If I Kiss You Will Your Mouth Read This Truth (Part 2)
Part 1
“Yeah I know…” Derek sighs and Stiles pauses at the bottom of the stairs, “Just…yeah ok…thanks,” Derek sighs again and Stiles hear him slam his phone onto the counter.
“Who was that?” he asks as he steps into the kitchen and Derek smiles at him, tugs him closer and runs his nose up the side of his neck. Stiles’s hair is still damp, his clean t-shirt clinging slightly to his skin and Derek hums.
“No one…much better,” he mumbles and Stiles feels the counter dig into his back.
“Well I’m glad you approve,” he quips. Derek lifts his head and cups his hands around Stiles’s face, thumbs sliding over his cheekbones.
“I approve,” his voice is quiet, meaningful, his eyes serious and Stiles frowns, his fingers curling into Derek’s belt, tugging him closer.
“Ok, what’s going on?” Derek shakes his head, presses his forehead to Stiles’s and breathes in. “Derek you’re kinda freaking me out.” Derek slides his hands down Stiles neck, presses his thumbs under his chin and tilts his head back, licks a line up the centre of Stiles’s throat. He nips at his chin, licks across Stiles’s lips, rubs his cheek across Stiles’s, the rasp of stubble almost burning. “Derek.”
“Shhh,” Derek hushes him, breath hot in Stiles’s ear, and he flicks his tongue against the shell. Stiles shivers, moves his hips lazily into Derek’s and Derek’s hands run down his chest and clamp around his hips. His hands are hot, always so hot, nails digging in slightly and the thought that Derek’s wolf could get the better of him and hurt Stiles never occurs to him, it should, but Derek makes him feel safe, not in danger. Derek runs his hands up, under Stiles’s t-shirt, steps back enough to pull it off and then his own, and then its skin against skin. Derek trails one hand down Stiles’s spine, gently, just a brush of fingers, the other hand follows and Stiles groans, arches his back. Derek’s fingers skim around Stiles’s waist, palms flat against his chest as they travel back up, across his collar bones where he leans down and nips at the skin gently, hands trailing down Stiles arms, fingers twining together and Derek lifts their hands, presses Stiles’s into the cabinet behind him. He doesn’t have to tell Stiles to keep them there, Stiles gets it by the gentle squeeze around his wrists and the dark look in Derek’s eyes. He nods and Derek’s presses a kiss to the hollow at the base of Stiles’s throat.
“I thought you said sex later?” Stiles mutters as Derek’s lips slip across his skin, teeth scraping across his collar bone again.
“Well I have the urge to remind you that you’re mine,” Derek replies quietly, thoughtfully, sinking lower and swirling his tongue around one of Stiles’s nipple.
“Possessive much?” Stiles gasps as Derek’s teeth close around it, groans and flexes his fingers, wishes he could dive them into Derek’s hair and just hold on.
“Complaining?” Derek lifts his head and arches an eyebrow, but its forced, this playfulness and Stiles makes a mental note to get what’s bothering him out of him later. He’s usually more agreeable after Stiles has sucked his brain out through his dick.
“Hell no,” he shakes his head and Derek sinks to his knees, kissing down the line of hair on Stiles’s stomach. He drags his teeth over Stiles’s hip bones, fingers working the button of his jeans undone and then he slides them down Stiles’s thighs, hands skimming over his skin as Stiles tries to keep himself still and keep his hands pressed to the cabinet. His twitches his hips forward as Derek leans closer and runs his nose up the length of Stiles’s cotton covered dick. Stiles jerks, lets out a string of curses, Derek’s hand running up Stiles’s left calf, his other winding around Stiles’s ankle like a shackle.
And that thought goes straight to Stiles’s dick.
He whines as Derek mouths at his dick through his boxers.
“Ok, change of plan,” Derek says suddenly standing up and Stiles lets his mouth hang open.
“Wait what? What the hell is wrong with you? You can’t do that to someone, that’s just mean and cruel and nfgh…” Derek kisses him hard.
“Training.”
“You cannot be serious? Now? After that? You want me to concentrate on anything other than the fact that my dick is trying to break its way out of my boxers and I want you to fuck me through the mattress?” Stiles whines and Derek’s lips curl at the corners.
“Trust me,” he reaches into a draw by the side of Stiles and pulls out one of the blindfolds he used to train Stiles in the wood. Stiles’s heart skips and Derek’s head cocks to the side like he’s listening to it. Arousal kicks up a notch, speeding down Stiles’s spine to pool low in his belly. Derek presses forward, trails his fingers across the taught skin of Stiles’s stomach and reaches up and covers Stiles’s eyes with the smooth material. Stiles’s breath catches in his throat as Derek ties it behind his head, runs his fingers down the side of Stiles’s neck. Stiles cant speak, he wants to, wants to argue with Derek, ask him what the hell he’s doing because they don’t do this intense thing, wants to babble about how much he just fucking loves Derek right now, wants to tell Derek how much he trusts him and Derek could tie him upside down by his toes and leave him there for three days and Stiles would be ok with it because it’s Derek. Derek knows what he’s doing, everything he does has a purpose. But he can’t speak and Derek leans forward and presses his lips to Stiles’s. “Where am I touching you?” Derek asks and winds his fingers around Stiles’s wrists.
“Wrists,” Stiles answers immediately and Derek hums in the back of his throat, “I don’t see how this is training.”
“Shut up,” Derek snaps, sliding his hands down Stiles’s arms, “where now?”
“Shoulders,” Derek’s fingers dig into the hollows by his collar bones.
“Good…” he hands leave his skin, “now?”
“You’re not…”
“Concentrate Stiles, you’re relying too much on touch, think,” Derek pokes him in the forehead and Stiles resists the urge to rip the blindfold off. He drags in a deep breath, “where are my hands?” Stiles relaxes, leans his head back against the cabinet, the edge of the counter digging into his back and concentrates on his skin, the feel of it, the ghost of Derek’s touch along his arms. There’s a point of heat by Stiles’s side, on his right, like he’s standing next to a flame.
“Right side,” Derek lets out a pleased noise and lets his hand touch Stiles, pets along his ribs, splays his fingers out between them.
“Again,” Stiles takes a deep breath, breathes in the scent of Derek and concentrates, zeroes in on the point of heat on his left thigh.
“Left thigh,” Derek’s hand connects with his skin, hot and solid, a light smack that sounds worse than it is in the otherwise quiet kitchen. He slides Stiles’s boxers down and taps at his ankle to get Stiles to step out of them.
“Again,” Derek breathes out across Stiles’s dick.
“I…”
“Again, Stiles,” Derek breathes out again, blows a stream of air across the tip of Stiles’s dick and Stiles shudders, tries to pinpoint the heat anywhere on his skin.
“Left hip,” Stiles blurts and Derek drags his nails across the skin there.
“Good,” Derek hums and runs his thumbs across both hip bones. Stiles is painfully hard, and Derek blows against the tip again. “Being faster and stronger isn’t the only thing they’ll use to their advantage,” Derek says conversationally, finally curling his fingers around Stiles’s dick. Stiles jerks, and Derek’s hand clamps around his hip. “Stay still…they’ll use their better eyesight and you need to be able to feel where they’re coming from,” Derek continues, “they’re hunters, Stiles, predators,” Stiles jerks his hips again, tries to get Derek’s hand to move and Derek tightens his grip around his hip, nails digging in, “every move you make, makes a noise, they hear better than you…stay still.” There’s a hint of anger in Derek’s voice, desperate anger and Stiles frowns behind his blindfold.
Stiles whines and Derek leans forward and nips at his hip bone again, tongue darting out to soothe the skin. He moves, stands, slides his body against Stiles’s, every inch touching him and Derek sucks one of Stiles’s nipples again, his hands touching every bit of Stiles’s body he can reach. Stiles moans, his muscles trembling with the effort to stay still. He’s blood pounds in his head, Derek’s words echoing in his ear, the angry, worried tone of them. Derek’s breath brushes against his lips and Stiles parts them, dart his tongue out to wet the bottom one and Derek leans forward enough to kiss him hard.
“They’re there,” he growls, low and dangers, hands sliding up Stiles’s arms, “they’re in your town, and they could be anyone.”
“Derek,” Derek’s hands curls around his wrists, thumbs brushing over his pulse.
“Turn around,” Stiles does it without thinking and Derek loosens his grip around his wrists, plants his hands on the counter top and runs his own down Stiles’s spine. Stiles arches into the touch and Derek’s fingers slides between his ass cheeks, a slight point of pressure that has Stiles pushing back against it. “Still.”
Stiles whines again but stays stills as he hears Derek undoing his own jeans and sliding them down his thighs.
“Do you get it?” Derek asks as Stiles hears the rip of foil and the snap of a condom.
“I get it,” Derek’s hand grips at his hip, there’s a click of the lid on a bottle of lube and then a cool fingers slides into his body. “Shit.” Derek fucks him slow, with one finger, then another, finally three, until Stiles is sure he’s about to die, it’s too much, not seeing Derek, concentrating on his other senses, feeling everything Derek’s doing and Stiles knows this is why Derek’s doing this, he just can’t take much more. “Fuck Derek…please.”
And then Derek’s pushing in, all the way in, in one fluid movement and Stiles thinks that maybe he might pass out. Derek drops his head to Stiles’s shoulder blades, presses his lips to the skin and pulls out, almost all the way, slams back in and Stiles’s arms give out. He pillows his head on his arms, and Derek fucks him slow, deep, hard, hitting that spot inside Stiles with every thrust. It doesn’t take long, Stiles is too strung out from training and before he knows it, Derek’s winding a hand around him and curling his fingers around Stiles’s dick and Stiles is letting out a string of curses and coming over Derek’s hand.
Derek grunts, pulls out, pushes back in hard and comes buried so far inside Stiles he’d swear he felt it.
“You know I bitch about training?” Stiles mutters and Derek pulls out of him and unties the blindfold, spinning Stiles around. Stiles blinks in the light and grins up at Derek. “You can train me like that any day.”
Derek runs his thumb across Stiles’s bottom lip and his eyes darken.
“Food…” he mutters, “then we’re going upstairs and I’m not letting you out of bed until tomorrow…got it?” Stiles’s stomach twists.
“Got it.”
…
Derek’s true to his word and doesn’t let Stiles out of bed until Saturday evening, and only then because his dad’s called three times. Stiles is beginning to think that he’s getting bed sores.
Derek’s been handsy, touching Stiles’s skin every where he can, running his cheeks along Stiles’s inner thighs, letting his tongue draw lazy patterns across the dimples in Stiles’s lower back. And Stiles has come more times that he can count, the last being little more than a judder of limbs, because he’s empty, spent, and beyond sated.
He wakes some time in the early evening to an empty bed and stretches his used muscles, grimacing. He rubs his hands over his face and smells Derek.
His t-shirt’s no where to be seen and Stiles frowns, pulls his jeans on and stumbles downstairs to the kitchen. Derek’s sitting at the table papers circled around him and he looks up as Stiles leans against the door frame. He’s caught him off guard, immersed in research of this other pack probably, and Stiles can see the lost look on his face. He sometimes forgets that Derek isn’t always the self assured Alpha that he seems to be in front of the pack, that he lost his entire family at a young age, that he became an Alpha after killing his own uncle, because he had to. His face changes in an instant though, the lost look melting away and there’s a brief smile.
“You ok?” Stiles asks and Derek spins his chair out from the table and nods.
“Good,” he answers as Stiles pushes himself off the door frame and walks to the fridge, dropping a kiss on Derek’s head as he passes.
“Nice t-shirt,” Stiles quips and Derek runs his hand down the material, smiling slightly. It’s too small by a long shot, stretched across the shoulders and around the tops of Derek’s arms and Stiles knows there will be a strip of skin at the bottom between the hem and Derek’s jeans. It looks good on him though, in an almost obscene way.
“Couldn’t find my own,” Derek mutters and Stiles grabs a bottle of water from the fridge and swallows half of it, runs his arm across his mouth.
“Yeah…right,” Stiles rolls his eyes and crawls into Derek’s lap, wrapping his arms around his neck. Derek raises an eyebrow but his fingers play along the skin of Stiles’s back, “just admit it, it’s your possessive nature coming through, making me want to smell like you, so alllllllll the other little werewolves will know I’m yours” Stiles taps the end of Derek’s nose with his finger and Derek growls. “Now now, Grumplestilskin.” Stiles kisses him, soundly on the lips and Derek’s glaring as he pulls back, “don’t glare, you’ll get wrinkles,” Stiles smoothes out the lines on his forehead with his fingers.
“God you’re impossible,” Derek grumbles, swatting his hand away and Stiles grins, wriggles in Derek’s lap.
“Impossible not to love,” he replies and Derek rolls his eyes, “right,” Stiles gets off Derek’s lap and grins internally at the way Derek’s hands twitch like he wants to pull him back, “I gotta go home,” he stretches and Derek pokes him in the stomach with his finger, “ok uncalled for.”
“Get out of my house,” Derek grumbles and Stiles leans down, presses a kiss to his temple. Derek leans into his slightly and Stiles smiles against his skin.
“I’ll call you later.”
…
Although his dad has never actually come out and said it, like with actual words, Stiles is pretty sure he knows what’s going on between him and Derek. Especially if the way he’s constantly rolling his eyes at the love bites on Stiles’s neck is anything to go by.
His dad’s fine though, doesn’t ask questions, just pats Stiles on the shoulder in a way that Stiles knows means “I love you and am proud of you.”
The Sheriff is standing in the kitchen looking like he’s going to vomit when Stiles gets back.
“You ok?” His dad turns, runs a hand down his front and holds his arms out.
“Do I look ok?” That’s when Stiles notices the shirt, the smart jacket, clean slacks and he blinks.
“You going out?” His dad looks slightly embarrassed and more than a little nervous.
“I um…I’m having dinner…with a friend,” his dad deflects and turns back to the counter where Stiles notices the glass of whiskey.
“Is this friend of the female variety?” his dad looks at him, “or male? I mean, I’m not judging,” Stiles holds his hands out and his dad rolls his eyes.
“Female,” he confirms and Stiles feels a smile spread across his face. It’s been too long, his dad has been mourning his mom for too long. And his mom may have been the love of his dad’s life, but Stiles gets it, he can’t be alone forever. He remembers trying to set up his dad with his middle school Math teacher once, him and Scott didn’t get very far with that. His dad shrugs, straightens out his tie and Stiles takes a step towards him, tidies the back of his jacket collar and pats his lapels.
“You look great, for an old man,” he dodges the back hand his dad aims at his head and laughs. “Knock ‘em dead dad, but not literally dead, because that would be embarrassing…Local Sheriff Arrested For Murder,” Stiles swipes his hand out in front of him and his dad sighs.
“This is ok right?” Stiles cocks his head to the side.
“The jacket?”
“No…” His dad sighs and Stiles claps him on the shoulders.
“It’s about time dad.” His dad smiles, slowly, and Stiles grins back. His dad steps away and runs a hand over his hair.
“I don’t think I remember how to do this,” he says and Stiles groans, mimics shoving his fingers down his throat.
“Gross.”
“Not that you delinquent,” his dad sighs, but there’s grin on his face and Stiles laughs. It’s good to see his dad happy, worried about dating, but happy. It’s been a while, maybe even before his mom died and Stiles thinks smiling like that really suits him.
“Dad, you’ll be fine, go please, before you inadvertently give me more information than my young innocent mind can handle,” he shudders and his dad clips him round the back of his head, grabs his wallet and keys.
“Innocent my ass,” he mutters and Stiles sticks his tongue out at his retreating back.
“Have fun!” He calls as the front door slams.
…
He kind of wants nothing more than to drive back to Derek’s, but he honestly doesn’t think his body could take it, so he pulls some Hot Pockets out of the freezer and calls Scott.
Scott’s blissfully not busy, his mom’s out and Allison is having family night with her scary ass, hunter family (seriously, Mrs Argent scares the crap out of Stiles…still).
Scott’s car squeaks to a halt outside Stiles’s house 20 minutes later as Stiles is burning the roof of his mouth on a Hot Pocket. Scott lets himself in and rolls his eyes as Stiles downs a glass of ice water.
“Jesus,” Scott laughs and takes a Hot Pocket Stiles holds out to him, “does your werewolf abilities mean that you have like an asbestos lined mouth?” Stiles asks as Scott wolves (no pun intended) it down in two bites. Scott shrugs. “So is your mom working?”
“No she’s out with a friend, I think it was a date though,” Scott says thoughtfully and Stiles stop mid step towards the fridge.
“She’s out on a date?”
“Yeah, I think…”
“Huh,” Scott’s mom and his dad. The thought, funnily enough, doesn’t repulse him. They are both grown adults, and probably due to the amount of sex Stiles is having, he doesn’t care that other people are having it. Oh no…Stiles feels a coil in his stomach, no there’s the revulsion. Gross.
“What?” Scott asks and throws a confused look at Stiles. It amuses Stiles sometimes, how much gets past Scott.
“Oh nothing.”
…
“I think my dad’s dating Scott’s mom,” Derek’s fingers are winding into Stiles’s longer hair, his nails scratching across Stiles’s scalp and Stiles’s got his arms resting on Derek’s knees.
“Hmmm,” Derek hums absently, his eyes fixed on the book to his right. His hand doesn’t stop moving though and Stiles leans into the touch, some part of him hating to admit that he likes the petting.
“I’m thinking of dating Scott’s mom,” he says, leaning his head back and looking up at Derek. Derek’s eyes flick to his.
“What?”
“Are you even listening to me?” Stiles asks and Derek leans down, presses a kiss to his forehead.
“I try not to most of the time,” Derek smiles, and it looks weird upside down, but Stiles’s chest does the usual tightening thing it does whenever Derek smiles at him. He’s seemed more relaxed since Stiles came back from his dad’s, more…calm. None of the frantic touching from the day before, but just gentle touches, that leave Stiles’s skin aching for more.
“Rude,” Stiles mutters as Derek’s fingers slide down the back of his neck.
“When are you going back?” Derek murmurs and Stiles hops up onto his knees and turns, faces Derek, slides his hands up Derek’s thighs. The muscles twitch under his hands but Derek’s face remains expressionless. Even so Stiles can still see the way his eyes darken. Derek leans back against the couch, shifts lower and spreads his thighs.
“Probably Tuesday,” Stiles mutters thoughtfully, his mind on getting Derek out of his jeans rather than the casual small talk he seems to like to make when Stiles is concentrating on getting him naked.
“Why?” Derek asks as Stiles runs his hands up Derek’s chest under his t-shirt. Derek lifts a hand and traces his index finger over Stiles’s face. Stiles is so familiar with the action he knows that Derek is playing connect the dots with Stiles’s moles. He turns his head into the touch and lets out a small noise on contentment.
“Because I have work to do,” he mumbles and Derek curls his finger under Stiles’s chin, lifts his face upwards and Stiles opens the eyes he doesn’t remember closing and swallows against Derek’s fingers.
“Ok,” Derek replies and puts the pad of his thumb into the curve under Stiles’s lips.
“Ok?” Stiles raises an eyebrow. “Ok? What no fighting? No ‘no Stiles you must stay?” Stiles lowers his voice to mimic Derek’s and Derek raises his own eyebrow back at him.
“Do you want me to fight you?” Derek lifts his other hand and runs his thumbs across Stiles’s cheekbones.
“No,” Stiles admits, curling his fingers into Derek’s waist band and tugging him further down. He lets out a little puff of air as he moves and Stiles gets his hands around the button on Derek’s jeans and pops it open.
“Ok then,” Derek says, voice low as Stiles tugs his jeans down this thighs. He sits back against his calves and tugs off Derek’s combat boots, pulling his lip between his teeth as he throws them one by one over his shoulder and Derek sighs.
“You’re about to get a blow job and you’re complaining about the mess?” Stiles asks with a quirk of his eyebrow and tugs Derek’s jeans all the way off, throws them over his shoulder to join the boots.
“You drive me crazy,” Derek replies, long sufferingly and Stiles grins at him before leaning down and pressing his mouth to Derek’s boxers. Derek’s breathing hitches, his fingers curling into Stiles’s hair.
Stiles may not have Derek’s sense of smell, but he can still smell Derek’s arousal already and he licks at the cotton covering the head of Derek’s dick, tastes, very faintly, pre come and groans in the back of his throat as Derek’s fingers tighten. He goes on like that for a while, teasing Derek through his boxers until the cotton is soaked with pre come and spit and Derek’s fingers are just this side of painful and his breathing is ragged. Stiles pulls away, curls his fingers into the elastic of Derek’s boxers and pulls them down slowly, until Derek’s dick springs upwards, hard and ready and Stiles’s mouth waters. He loves giving this to Derek, because Derek gives him everything he has, everything he is. Stiles leans back down, sucks the head of Derek’s dick into his mouth and Derek gasps, pushes his hips upwards, his dick sliding between Stiles’s lips. Stiles hums, sinks down the last few inches, all the way until his nose is pressed to Derek’s stomach and Derek groans.
Apparently, Stiles was born for sucking dick because, hello, no gag reflex.
It comes in handy because Derek’s dick hits the back of his throat. Stiles hums again, slides his mouth back up, presses his tongue to the slit in Derek’s dick and Derek curses softly under his breath as Stiles looks up at him.
He sinks back down again, keeps his eyes on Derek as long as he can and sees a flash of red and swallows around him. Derek pushes his hips upwards, fucks his dick into Stiles’s mouth and Stiles just takes it all, because its Derek, relaxes his throat and takes it. Derek’s fingers tighten in his hair, tugging at the short strands but Stiles curls his hands around Derek’s hips and holds on as Derek grunts, curses and comes down Stiles’s throat.
Stiles swallows everything, leans back and swipes his thumb across his bottom lip.
Derek groans, hauls Stiles forward and licks the taste of himself out of Stiles’s mouth. He slides his lips down Stiles’s jaw, rubs his cheek against Stiles’s, pulls his ear lobe between his teeth.
“So what do you think?” Stiles mutters as Derek rubs his cheek against Stiles’s again. Derek pulls back.
“About what?” Derek runs the inside of his wrist over Stiles’s shoulder and down his arm, curls their fingers together and lifts their hands to his mouth, presses Stiles’s knuckles to his lip.
“About my dad…”
“Really? You want to talk about your dad with the taste of me still in your mouth?” Derek’s thumb slides between his lips. Stiles groans around it and sucks hard and Derek’s eyes flutter closed. Derek pulls it out, runs it wet down Stiles’s chin.
“I just…”
“Come here,” Derek mutters and Stiles clambers onto the couch. Derek slides his legs up onto the couch, pulls Stiles down till his heads pillowed on Derek’s chest. His fingers run through Stiles’s hair. This is their talking position, because Derek only opens up when Stiles isn’t looking at him, when Stiles can’t read the bone deep hurt on his face, the guilt at losing his family, about killing Peter, the fact that he so stupidly young. Stiles buries his head into Derek’s t-shirt, because although he can look at Derek, he gets what Derek’s doing, Derek making himself available. Derek’s doing what he likes when he needs to talk because he doesn’t know any other way and Stiles falls in love that little bit more.
“It’s ok right? I mean, mom’s been gone for a while now, and dad needs someone…” Stiles starts, answering his own initial question and Derek’s fingers run along his scalp.
“He has you,” Derek says quietly, playing the Devil’s Advocate. Stiles sighs and draws a spiral on Derek’s chest.
“I know,” Stiles rubs his cheek across the soft cotton of Derek’s shirt.
“But maybe he needs more than that?” Derek asks and Stiles nods.
“Yeah, I mean how lonely must he be? He’s done nothing except work and look after me since she died and he’s had nothing back but a town full of werewolves and a slightly delinquent son,” Stiles lets out a self depreciating laugh and Derek’s arm tightens around him.
“I wouldn’t say that,” he mutters, “it’s not full of werewolves,” Stiles pokes him in the ribs and lifts his head. Derek’s smiling at him and he runs the backs of his fingers across Stiles’s cheek. Stiles lies back down, shifts, throws a thigh over Derek’s and Derek drops his lips to the top of his head. “I think you have your answer,” Derek says, his voice vibrating against Stiles’s scalp. He hums quietly and slides his hand up Derek’s side under his shirt, feels the muscles twitch under his palm.
“It’s alright, it’s good,” he says and he feels Derek nod.
“Plus, it was only a matter of time, your dad’s a good looking man,” Stiles nearly chokes on his own tongue and lifts his head up again.
“What?”
“He’s a good looking man,” Derek says again, with a shrug of his shoulders and no hint of a smile anywhere on his face or in his eyes.
“Again…what?”
“Oh Jesus Stiles, your face,” Derek bends nearly double, narrowly avoids kneeing Stiles in the back of his head as he spits out a bark of laughter that sounds, for once, completely and utterly genuine and Stiles, even though he’s getting over his initial shock of “my god my boyfriend thinks my dad is hot” he grins back at him.
“You bastard,” he mutters and digs his fingers into the spaces between Derek’s ribs. Derek lets out a noise that’s crossed between a howl of pain and a laugh, “for a moment there I thought you were using me to get to my dad,” Derek laughs again and hauls Stiles down to him, fist curled into Stiles’s shirt.
“I already have one Stillinski,” he says, breathless and amused but his voice lowers, “I don’t think I could handle another.”
“Oh he’s better than me,” Stiles replies and Derek lets out a snort, somehow manages to turn them both on the couch until he’s pressing Stiles into the cushions without tipping them both onto the floor.
“I don’t think anyone is.”
…
Sometime on Monday night, although it could be Tuesday morning, Stiles wakes to Derek’s hands on him, the gentle touches that makes his skin burn, the slight drag of nails across his back, the swirl of Derek’s tongue against the curve of his buttocks and Stiles shifts, slowly, into wakefulness.
It’s almost not sexual, the way Derek’s touching him. It’s almost like he’s mapping out Stiles’s skin in his mind, almost like he’s trying to remind himself what Stiles feels like under his fingertips. Stiles shifts and Derek’s thumbs press in gently to the dimples at the base of Stiles’s back.
“What are you doing?” Stiles mutters, face smashed into the pillow, his voice croaky and thick with sleep.
“Ssshh,” Derek hushes, like it’s a secret and nudges Stiles’s thighs further apart, settling himself between them and skimming his hot burning palms across the tender skin of his inner thighs. His thumbs run along the creases under his ass, where his thighs join and Stiles shifts again, groans as one thumb slips between his ass cheeks. “You know,” Derek mutters, conversationally, but his voice still quiet in the dark of the room, Stiles slips his eyes shut and focuses on the feel of Derek’s hands on him, “I love you like this,” Stiles hums as Derek’s thumb pushes against his hole, “quiet…for once,” Derek lets out a small sound like a laugh, “still…mine.”
It shocks Stiles how much he loves it when Derek says that word, mine, bitten off against Stiles’s neck as he comes deep inside him, muttered against Stiles’s lips in their more quiet moments, murmured against Stiles’s hair as Stiles drifts to sleep with Derek’s chest under his cheek. It makes heat bloom in his chest, when it should make him feel suffocated.
“Say it Stiles,” Derek says, low and dangerous, his thumb pressing in all the way, a dull ache, and then he leans down and licks at the skin where it’s stretched around his thumb.
“Yours,” Stiles gasps out. His skin feels too small, itchy and he twists, presses back against Derek’s tongue, Derek’s thumb, Derek. And it’s true, he is Derek’s, feels like he’s been Derek’s since he first saw in the woods all those years ago.
Derek moves, crawls upwards and covers Stiles’s back with his body, pushing Stiles’s thighs wider with his knees, his dick slides between Stiles’s ass cheeks and Derek’s breath is hot against his ear. Derek slips inside, pushes all the way in with a low growl and Stiles rises his hips backwards to meet him.
“Stiles,” Derek groans, curling his fingers around Stiles’s and pressing their hands into the mattress. “Stiles…don’t…” Derek bites off, pulling all the way out and pushing back in again and Stiles, despite the one word, knows what Derek’s trying to say, there’s a pleading in his voice and the way he’s been moody all weekend, touching Stiles like he’s trying to remember him, Stiles gets it. With a sudden cold clarity Stiles gets it. Derek thinks Stiles is going to leave him.
Stiles tightens his grip around Derek’s fingers, “I wont.”
…
Stiles is miserable. Well not miserable per se, more like…despondent. He spent too long with Derek and now he hates not being there. It’s pathetic really, bordering on obsessive, and he would be worried if he didn’t know Derek felt exactly the same way.
His skin still smells like Derek, which is weird, considering the first thing he did on Tuesday was jump in the shower. But even Cassie had wrinkled her nose and sniffed at his shirt and asked if he had changed aftershave. It’s not just his skin though, its his shirts too. The one that Derek wore, and even though it probably could do with a wash, Stiles cant really bring himself to do it, not when he slips it over his head and calls Derek, lying on his side with the phone under his ear and Derek’s scent all around him.
But yes, he’s despondent, moping around and Cassie has dragged him out for coffee because he was beginning to behave like “a love sick pre-pubescent girl who’s realised her celebrity crush will never actually love her the way she loves him”. Cassie’s words.
Cassie’s flirting with the Barista though which leaves Stiles drawing the shape of Derek’s tattoo (see? Pathetic) into the foam on his girly latte, remembering the way the skin feels under his fingertips, the twitch of muscles when he laughs when Stiles presses his nails in. He shakes his head, nods in the direction of the bathroom when Cassie flicks her gaze at him, she shrugs her “whatever” shrug and Stiles’s chair squeaks as he pushes it across the floor.
He’s washing his hands when a shadow falls across the sink.
“Hey,” Matt grins, and Stiles swallows uneasily, “you’re back.”
“Yup…back, totally back, back in town, back in the hood,” Stiles fiddles with the tap, his wet hands slipping off it and Matt reaches out and covers Stiles’s hand with his own and turns the tap.
“Did you have a good time?” Matt asks and Stiles swallows again, slides his hand out from under Matt’s and shoves them both into his pockets.
“Yeah, great, lovely, thanks,” Matt takes a step forward.
“Do I make you nervous Stiles?” Matt leans forward and a frown passes over his face as his nostrils twitch. Stiles’s stomach twists with sick realisation, “you smell like…”
“Oh my God, you’re a werewolf,” Stiles blurts and Matt’s face drains of colour. He steps back and forces out an incredulous laugh.
“What? Stiles, werewolves don’t exist,” he says and rubs the back of his neck. Stiles narrows his eyes, all nerves gone as Matt looks as nervous as he felt.
“Hey, I live in Beacon Hills buddy, we have our very own pack, sometimes even more than one, I know a werewolf when they do that creepy nostril thing,” Stiles gestures at Matt’s nose.
“I…”
“My boyfriend is an Alpha,” Stiles says and then bites on his bottom lip as Matt’s eyes flash blue. The cold icy blue that Derek’s used to.
“No wonder you smell like Alpha then,” Matt says and Stiles shrugs.
“Yeah well, he likes to wear my shirts,” Matt cocks his head to the side and Stiles wonders why the hell he’s not nervous anymore, why the fact that he knows Matt is a werewolf has taken all the creepiness, the uncomfortable feeling, the unease out of him.
“No it’s more than that,” Matt says with a frown. Stiles doesn’t have time to analyse that statement before the fear is kicking up a notch again and Stiles presses himself back against the wall and looks warily at Matt.
“Hey I thought you were dangerous?” he says reaching into his pocket for the tiny silver knife Allison gave him. Pushed into his hands and made him promise he would always keep on him.
“What?” Matt looks genuinely confused.
“Derek said you were dangerous,” Stiles says, more dangerous than Derek and his pack. And his pack had all tried to kill Stiles once in their lives, Erica still looks at Stiles like she would if Derek asked her too.
“Derek probably didn’t want you out of his sight…I know I wouldn’t,” Matt replies, cocking his head to the side and dragging his eyes up and down Stiles’s body.
“So you’re not?” Stiles still has his fingers curled around the tiny knife in his pocket and Matt narrows his eyes slightly.
“We’re all dangerous Stiles, you out of anyone should know that,” Matt takes a step forward and Stiles swallows hard. Matt’s eyes flicked down to Stiles’s mouth as he darts his tongue out to wet the bottom one, “but we’re just passing through,” Matt shrugs, “and honestly Stiles, I did…want to get to know you,” he steps forward and Stiles presses himself further into the wall.
What is it about him and pushy werewolves?
“I thought you went here?” he says, sliding down the wall and slipping under Matt’s braced arm.
“Good cover huh?” he grins lopsidedly. Stiles runs his hand over his hair, catches a hint of Derek still on his skin.
“Wait…what did you mean it was more than just him wearing my shirts?” Matt looks uncomfortable, narrows his eyes at Stiles and breathes in.
“You smell like Alpha,” he says.
“You said that already,” Stiles replies.
“But its more than that…”
“You said that already,” Stiles pushes, because there’s something niggling at the back of his mind, something he feels he should know, or perhaps something that he once knew and forgot.
“You smell like mate…not my mate, but like…you’ve been claimed…marked…” Matt says.
“What?” Stiles’s stomach twists.
“We may fuck around but we mate for life, you smell like mate,” Matt says again, cocking his head to the side and wrinkling his nose slightly.
“No I got that but what? I’ve been…claimed?” There’s a sick thrill in Stiles’s stomach, the coiling low in his belly, an almost primal thrill at being claimed, practically belonging to Derek. But Derek did this because he didn’t trust Stiles, even after Stiles made him promise to trust him, Derek didn’t believe him. Even after Stiles has saved every single member of Derek’s pack, individually and as a whole, Derek still thinks of Stiles as a needy, pathetic human. His blood boils under his skin.
“He’s warning others like me off you. You didn’t know?”
“That son of bitch.”
…
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Derek’s front door bangs on his hinges as Stiles throws it open. Derek’s standing at the top of the stairs, his face a mixture of surprise and amusement, a hint of fondness.
“Hi Stiles,” he says gently and Stiles curls his fingers around the stair rail.
“You claimed me?” Even from this distance Stiles can see the emotions flit across Derek’s face. Stiles closes his eyes, shakes his head and looks up to find Derek right in front of him, nothing showing on his blank face, his dark eyes masked.
“And?” There’s such a challenge in his tone, and Stiles takes a step back, because he can feel the heat coming off Derek in waves and he does not need to be distracted right now by the way his shirt fits across his chest. He snaps his gaze back up to Derek’s.
“And I asked you to trust that I could look after myself, yet you basically go and pee on me to tell everyone I’m yours?” He can feel anger boiling through his blood, his skin flushing around his neck, creeping up his throat. Derek cocks his head to the side.
“You knew what I was doing, you said it yourself,” he says and Stiles throws his hands in the air.
“I was joking,” he cries and Derek’s face darkens.
“I wasn’t,” he says low and quiet, reaches out and curls his fingers around Stiles’s arms. “This isn’t a joke to me Stiles,” he says, voice louder now, and he shakes Stiles gently, “you aren’t a joke to me,” there’s so much that Stiles wants to hear from Derek’s mouth. I love you, I need you, please don’t leave me, I trust you, but what it comes down to is that, you aren’t a joke to me and Stiles shrugs Derek’s hands off.
“You can’t just…” he starts and Derek growls quietly, an angry rumble to match the anger pounding of Stiles’s blood.
“What? Protect you? Yes I can Stiles, you’re mine to protect,” Stiles supresses the shudder that the word mine, the almost base need to sink to his knees and show Derek just how much he is his.
“No I’m not!” he shouts instead, pushing at Derek’s chest. Derek steps back, face expressionless, as usual and that just makes Stiles even more angry. “I’m not pack, I’m not yours, why cant you just be normal for once and let me make my own mistakes?” Derek flinches at normal, looks like he’s been punched for a second before his whole demeanour closes down.
“Because mistakes with abnormal people like me get you killed, I can’t afford that,” he says and there’s a slight begging in his tone, like he needs Stiles to get it.
“Why? Why can’t you afford that?” he demands, Derek drops his gaze to Stiles’s lips, back up to his eyes and then the floor.
“You know why,” he mutters and Stiles lets out a bitter laugh.
“No Derek, I really don’t,” he spits out turning away from Derek.
“Stiles...”
“No you know what? For once, you shut up,” Derek blinks as Stiles spins back around and points at him, “this is my life Derek, I cant live it under your fucking wing forever. Ok and now I’m thinking about you with wings…but the point is, I’m not pathetic, I don’t need you to look after me all the goddam time. I happened to emerge unscathed from an encounter with one of your so called “dangerous roaming pack” members just today. And look…” he holds his arms out, “all in one piece.” Stiles lets out a strangled gasp as his back hits the wall and Derek’s solid body pins him in place, Derek’s eyes flashing red as he grips tight at Stiles’s arms.
“You spoke to one of them?” he demands, pulling Stiles back off the wall and slamming him back again. Stiles grunts as his head hits the plaster.
“Derek, let me go,” Stiles pushes against his hold and Derek’s fingers tighten.
“Did they hurt you, Stiles…tell me,” another shake, and Stiles nearly bites on his tongue as his teeth clack together.
“Let. Me. Go,” Stiles uses all his strength to push Derek off and Derek stumbles backs, shakes himself, closes his eyes and breathes, “they didn’t…but you just did,” Stiles rubs at his arm.
“Stiles…I’m…fuck I’m sorry,” Derek reaches out, like he wants to touch, to soothe, to pull Stiles close and kiss him. Stiles steps out of reach.
“Don’t…” Derek’s face falls, and Stiles feels a stab of guilt, he hates that look and he put it there.
“I didn’t…” Derek starts and stops, grimacing and then running his hand through his hair in frustration. I didn’t mean to hurt you. Stiles feels the need to pull him close, to touch him, reassure, I know, I’m not leaving, but his anger bubbles again and he steps back one more time.
“I know,” there’s a flash of hope in Derek’s eyes, “but don’t you see? You still think I’m that stupid kid that trespassed on your property looking for Scott’s inhaler, you don’t see that I got you to let me go, that I punched you blindfolded, that I figured out Matt was a wolf by the twitch in his nostrils when he caught scent of you. I’m not an idiot Derek, and I’m not pathetic. And you have to fucking see that.”
“I do,” Derek protests, weakly and Stiles scoffs, shoves his hands into his pockets to stop himself from reaching out to touch Derek.
“No you don’t…” he shakes his head and Derek takes a step towards him.
“Stiles…”
“Just…just don’t ok? I have to go,” he doesn’t wait for Derek response, tries not to run down the steps towards his jeep, fumbles with the keys and tries to ignore the prickling in his eyes as hot angry tears threaten to fall.
…
It takes three hours of Stiles moping, sighing loudly and watching crappy TV for his dad to ask what’s wrong. And even then it’s just a sideways glance and a raised eyebrow to which Stiles just shrugs and shovels another spoonful of ice cream into his mouth. He makes a mental reminder to thank Cassie for introducing him to the wonders of Ice Cream and heartbreak. Not that he’s broken hearted of course. He’s just pissed. And a little melancholy. And his arms still throb gently where Derek’s fingers had dug in. He’s not pissed about that, he knew what he was getting into when he started fucking around with a werewolf, he knew Derek, if pushed, could hurt him. And it wasn’t so much hurt as it was surprise that another wolf talking to Stiles was what got Derek to snap. He always knew Derek was possessive, it sparked some latent need to be looked after in Stiles. And it was fine. But that’s not what he’s pissed about, he’s pissed that Derek trusts him enough to fuck him, trusts Stiles to save his life numerous times, but not to look after himself when it comes down to it. That Derek lied about it, that Derek claimed him without Stiles’s knowledge.
And somehow Stiles feels like the lying is the worst.
A tiny voice in his head is singing to him, telling him he wanted to be claimed, to be marked by Derek. And he did. But he’s trying to wrap his head around Derek doing without him knowing. All the touches, the hard fucking, the way he rubbed his cheek against Stiles’s skin. Christ, even wearing Derek’s t-shirt. And no doubt the come Derek spilt over his chest was a dead give away.
Stiles sighs again and stabs his ice cream with his spoon.
“When you were six, your mother walked out on me,” Stiles’s dad says suddenly and Stiles drops his spoon. They don’t talk about his mom. Ever. But Stiles’s dad has got that ‘this is important’ timbre to his voice and Stiles looks down at his hands.
“What?”
“She took you and left,” he says and Stiles puts his ice cream tub on the coffee table.
“I don’t remember that,” he says, not pushing it even though every fibre of his body wants to know what the hell happened.
“You went to stay with Scott,” and Stiles suddenly remembers. The surprise sleep over, his mom staying as well and Stiles had asked if his mom and Mrs McCall were having a sleep over as well. Stiles’s mom had just smiles, gently pushed him upstairs. But Stiles can still remember sitting at the top of the stairs with Scott, legs dangling through the railings, listening to his mom crying. He’d gone to Scott’s room to play soldiers, forgotten about it and the next day they’d gone home. Stiles’s dad lets out a small laugh and runs his hand through his hair. “She was so pissed at me. I was trying to keep you both too close. She was sick then, only just but…it was enough to scare me.” Stiles swallows the lump in his throat. He remembers when they told him, 7 and not sure of what that meant, grabbing the Tylenol from the cabinet and shoving it into her hands. “Sometimes, we suffocate the ones we love, because we love them. And then we do stupid things because we’re scared of losing them.”
“Dad…”
“I don’t know what’s going on with you and Derek, but that kid adores you, even though he doesn’t show it, may not even say it,” Stiles lets out a bitter laugh, “just…give him the benefit of the doubt, ok? By all means be pissed now, scream, shout, walk out, but there comes a point when you can’t stay angry anymore, because you just waste more time.”
His dad curls his fingers around the back of Stiles’s neck, tugs him forward and kisses his forehead. It’s a gesture that makes Stiles feel like a kid again and he swallows around the growing lump in his throat once more. His dad pats at his knee and stands, runs his hand across Stiles’s shoulders. He’s by the door by the time Stiles finds his voice again.
“Hey dad?” The Sheriff stops at the door, looks back at Stiles, “thanks.” He dad smiles gently and nods.
“Don’t eat all that,” he nods at the ice cream, “Derek wont like you fat.” He grins and the atmosphere lifts.
“Charming.”
…
The porch swing sways gently as Stiles kicks his feet against the dust on the wood boards. Stiles made Derek put the swing up, and Derek had done it with his usual grumbling and eye rolling but had sat with Stiles for most of night the first night it was up, his arm resting around Stiles’s shoulder, playing against the fabric of his jacket as Stiles kicked at the floor. More often than not its Erica, Isaac and Boyd sitting in it though, curled together like a pile of puppies.
The light’s fading, the moon slipping behind the tops of the trees and Stiles pulls his hoodie over his head and crosses his arms in front of him.
It’s his red one, the one that still smells like Derek, and his stomach twists as he thinks of him. He’s been sitting here for an hour, waiting for Derek to get back from wherever his is. He honestly has no idea what he’s going to say but his dad’s words are still whirring around his head.
You can’t stay angry anymore.
There’s a truth in that, being angry is exhausting. Stiles remembers how angry he was at everything when his mom died, how tired he was, tired of just being angry the whole time. Derek may have crossed a line, broken a tiny part of Stiles’s trust in him, but it’s Derek. And Stiles is hopelessly lost when it comes to Derek.
He draws a line in the dust with his toe and hears the distant rumble of Derek’s car.
One thing that Stiles wishes he could change about Derek would be the fact that Derek never seems surprised to see him. Just once he would like to catch him out, watch as his face slips from surprised to pleased. Derek pulls the car into the drive, gets out looking like something out of a magazine shoot and Stiles’s stomach flips. Derek pulls his sunglasses onto the top of his head as the sun finally sinks completely. He doesn’t say anything, just walks up the steps and sinks down next to Stiles, his hands folded uselessly in his lap.
Stiles opens his mouth to speak and for once in his entire life he has no idea what to say, and no words come. Derek sighs, he sounds tired and Stiles wants to look at him, run his fingers across the dark circles under his eyes.
“My dad told me a story,” he says quietly, suddenly, and Derek jumps slightly and out of the corner of his eyes Stiles sees Derek turns his head to him. “About how my mom left him once, because she felt stifled,” Derek twitches like he’s going to interrupt, thinks better of it and turns his head back to the trees, “and he said that when you care about someone you do stupid things, like completely ignore their need to be independent.” Stiles turns to Derek then.
“Stiles…” he starts, lifts his hand and traces his fingers across Stiles’s knuckles.
“I get it, I’m 147 pounds of pale skin and fragile bones and you’re….well, you’re not,” Stiles waves his hand at Derek. Derek’s not pale skin and fragile bones, Derek is muscle, strength, powerful and all consuming.
“No, I’m not,” Derek shifts, rubs a hand across the back of his neck, “I…fuck,” he stands and Stiles lets his gaze wander out to the trees, “I just…Stiles…” he trails off and Stiles stands, curls his fingers around Derek’s wrist and tugs until Derek looks at him.
“I need you to explain it to me, I know why, but I need to hear you say it…” Derek looks down, “please Derek.” Derek frowns, lifts his hand and cups at Stiles’s face, runs his thumb across his cheekbone. Stiles leans into it, because even though it’s only been a few days since Derek’s touched him like this, Stiles feels like he’s starving for it.
“You’re Pack,” Derek says finally, and Stiles pulls away, shakes his head at Derek’s confused frown.
“Not good enough,” he says and turns, walks down the steps towards his car, his stomach twisting. He needs to hear more than that, he needs to hear Derek say he needs him back, needs to hear Derek say that he loves him, he’ll settle for less but a hell of a lot more than “you’re pack” which he’s been hearing since Stiles saved his life in the pool all those years ago.
“Fuck…Stiles…” Derek’s voice is loud, a hint of desperation and for a second, Stiles forgets how fast Derek can move, until Derek’s breath is hot against his ear, “the others…they were a necessity…you…” he spins Stiles around to face him, “you were a choice. I needed them, I wanted you. I always wanted you,” he runs the tips of his fingers down Stiles’s cheek, index finger over his bottom lip. “The others, they already smell like me, and other packs will know they’re off limits but you…” he pauses, curls his hand around the back of Stiles’s neck and pulls their foreheads together, “you smelled like you, maddeningly so, and no one would have known you were mine and it…Stiles it drives me crazy that I can’t protect you the whole time.”
“You don’t have to,” Stiles pushes at Derek’s chest slightly, but doesn’t step away, Derek slides a hand down his spine, palm hot against the small of his back.
“You don’t get it…” Derek shakes his head and lifts his gaze, dark, heavy and serious, to Stiles, “I do have to and I always will, because you’re more than Pack Stiles,” his lifts his hands and cups them both around Stiles’s face.
“What am I?” Stiles asks and Derek cocks his head to the side, his nostrils twitch like he’s testing the air for a scent of something.
“Mate,” Stiles’s stomach flips like the pathetic girl that he is. He knows that’s the best he’s going to get, and it’s the closet to I love you that Derek can manage. That’s ok, he gets it, and if the way Derek’s clutching at Stiles’s face is anything to go by, Derek’s as hopelessly fallen for Stiles as Stiles is for Derek.
“That’ll do,” he says, there’s still hurt swirling under his skin at the lack of trust, but they both have things to learn, they both have things to learn about each other to make this right.
Derek’s lips curl at the corners, slightly, slowly, like he doesn’t know if Stiles just said what he said and Stiles fists his hand in the front of Derek’s shirt and hauls him forward, crashing their mouths together, Derek lets out a noise of surprise, fingers tightening against the skin of Stiles’s neck, slides one hand down his spine and pulls their hips together. His other hand cradles at the back of Stiles’s head, fingers running through his hair and Stiles pulls back, “are you done with the whole marking thing or…” he trails off and Derek raises an eyebrow at him, cocks his head to the side and dips his fingers into the back of Stiles’s jeans.
“Oh I see,” he says quietly, “now you know what it was…” he pushes his hand all the way in and slides a finger between Stiles’s ass cheeks, Stiles groans, shifts his hips forward and tightens his fingers into Derek’s t-shirt, “you like it.”
“Well,” Stiles starts, bites off the words as Derek presses a finger, slightly awkwardly at this angle, into Stiles’s body, Derek growls softly in the back of his throat.
“Mine,” he mutters against Stiles’s neck and Stiles runs his hands down Derek’s sides, curls his fingers into his belt loops and tugs their hips together hard.
“Mine,” he says back and Derek lifts his head, blinks once and then nods. Because this claiming thing? It goes two ways, and Stiles may belong to Derek, may be Derek’s mate, but Derek belongs to Stiles.
“Yours,” Derek replies with a twitch of his lips.
Stiles loves Derek, and he knows now that Derek loves him back, and that Derek’s terrified of Stiles leaving, like everyone else in Derek’s life has done. He also knows now that they both have steps to take to make this better.
But right now it can wait, they’ve both got some claiming to do.
“Yeah I know…” Derek sighs and Stiles pauses at the bottom of the stairs, “Just…yeah ok…thanks,” Derek sighs again and Stiles hear him slam his phone onto the counter.
“Who was that?” he asks as he steps into the kitchen and Derek smiles at him, tugs him closer and runs his nose up the side of his neck. Stiles’s hair is still damp, his clean t-shirt clinging slightly to his skin and Derek hums.
“No one…much better,” he mumbles and Stiles feels the counter dig into his back.
“Well I’m glad you approve,” he quips. Derek lifts his head and cups his hands around Stiles’s face, thumbs sliding over his cheekbones.
“I approve,” his voice is quiet, meaningful, his eyes serious and Stiles frowns, his fingers curling into Derek’s belt, tugging him closer.
“Ok, what’s going on?” Derek shakes his head, presses his forehead to Stiles’s and breathes in. “Derek you’re kinda freaking me out.” Derek slides his hands down Stiles neck, presses his thumbs under his chin and tilts his head back, licks a line up the centre of Stiles’s throat. He nips at his chin, licks across Stiles’s lips, rubs his cheek across Stiles’s, the rasp of stubble almost burning. “Derek.”
“Shhh,” Derek hushes him, breath hot in Stiles’s ear, and he flicks his tongue against the shell. Stiles shivers, moves his hips lazily into Derek’s and Derek’s hands run down his chest and clamp around his hips. His hands are hot, always so hot, nails digging in slightly and the thought that Derek’s wolf could get the better of him and hurt Stiles never occurs to him, it should, but Derek makes him feel safe, not in danger. Derek runs his hands up, under Stiles’s t-shirt, steps back enough to pull it off and then his own, and then its skin against skin. Derek trails one hand down Stiles’s spine, gently, just a brush of fingers, the other hand follows and Stiles groans, arches his back. Derek’s fingers skim around Stiles’s waist, palms flat against his chest as they travel back up, across his collar bones where he leans down and nips at the skin gently, hands trailing down Stiles arms, fingers twining together and Derek lifts their hands, presses Stiles’s into the cabinet behind him. He doesn’t have to tell Stiles to keep them there, Stiles gets it by the gentle squeeze around his wrists and the dark look in Derek’s eyes. He nods and Derek’s presses a kiss to the hollow at the base of Stiles’s throat.
“I thought you said sex later?” Stiles mutters as Derek’s lips slip across his skin, teeth scraping across his collar bone again.
“Well I have the urge to remind you that you’re mine,” Derek replies quietly, thoughtfully, sinking lower and swirling his tongue around one of Stiles’s nipple.
“Possessive much?” Stiles gasps as Derek’s teeth close around it, groans and flexes his fingers, wishes he could dive them into Derek’s hair and just hold on.
“Complaining?” Derek lifts his head and arches an eyebrow, but its forced, this playfulness and Stiles makes a mental note to get what’s bothering him out of him later. He’s usually more agreeable after Stiles has sucked his brain out through his dick.
“Hell no,” he shakes his head and Derek sinks to his knees, kissing down the line of hair on Stiles’s stomach. He drags his teeth over Stiles’s hip bones, fingers working the button of his jeans undone and then he slides them down Stiles’s thighs, hands skimming over his skin as Stiles tries to keep himself still and keep his hands pressed to the cabinet. His twitches his hips forward as Derek leans closer and runs his nose up the length of Stiles’s cotton covered dick. Stiles jerks, lets out a string of curses, Derek’s hand running up Stiles’s left calf, his other winding around Stiles’s ankle like a shackle.
And that thought goes straight to Stiles’s dick.
He whines as Derek mouths at his dick through his boxers.
“Ok, change of plan,” Derek says suddenly standing up and Stiles lets his mouth hang open.
“Wait what? What the hell is wrong with you? You can’t do that to someone, that’s just mean and cruel and nfgh…” Derek kisses him hard.
“Training.”
“You cannot be serious? Now? After that? You want me to concentrate on anything other than the fact that my dick is trying to break its way out of my boxers and I want you to fuck me through the mattress?” Stiles whines and Derek’s lips curl at the corners.
“Trust me,” he reaches into a draw by the side of Stiles and pulls out one of the blindfolds he used to train Stiles in the wood. Stiles’s heart skips and Derek’s head cocks to the side like he’s listening to it. Arousal kicks up a notch, speeding down Stiles’s spine to pool low in his belly. Derek presses forward, trails his fingers across the taught skin of Stiles’s stomach and reaches up and covers Stiles’s eyes with the smooth material. Stiles’s breath catches in his throat as Derek ties it behind his head, runs his fingers down the side of Stiles’s neck. Stiles cant speak, he wants to, wants to argue with Derek, ask him what the hell he’s doing because they don’t do this intense thing, wants to babble about how much he just fucking loves Derek right now, wants to tell Derek how much he trusts him and Derek could tie him upside down by his toes and leave him there for three days and Stiles would be ok with it because it’s Derek. Derek knows what he’s doing, everything he does has a purpose. But he can’t speak and Derek leans forward and presses his lips to Stiles’s. “Where am I touching you?” Derek asks and winds his fingers around Stiles’s wrists.
“Wrists,” Stiles answers immediately and Derek hums in the back of his throat, “I don’t see how this is training.”
“Shut up,” Derek snaps, sliding his hands down Stiles’s arms, “where now?”
“Shoulders,” Derek’s fingers dig into the hollows by his collar bones.
“Good…” he hands leave his skin, “now?”
“You’re not…”
“Concentrate Stiles, you’re relying too much on touch, think,” Derek pokes him in the forehead and Stiles resists the urge to rip the blindfold off. He drags in a deep breath, “where are my hands?” Stiles relaxes, leans his head back against the cabinet, the edge of the counter digging into his back and concentrates on his skin, the feel of it, the ghost of Derek’s touch along his arms. There’s a point of heat by Stiles’s side, on his right, like he’s standing next to a flame.
“Right side,” Derek lets out a pleased noise and lets his hand touch Stiles, pets along his ribs, splays his fingers out between them.
“Again,” Stiles takes a deep breath, breathes in the scent of Derek and concentrates, zeroes in on the point of heat on his left thigh.
“Left thigh,” Derek’s hand connects with his skin, hot and solid, a light smack that sounds worse than it is in the otherwise quiet kitchen. He slides Stiles’s boxers down and taps at his ankle to get Stiles to step out of them.
“Again,” Derek breathes out across Stiles’s dick.
“I…”
“Again, Stiles,” Derek breathes out again, blows a stream of air across the tip of Stiles’s dick and Stiles shudders, tries to pinpoint the heat anywhere on his skin.
“Left hip,” Stiles blurts and Derek drags his nails across the skin there.
“Good,” Derek hums and runs his thumbs across both hip bones. Stiles is painfully hard, and Derek blows against the tip again. “Being faster and stronger isn’t the only thing they’ll use to their advantage,” Derek says conversationally, finally curling his fingers around Stiles’s dick. Stiles jerks, and Derek’s hand clamps around his hip. “Stay still…they’ll use their better eyesight and you need to be able to feel where they’re coming from,” Derek continues, “they’re hunters, Stiles, predators,” Stiles jerks his hips again, tries to get Derek’s hand to move and Derek tightens his grip around his hip, nails digging in, “every move you make, makes a noise, they hear better than you…stay still.” There’s a hint of anger in Derek’s voice, desperate anger and Stiles frowns behind his blindfold.
Stiles whines and Derek leans forward and nips at his hip bone again, tongue darting out to soothe the skin. He moves, stands, slides his body against Stiles’s, every inch touching him and Derek sucks one of Stiles’s nipples again, his hands touching every bit of Stiles’s body he can reach. Stiles moans, his muscles trembling with the effort to stay still. He’s blood pounds in his head, Derek’s words echoing in his ear, the angry, worried tone of them. Derek’s breath brushes against his lips and Stiles parts them, dart his tongue out to wet the bottom one and Derek leans forward enough to kiss him hard.
“They’re there,” he growls, low and dangers, hands sliding up Stiles’s arms, “they’re in your town, and they could be anyone.”
“Derek,” Derek’s hands curls around his wrists, thumbs brushing over his pulse.
“Turn around,” Stiles does it without thinking and Derek loosens his grip around his wrists, plants his hands on the counter top and runs his own down Stiles’s spine. Stiles arches into the touch and Derek’s fingers slides between his ass cheeks, a slight point of pressure that has Stiles pushing back against it. “Still.”
Stiles whines again but stays stills as he hears Derek undoing his own jeans and sliding them down his thighs.
“Do you get it?” Derek asks as Stiles hears the rip of foil and the snap of a condom.
“I get it,” Derek’s hand grips at his hip, there’s a click of the lid on a bottle of lube and then a cool fingers slides into his body. “Shit.” Derek fucks him slow, with one finger, then another, finally three, until Stiles is sure he’s about to die, it’s too much, not seeing Derek, concentrating on his other senses, feeling everything Derek’s doing and Stiles knows this is why Derek’s doing this, he just can’t take much more. “Fuck Derek…please.”
And then Derek’s pushing in, all the way in, in one fluid movement and Stiles thinks that maybe he might pass out. Derek drops his head to Stiles’s shoulder blades, presses his lips to the skin and pulls out, almost all the way, slams back in and Stiles’s arms give out. He pillows his head on his arms, and Derek fucks him slow, deep, hard, hitting that spot inside Stiles with every thrust. It doesn’t take long, Stiles is too strung out from training and before he knows it, Derek’s winding a hand around him and curling his fingers around Stiles’s dick and Stiles is letting out a string of curses and coming over Derek’s hand.
Derek grunts, pulls out, pushes back in hard and comes buried so far inside Stiles he’d swear he felt it.
“You know I bitch about training?” Stiles mutters and Derek pulls out of him and unties the blindfold, spinning Stiles around. Stiles blinks in the light and grins up at Derek. “You can train me like that any day.”
Derek runs his thumb across Stiles’s bottom lip and his eyes darken.
“Food…” he mutters, “then we’re going upstairs and I’m not letting you out of bed until tomorrow…got it?” Stiles’s stomach twists.
“Got it.”
…
Derek’s true to his word and doesn’t let Stiles out of bed until Saturday evening, and only then because his dad’s called three times. Stiles is beginning to think that he’s getting bed sores.
Derek’s been handsy, touching Stiles’s skin every where he can, running his cheeks along Stiles’s inner thighs, letting his tongue draw lazy patterns across the dimples in Stiles’s lower back. And Stiles has come more times that he can count, the last being little more than a judder of limbs, because he’s empty, spent, and beyond sated.
He wakes some time in the early evening to an empty bed and stretches his used muscles, grimacing. He rubs his hands over his face and smells Derek.
His t-shirt’s no where to be seen and Stiles frowns, pulls his jeans on and stumbles downstairs to the kitchen. Derek’s sitting at the table papers circled around him and he looks up as Stiles leans against the door frame. He’s caught him off guard, immersed in research of this other pack probably, and Stiles can see the lost look on his face. He sometimes forgets that Derek isn’t always the self assured Alpha that he seems to be in front of the pack, that he lost his entire family at a young age, that he became an Alpha after killing his own uncle, because he had to. His face changes in an instant though, the lost look melting away and there’s a brief smile.
“You ok?” Stiles asks and Derek spins his chair out from the table and nods.
“Good,” he answers as Stiles pushes himself off the door frame and walks to the fridge, dropping a kiss on Derek’s head as he passes.
“Nice t-shirt,” Stiles quips and Derek runs his hand down the material, smiling slightly. It’s too small by a long shot, stretched across the shoulders and around the tops of Derek’s arms and Stiles knows there will be a strip of skin at the bottom between the hem and Derek’s jeans. It looks good on him though, in an almost obscene way.
“Couldn’t find my own,” Derek mutters and Stiles grabs a bottle of water from the fridge and swallows half of it, runs his arm across his mouth.
“Yeah…right,” Stiles rolls his eyes and crawls into Derek’s lap, wrapping his arms around his neck. Derek raises an eyebrow but his fingers play along the skin of Stiles’s back, “just admit it, it’s your possessive nature coming through, making me want to smell like you, so alllllllll the other little werewolves will know I’m yours” Stiles taps the end of Derek’s nose with his finger and Derek growls. “Now now, Grumplestilskin.” Stiles kisses him, soundly on the lips and Derek’s glaring as he pulls back, “don’t glare, you’ll get wrinkles,” Stiles smoothes out the lines on his forehead with his fingers.
“God you’re impossible,” Derek grumbles, swatting his hand away and Stiles grins, wriggles in Derek’s lap.
“Impossible not to love,” he replies and Derek rolls his eyes, “right,” Stiles gets off Derek’s lap and grins internally at the way Derek’s hands twitch like he wants to pull him back, “I gotta go home,” he stretches and Derek pokes him in the stomach with his finger, “ok uncalled for.”
“Get out of my house,” Derek grumbles and Stiles leans down, presses a kiss to his temple. Derek leans into his slightly and Stiles smiles against his skin.
“I’ll call you later.”
…
Although his dad has never actually come out and said it, like with actual words, Stiles is pretty sure he knows what’s going on between him and Derek. Especially if the way he’s constantly rolling his eyes at the love bites on Stiles’s neck is anything to go by.
His dad’s fine though, doesn’t ask questions, just pats Stiles on the shoulder in a way that Stiles knows means “I love you and am proud of you.”
The Sheriff is standing in the kitchen looking like he’s going to vomit when Stiles gets back.
“You ok?” His dad turns, runs a hand down his front and holds his arms out.
“Do I look ok?” That’s when Stiles notices the shirt, the smart jacket, clean slacks and he blinks.
“You going out?” His dad looks slightly embarrassed and more than a little nervous.
“I um…I’m having dinner…with a friend,” his dad deflects and turns back to the counter where Stiles notices the glass of whiskey.
“Is this friend of the female variety?” his dad looks at him, “or male? I mean, I’m not judging,” Stiles holds his hands out and his dad rolls his eyes.
“Female,” he confirms and Stiles feels a smile spread across his face. It’s been too long, his dad has been mourning his mom for too long. And his mom may have been the love of his dad’s life, but Stiles gets it, he can’t be alone forever. He remembers trying to set up his dad with his middle school Math teacher once, him and Scott didn’t get very far with that. His dad shrugs, straightens out his tie and Stiles takes a step towards him, tidies the back of his jacket collar and pats his lapels.
“You look great, for an old man,” he dodges the back hand his dad aims at his head and laughs. “Knock ‘em dead dad, but not literally dead, because that would be embarrassing…Local Sheriff Arrested For Murder,” Stiles swipes his hand out in front of him and his dad sighs.
“This is ok right?” Stiles cocks his head to the side.
“The jacket?”
“No…” His dad sighs and Stiles claps him on the shoulders.
“It’s about time dad.” His dad smiles, slowly, and Stiles grins back. His dad steps away and runs a hand over his hair.
“I don’t think I remember how to do this,” he says and Stiles groans, mimics shoving his fingers down his throat.
“Gross.”
“Not that you delinquent,” his dad sighs, but there’s grin on his face and Stiles laughs. It’s good to see his dad happy, worried about dating, but happy. It’s been a while, maybe even before his mom died and Stiles thinks smiling like that really suits him.
“Dad, you’ll be fine, go please, before you inadvertently give me more information than my young innocent mind can handle,” he shudders and his dad clips him round the back of his head, grabs his wallet and keys.
“Innocent my ass,” he mutters and Stiles sticks his tongue out at his retreating back.
“Have fun!” He calls as the front door slams.
…
He kind of wants nothing more than to drive back to Derek’s, but he honestly doesn’t think his body could take it, so he pulls some Hot Pockets out of the freezer and calls Scott.
Scott’s blissfully not busy, his mom’s out and Allison is having family night with her scary ass, hunter family (seriously, Mrs Argent scares the crap out of Stiles…still).
Scott’s car squeaks to a halt outside Stiles’s house 20 minutes later as Stiles is burning the roof of his mouth on a Hot Pocket. Scott lets himself in and rolls his eyes as Stiles downs a glass of ice water.
“Jesus,” Scott laughs and takes a Hot Pocket Stiles holds out to him, “does your werewolf abilities mean that you have like an asbestos lined mouth?” Stiles asks as Scott wolves (no pun intended) it down in two bites. Scott shrugs. “So is your mom working?”
“No she’s out with a friend, I think it was a date though,” Scott says thoughtfully and Stiles stop mid step towards the fridge.
“She’s out on a date?”
“Yeah, I think…”
“Huh,” Scott’s mom and his dad. The thought, funnily enough, doesn’t repulse him. They are both grown adults, and probably due to the amount of sex Stiles is having, he doesn’t care that other people are having it. Oh no…Stiles feels a coil in his stomach, no there’s the revulsion. Gross.
“What?” Scott asks and throws a confused look at Stiles. It amuses Stiles sometimes, how much gets past Scott.
“Oh nothing.”
…
“I think my dad’s dating Scott’s mom,” Derek’s fingers are winding into Stiles’s longer hair, his nails scratching across Stiles’s scalp and Stiles’s got his arms resting on Derek’s knees.
“Hmmm,” Derek hums absently, his eyes fixed on the book to his right. His hand doesn’t stop moving though and Stiles leans into the touch, some part of him hating to admit that he likes the petting.
“I’m thinking of dating Scott’s mom,” he says, leaning his head back and looking up at Derek. Derek’s eyes flick to his.
“What?”
“Are you even listening to me?” Stiles asks and Derek leans down, presses a kiss to his forehead.
“I try not to most of the time,” Derek smiles, and it looks weird upside down, but Stiles’s chest does the usual tightening thing it does whenever Derek smiles at him. He’s seemed more relaxed since Stiles came back from his dad’s, more…calm. None of the frantic touching from the day before, but just gentle touches, that leave Stiles’s skin aching for more.
“Rude,” Stiles mutters as Derek’s fingers slide down the back of his neck.
“When are you going back?” Derek murmurs and Stiles hops up onto his knees and turns, faces Derek, slides his hands up Derek’s thighs. The muscles twitch under his hands but Derek’s face remains expressionless. Even so Stiles can still see the way his eyes darken. Derek leans back against the couch, shifts lower and spreads his thighs.
“Probably Tuesday,” Stiles mutters thoughtfully, his mind on getting Derek out of his jeans rather than the casual small talk he seems to like to make when Stiles is concentrating on getting him naked.
“Why?” Derek asks as Stiles runs his hands up Derek’s chest under his t-shirt. Derek lifts a hand and traces his index finger over Stiles’s face. Stiles is so familiar with the action he knows that Derek is playing connect the dots with Stiles’s moles. He turns his head into the touch and lets out a small noise on contentment.
“Because I have work to do,” he mumbles and Derek curls his finger under Stiles’s chin, lifts his face upwards and Stiles opens the eyes he doesn’t remember closing and swallows against Derek’s fingers.
“Ok,” Derek replies and puts the pad of his thumb into the curve under Stiles’s lips.
“Ok?” Stiles raises an eyebrow. “Ok? What no fighting? No ‘no Stiles you must stay?” Stiles lowers his voice to mimic Derek’s and Derek raises his own eyebrow back at him.
“Do you want me to fight you?” Derek lifts his other hand and runs his thumbs across Stiles’s cheekbones.
“No,” Stiles admits, curling his fingers into Derek’s waist band and tugging him further down. He lets out a little puff of air as he moves and Stiles gets his hands around the button on Derek’s jeans and pops it open.
“Ok then,” Derek says, voice low as Stiles tugs his jeans down this thighs. He sits back against his calves and tugs off Derek’s combat boots, pulling his lip between his teeth as he throws them one by one over his shoulder and Derek sighs.
“You’re about to get a blow job and you’re complaining about the mess?” Stiles asks with a quirk of his eyebrow and tugs Derek’s jeans all the way off, throws them over his shoulder to join the boots.
“You drive me crazy,” Derek replies, long sufferingly and Stiles grins at him before leaning down and pressing his mouth to Derek’s boxers. Derek’s breathing hitches, his fingers curling into Stiles’s hair.
Stiles may not have Derek’s sense of smell, but he can still smell Derek’s arousal already and he licks at the cotton covering the head of Derek’s dick, tastes, very faintly, pre come and groans in the back of his throat as Derek’s fingers tighten. He goes on like that for a while, teasing Derek through his boxers until the cotton is soaked with pre come and spit and Derek’s fingers are just this side of painful and his breathing is ragged. Stiles pulls away, curls his fingers into the elastic of Derek’s boxers and pulls them down slowly, until Derek’s dick springs upwards, hard and ready and Stiles’s mouth waters. He loves giving this to Derek, because Derek gives him everything he has, everything he is. Stiles leans back down, sucks the head of Derek’s dick into his mouth and Derek gasps, pushes his hips upwards, his dick sliding between Stiles’s lips. Stiles hums, sinks down the last few inches, all the way until his nose is pressed to Derek’s stomach and Derek groans.
Apparently, Stiles was born for sucking dick because, hello, no gag reflex.
It comes in handy because Derek’s dick hits the back of his throat. Stiles hums again, slides his mouth back up, presses his tongue to the slit in Derek’s dick and Derek curses softly under his breath as Stiles looks up at him.
He sinks back down again, keeps his eyes on Derek as long as he can and sees a flash of red and swallows around him. Derek pushes his hips upwards, fucks his dick into Stiles’s mouth and Stiles just takes it all, because its Derek, relaxes his throat and takes it. Derek’s fingers tighten in his hair, tugging at the short strands but Stiles curls his hands around Derek’s hips and holds on as Derek grunts, curses and comes down Stiles’s throat.
Stiles swallows everything, leans back and swipes his thumb across his bottom lip.
Derek groans, hauls Stiles forward and licks the taste of himself out of Stiles’s mouth. He slides his lips down Stiles’s jaw, rubs his cheek against Stiles’s, pulls his ear lobe between his teeth.
“So what do you think?” Stiles mutters as Derek rubs his cheek against Stiles’s again. Derek pulls back.
“About what?” Derek runs the inside of his wrist over Stiles’s shoulder and down his arm, curls their fingers together and lifts their hands to his mouth, presses Stiles’s knuckles to his lip.
“About my dad…”
“Really? You want to talk about your dad with the taste of me still in your mouth?” Derek’s thumb slides between his lips. Stiles groans around it and sucks hard and Derek’s eyes flutter closed. Derek pulls it out, runs it wet down Stiles’s chin.
“I just…”
“Come here,” Derek mutters and Stiles clambers onto the couch. Derek slides his legs up onto the couch, pulls Stiles down till his heads pillowed on Derek’s chest. His fingers run through Stiles’s hair. This is their talking position, because Derek only opens up when Stiles isn’t looking at him, when Stiles can’t read the bone deep hurt on his face, the guilt at losing his family, about killing Peter, the fact that he so stupidly young. Stiles buries his head into Derek’s t-shirt, because although he can look at Derek, he gets what Derek’s doing, Derek making himself available. Derek’s doing what he likes when he needs to talk because he doesn’t know any other way and Stiles falls in love that little bit more.
“It’s ok right? I mean, mom’s been gone for a while now, and dad needs someone…” Stiles starts, answering his own initial question and Derek’s fingers run along his scalp.
“He has you,” Derek says quietly, playing the Devil’s Advocate. Stiles sighs and draws a spiral on Derek’s chest.
“I know,” Stiles rubs his cheek across the soft cotton of Derek’s shirt.
“But maybe he needs more than that?” Derek asks and Stiles nods.
“Yeah, I mean how lonely must he be? He’s done nothing except work and look after me since she died and he’s had nothing back but a town full of werewolves and a slightly delinquent son,” Stiles lets out a self depreciating laugh and Derek’s arm tightens around him.
“I wouldn’t say that,” he mutters, “it’s not full of werewolves,” Stiles pokes him in the ribs and lifts his head. Derek’s smiling at him and he runs the backs of his fingers across Stiles’s cheek. Stiles lies back down, shifts, throws a thigh over Derek’s and Derek drops his lips to the top of his head. “I think you have your answer,” Derek says, his voice vibrating against Stiles’s scalp. He hums quietly and slides his hand up Derek’s side under his shirt, feels the muscles twitch under his palm.
“It’s alright, it’s good,” he says and he feels Derek nod.
“Plus, it was only a matter of time, your dad’s a good looking man,” Stiles nearly chokes on his own tongue and lifts his head up again.
“What?”
“He’s a good looking man,” Derek says again, with a shrug of his shoulders and no hint of a smile anywhere on his face or in his eyes.
“Again…what?”
“Oh Jesus Stiles, your face,” Derek bends nearly double, narrowly avoids kneeing Stiles in the back of his head as he spits out a bark of laughter that sounds, for once, completely and utterly genuine and Stiles, even though he’s getting over his initial shock of “my god my boyfriend thinks my dad is hot” he grins back at him.
“You bastard,” he mutters and digs his fingers into the spaces between Derek’s ribs. Derek lets out a noise that’s crossed between a howl of pain and a laugh, “for a moment there I thought you were using me to get to my dad,” Derek laughs again and hauls Stiles down to him, fist curled into Stiles’s shirt.
“I already have one Stillinski,” he says, breathless and amused but his voice lowers, “I don’t think I could handle another.”
“Oh he’s better than me,” Stiles replies and Derek lets out a snort, somehow manages to turn them both on the couch until he’s pressing Stiles into the cushions without tipping them both onto the floor.
“I don’t think anyone is.”
…
Sometime on Monday night, although it could be Tuesday morning, Stiles wakes to Derek’s hands on him, the gentle touches that makes his skin burn, the slight drag of nails across his back, the swirl of Derek’s tongue against the curve of his buttocks and Stiles shifts, slowly, into wakefulness.
It’s almost not sexual, the way Derek’s touching him. It’s almost like he’s mapping out Stiles’s skin in his mind, almost like he’s trying to remind himself what Stiles feels like under his fingertips. Stiles shifts and Derek’s thumbs press in gently to the dimples at the base of Stiles’s back.
“What are you doing?” Stiles mutters, face smashed into the pillow, his voice croaky and thick with sleep.
“Ssshh,” Derek hushes, like it’s a secret and nudges Stiles’s thighs further apart, settling himself between them and skimming his hot burning palms across the tender skin of his inner thighs. His thumbs run along the creases under his ass, where his thighs join and Stiles shifts again, groans as one thumb slips between his ass cheeks. “You know,” Derek mutters, conversationally, but his voice still quiet in the dark of the room, Stiles slips his eyes shut and focuses on the feel of Derek’s hands on him, “I love you like this,” Stiles hums as Derek’s thumb pushes against his hole, “quiet…for once,” Derek lets out a small sound like a laugh, “still…mine.”
It shocks Stiles how much he loves it when Derek says that word, mine, bitten off against Stiles’s neck as he comes deep inside him, muttered against Stiles’s lips in their more quiet moments, murmured against Stiles’s hair as Stiles drifts to sleep with Derek’s chest under his cheek. It makes heat bloom in his chest, when it should make him feel suffocated.
“Say it Stiles,” Derek says, low and dangerous, his thumb pressing in all the way, a dull ache, and then he leans down and licks at the skin where it’s stretched around his thumb.
“Yours,” Stiles gasps out. His skin feels too small, itchy and he twists, presses back against Derek’s tongue, Derek’s thumb, Derek. And it’s true, he is Derek’s, feels like he’s been Derek’s since he first saw in the woods all those years ago.
Derek moves, crawls upwards and covers Stiles’s back with his body, pushing Stiles’s thighs wider with his knees, his dick slides between Stiles’s ass cheeks and Derek’s breath is hot against his ear. Derek slips inside, pushes all the way in with a low growl and Stiles rises his hips backwards to meet him.
“Stiles,” Derek groans, curling his fingers around Stiles’s and pressing their hands into the mattress. “Stiles…don’t…” Derek bites off, pulling all the way out and pushing back in again and Stiles, despite the one word, knows what Derek’s trying to say, there’s a pleading in his voice and the way he’s been moody all weekend, touching Stiles like he’s trying to remember him, Stiles gets it. With a sudden cold clarity Stiles gets it. Derek thinks Stiles is going to leave him.
Stiles tightens his grip around Derek’s fingers, “I wont.”
…
Stiles is miserable. Well not miserable per se, more like…despondent. He spent too long with Derek and now he hates not being there. It’s pathetic really, bordering on obsessive, and he would be worried if he didn’t know Derek felt exactly the same way.
His skin still smells like Derek, which is weird, considering the first thing he did on Tuesday was jump in the shower. But even Cassie had wrinkled her nose and sniffed at his shirt and asked if he had changed aftershave. It’s not just his skin though, its his shirts too. The one that Derek wore, and even though it probably could do with a wash, Stiles cant really bring himself to do it, not when he slips it over his head and calls Derek, lying on his side with the phone under his ear and Derek’s scent all around him.
But yes, he’s despondent, moping around and Cassie has dragged him out for coffee because he was beginning to behave like “a love sick pre-pubescent girl who’s realised her celebrity crush will never actually love her the way she loves him”. Cassie’s words.
Cassie’s flirting with the Barista though which leaves Stiles drawing the shape of Derek’s tattoo (see? Pathetic) into the foam on his girly latte, remembering the way the skin feels under his fingertips, the twitch of muscles when he laughs when Stiles presses his nails in. He shakes his head, nods in the direction of the bathroom when Cassie flicks her gaze at him, she shrugs her “whatever” shrug and Stiles’s chair squeaks as he pushes it across the floor.
He’s washing his hands when a shadow falls across the sink.
“Hey,” Matt grins, and Stiles swallows uneasily, “you’re back.”
“Yup…back, totally back, back in town, back in the hood,” Stiles fiddles with the tap, his wet hands slipping off it and Matt reaches out and covers Stiles’s hand with his own and turns the tap.
“Did you have a good time?” Matt asks and Stiles swallows again, slides his hand out from under Matt’s and shoves them both into his pockets.
“Yeah, great, lovely, thanks,” Matt takes a step forward.
“Do I make you nervous Stiles?” Matt leans forward and a frown passes over his face as his nostrils twitch. Stiles’s stomach twists with sick realisation, “you smell like…”
“Oh my God, you’re a werewolf,” Stiles blurts and Matt’s face drains of colour. He steps back and forces out an incredulous laugh.
“What? Stiles, werewolves don’t exist,” he says and rubs the back of his neck. Stiles narrows his eyes, all nerves gone as Matt looks as nervous as he felt.
“Hey, I live in Beacon Hills buddy, we have our very own pack, sometimes even more than one, I know a werewolf when they do that creepy nostril thing,” Stiles gestures at Matt’s nose.
“I…”
“My boyfriend is an Alpha,” Stiles says and then bites on his bottom lip as Matt’s eyes flash blue. The cold icy blue that Derek’s used to.
“No wonder you smell like Alpha then,” Matt says and Stiles shrugs.
“Yeah well, he likes to wear my shirts,” Matt cocks his head to the side and Stiles wonders why the hell he’s not nervous anymore, why the fact that he knows Matt is a werewolf has taken all the creepiness, the uncomfortable feeling, the unease out of him.
“No it’s more than that,” Matt says with a frown. Stiles doesn’t have time to analyse that statement before the fear is kicking up a notch again and Stiles presses himself back against the wall and looks warily at Matt.
“Hey I thought you were dangerous?” he says reaching into his pocket for the tiny silver knife Allison gave him. Pushed into his hands and made him promise he would always keep on him.
“What?” Matt looks genuinely confused.
“Derek said you were dangerous,” Stiles says, more dangerous than Derek and his pack. And his pack had all tried to kill Stiles once in their lives, Erica still looks at Stiles like she would if Derek asked her too.
“Derek probably didn’t want you out of his sight…I know I wouldn’t,” Matt replies, cocking his head to the side and dragging his eyes up and down Stiles’s body.
“So you’re not?” Stiles still has his fingers curled around the tiny knife in his pocket and Matt narrows his eyes slightly.
“We’re all dangerous Stiles, you out of anyone should know that,” Matt takes a step forward and Stiles swallows hard. Matt’s eyes flicked down to Stiles’s mouth as he darts his tongue out to wet the bottom one, “but we’re just passing through,” Matt shrugs, “and honestly Stiles, I did…want to get to know you,” he steps forward and Stiles presses himself further into the wall.
What is it about him and pushy werewolves?
“I thought you went here?” he says, sliding down the wall and slipping under Matt’s braced arm.
“Good cover huh?” he grins lopsidedly. Stiles runs his hand over his hair, catches a hint of Derek still on his skin.
“Wait…what did you mean it was more than just him wearing my shirts?” Matt looks uncomfortable, narrows his eyes at Stiles and breathes in.
“You smell like Alpha,” he says.
“You said that already,” Stiles replies.
“But its more than that…”
“You said that already,” Stiles pushes, because there’s something niggling at the back of his mind, something he feels he should know, or perhaps something that he once knew and forgot.
“You smell like mate…not my mate, but like…you’ve been claimed…marked…” Matt says.
“What?” Stiles’s stomach twists.
“We may fuck around but we mate for life, you smell like mate,” Matt says again, cocking his head to the side and wrinkling his nose slightly.
“No I got that but what? I’ve been…claimed?” There’s a sick thrill in Stiles’s stomach, the coiling low in his belly, an almost primal thrill at being claimed, practically belonging to Derek. But Derek did this because he didn’t trust Stiles, even after Stiles made him promise to trust him, Derek didn’t believe him. Even after Stiles has saved every single member of Derek’s pack, individually and as a whole, Derek still thinks of Stiles as a needy, pathetic human. His blood boils under his skin.
“He’s warning others like me off you. You didn’t know?”
“That son of bitch.”
…
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Derek’s front door bangs on his hinges as Stiles throws it open. Derek’s standing at the top of the stairs, his face a mixture of surprise and amusement, a hint of fondness.
“Hi Stiles,” he says gently and Stiles curls his fingers around the stair rail.
“You claimed me?” Even from this distance Stiles can see the emotions flit across Derek’s face. Stiles closes his eyes, shakes his head and looks up to find Derek right in front of him, nothing showing on his blank face, his dark eyes masked.
“And?” There’s such a challenge in his tone, and Stiles takes a step back, because he can feel the heat coming off Derek in waves and he does not need to be distracted right now by the way his shirt fits across his chest. He snaps his gaze back up to Derek’s.
“And I asked you to trust that I could look after myself, yet you basically go and pee on me to tell everyone I’m yours?” He can feel anger boiling through his blood, his skin flushing around his neck, creeping up his throat. Derek cocks his head to the side.
“You knew what I was doing, you said it yourself,” he says and Stiles throws his hands in the air.
“I was joking,” he cries and Derek’s face darkens.
“I wasn’t,” he says low and quiet, reaches out and curls his fingers around Stiles’s arms. “This isn’t a joke to me Stiles,” he says, voice louder now, and he shakes Stiles gently, “you aren’t a joke to me,” there’s so much that Stiles wants to hear from Derek’s mouth. I love you, I need you, please don’t leave me, I trust you, but what it comes down to is that, you aren’t a joke to me and Stiles shrugs Derek’s hands off.
“You can’t just…” he starts and Derek growls quietly, an angry rumble to match the anger pounding of Stiles’s blood.
“What? Protect you? Yes I can Stiles, you’re mine to protect,” Stiles supresses the shudder that the word mine, the almost base need to sink to his knees and show Derek just how much he is his.
“No I’m not!” he shouts instead, pushing at Derek’s chest. Derek steps back, face expressionless, as usual and that just makes Stiles even more angry. “I’m not pack, I’m not yours, why cant you just be normal for once and let me make my own mistakes?” Derek flinches at normal, looks like he’s been punched for a second before his whole demeanour closes down.
“Because mistakes with abnormal people like me get you killed, I can’t afford that,” he says and there’s a slight begging in his tone, like he needs Stiles to get it.
“Why? Why can’t you afford that?” he demands, Derek drops his gaze to Stiles’s lips, back up to his eyes and then the floor.
“You know why,” he mutters and Stiles lets out a bitter laugh.
“No Derek, I really don’t,” he spits out turning away from Derek.
“Stiles...”
“No you know what? For once, you shut up,” Derek blinks as Stiles spins back around and points at him, “this is my life Derek, I cant live it under your fucking wing forever. Ok and now I’m thinking about you with wings…but the point is, I’m not pathetic, I don’t need you to look after me all the goddam time. I happened to emerge unscathed from an encounter with one of your so called “dangerous roaming pack” members just today. And look…” he holds his arms out, “all in one piece.” Stiles lets out a strangled gasp as his back hits the wall and Derek’s solid body pins him in place, Derek’s eyes flashing red as he grips tight at Stiles’s arms.
“You spoke to one of them?” he demands, pulling Stiles back off the wall and slamming him back again. Stiles grunts as his head hits the plaster.
“Derek, let me go,” Stiles pushes against his hold and Derek’s fingers tighten.
“Did they hurt you, Stiles…tell me,” another shake, and Stiles nearly bites on his tongue as his teeth clack together.
“Let. Me. Go,” Stiles uses all his strength to push Derek off and Derek stumbles backs, shakes himself, closes his eyes and breathes, “they didn’t…but you just did,” Stiles rubs at his arm.
“Stiles…I’m…fuck I’m sorry,” Derek reaches out, like he wants to touch, to soothe, to pull Stiles close and kiss him. Stiles steps out of reach.
“Don’t…” Derek’s face falls, and Stiles feels a stab of guilt, he hates that look and he put it there.
“I didn’t…” Derek starts and stops, grimacing and then running his hand through his hair in frustration. I didn’t mean to hurt you. Stiles feels the need to pull him close, to touch him, reassure, I know, I’m not leaving, but his anger bubbles again and he steps back one more time.
“I know,” there’s a flash of hope in Derek’s eyes, “but don’t you see? You still think I’m that stupid kid that trespassed on your property looking for Scott’s inhaler, you don’t see that I got you to let me go, that I punched you blindfolded, that I figured out Matt was a wolf by the twitch in his nostrils when he caught scent of you. I’m not an idiot Derek, and I’m not pathetic. And you have to fucking see that.”
“I do,” Derek protests, weakly and Stiles scoffs, shoves his hands into his pockets to stop himself from reaching out to touch Derek.
“No you don’t…” he shakes his head and Derek takes a step towards him.
“Stiles…”
“Just…just don’t ok? I have to go,” he doesn’t wait for Derek response, tries not to run down the steps towards his jeep, fumbles with the keys and tries to ignore the prickling in his eyes as hot angry tears threaten to fall.
…
It takes three hours of Stiles moping, sighing loudly and watching crappy TV for his dad to ask what’s wrong. And even then it’s just a sideways glance and a raised eyebrow to which Stiles just shrugs and shovels another spoonful of ice cream into his mouth. He makes a mental reminder to thank Cassie for introducing him to the wonders of Ice Cream and heartbreak. Not that he’s broken hearted of course. He’s just pissed. And a little melancholy. And his arms still throb gently where Derek’s fingers had dug in. He’s not pissed about that, he knew what he was getting into when he started fucking around with a werewolf, he knew Derek, if pushed, could hurt him. And it wasn’t so much hurt as it was surprise that another wolf talking to Stiles was what got Derek to snap. He always knew Derek was possessive, it sparked some latent need to be looked after in Stiles. And it was fine. But that’s not what he’s pissed about, he’s pissed that Derek trusts him enough to fuck him, trusts Stiles to save his life numerous times, but not to look after himself when it comes down to it. That Derek lied about it, that Derek claimed him without Stiles’s knowledge.
And somehow Stiles feels like the lying is the worst.
A tiny voice in his head is singing to him, telling him he wanted to be claimed, to be marked by Derek. And he did. But he’s trying to wrap his head around Derek doing without him knowing. All the touches, the hard fucking, the way he rubbed his cheek against Stiles’s skin. Christ, even wearing Derek’s t-shirt. And no doubt the come Derek spilt over his chest was a dead give away.
Stiles sighs again and stabs his ice cream with his spoon.
“When you were six, your mother walked out on me,” Stiles’s dad says suddenly and Stiles drops his spoon. They don’t talk about his mom. Ever. But Stiles’s dad has got that ‘this is important’ timbre to his voice and Stiles looks down at his hands.
“What?”
“She took you and left,” he says and Stiles puts his ice cream tub on the coffee table.
“I don’t remember that,” he says, not pushing it even though every fibre of his body wants to know what the hell happened.
“You went to stay with Scott,” and Stiles suddenly remembers. The surprise sleep over, his mom staying as well and Stiles had asked if his mom and Mrs McCall were having a sleep over as well. Stiles’s mom had just smiles, gently pushed him upstairs. But Stiles can still remember sitting at the top of the stairs with Scott, legs dangling through the railings, listening to his mom crying. He’d gone to Scott’s room to play soldiers, forgotten about it and the next day they’d gone home. Stiles’s dad lets out a small laugh and runs his hand through his hair. “She was so pissed at me. I was trying to keep you both too close. She was sick then, only just but…it was enough to scare me.” Stiles swallows the lump in his throat. He remembers when they told him, 7 and not sure of what that meant, grabbing the Tylenol from the cabinet and shoving it into her hands. “Sometimes, we suffocate the ones we love, because we love them. And then we do stupid things because we’re scared of losing them.”
“Dad…”
“I don’t know what’s going on with you and Derek, but that kid adores you, even though he doesn’t show it, may not even say it,” Stiles lets out a bitter laugh, “just…give him the benefit of the doubt, ok? By all means be pissed now, scream, shout, walk out, but there comes a point when you can’t stay angry anymore, because you just waste more time.”
His dad curls his fingers around the back of Stiles’s neck, tugs him forward and kisses his forehead. It’s a gesture that makes Stiles feel like a kid again and he swallows around the growing lump in his throat once more. His dad pats at his knee and stands, runs his hand across Stiles’s shoulders. He’s by the door by the time Stiles finds his voice again.
“Hey dad?” The Sheriff stops at the door, looks back at Stiles, “thanks.” He dad smiles gently and nods.
“Don’t eat all that,” he nods at the ice cream, “Derek wont like you fat.” He grins and the atmosphere lifts.
“Charming.”
…
The porch swing sways gently as Stiles kicks his feet against the dust on the wood boards. Stiles made Derek put the swing up, and Derek had done it with his usual grumbling and eye rolling but had sat with Stiles for most of night the first night it was up, his arm resting around Stiles’s shoulder, playing against the fabric of his jacket as Stiles kicked at the floor. More often than not its Erica, Isaac and Boyd sitting in it though, curled together like a pile of puppies.
The light’s fading, the moon slipping behind the tops of the trees and Stiles pulls his hoodie over his head and crosses his arms in front of him.
It’s his red one, the one that still smells like Derek, and his stomach twists as he thinks of him. He’s been sitting here for an hour, waiting for Derek to get back from wherever his is. He honestly has no idea what he’s going to say but his dad’s words are still whirring around his head.
You can’t stay angry anymore.
There’s a truth in that, being angry is exhausting. Stiles remembers how angry he was at everything when his mom died, how tired he was, tired of just being angry the whole time. Derek may have crossed a line, broken a tiny part of Stiles’s trust in him, but it’s Derek. And Stiles is hopelessly lost when it comes to Derek.
He draws a line in the dust with his toe and hears the distant rumble of Derek’s car.
One thing that Stiles wishes he could change about Derek would be the fact that Derek never seems surprised to see him. Just once he would like to catch him out, watch as his face slips from surprised to pleased. Derek pulls the car into the drive, gets out looking like something out of a magazine shoot and Stiles’s stomach flips. Derek pulls his sunglasses onto the top of his head as the sun finally sinks completely. He doesn’t say anything, just walks up the steps and sinks down next to Stiles, his hands folded uselessly in his lap.
Stiles opens his mouth to speak and for once in his entire life he has no idea what to say, and no words come. Derek sighs, he sounds tired and Stiles wants to look at him, run his fingers across the dark circles under his eyes.
“My dad told me a story,” he says quietly, suddenly, and Derek jumps slightly and out of the corner of his eyes Stiles sees Derek turns his head to him. “About how my mom left him once, because she felt stifled,” Derek twitches like he’s going to interrupt, thinks better of it and turns his head back to the trees, “and he said that when you care about someone you do stupid things, like completely ignore their need to be independent.” Stiles turns to Derek then.
“Stiles…” he starts, lifts his hand and traces his fingers across Stiles’s knuckles.
“I get it, I’m 147 pounds of pale skin and fragile bones and you’re….well, you’re not,” Stiles waves his hand at Derek. Derek’s not pale skin and fragile bones, Derek is muscle, strength, powerful and all consuming.
“No, I’m not,” Derek shifts, rubs a hand across the back of his neck, “I…fuck,” he stands and Stiles lets his gaze wander out to the trees, “I just…Stiles…” he trails off and Stiles stands, curls his fingers around Derek’s wrist and tugs until Derek looks at him.
“I need you to explain it to me, I know why, but I need to hear you say it…” Derek looks down, “please Derek.” Derek frowns, lifts his hand and cups at Stiles’s face, runs his thumb across his cheekbone. Stiles leans into it, because even though it’s only been a few days since Derek’s touched him like this, Stiles feels like he’s starving for it.
“You’re Pack,” Derek says finally, and Stiles pulls away, shakes his head at Derek’s confused frown.
“Not good enough,” he says and turns, walks down the steps towards his car, his stomach twisting. He needs to hear more than that, he needs to hear Derek say he needs him back, needs to hear Derek say that he loves him, he’ll settle for less but a hell of a lot more than “you’re pack” which he’s been hearing since Stiles saved his life in the pool all those years ago.
“Fuck…Stiles…” Derek’s voice is loud, a hint of desperation and for a second, Stiles forgets how fast Derek can move, until Derek’s breath is hot against his ear, “the others…they were a necessity…you…” he spins Stiles around to face him, “you were a choice. I needed them, I wanted you. I always wanted you,” he runs the tips of his fingers down Stiles’s cheek, index finger over his bottom lip. “The others, they already smell like me, and other packs will know they’re off limits but you…” he pauses, curls his hand around the back of Stiles’s neck and pulls their foreheads together, “you smelled like you, maddeningly so, and no one would have known you were mine and it…Stiles it drives me crazy that I can’t protect you the whole time.”
“You don’t have to,” Stiles pushes at Derek’s chest slightly, but doesn’t step away, Derek slides a hand down his spine, palm hot against the small of his back.
“You don’t get it…” Derek shakes his head and lifts his gaze, dark, heavy and serious, to Stiles, “I do have to and I always will, because you’re more than Pack Stiles,” his lifts his hands and cups them both around Stiles’s face.
“What am I?” Stiles asks and Derek cocks his head to the side, his nostrils twitch like he’s testing the air for a scent of something.
“Mate,” Stiles’s stomach flips like the pathetic girl that he is. He knows that’s the best he’s going to get, and it’s the closet to I love you that Derek can manage. That’s ok, he gets it, and if the way Derek’s clutching at Stiles’s face is anything to go by, Derek’s as hopelessly fallen for Stiles as Stiles is for Derek.
“That’ll do,” he says, there’s still hurt swirling under his skin at the lack of trust, but they both have things to learn, they both have things to learn about each other to make this right.
Derek’s lips curl at the corners, slightly, slowly, like he doesn’t know if Stiles just said what he said and Stiles fists his hand in the front of Derek’s shirt and hauls him forward, crashing their mouths together, Derek lets out a noise of surprise, fingers tightening against the skin of Stiles’s neck, slides one hand down his spine and pulls their hips together. His other hand cradles at the back of Stiles’s head, fingers running through his hair and Stiles pulls back, “are you done with the whole marking thing or…” he trails off and Derek raises an eyebrow at him, cocks his head to the side and dips his fingers into the back of Stiles’s jeans.
“Oh I see,” he says quietly, “now you know what it was…” he pushes his hand all the way in and slides a finger between Stiles’s ass cheeks, Stiles groans, shifts his hips forward and tightens his fingers into Derek’s t-shirt, “you like it.”
“Well,” Stiles starts, bites off the words as Derek presses a finger, slightly awkwardly at this angle, into Stiles’s body, Derek growls softly in the back of his throat.
“Mine,” he mutters against Stiles’s neck and Stiles runs his hands down Derek’s sides, curls his fingers into his belt loops and tugs their hips together hard.
“Mine,” he says back and Derek lifts his head, blinks once and then nods. Because this claiming thing? It goes two ways, and Stiles may belong to Derek, may be Derek’s mate, but Derek belongs to Stiles.
“Yours,” Derek replies with a twitch of his lips.
Stiles loves Derek, and he knows now that Derek loves him back, and that Derek’s terrified of Stiles leaving, like everyone else in Derek’s life has done. He also knows now that they both have steps to take to make this better.
But right now it can wait, they’ve both got some claiming to do.