Pack Mom
Title: Pack Mom
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Pairing: Stiles/Derek
Rating: R for sexual content
Prompt: Stiles begins to take on the role of the Pack Mom. Derek is confused and upset.
Wordcount: 5, 378
Other: written for ldyghst for the Teen Wolf prompt community. You can find the original prompt here.
"It's just a sandwich," Isaac mumbled around the food in his mouth, crunching a little between words.
Derek firmly believed there was no such thing as 'just' anything where Stiles was concerned.
"Lighten up a little," Erica added. Though she wasn't stuffing her face indelicately like Isaac was, attempting to play it cool by leaning against the wall and watching, she licked the pad of her thumb and Derek could smell the cold cuts on her.
It wasn't like Stiles had planted a bomb or anything. It had just been a freezer bag of deli sandwiches that had magically appeared in the middle of the floor while they were all unconscious from pain and exhaustion after the full moon. The puppies had awoken starving - Derek had grown to expect the all-encompassing hunger that gnawed at his bones after a full moon, but they weren't yet accustomed to it. They'd held on to their dignity a little better than he had expected, but the sandwiches were gone in under five minutes. And that was accounting for the fact that Stiles had apparently made three for each of them.
Boyd nodded to him and shoved a paper towel Derek's way with a few sandwiches inside. "We saved you some." Boyd always thought he was being subtle, but his attempt to mollify Derek was rather transparent. Derek frowned, but took them.
Even if the bag hadn't stunk of Stiles - that peculiar blend of teenage desperation, as well as the smell of old paper, cucumbers, and his father's brand of aftershave - it would have been obvious who had snuck in to leave it. The bag had come with a post-it note.
Congratulations for not eating people! Here, go nuts.
It was signed with a smiley face.
Isaac had thought it was hilarious. Boyd had just shaken his head and grabbed a sandwich, while Erica made one of her 'aw, sweet little human' faces.
Now, eyeing the lot of them, Derek crumpled it up and threw it at Isaac's head, where it bounced off of his forehead and skittered onto the floor.
The thing was, nobody really knew where Stiles fit into the pack. Scott had only just joined them, and even though he was technically a beta now, he never acted like it. And Stiles went wherever Scott went, which meant that he was even more confusing. Werewolves didn't handle confusing well. They generally only had three modes of personal relations - pack, enemies, and mates. Stiles wasn't pack. He wasn't a mate. That left enemy, and it found Stiles on the blunt end of a lot of elbow-jostling and intimidating shows of claws in the school hallways.
After Stiles had helped take care of Erica during her seizure, though, their bullying had morphed into a more comfortable, brotherly beating, with friendly punches to the shoulder, slightly embarrassing head ruffles, or jokes about his inability to keep a girlfriend. Not exactly charmingly witty banter, but affectionate, in their own, sharp little way.
The day after the sandwiches, the arm punches were lighter, and the fake-chokeholds were a bit more like hugs.
A few weeks later, Derek and the pack were training in his warehouse. He'd set up punching bags and filled them with rocks to stand up to the wolves' attacks, as well as a large obstacle course that he was timing. They were too slow and too hesitant to hurt anyone that still looked human. It was going to get them killed - it nearly already had, with all the other run-ins they'd had with the Argents. It was a miracle they were still alive, and Derek was trying to keep them that way.
He walked around the room slowly, checking in on each of the wolves. He muttered and corrected Scott's stance before moving on to take Erica's hands and form them into fists.
"You want your thumb on the outside, not the inside. If you punch hard enough with your thumb inside, you'll break it. Sure, you'll heal in a minute, but it's a distraction. A distraction in a fight can be the difference between life and death."
She grimaced, but nodded, then went at the punching bag with new vigor. He nodded approval, then turned to look at Boyd leaping through the rafters while the clock ran down.
Suddenly, the sound of the Beatles started trilling through the room. A moment later, it was joined by a more professional beeping, then an annoying imitation phone ring, a Katy Perry song, and a portion of the Moonlight Sonata.
The puppies looked at each other, and Derek glowered. "Fine," he bit out. "Go get them."
The pack, eager for a moment of respite from the training, scrambled for their backpacks to fish out their cell phones. Derek yanked his out of his back pocket, then scowled at the screen.
Don't work 'em too hard, Cap'n.
He glanced up, only to find Erica giggling at the screen. Her laughter stuttered and died under his glare. "What?" she protested, holding up her phone. The screen read, Show those rocks who's boss.
Soon enough, they were all passing around their phones. It seemed that Stiles had texted them all individual remarks rather than taking the lazy way out with a mass text.
Derek growled and threw his phone into the train car, where it clattered and cracked worryingly against the wall.
It seemed that the nonsense with phones didn’t end there. When Derek dropped into Stiles’ room one afternoon unannounced in order to force him to do research for him, Stiles was on the phone already. After giving a startled jump when he noticed Derek coming through the window, he held up a hand and gestured to the phone.
“- yeah, totally understandable. But your best bet’s still gonna be to write out the outline, then go in after hours and get her to pick it apart. First of all, you’re getting Mrs. Pearson to tell you what she wants your essay to say before she grades it, which is pretty much monumental, and second of all, you look awesome for being invested enough to come in after school. Teachers eat that up with a spoon.”
There was a pause.
“Totally.” Stiles raised three fingers of his right hand, despite the fact that he was on the phone, not on video chat. “Scout’s honor.” He listened to the other end, then laughed. “No problem, dude. May the force be with you.” With that, he hung up and spun his chair around to face Derek. “What’s up?”
“I thought Scott was already failing all his classes.”
“Oh! No! That was Isaac.”
Derek stared. “Isaac is calling you for homework help.”
“Dude, everyone is calling me for homework help, where have you been, I’m the only one in our little Scooby gang that knows what a null hypothesis is.”
After a moment, Derek said slowly, “Riiight.” Casting him a strange look, he continued. “I need you to look up something for me on centaurs.”
Stiles sat up. “Centaurs are real?!”
“I don’t know. Maybe. That’s why I need you to look it up.”
“I can totally do that. I am awesome at looking things up. I’m like Encyclopedia Brown.” He tapped his forehead enthusiastically.
“…Sure thing.”
But to his surprise, the very next morning, Stiles had emailed him a five-page, bulleted list of salient points on centaurs, complete with scanned photos of archival tomes and links to more websites for further details. Part of him couldn’t help but wonder if this gave him an excuse to never waste time in a library again.
As it turned out, though, centaurs weren’t the real threat. In October, Beacon Hills was hit by a flock of harpies. After a week of watching the skies nervously, they finally managed to track down the bird-women to their nests. Though they managed to kill three of the harpies and scare the rest of them out of Beacon Hills for good, the battle left the wolves slumping to the floor, bleeding.
Stiles scrambled in from the roof after the last harpies left, where he had been perched, slowly pouring powdered heather in through the air ducts to paralyze the harpies. Derek was crouched over Scott, holding his leg, which was bent at an angle that was doubtlessly unnatural. As Stiles stared, Derek gave it a vicious yank. It snapped and crackled in an ugly way that had Stiles cringing; Derek ignored him and pushed the bone back in place. Scott sighed in relief as his werewolf healing took hold.
Unfortunately, it appeared that Scott was the least of their worries.
Derek watched as Stiles scanned over their injuries quickly: the way that Erica was clutching her stomach with a bloody hand, the row of talon-gashes that ran down Isaac's legs, and Boyd, completely unconscious on the floor with a blow to the head. Even Derek himself wasn't unscathed; a head wound was bleeding profusely into his eyes, and he had no doubt that he'd cracked at least three ribs. It was only experience that told him he hadn't punctured a long as well. Derek didn’t particularly care how maimed he was, but he felt a pang of familiar worry blended with anger to see his pack injured. He reminded himself that there was nothing to be done about it, as the harpies were all dead or gone, but his hackles refused to lower.
"Right, that's it," Stiles declared. Derek knew that look on his face, that stubbornly determined look. That was Stiles 'I'm going to do something stupid, but well intentioned, so nobody can say anything against me without looking like an asshole' look. Derek hated that look. He narrowed his eyes at Stiles, waiting for the shoe to drop. "You're all coming to my house." And there it was.
"Are you crazy?"
"Oh, sure, I'm the crazy one for wanting to get a group of five injured friends home to heal! If you were human, you'd all be dead!"
Lowly, Derek responded, "We're not human."
"And thank God for that! You'd all be ground meat! I'd have to come up with a eulogy for you, and I'm not sure what I'd say. 'Here lies Derek. He scowled a lot. He was really good at throwing me against walls. Very poor sense of humor. Shall be missed.'"
Derek didn't know he could frown any deeper than he already was. Apparently he could.
"So that's it, you're coming home with me. My dad’s visiting my aunt in Idaho, I’ve got the house free." With that, he nodded to Scott, who got to his feet with a grimace, holding his weight off of his left leg. Scott helped Erica to her feet, slinging her arm around his shoulders. Isaac cast a dubious look at Derek, but slowly stood, holding a hand to his head and looking nauseated.
"Fine," Derek agreed grudgingly.
Stiles looked like he had won the lottery. Derek was a little surprised, but stamped that down in favor of grabbing hold of Boyd and tossing his unconscious body over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
"Okay! It'll be a little tight in the Jeep, but you're all pack, right?" He grinned and led them all downstairs to the parking lot.
Indeed, it was tight in the Jeep. Stiles sat in the driver’s seat, and Scott had hopped up into shotgun with the unthinking habit of years of friendship; the thought hadn’t even occurred to him to give it to anyone else. Everyone else piled into the back. Isaac was crunched in next to Erica, his back uncomfortably against the door, helping her put pressure on her stomach. Derek had Boyd half in his lap, staring grimly into the rear-view mirror at Stiles, who took the hint and revved up the engine to head home.
Boyd was beginning to stir by the time they pulled up in the driveway, the outlines of the porch lit dimly by yellowing lights. Derek muttered in his ear to calm him, them lofted him up in his arms again - this time held in front rather than over his shoulder, out of deference for his near-consciousness - to bring him inside. As the others limped in, Stiles hurriedly unlocked the door and brought them down into the finished basement. There were two guest rooms, both of which were tiny and had several cardboard boxes in them that had never been unpacked since a childhood move over a decade ago, as well as a small sitting area with outdated furniture and décor. It was painfully obvious that neither Stiles nor his father had any use for the extra space now that Mrs. Stilinski, the social sun of the household around which the men orbited, was gone.
Derek deposited Boyd onto one of the guest room beds, and Isaac helped Erica into the other. They both then collapsed on the couch. Isaac, however, looked completely comfortable in his surroundings as he flopped his head back against the worn, plaid arm of the couch. Derek was tense, scanning the room before alighting his gaze back on Stiles.
Stiles was wringing his hands, glancing between Scott and Derek. “So they’re healing?”
“They’re healing, Stiles,” Scott reassured him, clapping one hand onto his shoulders. “My leg’s already feeling better, I’m sure they’re getting there, too.”
Isaac gave them a tired thumbs up from the couch.
“See?”
Stiles’ mouth twisted, but he didn’t look entirely convinced.
“It’s fine, Stiles,” Derek interjected. “Go read a book or something.”
The look Stiles shot him was incredulous. “Oh, sure, bring home five wounded werewolves, put ‘em up in my basement, and go read Crime and Punishment, that sounds logical!”
Scott sighed and gave Derek a ‘shut up please’ look. Derek gave it right back. Scott sighed again, this time in acquiescence. “I’m gonna go call Allison and tell her we’re okay. She and Lydia can stand down from their posts.” He yanked his phone out of his pocket and began tapping the screen, heading for the stairs.
“Yeah, yeah,” Stiles muttered as Scott disappeared. “You four are staying put. You are going to take it easy while you stop looking like someone played fetch with your spleens, and I’m going to make chicken soup.”
He might as well have suggested signing up for the next NASA launch, for the way Derek stared at him.
“What? Chicken soup! Healing! And good for the soul, according to millions of cheesy anthologies sold to weepy moms across the nation! I am going to make it, and you are going to eat it, and that’s that.” He punctuated every sentence with an emphatically pointed finger, then stomped upstairs to the kitchen, leaving Derek staring after him.
Isaac tugged slowly, thoughtfully at his lower lip. “I wonder if he’s making it from scratch or if it’s canned.”
Derek swiveled his head, now having found a new recipient for his stare.
“It’s a valid question,” Isaac defended.
“What is with all of you? You’re supposed to be able to look after yourselves!”
“You’re the one that said pack has to watch each other’s back,” Isaac retorted, kicking his feet up onto the coffee table.
“Stiles isn’t a werewolf!”
“So?” Isaac challenged evenly, raising his eyebrows.
Derek found he didn’t have a response.
The soup was canned. Apparently teenage boys, even ones with delusions of homemaking, were too lazy to go about carefully crafting seasoned broth. But the bowls he carried down the stairs, steaming and balanced precariously between twisted fingers and elbows, still smelled appetizing. He dropped one each off with Boyd and Erica first, both improving rapidly now that they could lie down and put all their energy towards healing, then with Isaac. Finally, he turned towards Derek and shoved the bowl into his hands.
“You, too, Mr. Too-cool-for-school.”
Derek rolled his eyes, but despite the fact that he had no idea what was going on in Stiles’ head, the soup was making his stomach rumble. The fight had taken a lot out of them, and healing burned calories faster than belief. After sighing loudly to make his feelings clear, he snatched the spoon out of Stiles’ hand and ate. He would have thought he’d given the kid an early Christmas present from the look on his face, which he studiously ignored in favor of ingesting as much fuel as possible.
By the time that the pack was well fed and healed, it was already well past midnight, and Stiles insisted that they may as well stay the night. He gave them all towels and split them up between the three bathrooms to take showers in shifts to wash off all the blood, grime, and feathers. He rounded up extra pillows from various closets and bedrooms around the house and doled them out. Erica even got one of his shirts, since hers was torn open in the battle and was more tear than actual shirt.
Boyd and Isaac bunked down together in one guest room, with Erica in the other, and Scott on the floor of Stiles’ room. Before he really knew what had happened, Derek was on the plaid couch with a pillow and a blanket and a promise from Stiles that there would be breakfast in the morning.
He had no idea what was going on.
It was sort of nice, though.
With that mildly disturbing thought, he frowned at the stucco ceiling, listened to the sounds of his pack breathing evenly in the house around him, and drifted off to sleep.
The morning came with the unfamiliar noise of floorboards creaking above his head. He jerked awake sharply, taking a moment to inhale all of the scents around him as his ears pricked, then the night before came back to him in a flood. He relaxed slightly and climbed off of the sofa. After a moment of consideration, he folded the blanket and tucked it under the pillow. From the rooms around him, there was the quiet, snuffling noises of teenagers sleeping well past sane waking hours.
Padding upstairs silently, he found Stiles in the kitchen taking box upon box out of plastic shopping bags and setting them on the counter.
“What are you doing?”
Stiles whirled, then smiled a bit crookedly. “We were out of cereal, and there’s stuff for pancakes, but the last time I made pancakes I set off the fire alarm, and Dad had to pull it out of the wall before the fire trucks got dispatched. So cereal is a better idea! But we’re out of cereal, so I had to go get some. And then I didn’t know what kind everyone wanted, so I… got one of everything,” he finished lamely, stretching his arms out and then dropping them by his sides.
Derek just shook his head and started opening cabinets to find a bowl. “Alright, what’ve you got?”
“Frosted Flakes, Cheerios, Raisin Bran, Chex, Fruity Pebbles, Honey Bunches of Oats, Trix, or, if you’re awesome, Lucky Charms. Obviously the house special.” Stiles picked up the box of Lucky Charms and shook it, raising his eyebrows.
“Did you buy the entire store?”
“Shut up,” Stiles mumbled.
Derek rolled his eyes. It was beginning to be an instinctual response to Stiles’ presence. “Chex.”
“You’re passing on Lucky Charms? Seriously? They’re magically delicious.”
“I don’t eat cereal with marshmallows in it.”
“Fine,” Stiles countered, “more for me.” He poured out two bowls, one piled high with Lucky Charms, and one with Chex, and shoved spoons in them before dousing them with milk. He paused, then looked at Derek sideways. “I have fruit. If you don’t want marshmallows, maybe you eat cereal with fruit in it.”
Derek was getting the distinct feeling that this was not about fruit.
On the other hand, he did like bananas in his cereal.
Briefly weighing the risk of playing into whatever plan it was that Stiles was guarding, he decided that the bananas were worth it. “Only if you’ve got bananas.”
Stiles’ narrow, sideways look broke into a sunny smile. “Do we have bananas! What do you think we are, some kind of anti-potassium family?” This received no laugh from Derek, so he rambled on, bright look undaunted. “Bananas it is!” He grabbed one off of a hanging banana hook - Derek hadn’t seen one of those since the ‘60’s - and began to slice it over the Chex. After tossing the peel, he slid the bowl to Derek and picked his own up. “Bon appétit. I had to go to the Cordon Bleu academy for that, you know, so I hope you appreciate it.”
Derek couldn’t quite stifle a snort at that one, and Stiles’ smile widened. It grew further when Derek began to eat, and only then did Stiles start to shovel Lucky Charms in his mouth with the starving enthusiasm of teenage boys everywhere. Between bites, Derek studied Stiles, how he leaned against the counter, how he wiggled his bare toes against the linoleum, how he carefully picked out the wheat Lucky Charms so that he would have a whole bowl of marshmallows at the end.
Derek ate neatly, portioning out the bananas to have a slice per bite of cereal, then set the bowl aside on the counter. “So what’s this all about?”
Stiles blinked up at him. “Breakfast? Uh. It’s about… breaking the… fast?”
“The sandwiches, the texts, the homework help, the Stilinski clinic, the cereal…”
“Oh. That.”
Derek raised his eyebrows and mimicked Stiles’ tone of voice. “’Oh. That.’”
Stiles pushed around a few stars and horseshoes with his spoon, then scooped them up quickly and munched. “I’m being the pack mom. Kind of like a soccer mom, but with more claws and fangs and stuff.”
Derek’s jaw tightened. “What.”
“Yeah. You know, like soccer moms - the little orange slices in the coolers, the little bandaids in the first aid kits, the really ugly SUVs - that’s me! I feed you, I cart you around, I patch y- ... well, I don’t patch you up, but I give you a safe house so you can do your wolfy healing thing in peace. I’m the pack mom,” he concluded, gesturing with his spoon.
“Stop saying ‘pack mom,’” Derek ordered.
“You don’t think it’s masculine enough? I tried ‘pack dad’ in my head, but it just didn’t have the same ring. Besides, I am totally comfortable in my masculinity. So I’m pack mom.”
Derek’s hands clenched and unclenched. “Stop it,” he repeated.
“What? Why? I’m helping! And by ‘helping’ I mean ‘doing something more than looking shit up on the computer and calling people’! I like helping!” And it was only then that Derek saw the hurt that powered Stiles’ enthusiasm for his project, the feeling that he was always the third wheel in the supernatural bicycle.
“Stiles,” he began.
“No! No ‘Stiles’ this time!” Stiles dropped his bowl sharply onto the counter, and it clattered a moment side to side before settling. The milk sloshed over the side. “I am tired of being get-out-of-the-way-Stiles, gosh-darn-he’s-so-funny-Stiles, watch-out-for-squishy-human-Stiles!” He stalked forward until he was standing in front of Derek and poked him in the chest, hard. Derek’s fingers tightened on his spoon until it bent. Stiles either didn’t notice or didn’t care. “You guys are crazy! You go after anything that comes to town that wants to kill you, and if, God forbid, something goes after a pack wolf, you’re pretty much suicidal! You take care of each other! That’s all I’m trying to do!”
Derek’s chest rumbled with a low sound that wasn’t quite a growl. Stiles paused, then glanced down and finally blanched a little to see the spoon, but to Derek’s surprise, he didn’t back down. Instead, he set his jaw and looked up to meet Derek’s eyes again.
“Stiles,” Derek repeated, tightly, and continued before he could be cut off. “You don’t get it. You didn’t invent the job. The pack mom - “ he paused a moment to swallow before continuing, “the pack mom is the alpha’s mate.” He could feel the gravel in his voice, the thick way it made his mouth feel. Moreover, he could see the way it hit Stiles, the moment that he widened his eyes, took in a sharp breath, Adam’s apple bobbing slightly. Stiles’ scent flooded his nose, the helpless anger threaded with undertones of fear giving way to surprise and arousal.
Stiles had no idea what he’d been doing to him for months. He reminded himself of that, but he couldn’t stop his nostrils from flaring to drink in that smell, to taste Stiles’ pheromones, and neither could he stop his blood from burning to feel it. He’d tried to ignore all the little sandwiches and phone calls and chicken soup, telling himself at the time that Stiles didn’t mean it like that, but now he knew he did. He just didn’t know what it stood for.
With a funny, breathy tone, Stiles exhaled, “Oh.” He opened his mouth again, then shut it, apparently at a loss for words. Derek would have counted that as a life victory, finally managing to render Stiles speechless, if it hadn’t been for the context. “Oh,” Stiles repeated, weakly.
“So stop - “ Derek found himself searching for words a moment. “Stop… doing that to me,” he growled out, and it wasn’t menacing like he wanted it to sound. It was hard, and dangerous, and desperate.
He didn’t miss the way Stiles’ pupils went huge and black, or the sudden tightness in the way he held himself, or especially the way he shifted his hips just a hair’s breadth as his jeans became uncomfortable. “Oh my God,” he breathed out, and he’d managed to add two words to his previous ‘oh.’ “Are you saying…” Stiles flicked his eyes quickly from the bent cereal spoon to Derek’s chest, then finally to Derek’s tight expression. He didn’t finish his sentence, but instead repeated, “Oh my God,” this time with a tone of dawning amazement.
Derek gripped the edge of the counter.
“You’re - “ Stiles interrupted himself with a bark of ridiculous, delirious laughter, before the conversation righted itself in his head and the new world order began to make sense. Derek could see the gears spinning, practically so fast that the edges were blurred. Stiles took a step toward him, purposefully. “No.”
Caught a moment by surprise and confusion, Derek’s brow shot down over his eyes. “No what?”
“No, I’m not going to stop. I’m the pack mom,” he said clearly, enunciating the words. Derek growled, lips drawing back from his teeth, and Stiles dragged in a stuttering breath. “I’m not going anywhere. Alpha.” He punctuated the statement by splaying his hand across Derek’s chest and leaned his head up towards Derek’s face.
In a flash, Derek had his wrist in one hand and the back of his neck in another, and he spun them around so that Stiles was the one with his back against the counter, shoved against the wood cabinets hard, the handles and countertop edge biting deep into his spine. Yanking his head back, Derek kissed him savagely, pushing one thigh between his legs. Stiles groaned against his mouth, hips twitching forward to press more firmly against him. He shifted his attention, biting at Stiles’ neck and collarbone, and sounds he got in response were obscene. His fingernails sharpened slightly, sharp against Stiles’ neck and waist, but Stiles just slid his hands up underneath Derek’s shirt and yanked at it insistently.
This really wasn’t at all where Derek had thought this morning was going to go, but he released his grip on Stiles long enough to tug his shirt off. Stiles immediately pushed forward to lick a line up his chest, ending at his nipple, where he sucked aggressively. Derek was fairly certain that Stiles had only heard of that particular trick secondhand, but damn if he wasn’t a quick study. After a moment, he pulled Stiles’ head up, and received a bleary, confused stare in return, bruised mouth hanging slightly ajar.
Before Stiles could voice his protest, he swiftly turned Stiles around to face the cabinet, leaning him over it to bend at the waist. He could hear Stiles’ ragged intake of breath as his brain caught up to where this was going. A short pull at Stiles’ jeans tugged them halfway down his hips, and with a snarl of frustration that had a visible shiver running down Stiles’ spine, he yanked again, harder, and a few seams snapped and tore as the jeans went falling to the floor, taking his boxers with them. He fumbled one-handed at his own fly, nearly popping the button off as he unbuttoned and unzipped, then pressed up against Stiles’ ass, the length of him hard and insistent.
His pulse was tattooing the inside of his skull and he wanted nothing more than to take, take, take, to moan and mate and mark, but Stiles had been wordless for so long and he was so young - he leaned over Stiles’ back and kissed a query to his shoulderblade, unable to find words to make sure that Stiles needed this as much as he did.
Somehow, Stiles understood, and he snatch-grabbed a bottle of olive oil within arm’s reach on the counter and slid it forcefully backwards towards Derek, who muffled a groan against the shirt over Stiles’ back. Uncapping the bottle, he wasn’t sure why he had ever thought this was a bad idea. Stiles was a genius.
A moment later, he pushed inside of him, no time spared for gentleness or murmured reassurances. Stiles gasped at the sudden fullness, hands scrabbling and sliding on the formica counter. Derek sunk his fingertips into Stiles’ hips, hard enough that he knew there would be bruises tomorrow, and stood maddeningly still while Stiles breathed until he finally saw his head dip in a jerky nod. Only then did he begin to move, and Stiles’ knuckles tensed again in a new way, and Derek could feel the shuddering moan that he was dragging out of him.
He reached around with one hand between Stiles and the counter to take hold of him, hand still oily slick, and start pulling in rhythm with his thrusts. Stiles made a keening noise and shoved his ass backwards, hard, burying Derek deep within him. “Derek,” he said, and it was thin, desperate, and Derek had never heard his name sound quite like that. It was a dizzying sound, and he pushed faster, now biting at Stiles’ back where his shirt was riding up, scraping his teeth along his spine, tightening his grip on Stiles’ cock.
Stiles was beginning to make small, breathless noises every time Derek sunk into him, and finally his back arched and he was coming into Derek’s hand. Derek tightened his grip on Stiles’ hips, claws digging and cutting, and followed him down a moment later as the world turned white fire.
After a minute of static silence, he pulled out, uncurling his fingers, straightening. Stiles pushed himself up off the counter on his elbows, wavery and boneless, and Derek’s hands found their way to his arms to steady him. As Stiles allowed himself to slide down the cabinet to the floor, Derek had no choice but to go along with him, and Stiles dropped his head backwards against Derek’s chest. It would have gotten him hit a week ago. Things had changed.
“Goddamn,” Stiles mumbled, shutting his eyes. Derek could smell the stink of sex on them, but more importantly, he could smell himself all over Stiles. And though he felt mildly guilty for the scratches and bruises that would litter Stiles’ body tomorrow, there was a primal part of him, pacing the walls of his skull, that wanted everyone to see, to know that Stiles was his. Off limits. Taken territory. Alpha’s mate.
“See,” Stiles was continuing, speaking slowly, and a smug smile crept across his lips. “I was right.” Derek lifted his head slightly from the wood of the cabinet door. “Pack mom. Damn good idea.”
Derek tightened his arms around Stiles, eyes flashing red. After a moment, he bowed his head to rest his lips against the back of Stiles’ skull, inhaling their scent. “Yeah,” he said roughly, and it was.
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Pairing: Stiles/Derek
Rating: R for sexual content
Prompt: Stiles begins to take on the role of the Pack Mom. Derek is confused and upset.
Wordcount: 5, 378
Other: written for ldyghst for the Teen Wolf prompt community. You can find the original prompt here.
"It's just a sandwich," Isaac mumbled around the food in his mouth, crunching a little between words.
Derek firmly believed there was no such thing as 'just' anything where Stiles was concerned.
"Lighten up a little," Erica added. Though she wasn't stuffing her face indelicately like Isaac was, attempting to play it cool by leaning against the wall and watching, she licked the pad of her thumb and Derek could smell the cold cuts on her.
It wasn't like Stiles had planted a bomb or anything. It had just been a freezer bag of deli sandwiches that had magically appeared in the middle of the floor while they were all unconscious from pain and exhaustion after the full moon. The puppies had awoken starving - Derek had grown to expect the all-encompassing hunger that gnawed at his bones after a full moon, but they weren't yet accustomed to it. They'd held on to their dignity a little better than he had expected, but the sandwiches were gone in under five minutes. And that was accounting for the fact that Stiles had apparently made three for each of them.
Boyd nodded to him and shoved a paper towel Derek's way with a few sandwiches inside. "We saved you some." Boyd always thought he was being subtle, but his attempt to mollify Derek was rather transparent. Derek frowned, but took them.
Even if the bag hadn't stunk of Stiles - that peculiar blend of teenage desperation, as well as the smell of old paper, cucumbers, and his father's brand of aftershave - it would have been obvious who had snuck in to leave it. The bag had come with a post-it note.
Congratulations for not eating people! Here, go nuts.
It was signed with a smiley face.
Isaac had thought it was hilarious. Boyd had just shaken his head and grabbed a sandwich, while Erica made one of her 'aw, sweet little human' faces.
Now, eyeing the lot of them, Derek crumpled it up and threw it at Isaac's head, where it bounced off of his forehead and skittered onto the floor.
The thing was, nobody really knew where Stiles fit into the pack. Scott had only just joined them, and even though he was technically a beta now, he never acted like it. And Stiles went wherever Scott went, which meant that he was even more confusing. Werewolves didn't handle confusing well. They generally only had three modes of personal relations - pack, enemies, and mates. Stiles wasn't pack. He wasn't a mate. That left enemy, and it found Stiles on the blunt end of a lot of elbow-jostling and intimidating shows of claws in the school hallways.
After Stiles had helped take care of Erica during her seizure, though, their bullying had morphed into a more comfortable, brotherly beating, with friendly punches to the shoulder, slightly embarrassing head ruffles, or jokes about his inability to keep a girlfriend. Not exactly charmingly witty banter, but affectionate, in their own, sharp little way.
The day after the sandwiches, the arm punches were lighter, and the fake-chokeholds were a bit more like hugs.
A few weeks later, Derek and the pack were training in his warehouse. He'd set up punching bags and filled them with rocks to stand up to the wolves' attacks, as well as a large obstacle course that he was timing. They were too slow and too hesitant to hurt anyone that still looked human. It was going to get them killed - it nearly already had, with all the other run-ins they'd had with the Argents. It was a miracle they were still alive, and Derek was trying to keep them that way.
He walked around the room slowly, checking in on each of the wolves. He muttered and corrected Scott's stance before moving on to take Erica's hands and form them into fists.
"You want your thumb on the outside, not the inside. If you punch hard enough with your thumb inside, you'll break it. Sure, you'll heal in a minute, but it's a distraction. A distraction in a fight can be the difference between life and death."
She grimaced, but nodded, then went at the punching bag with new vigor. He nodded approval, then turned to look at Boyd leaping through the rafters while the clock ran down.
Suddenly, the sound of the Beatles started trilling through the room. A moment later, it was joined by a more professional beeping, then an annoying imitation phone ring, a Katy Perry song, and a portion of the Moonlight Sonata.
The puppies looked at each other, and Derek glowered. "Fine," he bit out. "Go get them."
The pack, eager for a moment of respite from the training, scrambled for their backpacks to fish out their cell phones. Derek yanked his out of his back pocket, then scowled at the screen.
Don't work 'em too hard, Cap'n.
He glanced up, only to find Erica giggling at the screen. Her laughter stuttered and died under his glare. "What?" she protested, holding up her phone. The screen read, Show those rocks who's boss.
Soon enough, they were all passing around their phones. It seemed that Stiles had texted them all individual remarks rather than taking the lazy way out with a mass text.
Derek growled and threw his phone into the train car, where it clattered and cracked worryingly against the wall.
It seemed that the nonsense with phones didn’t end there. When Derek dropped into Stiles’ room one afternoon unannounced in order to force him to do research for him, Stiles was on the phone already. After giving a startled jump when he noticed Derek coming through the window, he held up a hand and gestured to the phone.
“- yeah, totally understandable. But your best bet’s still gonna be to write out the outline, then go in after hours and get her to pick it apart. First of all, you’re getting Mrs. Pearson to tell you what she wants your essay to say before she grades it, which is pretty much monumental, and second of all, you look awesome for being invested enough to come in after school. Teachers eat that up with a spoon.”
There was a pause.
“Totally.” Stiles raised three fingers of his right hand, despite the fact that he was on the phone, not on video chat. “Scout’s honor.” He listened to the other end, then laughed. “No problem, dude. May the force be with you.” With that, he hung up and spun his chair around to face Derek. “What’s up?”
“I thought Scott was already failing all his classes.”
“Oh! No! That was Isaac.”
Derek stared. “Isaac is calling you for homework help.”
“Dude, everyone is calling me for homework help, where have you been, I’m the only one in our little Scooby gang that knows what a null hypothesis is.”
After a moment, Derek said slowly, “Riiight.” Casting him a strange look, he continued. “I need you to look up something for me on centaurs.”
Stiles sat up. “Centaurs are real?!”
“I don’t know. Maybe. That’s why I need you to look it up.”
“I can totally do that. I am awesome at looking things up. I’m like Encyclopedia Brown.” He tapped his forehead enthusiastically.
“…Sure thing.”
But to his surprise, the very next morning, Stiles had emailed him a five-page, bulleted list of salient points on centaurs, complete with scanned photos of archival tomes and links to more websites for further details. Part of him couldn’t help but wonder if this gave him an excuse to never waste time in a library again.
As it turned out, though, centaurs weren’t the real threat. In October, Beacon Hills was hit by a flock of harpies. After a week of watching the skies nervously, they finally managed to track down the bird-women to their nests. Though they managed to kill three of the harpies and scare the rest of them out of Beacon Hills for good, the battle left the wolves slumping to the floor, bleeding.
Stiles scrambled in from the roof after the last harpies left, where he had been perched, slowly pouring powdered heather in through the air ducts to paralyze the harpies. Derek was crouched over Scott, holding his leg, which was bent at an angle that was doubtlessly unnatural. As Stiles stared, Derek gave it a vicious yank. It snapped and crackled in an ugly way that had Stiles cringing; Derek ignored him and pushed the bone back in place. Scott sighed in relief as his werewolf healing took hold.
Unfortunately, it appeared that Scott was the least of their worries.
Derek watched as Stiles scanned over their injuries quickly: the way that Erica was clutching her stomach with a bloody hand, the row of talon-gashes that ran down Isaac's legs, and Boyd, completely unconscious on the floor with a blow to the head. Even Derek himself wasn't unscathed; a head wound was bleeding profusely into his eyes, and he had no doubt that he'd cracked at least three ribs. It was only experience that told him he hadn't punctured a long as well. Derek didn’t particularly care how maimed he was, but he felt a pang of familiar worry blended with anger to see his pack injured. He reminded himself that there was nothing to be done about it, as the harpies were all dead or gone, but his hackles refused to lower.
"Right, that's it," Stiles declared. Derek knew that look on his face, that stubbornly determined look. That was Stiles 'I'm going to do something stupid, but well intentioned, so nobody can say anything against me without looking like an asshole' look. Derek hated that look. He narrowed his eyes at Stiles, waiting for the shoe to drop. "You're all coming to my house." And there it was.
"Are you crazy?"
"Oh, sure, I'm the crazy one for wanting to get a group of five injured friends home to heal! If you were human, you'd all be dead!"
Lowly, Derek responded, "We're not human."
"And thank God for that! You'd all be ground meat! I'd have to come up with a eulogy for you, and I'm not sure what I'd say. 'Here lies Derek. He scowled a lot. He was really good at throwing me against walls. Very poor sense of humor. Shall be missed.'"
Derek didn't know he could frown any deeper than he already was. Apparently he could.
"So that's it, you're coming home with me. My dad’s visiting my aunt in Idaho, I’ve got the house free." With that, he nodded to Scott, who got to his feet with a grimace, holding his weight off of his left leg. Scott helped Erica to her feet, slinging her arm around his shoulders. Isaac cast a dubious look at Derek, but slowly stood, holding a hand to his head and looking nauseated.
"Fine," Derek agreed grudgingly.
Stiles looked like he had won the lottery. Derek was a little surprised, but stamped that down in favor of grabbing hold of Boyd and tossing his unconscious body over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
"Okay! It'll be a little tight in the Jeep, but you're all pack, right?" He grinned and led them all downstairs to the parking lot.
Indeed, it was tight in the Jeep. Stiles sat in the driver’s seat, and Scott had hopped up into shotgun with the unthinking habit of years of friendship; the thought hadn’t even occurred to him to give it to anyone else. Everyone else piled into the back. Isaac was crunched in next to Erica, his back uncomfortably against the door, helping her put pressure on her stomach. Derek had Boyd half in his lap, staring grimly into the rear-view mirror at Stiles, who took the hint and revved up the engine to head home.
Boyd was beginning to stir by the time they pulled up in the driveway, the outlines of the porch lit dimly by yellowing lights. Derek muttered in his ear to calm him, them lofted him up in his arms again - this time held in front rather than over his shoulder, out of deference for his near-consciousness - to bring him inside. As the others limped in, Stiles hurriedly unlocked the door and brought them down into the finished basement. There were two guest rooms, both of which were tiny and had several cardboard boxes in them that had never been unpacked since a childhood move over a decade ago, as well as a small sitting area with outdated furniture and décor. It was painfully obvious that neither Stiles nor his father had any use for the extra space now that Mrs. Stilinski, the social sun of the household around which the men orbited, was gone.
Derek deposited Boyd onto one of the guest room beds, and Isaac helped Erica into the other. They both then collapsed on the couch. Isaac, however, looked completely comfortable in his surroundings as he flopped his head back against the worn, plaid arm of the couch. Derek was tense, scanning the room before alighting his gaze back on Stiles.
Stiles was wringing his hands, glancing between Scott and Derek. “So they’re healing?”
“They’re healing, Stiles,” Scott reassured him, clapping one hand onto his shoulders. “My leg’s already feeling better, I’m sure they’re getting there, too.”
Isaac gave them a tired thumbs up from the couch.
“See?”
Stiles’ mouth twisted, but he didn’t look entirely convinced.
“It’s fine, Stiles,” Derek interjected. “Go read a book or something.”
The look Stiles shot him was incredulous. “Oh, sure, bring home five wounded werewolves, put ‘em up in my basement, and go read Crime and Punishment, that sounds logical!”
Scott sighed and gave Derek a ‘shut up please’ look. Derek gave it right back. Scott sighed again, this time in acquiescence. “I’m gonna go call Allison and tell her we’re okay. She and Lydia can stand down from their posts.” He yanked his phone out of his pocket and began tapping the screen, heading for the stairs.
“Yeah, yeah,” Stiles muttered as Scott disappeared. “You four are staying put. You are going to take it easy while you stop looking like someone played fetch with your spleens, and I’m going to make chicken soup.”
He might as well have suggested signing up for the next NASA launch, for the way Derek stared at him.
“What? Chicken soup! Healing! And good for the soul, according to millions of cheesy anthologies sold to weepy moms across the nation! I am going to make it, and you are going to eat it, and that’s that.” He punctuated every sentence with an emphatically pointed finger, then stomped upstairs to the kitchen, leaving Derek staring after him.
Isaac tugged slowly, thoughtfully at his lower lip. “I wonder if he’s making it from scratch or if it’s canned.”
Derek swiveled his head, now having found a new recipient for his stare.
“It’s a valid question,” Isaac defended.
“What is with all of you? You’re supposed to be able to look after yourselves!”
“You’re the one that said pack has to watch each other’s back,” Isaac retorted, kicking his feet up onto the coffee table.
“Stiles isn’t a werewolf!”
“So?” Isaac challenged evenly, raising his eyebrows.
Derek found he didn’t have a response.
The soup was canned. Apparently teenage boys, even ones with delusions of homemaking, were too lazy to go about carefully crafting seasoned broth. But the bowls he carried down the stairs, steaming and balanced precariously between twisted fingers and elbows, still smelled appetizing. He dropped one each off with Boyd and Erica first, both improving rapidly now that they could lie down and put all their energy towards healing, then with Isaac. Finally, he turned towards Derek and shoved the bowl into his hands.
“You, too, Mr. Too-cool-for-school.”
Derek rolled his eyes, but despite the fact that he had no idea what was going on in Stiles’ head, the soup was making his stomach rumble. The fight had taken a lot out of them, and healing burned calories faster than belief. After sighing loudly to make his feelings clear, he snatched the spoon out of Stiles’ hand and ate. He would have thought he’d given the kid an early Christmas present from the look on his face, which he studiously ignored in favor of ingesting as much fuel as possible.
By the time that the pack was well fed and healed, it was already well past midnight, and Stiles insisted that they may as well stay the night. He gave them all towels and split them up between the three bathrooms to take showers in shifts to wash off all the blood, grime, and feathers. He rounded up extra pillows from various closets and bedrooms around the house and doled them out. Erica even got one of his shirts, since hers was torn open in the battle and was more tear than actual shirt.
Boyd and Isaac bunked down together in one guest room, with Erica in the other, and Scott on the floor of Stiles’ room. Before he really knew what had happened, Derek was on the plaid couch with a pillow and a blanket and a promise from Stiles that there would be breakfast in the morning.
He had no idea what was going on.
It was sort of nice, though.
With that mildly disturbing thought, he frowned at the stucco ceiling, listened to the sounds of his pack breathing evenly in the house around him, and drifted off to sleep.
The morning came with the unfamiliar noise of floorboards creaking above his head. He jerked awake sharply, taking a moment to inhale all of the scents around him as his ears pricked, then the night before came back to him in a flood. He relaxed slightly and climbed off of the sofa. After a moment of consideration, he folded the blanket and tucked it under the pillow. From the rooms around him, there was the quiet, snuffling noises of teenagers sleeping well past sane waking hours.
Padding upstairs silently, he found Stiles in the kitchen taking box upon box out of plastic shopping bags and setting them on the counter.
“What are you doing?”
Stiles whirled, then smiled a bit crookedly. “We were out of cereal, and there’s stuff for pancakes, but the last time I made pancakes I set off the fire alarm, and Dad had to pull it out of the wall before the fire trucks got dispatched. So cereal is a better idea! But we’re out of cereal, so I had to go get some. And then I didn’t know what kind everyone wanted, so I… got one of everything,” he finished lamely, stretching his arms out and then dropping them by his sides.
Derek just shook his head and started opening cabinets to find a bowl. “Alright, what’ve you got?”
“Frosted Flakes, Cheerios, Raisin Bran, Chex, Fruity Pebbles, Honey Bunches of Oats, Trix, or, if you’re awesome, Lucky Charms. Obviously the house special.” Stiles picked up the box of Lucky Charms and shook it, raising his eyebrows.
“Did you buy the entire store?”
“Shut up,” Stiles mumbled.
Derek rolled his eyes. It was beginning to be an instinctual response to Stiles’ presence. “Chex.”
“You’re passing on Lucky Charms? Seriously? They’re magically delicious.”
“I don’t eat cereal with marshmallows in it.”
“Fine,” Stiles countered, “more for me.” He poured out two bowls, one piled high with Lucky Charms, and one with Chex, and shoved spoons in them before dousing them with milk. He paused, then looked at Derek sideways. “I have fruit. If you don’t want marshmallows, maybe you eat cereal with fruit in it.”
Derek was getting the distinct feeling that this was not about fruit.
On the other hand, he did like bananas in his cereal.
Briefly weighing the risk of playing into whatever plan it was that Stiles was guarding, he decided that the bananas were worth it. “Only if you’ve got bananas.”
Stiles’ narrow, sideways look broke into a sunny smile. “Do we have bananas! What do you think we are, some kind of anti-potassium family?” This received no laugh from Derek, so he rambled on, bright look undaunted. “Bananas it is!” He grabbed one off of a hanging banana hook - Derek hadn’t seen one of those since the ‘60’s - and began to slice it over the Chex. After tossing the peel, he slid the bowl to Derek and picked his own up. “Bon appétit. I had to go to the Cordon Bleu academy for that, you know, so I hope you appreciate it.”
Derek couldn’t quite stifle a snort at that one, and Stiles’ smile widened. It grew further when Derek began to eat, and only then did Stiles start to shovel Lucky Charms in his mouth with the starving enthusiasm of teenage boys everywhere. Between bites, Derek studied Stiles, how he leaned against the counter, how he wiggled his bare toes against the linoleum, how he carefully picked out the wheat Lucky Charms so that he would have a whole bowl of marshmallows at the end.
Derek ate neatly, portioning out the bananas to have a slice per bite of cereal, then set the bowl aside on the counter. “So what’s this all about?”
Stiles blinked up at him. “Breakfast? Uh. It’s about… breaking the… fast?”
“The sandwiches, the texts, the homework help, the Stilinski clinic, the cereal…”
“Oh. That.”
Derek raised his eyebrows and mimicked Stiles’ tone of voice. “’Oh. That.’”
Stiles pushed around a few stars and horseshoes with his spoon, then scooped them up quickly and munched. “I’m being the pack mom. Kind of like a soccer mom, but with more claws and fangs and stuff.”
Derek’s jaw tightened. “What.”
“Yeah. You know, like soccer moms - the little orange slices in the coolers, the little bandaids in the first aid kits, the really ugly SUVs - that’s me! I feed you, I cart you around, I patch y- ... well, I don’t patch you up, but I give you a safe house so you can do your wolfy healing thing in peace. I’m the pack mom,” he concluded, gesturing with his spoon.
“Stop saying ‘pack mom,’” Derek ordered.
“You don’t think it’s masculine enough? I tried ‘pack dad’ in my head, but it just didn’t have the same ring. Besides, I am totally comfortable in my masculinity. So I’m pack mom.”
Derek’s hands clenched and unclenched. “Stop it,” he repeated.
“What? Why? I’m helping! And by ‘helping’ I mean ‘doing something more than looking shit up on the computer and calling people’! I like helping!” And it was only then that Derek saw the hurt that powered Stiles’ enthusiasm for his project, the feeling that he was always the third wheel in the supernatural bicycle.
“Stiles,” he began.
“No! No ‘Stiles’ this time!” Stiles dropped his bowl sharply onto the counter, and it clattered a moment side to side before settling. The milk sloshed over the side. “I am tired of being get-out-of-the-way-Stiles, gosh-darn-he’s-so-funny-Stiles, watch-out-for-squishy-human-Stiles!” He stalked forward until he was standing in front of Derek and poked him in the chest, hard. Derek’s fingers tightened on his spoon until it bent. Stiles either didn’t notice or didn’t care. “You guys are crazy! You go after anything that comes to town that wants to kill you, and if, God forbid, something goes after a pack wolf, you’re pretty much suicidal! You take care of each other! That’s all I’m trying to do!”
Derek’s chest rumbled with a low sound that wasn’t quite a growl. Stiles paused, then glanced down and finally blanched a little to see the spoon, but to Derek’s surprise, he didn’t back down. Instead, he set his jaw and looked up to meet Derek’s eyes again.
“Stiles,” Derek repeated, tightly, and continued before he could be cut off. “You don’t get it. You didn’t invent the job. The pack mom - “ he paused a moment to swallow before continuing, “the pack mom is the alpha’s mate.” He could feel the gravel in his voice, the thick way it made his mouth feel. Moreover, he could see the way it hit Stiles, the moment that he widened his eyes, took in a sharp breath, Adam’s apple bobbing slightly. Stiles’ scent flooded his nose, the helpless anger threaded with undertones of fear giving way to surprise and arousal.
Stiles had no idea what he’d been doing to him for months. He reminded himself of that, but he couldn’t stop his nostrils from flaring to drink in that smell, to taste Stiles’ pheromones, and neither could he stop his blood from burning to feel it. He’d tried to ignore all the little sandwiches and phone calls and chicken soup, telling himself at the time that Stiles didn’t mean it like that, but now he knew he did. He just didn’t know what it stood for.
With a funny, breathy tone, Stiles exhaled, “Oh.” He opened his mouth again, then shut it, apparently at a loss for words. Derek would have counted that as a life victory, finally managing to render Stiles speechless, if it hadn’t been for the context. “Oh,” Stiles repeated, weakly.
“So stop - “ Derek found himself searching for words a moment. “Stop… doing that to me,” he growled out, and it wasn’t menacing like he wanted it to sound. It was hard, and dangerous, and desperate.
He didn’t miss the way Stiles’ pupils went huge and black, or the sudden tightness in the way he held himself, or especially the way he shifted his hips just a hair’s breadth as his jeans became uncomfortable. “Oh my God,” he breathed out, and he’d managed to add two words to his previous ‘oh.’ “Are you saying…” Stiles flicked his eyes quickly from the bent cereal spoon to Derek’s chest, then finally to Derek’s tight expression. He didn’t finish his sentence, but instead repeated, “Oh my God,” this time with a tone of dawning amazement.
Derek gripped the edge of the counter.
“You’re - “ Stiles interrupted himself with a bark of ridiculous, delirious laughter, before the conversation righted itself in his head and the new world order began to make sense. Derek could see the gears spinning, practically so fast that the edges were blurred. Stiles took a step toward him, purposefully. “No.”
Caught a moment by surprise and confusion, Derek’s brow shot down over his eyes. “No what?”
“No, I’m not going to stop. I’m the pack mom,” he said clearly, enunciating the words. Derek growled, lips drawing back from his teeth, and Stiles dragged in a stuttering breath. “I’m not going anywhere. Alpha.” He punctuated the statement by splaying his hand across Derek’s chest and leaned his head up towards Derek’s face.
In a flash, Derek had his wrist in one hand and the back of his neck in another, and he spun them around so that Stiles was the one with his back against the counter, shoved against the wood cabinets hard, the handles and countertop edge biting deep into his spine. Yanking his head back, Derek kissed him savagely, pushing one thigh between his legs. Stiles groaned against his mouth, hips twitching forward to press more firmly against him. He shifted his attention, biting at Stiles’ neck and collarbone, and sounds he got in response were obscene. His fingernails sharpened slightly, sharp against Stiles’ neck and waist, but Stiles just slid his hands up underneath Derek’s shirt and yanked at it insistently.
This really wasn’t at all where Derek had thought this morning was going to go, but he released his grip on Stiles long enough to tug his shirt off. Stiles immediately pushed forward to lick a line up his chest, ending at his nipple, where he sucked aggressively. Derek was fairly certain that Stiles had only heard of that particular trick secondhand, but damn if he wasn’t a quick study. After a moment, he pulled Stiles’ head up, and received a bleary, confused stare in return, bruised mouth hanging slightly ajar.
Before Stiles could voice his protest, he swiftly turned Stiles around to face the cabinet, leaning him over it to bend at the waist. He could hear Stiles’ ragged intake of breath as his brain caught up to where this was going. A short pull at Stiles’ jeans tugged them halfway down his hips, and with a snarl of frustration that had a visible shiver running down Stiles’ spine, he yanked again, harder, and a few seams snapped and tore as the jeans went falling to the floor, taking his boxers with them. He fumbled one-handed at his own fly, nearly popping the button off as he unbuttoned and unzipped, then pressed up against Stiles’ ass, the length of him hard and insistent.
His pulse was tattooing the inside of his skull and he wanted nothing more than to take, take, take, to moan and mate and mark, but Stiles had been wordless for so long and he was so young - he leaned over Stiles’ back and kissed a query to his shoulderblade, unable to find words to make sure that Stiles needed this as much as he did.
Somehow, Stiles understood, and he snatch-grabbed a bottle of olive oil within arm’s reach on the counter and slid it forcefully backwards towards Derek, who muffled a groan against the shirt over Stiles’ back. Uncapping the bottle, he wasn’t sure why he had ever thought this was a bad idea. Stiles was a genius.
A moment later, he pushed inside of him, no time spared for gentleness or murmured reassurances. Stiles gasped at the sudden fullness, hands scrabbling and sliding on the formica counter. Derek sunk his fingertips into Stiles’ hips, hard enough that he knew there would be bruises tomorrow, and stood maddeningly still while Stiles breathed until he finally saw his head dip in a jerky nod. Only then did he begin to move, and Stiles’ knuckles tensed again in a new way, and Derek could feel the shuddering moan that he was dragging out of him.
He reached around with one hand between Stiles and the counter to take hold of him, hand still oily slick, and start pulling in rhythm with his thrusts. Stiles made a keening noise and shoved his ass backwards, hard, burying Derek deep within him. “Derek,” he said, and it was thin, desperate, and Derek had never heard his name sound quite like that. It was a dizzying sound, and he pushed faster, now biting at Stiles’ back where his shirt was riding up, scraping his teeth along his spine, tightening his grip on Stiles’ cock.
Stiles was beginning to make small, breathless noises every time Derek sunk into him, and finally his back arched and he was coming into Derek’s hand. Derek tightened his grip on Stiles’ hips, claws digging and cutting, and followed him down a moment later as the world turned white fire.
After a minute of static silence, he pulled out, uncurling his fingers, straightening. Stiles pushed himself up off the counter on his elbows, wavery and boneless, and Derek’s hands found their way to his arms to steady him. As Stiles allowed himself to slide down the cabinet to the floor, Derek had no choice but to go along with him, and Stiles dropped his head backwards against Derek’s chest. It would have gotten him hit a week ago. Things had changed.
“Goddamn,” Stiles mumbled, shutting his eyes. Derek could smell the stink of sex on them, but more importantly, he could smell himself all over Stiles. And though he felt mildly guilty for the scratches and bruises that would litter Stiles’ body tomorrow, there was a primal part of him, pacing the walls of his skull, that wanted everyone to see, to know that Stiles was his. Off limits. Taken territory. Alpha’s mate.
“See,” Stiles was continuing, speaking slowly, and a smug smile crept across his lips. “I was right.” Derek lifted his head slightly from the wood of the cabinet door. “Pack mom. Damn good idea.”
Derek tightened his arms around Stiles, eyes flashing red. After a moment, he bowed his head to rest his lips against the back of Stiles’ skull, inhaling their scent. “Yeah,” he said roughly, and it was.