kiss him - Stiles would have been less afraid of it. "I don't know what I'm doing," he admits, angry with himself for not being better at this, for not being able to figure out more of it.
Derek just pulls him down into the warm, heavy curve of his body, breathes a laugh into the side of his neck. Fingertips dragging through Stiles's short hair. Before he's over him, kissing down, nails drifting up his ribs.
"I have to keep looking through their stuff," Stiles says, words falling out reluctantly between biting kisses. "I have to find something."
"Tomorrow," Derek says fiercely, hand already pushing into the loose waistband of Stiles's borrowed jeans. "Tomorrow."
*****
12345 - stoneofechoes - marcus - christie12345
Stiles's attempts to guess Christie's password are not going well. He gets the feeling she was probably smart enough to not have picked something obvious. It doesn't help that he doesn't know anything about her. No personal information, no birth date, no likes or dislikes. All he really knows is that she was a vindictive bitch, one that hung around with a group of witches who were willing to sacrifice children for power, and what she'd sounded like when she screamed. Which isn't anything to base any sort of relationship on, or to get into her very secret laptop. Derek is the one who'd killed her, which is about as intimate as you can get with someone, but Stiles is fairly sure he'd have even less luck. Stiles doesn't think Derek is a fan of modern technology. He supposes that growing up in the woods, in a huge pack of werewolves - which is his favourite fake childhood for Derek - that he'd find it kind of hard to make time for Facebook too.
He switches to Marcus's phone, which isn't password protected. That would probably be more helpful if he actually knew what he was looking for. There are no full names in the phone book, only code names and numbers, and there are no messages. There is a calendar, with all the phases of the moon clearly marked. One of them, the new moon, is highlighted and has a note. 'Active.' He swivels it so Derek can see. Derek pushes off the bed and comes closer, hand curling round Stiles's neck like he has to touch him, like he can't help itself.
"He clearly had a plan for the new moon. Something we need to know, something we could use, maybe?"
"Or something completely unrelated to any of this," Derek suggests. Because optimism is clearly not Derek's thing.
"Hey, I'm trying here. You're not exactly helping with this, and someone kept me up all night, so wild stabs at things is all I've got at the moment. You could try making a few wild stabs of your own, you know."
Derek makes a grumbling noise that sounds annoyed, but shoves a hand up under the back of Stiles's shirt anyway, fingers shifting mindlessly on his bare skin, some strange refusal - or inability - to be mad at him any more.
"There's a red mark on the new moon," Stiles adds. "It must be important in some way. Something to do with Frain."
Derek looks at him, and he obviously thinks Stiles is reaching for something that isn't there. He sighs and tosses the phone on the table.
"So we look for him again, using his name, and the reports of disappearances." Stiles curls his hands into fists, frustrated and angry, because if they have to wait for children to disappear to get a lead on him, then Frain has already won. "We'll find him again. We will."
"You know that for sure?"
"Yeah." Stiles scratches at his bare shoulder, where Derek's shirt has slipped to one side. Derek follows the movement with his thumb, and Stiles is left staring at the calendar for a second.
"You're very distracting," he admits, when he can't catch the edge of his last thought.
"Uh huh," Derek agrees, thumb moving in circles, around and around - smaller and smaller circles.
"Holy shit." Stiles is off the chair and over by the bed, bending over it and rifling in their bag for the laptop before dragging it out. He jigs from foot to foot while it boots up and then finds Google, and types in 'locater spells, pendulum.' There's a lot of rubbish, but there are also pictures. Heavy pendulums on string, and maps. He flails a hand out, open and shut, impatient. "Did you get the maps from the gas station?"
Derek's already unfolding them on the table. As if he's following his thoughts. Stiles digs in Marcus's things, pulls out the pendulum.
"So I'm guessing this is Frain's blood, yes?" He slips it out of the case and tips it into the light, until the red-brown stains are more visible. "They weren't looking for anyone else."
"It's definitely blood," Derek agrees. Unlike Stiles he doesn't have to look at it. "And it's supposed to find him? Can we even do this? We're not witches, can we make a spell work? Do we want to?""
"Do you have any better ideas?" Stiles says, and he's straightening the largest map. He holds the pendulum over it, runs a hand down the string to settle it. But nothing happens. The only jiggle in the string, is from his own hand. "Shit, why isn't this working?"
"It seems a little obvious," Derek says slowly, because clearly he's an expert all of a sudden. "You're not supposed to do anything else with it?"
Stiles shrugs, helplessly, he'd expected it to work, and he's not sure whether to feel frustrated or embarrassed that nothing's happening.
"You're supposed to just hold it. It's supposed to do all the searching on its own. It's meant to swing, and then you ease it down until it stops against the map. Hang on." Stiles swings the laptop round again, kneeling up on the chair, until he can bend over the table. "Something about people with magical protection -" Stiles stops. "Oh, it won't work on people with magical protection." His sinks to his knees on the chair.
"Which I'm assuming Frain has," Derek points out. "He'd have to."
Stiles frowns.
"But the others found him, they had his blood, they must have found a way past it. Hang on, hang on, reading. Magical protection works...unless it's a new moon."
He juggles Marcus's phone, and the laptop and the pendulum, until Derek takes the laptop from him. Then he spins Marcus's phone to face Derek, calendar still glowing on the screen.
"We have to wait three weeks to find out where Frain is," Stiles says fiercely. "But we can find him."
*****
Stiles thinks three weeks is going to feel like a lifetime. The two of them, pushed together in random motel rooms, trying to remember how to get along, living in each other's space, dealing with the fact that they were sleeping together again. He doesn't want to fight with Derek, now his life feels something like stable, for all that there isn't much of it. Only there isn't any trying to remember how to be around each other, there isn't any knocking up against each other's edges. It's easier than it should be. They argue over laundry, they compromise on food, they watch too much late night TV, and Derek still won't let him drive the Camaro (he can't even remember that first frantic drive out of Beacon Hills.) Occasionally they scroll through the local news stories, Stiles tapping a pen against anything that looks suspicious, while Derek watches him, like he knows exactly what he's thinking.
Stiles eventually worries about the full moon, which creeps up on them slowly, almost without them noticing. He asks Derek about it, over boxes of Chinese food, because he doesn't want it to be the elephant in the room. It's pretty much the only thing he knows about werewolves after all - if it turns out to be true.
"Are you going to, like, turn into a wolf, an actual wolf?" Stiles asks, dragging one of Derek's boxes within range of his chopsticks. Because he's apparently the type of person that has to try everything.
Derek shrugs. "Hell if I know."
"I mean, not that that wouldn't be amazingly cool and everything, if you did. Because it would, if you're worried. But I'd kind of like some sort of warning if that's going to happen. Or if you're going to be - I don't know - something more like the giant savage wolfman that you see in Hollywood movies."
Derek doesn't seem to think that's a compliment.
"I don't know exactly." He shrugs. "But I guess we'll find out."
"That's what I mean though, is it -" Stiles stops. Because he isn't sure how to say this to the guy you're sleeping with. "Should we find somewhere to put you," he asks cautiously. "I mean like locking you away for it, until it's...not the full moon any more?"
Derek pauses, chopsticks half way to his mouth. He frowns, as if he hadn't even thought about whether he'd be dangerous on the full moon.
"I don't - I don't think so. I don't think it's going to be dangerous. I don't feel like I'm going to be dangerous. it's more like -" he sets his food down, face twisting in thought. "It's more like the waves are getting a stronger. Like I'm getting stronger as it gets closer, clearer, and everything is almost - I don't know - easier to touch, inside me. But the control is still there. I still have a handle on it. I can feel it rolling there, under the skin. But thinking about things, you, what we're doing, makes it settle." He shakes his head and frowns. "It's hard to explain."
Stiles leaves him the last spring roll.
"I don't know. I think you did a pretty good job." He trusts Derek, he does. Not just because he's the only person in his life right now. Because Derek tries to do what's right, even though he doesn't remember why.
So, yeah, the full moon mostly passes without any sort of transformation, or screaming, or silver chains. Nothing really happens at all.
Apart from the sex.
The sex is fucking awesome.
-
They learn, over a lazy weekend, that Derek can't get drunk, and Stiles absolutely can - also hangovers are evil and should be genetically bred out of human beings, so no one has to suffer like that - silver doesn't do anything to Derek. Stiles has no idea how to get his hands on wolfsbane to test that out. Derek isn't all that fond of the idea, protesting that if it drove him mad he could be dangerous to not only Stiles but everyone else in the vicinity. Reckless experimentation seems to be Stiles's thing. Getting pissy about being a guinea pig is apparently Derek's thing. Though Stiles can't really fault him for that.
-
A spate of animal attacks that leave nothing but messy corpses behind, leads then fifty miles north. Stiles isn't sure about heading into the woods, but Derek seems to know what he's doing, and he can sprint through them like nothing Stiles has ever seen, faster when he gives in and drops to all fours. Which is pretty fucking insane to watch, if he's honest.
It's a group of rogue werewolves, smaller than Derek. They're clearly afraid of him, they call him 'Alpha,' and they look at Stiles like he's food. Stiles spends half a night pushing stranded hikers towards safety, while the woods are full of snarling and crunching, and wet noises of pain.
He worries, he can't help it. He worries for Derek, because werewolves are the same level as him. They're a threat to him. But he also worries that Derek will find something out here, someone, some werewolf. He worries that Derek will choose them instead.
Instead Derek leaves the last werewolf's shattered body at the bottom of a ravine, and limps back to the car. Then spends the whole drive back staring at the place where the rogue werewolf had grabbed Stiles, at the long, messy scratches he'd left behind on his wrist - and when they get back to the room he's clearly restraining himself from putting his mouth there. The raw drive of it, leaves Stiles breathless.
"It's fine," Stiles says, dragging his shirt off. "Do it, I know you want to."
-
Derek's the one who buys a gun. Stiles isn't expecting it, he gets back to the room and it's just sitting on the table, next to the paper and a tall cup of coffee.
"You thought you weren't scary enough already?" Stiles asks, more than a little surprised. Because Derek had never struck him as a gun sort of person.
"It's not for me, it's for you." Derek pushes it awkwardly across the table. Then frowns, as if he's not entirely happy about it.
"You realise I can't kill a werewolf with that, don't you?" Stiles points out. "You're a werewolf, you should know that. As for whatever else is out there -" He shrugs. "Who knows."
"No, but you can hurt one enough to make it think twice, or to let you get to the car," Derek says. He's clearly been thinking about this. Stiles thinks the whole werewolf chase in the woods rattled him more than he let on.
Stiles sighs and picks it up, checks it isn't loaded without even thinking about it. Then stares at his own hands
"I think it's safe to say you've done that before," Derek says quietly, he looks just as surprised as Stiles feels. "You wanted to know something about yourself." Derek's expression is worried, which probably says more about what Stiles looks like, than what Derek feels about it.
Stiles isn't sure whether he wanted to know that about himself or not.
He puts the gun in the trunk, and does his best to forget about it.
-
There's a ghost in a hospital, two hundred miles out of their way, but they go anyway.
Stiles and Derek spend a night digging bones out of a basement floor, while the victims of an angel of mercy hold off her ghostly claws. Stiles doesn't know where to take the bones, what to do with them. So they toss them into a river, watch them separate and float away.
They're doing this the best way they know how, and maybe they're doing it wrong, but they're trying.
-
It's Stiles who suggests looking into magical protection, for when they go up against Frain. Derek isn't so sure about the whole fighting magic with magic thing. Stiles protests that that's the whole point, it's not for fighting, it's for protection. Frain has the stone and there's the possibility that he's going to be stupidly powerful when they finally find him. Stiles knows they don't stand a chance against that, unless they can take Frain by surprise, and if he has any followers, werewolves - anything like the trap where they fought Marcus and his group.
Derek hates the idea, but he doesn't object when Stiles researches all their options.
*****
Andrew Frain's secret apartment is a thousand miles back the way they'd come, back towards Beacon Hills. It takes them a couple of days to get there, and judging by the lack of any sign that they were being followed in the last three weeks, Stiles thinks - he hopes - that there are no witches left to follow them.
They check into another motel, just outside town, once Derek's satisfied that the place doesn't smell like witches. Stiles hasn't actually asked what witches smell like yet. He's starting to think he doesn't want to know, since Derek's always wrinkling his nose like he finds them offensive on principle. He can't help but wonder how much he knows about actually being a werewolf, whether it's something he can just feel inside, something he learned as they go, or something he was thrown into. Derek himself seems frustrated more often than he should, and Stiles thinks a lot of this is a mystery to him as well. He doesn't know how that works, but Stiles wonders if he'd woken up as a werewolf, or a vampire or a freakin' merman or something, if he'd immediately know how to be one, or whether the knowledge of it, the how of it, would be a part of himself that he wouldn't remember.
Derek looks significantly less offended when Stiles presses him into the back of the door, cold fingers pulling his shirt out of his jeans. Derek growls, and tries to tug on the too-short length of Stiles's hair, fails miserably.
"I need this, before we look for Frain," Stiles says, between biting kisses. "Fuck, Derek, please. I can't -" He stops there. But Derek knows what he means. He has to know, because Stiles's entire body is screaming it. Just in case.
Just in case.
It's a little harder, a little rougher, than Derek's ever taken him before. He pins Stiles to the bed with a strength that's more that he should be capable of, and every thrust is sharp and deep. Stiles thinks he's getting used to the ache of it, to the way Derek fits against him, and inside him. He knows he's becoming addicted to the noises Derek makes when they're together, like he's breaking into pieces. The way Stiles can change them, make them go low and desperate by pushing his body back just right.
Derek doesn't move off him straight after. He just pulls out and rests against his back, pressing his face down into Stiles's sweat-damp neck, and making a low, rumbling noise. Murmuring words too low to catch.
Eventually Stiles nudges him with an elbow, when Derek's weight isn't quite so comforting any more.
"Come on, dude, you weigh a ton."
Derek growls protest, until Stiles is quiet, shifting his weight just a little, just enough to give Stiles breathing room, but not enough to move away. Then Derek digs his fingers into Stiles's waist, holds him in the middle of the bed, breathing him in. Like he needs this too. Stiles sighs and edges his thighs apart, lets Derek soak himself into every pore. It's amazing Stiles smells of anything but him any more.
"I get the feeling that sometimes you want to do weird, werewolf things to me?" Stiles says quietly. "Things you don't tell me about, because you think they'll freak me out."
Derek's quiet for a while. But Stiles waits for an answer, for the fingers at his waist to relax and stroke down.
"Little bit, yeah," Derek admits.
Which is flattering, or possibly weird. Stiles hasn't decided yet. Though he's apparently into both flattering and weird. Stiles guesses they've had this conversation before after all, or something like it. He knows Derek has instincts that are different to his, that he wants things. He - the before he, the one that slept with Derek and knew who he was, and didn't find any of this strange - he must have wanted things too, must have - he must have liked Derek enough to let him have some of them. All of them?
"We probably did them you know, whatever it is you're thinking. I would have let you, I think. I'm pretty sure I would have let you have whatever you wanted. "
Derek eases his weight down onto him again, nose pressed just above his ear.
"Would you mind if I did now?" he rumbles, curious, hopeful.
Stiles turns his head, until he can just see him over his shoulder.
"Tell me," he says. "Tell me what you want."
Derek breathes into his hair, air warm against his scalp. He doesn't speak for a minute, as if he's not sure if Stiles is serious. Or maybe he just doesn't know what to admit to first.
"I want to stay inside you after I come," he says at last, almost too quiet to hear. He presses his face into Stiles's skin, and the rasp of stubble almost tickles.
"How long?" Stiles asks, curious, because Derek doesn't talk about what he wants much.
"Until you stop squirming," Derek rumbles, like he's thought about it a lot. There's a pause. "Until you fall asleep, maybe."
"What else?" Stiles asks, because he wants to know. He wants to know if any of them are things that he thinks about too.
"I want to bite you," Derek says quietly. "When I'm inside you, hold your neck in my teeth until I leave a mark."
It takes Stiles a second to realise the implication of that, and he's not sure - he's honestly not sure what he thinks about it.
"That's not - that's not a werewolf turning thing is it?" he asks, carefully, he knows that just because it's a thing Derek thinks about, doesn't mean he would actually do it. Not without asking. But there's still that sliver of unease at the thought of it.
Derek's fingers stop moving, and he eases his mouth away from Stiles's skin, as if that wasn't what he'd meant at all.
"No, I don't think - no, I think I have to be - with the fangs to do that."
"You think?"
There's a moment of quiet.
"I know," Derek says firmly. "That's an instinct too, and I don't - I don't want that with you." It's said slowly and quietly, as if Derek isn't entirely sure - no matter what he says.
"You just want to mark me?" Stiles guesses. "Something that shows."
The rush of breath at the back of his neck stops, and then comes back, warmer and harder than before.
"Yes." There's no hesitation there, Derek admits that one straight away.
"Like a 'keep your damn hands off, this is mine,' sort of a mark?" Stiles continues.
"Yes," Derek isn't trying to control the way his voice sounds. "That and more."
"That's kind of messed up," Stiles says, though he reaches a hand back and digs his fingers into Derek's thigh, to show he doesn't really mind. He wants things as well, after all. The difference is he's not brave enough to say them out loud.
"We've been hunting witches with severe memory loss, I'm a werewolf, you're seventeen. I think we reached messed up a while back," Derek murmurs, presses down into his body again.
Which is true, they probably did. They probably reached it long ago, if Stiles is being honest, before they started this. Or maybe when they started this.
"It'd hurt wouldn't it?" he asks.
Derek goes still, hands curled round Stiles's waist, his nails dig in, all warning sharpness.
"Yeah, it'd probably hurt."
Which - doesn't mean he doesn't want it, and that surprises him. Because he hadn't known that was his thing, before - before - shit, just over a month ago. Which isn't any time at all to hope to know everything about yourself, is it?
"I think I might let you do that, next time," he says quietly.
Derek's hand slides up to the back of his neck.
"Don't say that unless you mean it," he growls out, like Stiles has pushed hard enough to make him feel...uncivilised. He kind of likes the idea.
Stiles lets Derek's hand press him forward.
"Don't say that unless you want it too."
Stiles squirms until Derek lets him turn over, and he's slotting their legs together and pulling Derek down, by his stupid, soft, spiky hair.
"I do," he says quietly. "I think I'd let you do that. If we survive Frain I'll let you put your teeth in me, you possessive bastard."
Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3 // Part 4.
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Pairing: Derek/Stiles
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: 2x12
Word Count: 32,000
Warnings: Amnesia, violence
Disclaimer: In no way mine, or anything to do with me, I own nothing.
Summary: He doesn't know his name, he doesn't know who he is, and neither does the werewolf he's on the run with. But he's pretty sure they hunt monsters, because they seem to be really good at it.
Stiles stares at himself in the motel's bathroom mirror. His face is red on one side, most of it centered on his cheekbone, but there's a curve of colour waiting to appear around his eye. He thinks it'll be bruised tomorrow, that there will be significant bruising tomorrow. He's shaking a little, but he thinks that's the adrenaline, the realisation that they could have died today, or at least ended up hurt worse than this. He has to wonder how many times he's felt that. How many times they've gone back to - wherever they usually go to when the dust settles, with the knowledge that they could have both died.
Or maybe they're both so badass that they just don't do that any more. Maybe they don't even think about things like that any more - and he doesn't know whether that thought reassures him, or just makes him horribly sad. Either way, they're almost certainly better at it than he feels right now. Better at dealing with it, accepting the consequences of it, maybe? Though something about his face, with its soft edges and ridiculous nose, something about the way it looks haunted. It says he still feels like this sometimes. It can't be as easy as he thinks it is. Maybe his other self - maybe he struggles with it too.
He throws his shirt over the rickety chair in the corner, wets the towel and presses it against his eye. It doesn't really hurt yet, it just feels hot and tight, sensitive to the touch.
When he looks in the mirror again, Derek's standing behind him.
"Yeah, the lurking in the background waiting to jump out at people never gets old, or is in any way disturbing. You're a complete creeper, you know that?"
Derek comes close enough to curl his hands around Stiles's bare arms, more gently than he's expecting. They fold there and hold him without squeezing. As if Derek just wants to touch him. Stiles lets the towel fall into the sink, twists until his ass hits the porcelain. Until he's leaning away from the width of Derek's chest, warmth curling off him, eyebrows pulled together, and Stiles can see his eyes working their way over the side of his face.
"I'm fine," Stiles says quietly. Because it's almost the truth. He's fine - he will be fine.
Derek's palms move over him, with the sort of familiarity which he should probably want to examine closer. Stiles knows that he's checking him over, making sure that he's not hurt anywhere else. He knows Derek wants to see for himself that the scrape on his cheek, and the bruises up his arm are the only marks on him.
"I'm fine," Stiles says again, not forcefully, because he's in no hurry to push Derek's hands away from his skin. The warmth of them, there's something reassuring about that, about the way they hold him still, ground him in the too-bright, shitty, motel bathroom. "I'm fine," he says, and tries to make that the last time, hopes he sounds it, if only to reassure Derek. He's still a little shaky, but he's not longer shaking. Because it's really hard to feel like the world is collapsing in on itself when Derek has his hands on him. Stiles doesn't know what that says about him, what that says about them.
His own hands are in Derek's shirt, not moving, just curled in the fabric. Some stupid attempt to make sure he stays. As if Derek wasn't going to do that anyway - and he doesn't know how he knows that, he just does.
"Derek," he says, because he can. They're both alive, and this thing viewed from the outside has to be insane. What they're doing is insane, and terrifying. But Stiles thinks that they saved people today, and he doesn't even know what to do with that. He doesn't know how to feel about that. One of Derek's hands has made its way up to his throat, curled there, thumb brushing where his pulse is jumping under the skin. Stiles had almost forgotten the fist that had pushed into his windpipe. He wonders if there's a mark there.
The low, unhappy noise that Derek makes tells Stiles that he doesn't know what he's doing either - and then Derek's leaning in and kissing him, where he's backed up against the sink, waist held almost too tightly in Derek's hand. He's kissing Stiles like he never wants to stop, all open mouth, and heat, and wet slide of tongue. Stiles has a hand fisted in Derek's shirt, the other curled behind him on the sink. Something clatters there, and Stiles pushes harder into the kiss, feels the scrape of stubble against his skin, the way Derek tenses like he wants to hike him up against the sink. But he's restraining himself. Stiles tips his head back, swears when his mouth falls free.
"Tell me if you want me to stop," Derek says, biting the words into his jaw. "Tell me if you don't want this."
Stiles doesn't have to ask what he means, because it's them, it's everything. It's whether to be what they used to be, and it's getting harder and harder to ignore the fact that they both want that. Stiles hauls Derek closer, by his shirt, kisses him again. Because he can safely say that this is the only thing he wants in the whole damn world right now. He tightens his fingers, struggles to talk through the roar of blood, and the sharp, sudden greed of his own body.
"This is good," he manages, but that's not enough. "I want this, this is me telling you that I definitely want this. You have no idea, God, Derek." His fingers tighten in Derek's shirt, strangle the fabric and he watches it pull down, expose the smooth curve of Derek's throat, the hard ridge of his collarbone. It makes him sigh out a breath.
"I want you to smell like you're mine." Derek makes it sound so rough and honest.
Jesus, how can he just say things like that, like they're normal? Because it makes Stiles's insides twist into some sort of aroused knot. He doesn't even really know what he means, but it's ok, it's all ok.
"Oh my - yeah, ok," Stiles is trying to haul him closer, even though that's a physical impossibility right now. "Lets go with that."
They stumble through the door into the bedroom, and Derek just shoves the bag off the bed, letting the contents cascade out of it, into a spray on the carpet. Then he sits on the bed, hauling Stiles in, between his spread thighs, and biting at the naked warmth of his stomach. Derek pulls his jeans open without looking, and Stiles is already hard under the edge of his hand, harder when Derek palms him, and tilts his head back so he can see his face.
Stiles is watching it all, pushing his fingers through Derek's hair, resisting the urge to grip it tight and tug it, tip Derek's head back further, lean down and kiss him - God, he wonders if he would have done that before. If he would have been brave enough to do all of that. Fuck it, he does it anyway, before he can talk himself out of it, before he can think too much about what he would and wouldn't do. He clutches Derek's hair tight and pulls, and then leans down and opens Derek's mouth with clumsy kisses. Derek's pushing him out of his jeans, big hands sliding into his boxers and taking them too. The quick thump of adrenaline is still making everything feel jittery and unreal. But Stiles lets Derek strip him, lets him lay his hands on his skin, grip tight and haul him down the bed, mouth hot and open on his chest, wet against his throat - and then pressed hard against his own mouth.
Derek's still sliding his hands on Stiles like he doesn't think he's allowed.
"I want to fuck you," Derek says, thready and rough. "Tell me I can do that, tell me you want that." It sounds more like a demand than a question, but Stiles doesn't even care.
"Yeah," he says quietly, heart slamming in his chest, thighs tensing. He feels hot and strangely greedy at the thought of it. "Ok." Because he does, he does want that. You can be nervous and still want something. You can want something without really knowing what it will feel like, what it will mean.
There's lotion in the bathroom, and Stiles thinks maybe this is how it goes for them, fight evil witches, stop in shitty motel rooms, and fuck using bathroom supplies. Like a pornographic version of Supernatural, only without the awesome soundtrack and the incestuous overtones.
He ends up with his legs spread, one hand thrown over his head and fisted in the sheets, while Derek breathes against the naked line of his cock, close enough to open his mouth there. Stiles is groaning before anything even happens, at just the thought of it, biting down on his lip, and pushing a knee into Derek's armpit in a way that says 'please, please, you bastard.' He's not sure how to ask, not sure if he can, throat locked up with anticipation, and nerves, and lust. Derek nudges his thighs open around his shoulders, slides there like he was made to fit, until one of Stiles's legs is looped over the muscled length of his forearm, spread in a way he'd feel embarrassed about, if Derek wasn't currently running the flat of his tongue along the entire length of his dick. Nothing in his head - no last, lingering self consciousness, or embarrassment can survive that. All the air catches in Stiles's throat, and he clenches, tightens all over, and just begs.
"Oh my God, don't stop, please don't stop -"
The words cut off completely when Derek opens his mouth and takes him in. It's all burning heat, and stubble, and shivery wet suction, and Stiles cannot stay still for that. Jesus Christ, it's like he's never done this before, and he just wants to fist his hands in Derek's hair - he lets one slide down, touches tentatively at Derek's shoulder, neck, and the dark spikes of his hair. Only to let it slide away again. Until Derek catches his wrist and pulls it back - and, oh, that's good, he can do that, that's totally permission to do that. Derek lets him tug, lets his hips jerk, and twist, and rock up into him, and it's all a shuddering, beautiful mess of Derek, and Derek's huge impossible shoulders, and his mouth, open and wet and all the way around him. All of which Stiles is stuttering out loud, too embarrassed to think about what he's saying, but too stunned to keep it all in, voice a garble of words, cut through occasionally with Derek's name. It's too much, and Stiles doesn't know how to stop it.
"I'm going to come," he says, soft and a little apologetic. But he wants it so much, wants it desperately. He doesn't care if it's too soon. He just needs it right now. "Derek."
Derek pins him still and sinks down, all the way, and Stiles's orgasm leaves him stuttering half words, and clenching his hand so tight in Derek's hair.
"Oh my God, oh my God, Derek."
Derek lets him slip free, into the chill air of the room, and he makes a shaky noise of loss. But he can't form words any more, because Derek has completely ruined him. Derek has ruined him forever. He's spread out, and still shivering a little, and Derek is biting the muscle of his thigh with blunt teeth, breath flaring hotly against the skin. Stiles can hear the snap of plastic, and it doesn't make sense until Derek's easing his thigh to one side, pushing a slippery finger into him. It's strange and foreign, and Stiles isn't sure what to do with it at first. But Derek's making soft noises in his throat, pressing in, and easing him open with a thumb so he can see, and Stiles should probably be embarrassed, but the way Derek just grunts out a breath is so fucking hot. He spreads his legs a little more, and Derek adds another finger, watching his face, watching for his reactions. But it doesn't hurt exactly, it's just different, weirdly intimate. It's more what's going to happen, what Derek wants, what he's going to do. Stiles stretches a hand down and digs his nails into Derek's shoulder.
"You good?" Derek asks roughly.
"So good," Stiles manages brokenly, still a little wrecked. "So very much of the good."
Derek's three fingers deep now, it's a stretch that aches, body protesting a little, but Derek's other hand is clenching and relaxing on Stiles's thigh, and his eyes look savage. Stiles wants to know suddenly, if Derek used to look at him like that all the time. Because he can see how that would break someone open. That naked, almost aggressive desire. Stiles's cock twitches against his stomach. Heel sliding in the sheet. He draws in a breath when Derek effortlessly rearranges his body to make it easier, to make his fingers push deeper.
Stiles thinks he really wants to be fucked.
"I don't remember how to do this," he says, rushed and apologetic, but he needs to say it, needs to explain it. "I thought it would be instinctive, but I don't remember. I don't know how good I'm going to be."
"You'll be amazing," Derek says, he kisses the bare curve of Stiles's hip, scrapes his teeth there and pulls him closer. "You already are."
God, Stiles knows that everyone says stupid things when they have sex, but that is so - this is going to be ok. Derek stretches up to kiss him, to bite at his mouth, before he's leaning back and away, stomach tensing. Stiles is rolled in the sheets, and pulled up to his knees, and he can't help the quiet snort that escapes, because of course they're going to do it in this position. He's shaking again, which is stupid because he knows they must have done this, but he doesn't remember it. He doesn't remember anything, but this feels right. This feels like something that they can do.
Derek's fingers are back inside him, stretching him out again in quick, hard pushes, before sliding free. The bottle hits the carpeted floor. Stiles is breathing too fast, teeth pulling at his lower lip, hot and nervous when Derek spreads him open, when he pulls him back by his hips, presses in and pushes. It hurts a little, everything is too big, and Stiles doesn't know where to put his knees, how to brace himself on his hands. Derek makes this low, punched-out noise when he sinks deeper, and Stiles hisses, tries to adjust to it. Because that is a large intrusion into his personal space. Derek growls, harsh in his throat, like he wants to just fuck deep into him, and Stiles really hopes he's not going to do that just yet, because everything feels too much already.
"Wait," Stiles says, because he needs just a second. "Please, just wait a second."
Derek goes still, hands tight on his skin, but he lets Stiles settle, lets him adjust, lets him press his forehead into the pillow and breathe - shift his body into the push to try and make it easier.
"Stiles," Derek says eventually, low and gritty, and Stiles can feel him trembling where he's curved over his back. He can feel the tension in him, gone tight in stillness. The flex of fingers on his waist, the tension of thighs against his own, and Stiles has no idea how much it costs him to be gentle, to go slow.
"God, yeah, ok, gently." There's so much to go in, and Stiles is breathing in gutted little groans, trying to adjust to it.
It's an awkward rhythm that never really gets completely comfortable. Stiles doesn't remember how to move into it, doesn't know how to take it any more. But Derek goes slowly, takes it easy, and every so often there's a spark of gut-tightening pleasure, and Stiles huffs out a gasp. He's half hard, body not sure if it's being punished, or rewarded, but interested just the same. Derek is heavy and burning hot, strong enough to put Stiles wherever he wants. But he's making noises, low, breathy whimpers and cracked groans, like Stiles isn't the only one who's dealing with too much. It's good in a way that's sharp and almost overwhelming. Until it becomes something that Stiles finds himself pushing back into, driving those broken noises out of Derek every time.
Stiles tries to touch himself, wants so badly to touch himself, but he can't hold himself up on one hand.
"Fuck, please, I can't, please." Frustration punched out in a rough fall of words. But Derek's hand moves from the bend of his waist to the heavy jut of his cock, all hot fingers and tight grip, and Stiles hisses gratitude and pushes into it.
Derek folds over his body, fingers biting into his hip. Until he's curled tight over him, all the way inside him, when Stiles comes with a gasping noise that sounds like a sob. His whole body clenches, and Derek makes a low noise in his throat, bites, hard but brief, at his shoulder, before going still, letting him ride it out. Until Stiles is shivery and loose, listening to his heart pound and whimpering through the comedown. Derek starts moving again, his hands slide up Stiles's back, and grip around his shoulders. Stiles just relaxes into it, and lets Derek take what he needs, body bending until he's down on his forearms, ass raised. Derek says fuck, over and over, rhythm broken into something jagged and greedy. It's good, and it hurts a little, but Stiles is clawing at the sheets, and turning his face against the pillows, skin burning
"Derek."
Derek shudders to a stop, stream of words bitten off when he comes, and Stiles can feel it, he's not expecting to but he does. Derek pants his way through it, claws blunt human nails against Stiles's skin, and then Derek just curls over Stiles's body like he doesn't want to stop, drags his teeth over the bowed curve of his neck, in a way that feels so intimate that he shudders.
"Oh my God," Stiles says thickly. He feels sweaty and achy and so, so good.
Derek groans agreement and eases out gently. Stiles's limbs just give up completely, and he has his face in the pillow, finding a space to breathe, eyes shut, fingers curled weakly in the sheet. He's still shivery with the lassitude of post-orgasm awesomeness. But there's a sharp ache there too, and his insides feels bruised and disarranged.
Derek's hot palm is spread low on his back, which feels a little possessive. But Stiles is sort of glad of that at the moment. Because he feels thin and light, and weirdly fragile, like this is a place where things could go wrong if he doesn't say the right thing, or do the right thing, or something. But Derek's the one who's curling closer, body pressing in warm, heavy lines along Stiles's side. He presses his nose into Stiles's ear, breathes there, quiet and steady. Which is unfair because Stiles's chest still feels tight, back sweaty and damp, pulse tripping in every breath.
"Stiles, can I -?" Derek starts. But he doesn't seem to know how to finish the sentence.
"I'm gonna go with, yeah, you can do whatever you want," Stiles mumbles out, and he sounds a little drunk, but he just let the guy enthusiastically fuck him, so he's pretty sure they can work everything else out.
But Derek is already sliding down the bed, spreading his thighs wider and sinking down and, oh my God, running his tongue where Stiles is still warm and sore, and slick with Derek's come. He should maybe protest, but he's too busy biting back a groan, because that is so wrong, and yet - he's spreading his thighs, and making choked noises in his throat.
"This is a werewolf thing, isn't it?" Stiles says hoarsely, and gets a hot stab of tongue for his snark.
Not complaining, so not complaining.
*****
He wakes up to find Derek dragging his teeth over the bend of his throat, all hot breath and sharpness - and oh fuck, if Stiles wasn't already hard that would have done it. It's not morning yet, the room's still mostly dark, heavy and warm, and it's strange to wake up tangled up with Derek after they - after they'd had sex. Stiles hadn't had a chance to think about what it all meant yet, to think about what this changed. Now they were...sleeping together, it's different. That's what they're doing, he assumes, sleeping together. Together? He doesn't know, he's forgotten how their relationship works. He's forgotten how to have a relationship. But he'd really, really like to have this one. If that's an option.
"So you don't regret the whole sex thing then?" Stiles says carefully. Which sounds overly loud and destructive in the quiet of the room. Because that's more of his insecurity than he wanted to show.
Derek growls, and mouths across his neck and the bend of his shoulder, teeth scraping in gentle pulls.
Stiles is going to take that as an emphatic no, and he's immediately shivery with relief - not just relief. Derek's dragging him in, pressing tight against his back. He's hard again, all wandering hands and hot mouth and obvious, obvious interest in continuing what they started yesterday. Stiles had expected that there'd be more talking, and awkwardness and - things that weren't this. Is it really this easy?
"Maybe you should - oh, God, I can't make sentences when you do that."
Derek rolls and stretches over him, until he can crush all Stiles's words under his mouth.
"I like kissing you, you feel so fucking new." Derek's voice is all early morning roughness, and promise.
Stiles can't help the way his hands lift to Derek's waist, fingertips pushing into the skin.
"I'm seventeen, and I have an unbelievably hot, werewolf boyfriend, I think I only feel new because you don't remember me. Or maybe you don't kiss me, maybe you just roll me over and -" Stiles can't finish that. Even after having Derek all the way inside him once already. That doesn't mean he isn't thinking about it though, or wanting it.
"Do you want me to?" Derek asks, and Stiles is pretty sure that if he says yes Derek will do exactly that. All he has to do is say yes and Derek will tug him up to his knees and fuck him again - and he can't think about anything but that now. Stiles has a hot boyfriend he can have sex with whenever he wants. His brain is kind of an asshole for holding out on him, because he thinks remembering that would be - will be amazing. Though there is a small flaw in the otherwise awesome morning plan.
"Don't think I wouldn't say yes," Stiles says. "Because I would. Constantly, if I could get away with it, you and sex are an awesome combination. But my ass is still kind of - not up for a repeat round yet."
"Mine's fine," Derek murmurs into his skin.
Which - oh my God - fuck, yes. Yes.
*****
They do both get in the shower eventually. Though it takes a while to get to the whole cleaning part.
*****
It's hard to settle down with the stuff they took from the house, to open the cases and bags, and search through the belongings of the people they'd killed. Stiles tells himself that they all wanted the stone. They were all prepared to power it, and use it, and he shouldn't feel sorry for any of them. They were bad people. But they were still people, and their stuff just makes it more obvious. Tangled phone chargers that had been badly rolled up, keyrings, pens without lids and chewed ends, receipts and notes, and grocery lists. Their jackets and bags aren't full of evil witch paraphernalia, they're just full of people things. The most important things might be Marcus's phone, and the laptop belonging to the woman, Christie. Though the laptop is password protected, and Stiles has no idea how to get into it. Because computer hacking skills are clearly not part of his muscle memory. He has no idea if he was good at that before, but he's worse than useless now.
Marcus's bag has less people things in it, and more creepy shit (which is probably not a technical, magical term, but it applies, so Stiles doesn't care.) There are thin sticks in plastic bags, that smell incredibly suspect, feathers and tattoo ink, and what looks like a set of knuckledusters for a man with seven fingers. There's a pendulum on the end of a long piece of string, with what looks like blood on it, inside a plastic case. Which seems familiar but he's not sure how. Oddly shaped bones, and sheets of paper with writing Stiles can't read. He doesn't really want to touch any of it of it (and some things he wants to touch significantly less than others,) so he just pokes it with a motel pen instead. Also, there are books, old books with tiny cramped writing, and few pictures. Stiles doesn't think they were written for anyone whose knowledge of magical theory isn't bewilderingly deep. It's almost like if someone with a vague interest in astronomy was given a thousand page essay on string-theory. He doesn't have a hope.
Derek's sitting loose-limbed, and half-naked and beautiful against the headboard. Stiles's ability to concentrate on dry, centuries-old magical history? theory? is severely damaged by that. Especially now he knows what Derek feels like. Now they're together again, properly, or something like it. He's not used to the way Derek touches him like he can't believe he ever stopped. Which Stiles isn't sure he's ever going to get used to.
But it's pretty freakin' distracting. He chances a look over the book he's flicking through.
"I don't know enough about magic to know what half this stuff is. I mean, I could make a guess but I'd probably be wrong at least half the time, and it's safe to say these books are almost completely impenetrable, to me at least." He drops them on the table, and drifts over to the bed, lets Derek pull him close enough to kiss, and Stiles doesn't resist, doesn't even remember how to want to resist. If he'd known Derek would make it this easy to kiss him - Stiles would have been less afraid of it. "I don't know what I'm doing," he admits, angry with himself for not being better at this, for not being able to figure out more of it.
Derek just pulls him down into the warm, heavy curve of his body, breathes a laugh into the side of his neck. Fingertips dragging through Stiles's short hair. Before he's over him, kissing down, nails drifting up his ribs.
"I have to keep looking through their stuff," Stiles says, words falling out reluctantly between biting kisses. "I have to find something."
"Tomorrow," Derek says fiercely, hand already pushing into the loose waistband of Stiles's borrowed jeans. "Tomorrow."
*****
12345 - stoneofechoes - marcus - christie12345
Stiles's attempts to guess Christie's password are not going well. He gets the feeling she was probably smart enough to not have picked something obvious. It doesn't help that he doesn't know anything about her. No personal information, no birth date, no likes or dislikes. All he really knows is that she was a vindictive bitch, one that hung around with a group of witches who were willing to sacrifice children for power, and what she'd sounded like when she screamed. Which isn't anything to base any sort of relationship on, or to get into her very secret laptop. Derek is the one who'd killed her, which is about as intimate as you can get with someone, but Stiles is fairly sure he'd have even less luck. Stiles doesn't think Derek is a fan of modern technology. He supposes that growing up in the woods, in a huge pack of werewolves - which is his favourite fake childhood for Derek - that he'd find it kind of hard to make time for Facebook too.
He switches to Marcus's phone, which isn't password protected. That would probably be more helpful if he actually knew what he was looking for. There are no full names in the phone book, only code names and numbers, and there are no messages. There is a calendar, with all the phases of the moon clearly marked. One of them, the new moon, is highlighted and has a note. 'Active.' He swivels it so Derek can see. Derek pushes off the bed and comes closer, hand curling round Stiles's neck like he has to touch him, like he can't help itself.
"He clearly had a plan for the new moon. Something we need to know, something we could use, maybe?"
"Or something completely unrelated to any of this," Derek suggests. Because optimism is clearly not Derek's thing.
"Hey, I'm trying here. You're not exactly helping with this, and someone kept me up all night, so wild stabs at things is all I've got at the moment. You could try making a few wild stabs of your own, you know."
Derek makes a grumbling noise that sounds annoyed, but shoves a hand up under the back of Stiles's shirt anyway, fingers shifting mindlessly on his bare skin, some strange refusal - or inability - to be mad at him any more.
"There's a red mark on the new moon," Stiles adds. "It must be important in some way. Something to do with Frain."
Derek looks at him, and he obviously thinks Stiles is reaching for something that isn't there. He sighs and tosses the phone on the table.
"So we look for him again, using his name, and the reports of disappearances." Stiles curls his hands into fists, frustrated and angry, because if they have to wait for children to disappear to get a lead on him, then Frain has already won. "We'll find him again. We will."
"You know that for sure?"
"Yeah." Stiles scratches at his bare shoulder, where Derek's shirt has slipped to one side. Derek follows the movement with his thumb, and Stiles is left staring at the calendar for a second.
"You're very distracting," he admits, when he can't catch the edge of his last thought.
"Uh huh," Derek agrees, thumb moving in circles, around and around - smaller and smaller circles.
"Holy shit." Stiles is off the chair and over by the bed, bending over it and rifling in their bag for the laptop before dragging it out. He jigs from foot to foot while it boots up and then finds Google, and types in 'locater spells, pendulum.' There's a lot of rubbish, but there are also pictures. Heavy pendulums on string, and maps. He flails a hand out, open and shut, impatient. "Did you get the maps from the gas station?"
Derek's already unfolding them on the table. As if he's following his thoughts. Stiles digs in Marcus's things, pulls out the pendulum.
"So I'm guessing this is Frain's blood, yes?" He slips it out of the case and tips it into the light, until the red-brown stains are more visible. "They weren't looking for anyone else."
"It's definitely blood," Derek agrees. Unlike Stiles he doesn't have to look at it. "And it's supposed to find him? Can we even do this? We're not witches, can we make a spell work? Do we want to?""
"Do you have any better ideas?" Stiles says, and he's straightening the largest map. He holds the pendulum over it, runs a hand down the string to settle it. But nothing happens. The only jiggle in the string, is from his own hand. "Shit, why isn't this working?"
"It seems a little obvious," Derek says slowly, because clearly he's an expert all of a sudden. "You're not supposed to do anything else with it?"
Stiles shrugs, helplessly, he'd expected it to work, and he's not sure whether to feel frustrated or embarrassed that nothing's happening.
"You're supposed to just hold it. It's supposed to do all the searching on its own. It's meant to swing, and then you ease it down until it stops against the map. Hang on." Stiles swings the laptop round again, kneeling up on the chair, until he can bend over the table. "Something about people with magical protection -" Stiles stops. "Oh, it won't work on people with magical protection." His sinks to his knees on the chair.
"Which I'm assuming Frain has," Derek points out. "He'd have to."
Stiles frowns.
"But the others found him, they had his blood, they must have found a way past it. Hang on, hang on, reading. Magical protection works...unless it's a new moon."
He juggles Marcus's phone, and the laptop and the pendulum, until Derek takes the laptop from him. Then he spins Marcus's phone to face Derek, calendar still glowing on the screen.
"We have to wait three weeks to find out where Frain is," Stiles says fiercely. "But we can find him."
*****
Stiles thinks three weeks is going to feel like a lifetime. The two of them, pushed together in random motel rooms, trying to remember how to get along, living in each other's space, dealing with the fact that they were sleeping together again. He doesn't want to fight with Derek, now his life feels something like stable, for all that there isn't much of it. Only there isn't any trying to remember how to be around each other, there isn't any knocking up against each other's edges. It's easier than it should be. They argue over laundry, they compromise on food, they watch too much late night TV, and Derek still won't let him drive the Camaro (he can't even remember that first frantic drive out of Beacon Hills.) Occasionally they scroll through the local news stories, Stiles tapping a pen against anything that looks suspicious, while Derek watches him, like he knows exactly what he's thinking.
Stiles eventually worries about the full moon, which creeps up on them slowly, almost without them noticing. He asks Derek about it, over boxes of Chinese food, because he doesn't want it to be the elephant in the room. It's pretty much the only thing he knows about werewolves after all - if it turns out to be true.
"Are you going to, like, turn into a wolf, an actual wolf?" Stiles asks, dragging one of Derek's boxes within range of his chopsticks. Because he's apparently the type of person that has to try everything.
Derek shrugs. "Hell if I know."
"I mean, not that that wouldn't be amazingly cool and everything, if you did. Because it would, if you're worried. But I'd kind of like some sort of warning if that's going to happen. Or if you're going to be - I don't know - something more like the giant savage wolfman that you see in Hollywood movies."
Derek doesn't seem to think that's a compliment.
"I don't know exactly." He shrugs. "But I guess we'll find out."
"That's what I mean though, is it -" Stiles stops. Because he isn't sure how to say this to the guy you're sleeping with. "Should we find somewhere to put you," he asks cautiously. "I mean like locking you away for it, until it's...not the full moon any more?"
Derek pauses, chopsticks half way to his mouth. He frowns, as if he hadn't even thought about whether he'd be dangerous on the full moon.
"I don't - I don't think so. I don't think it's going to be dangerous. I don't feel like I'm going to be dangerous. it's more like -" he sets his food down, face twisting in thought. "It's more like the waves are getting a stronger. Like I'm getting stronger as it gets closer, clearer, and everything is almost - I don't know - easier to touch, inside me. But the control is still there. I still have a handle on it. I can feel it rolling there, under the skin. But thinking about things, you, what we're doing, makes it settle." He shakes his head and frowns. "It's hard to explain."
Stiles leaves him the last spring roll.
"I don't know. I think you did a pretty good job." He trusts Derek, he does. Not just because he's the only person in his life right now. Because Derek tries to do what's right, even though he doesn't remember why.
So, yeah, the full moon mostly passes without any sort of transformation, or screaming, or silver chains. Nothing really happens at all.
Apart from the sex.
The sex is fucking awesome.
-
They learn, over a lazy weekend, that Derek can't get drunk, and Stiles absolutely can - also hangovers are evil and should be genetically bred out of human beings, so no one has to suffer like that - silver doesn't do anything to Derek. Stiles has no idea how to get his hands on wolfsbane to test that out. Derek isn't all that fond of the idea, protesting that if it drove him mad he could be dangerous to not only Stiles but everyone else in the vicinity. Reckless experimentation seems to be Stiles's thing. Getting pissy about being a guinea pig is apparently Derek's thing. Though Stiles can't really fault him for that.
-
A spate of animal attacks that leave nothing but messy corpses behind, leads then fifty miles north. Stiles isn't sure about heading into the woods, but Derek seems to know what he's doing, and he can sprint through them like nothing Stiles has ever seen, faster when he gives in and drops to all fours. Which is pretty fucking insane to watch, if he's honest.
It's a group of rogue werewolves, smaller than Derek. They're clearly afraid of him, they call him 'Alpha,' and they look at Stiles like he's food. Stiles spends half a night pushing stranded hikers towards safety, while the woods are full of snarling and crunching, and wet noises of pain.
He worries, he can't help it. He worries for Derek, because werewolves are the same level as him. They're a threat to him. But he also worries that Derek will find something out here, someone, some werewolf. He worries that Derek will choose them instead.
Instead Derek leaves the last werewolf's shattered body at the bottom of a ravine, and limps back to the car. Then spends the whole drive back staring at the place where the rogue werewolf had grabbed Stiles, at the long, messy scratches he'd left behind on his wrist - and when they get back to the room he's clearly restraining himself from putting his mouth there. The raw drive of it, leaves Stiles breathless.
"It's fine," Stiles says, dragging his shirt off. "Do it, I know you want to."
-
Derek's the one who buys a gun. Stiles isn't expecting it, he gets back to the room and it's just sitting on the table, next to the paper and a tall cup of coffee.
"You thought you weren't scary enough already?" Stiles asks, more than a little surprised. Because Derek had never struck him as a gun sort of person.
"It's not for me, it's for you." Derek pushes it awkwardly across the table. Then frowns, as if he's not entirely happy about it.
"You realise I can't kill a werewolf with that, don't you?" Stiles points out. "You're a werewolf, you should know that. As for whatever else is out there -" He shrugs. "Who knows."
"No, but you can hurt one enough to make it think twice, or to let you get to the car," Derek says. He's clearly been thinking about this. Stiles thinks the whole werewolf chase in the woods rattled him more than he let on.
Stiles sighs and picks it up, checks it isn't loaded without even thinking about it. Then stares at his own hands
"I think it's safe to say you've done that before," Derek says quietly, he looks just as surprised as Stiles feels. "You wanted to know something about yourself." Derek's expression is worried, which probably says more about what Stiles looks like, than what Derek feels about it.
Stiles isn't sure whether he wanted to know that about himself or not.
He puts the gun in the trunk, and does his best to forget about it.
-
There's a ghost in a hospital, two hundred miles out of their way, but they go anyway.
Stiles and Derek spend a night digging bones out of a basement floor, while the victims of an angel of mercy hold off her ghostly claws. Stiles doesn't know where to take the bones, what to do with them. So they toss them into a river, watch them separate and float away.
They're doing this the best way they know how, and maybe they're doing it wrong, but they're trying.
-
It's Stiles who suggests looking into magical protection, for when they go up against Frain. Derek isn't so sure about the whole fighting magic with magic thing. Stiles protests that that's the whole point, it's not for fighting, it's for protection. Frain has the stone and there's the possibility that he's going to be stupidly powerful when they finally find him. Stiles knows they don't stand a chance against that, unless they can take Frain by surprise, and if he has any followers, werewolves - anything like the trap where they fought Marcus and his group.
Derek hates the idea, but he doesn't object when Stiles researches all their options.
*****
Andrew Frain's secret apartment is a thousand miles back the way they'd come, back towards Beacon Hills. It takes them a couple of days to get there, and judging by the lack of any sign that they were being followed in the last three weeks, Stiles thinks - he hopes - that there are no witches left to follow them.
They check into another motel, just outside town, once Derek's satisfied that the place doesn't smell like witches. Stiles hasn't actually asked what witches smell like yet. He's starting to think he doesn't want to know, since Derek's always wrinkling his nose like he finds them offensive on principle. He can't help but wonder how much he knows about actually being a werewolf, whether it's something he can just feel inside, something he learned as they go, or something he was thrown into. Derek himself seems frustrated more often than he should, and Stiles thinks a lot of this is a mystery to him as well. He doesn't know how that works, but Stiles wonders if he'd woken up as a werewolf, or a vampire or a freakin' merman or something, if he'd immediately know how to be one, or whether the knowledge of it, the how of it, would be a part of himself that he wouldn't remember.
Derek looks significantly less offended when Stiles presses him into the back of the door, cold fingers pulling his shirt out of his jeans. Derek growls, and tries to tug on the too-short length of Stiles's hair, fails miserably.
"I need this, before we look for Frain," Stiles says, between biting kisses. "Fuck, Derek, please. I can't -" He stops there. But Derek knows what he means. He has to know, because Stiles's entire body is screaming it. Just in case.
Just in case.
It's a little harder, a little rougher, than Derek's ever taken him before. He pins Stiles to the bed with a strength that's more that he should be capable of, and every thrust is sharp and deep. Stiles thinks he's getting used to the ache of it, to the way Derek fits against him, and inside him. He knows he's becoming addicted to the noises Derek makes when they're together, like he's breaking into pieces. The way Stiles can change them, make them go low and desperate by pushing his body back just right.
Derek doesn't move off him straight after. He just pulls out and rests against his back, pressing his face down into Stiles's sweat-damp neck, and making a low, rumbling noise. Murmuring words too low to catch.
Eventually Stiles nudges him with an elbow, when Derek's weight isn't quite so comforting any more.
"Come on, dude, you weigh a ton."
Derek growls protest, until Stiles is quiet, shifting his weight just a little, just enough to give Stiles breathing room, but not enough to move away. Then Derek digs his fingers into Stiles's waist, holds him in the middle of the bed, breathing him in. Like he needs this too. Stiles sighs and edges his thighs apart, lets Derek soak himself into every pore. It's amazing Stiles smells of anything but him any more.
"I get the feeling that sometimes you want to do weird, werewolf things to me?" Stiles says quietly. "Things you don't tell me about, because you think they'll freak me out."
Derek's quiet for a while. But Stiles waits for an answer, for the fingers at his waist to relax and stroke down.
"Little bit, yeah," Derek admits.
Which is flattering, or possibly weird. Stiles hasn't decided yet. Though he's apparently into both flattering and weird. Stiles guesses they've had this conversation before after all, or something like it. He knows Derek has instincts that are different to his, that he wants things. He - the before he, the one that slept with Derek and knew who he was, and didn't find any of this strange - he must have wanted things too, must have - he must have liked Derek enough to let him have some of them. All of them?
"We probably did them you know, whatever it is you're thinking. I would have let you, I think. I'm pretty sure I would have let you have whatever you wanted. "
Derek eases his weight down onto him again, nose pressed just above his ear.
"Would you mind if I did now?" he rumbles, curious, hopeful.
Stiles turns his head, until he can just see him over his shoulder.
"Tell me," he says. "Tell me what you want."
Derek breathes into his hair, air warm against his scalp. He doesn't speak for a minute, as if he's not sure if Stiles is serious. Or maybe he just doesn't know what to admit to first.
"I want to stay inside you after I come," he says at last, almost too quiet to hear. He presses his face into Stiles's skin, and the rasp of stubble almost tickles.
"How long?" Stiles asks, curious, because Derek doesn't talk about what he wants much.
"Until you stop squirming," Derek rumbles, like he's thought about it a lot. There's a pause. "Until you fall asleep, maybe."
"What else?" Stiles asks, because he wants to know. He wants to know if any of them are things that he thinks about too.
"I want to bite you," Derek says quietly. "When I'm inside you, hold your neck in my teeth until I leave a mark."
It takes Stiles a second to realise the implication of that, and he's not sure - he's honestly not sure what he thinks about it.
"That's not - that's not a werewolf turning thing is it?" he asks, carefully, he knows that just because it's a thing Derek thinks about, doesn't mean he would actually do it. Not without asking. But there's still that sliver of unease at the thought of it.
Derek's fingers stop moving, and he eases his mouth away from Stiles's skin, as if that wasn't what he'd meant at all.
"No, I don't think - no, I think I have to be - with the fangs to do that."
"You think?"
There's a moment of quiet.
"I know," Derek says firmly. "That's an instinct too, and I don't - I don't want that with you." It's said slowly and quietly, as if Derek isn't entirely sure - no matter what he says.
"You just want to mark me?" Stiles guesses. "Something that shows."
The rush of breath at the back of his neck stops, and then comes back, warmer and harder than before.
"Yes." There's no hesitation there, Derek admits that one straight away.
"Like a 'keep your damn hands off, this is mine,' sort of a mark?" Stiles continues.
"Yes," Derek isn't trying to control the way his voice sounds. "That and more."
"That's kind of messed up," Stiles says, though he reaches a hand back and digs his fingers into Derek's thigh, to show he doesn't really mind. He wants things as well, after all. The difference is he's not brave enough to say them out loud.
"We've been hunting witches with severe memory loss, I'm a werewolf, you're seventeen. I think we reached messed up a while back," Derek murmurs, presses down into his body again.
Which is true, they probably did. They probably reached it long ago, if Stiles is being honest, before they started this. Or maybe when they started this.
"It'd hurt wouldn't it?" he asks.
Derek goes still, hands curled round Stiles's waist, his nails dig in, all warning sharpness.
"Yeah, it'd probably hurt."
Which - doesn't mean he doesn't want it, and that surprises him. Because he hadn't known that was his thing, before - before - shit, just over a month ago. Which isn't any time at all to hope to know everything about yourself, is it?
"I think I might let you do that, next time," he says quietly.
Derek's hand slides up to the back of his neck.
"Don't say that unless you mean it," he growls out, like Stiles has pushed hard enough to make him feel...uncivilised. He kind of likes the idea.
Stiles lets Derek's hand press him forward.
"Don't say that unless you want it too."
Stiles squirms until Derek lets him turn over, and he's slotting their legs together and pulling Derek down, by his stupid, soft, spiky hair.
"I do," he says quietly. "I think I'd let you do that. If we survive Frain I'll let you put your teeth in me, you possessive bastard."
Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3 // Part 4.