Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/651967.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Derek_Hale, Stiles_Stilinski, Scott_McCall_(Teen_Wolf)
  Additional Tags:
      Intercrural_Sex, Scenting
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-01-23 Words: 7983
****** Size Queen ******
by tsukinofaerii
Summary
     Stiles had always reminded Derek of a puppy in a lot of ways. When
     they'd first met, he'd been Derek's height, and still an awkward
     mess. Big hands, big feet, body not quite fitting anything yet. What
     he'd forgotten about puppies, though, was that they tended to grow
     into their paws.
Notes
     With a great many thanks for Valtyr, without whom this would not even
     have become pornographic.
Summer was surprisingly quiet for the remains of Derek's pack. Erica and Boyd
didn't come back, which Derek interpreted to mean they'd found what they'd been
looking for, and Scott somehow managed to keep out of trouble. After losing
Kate and Victoria, the disappearance of Gerard, even the hunters were lying
low. The alphas stayed on the sidelines; they didn't cross into Hale territory
again, but they didn't go away. Every now and then Derek would find a marked
tree just beyond the property line, and dead animals were littered all over the
county. It set him on edge, but until the alpha pack made their move there was
nothing he could do.
So it was just Derek, Isaac and Peter for the long break, doing spot work on
the old house, restoring the parts of it that were worth the effort, making
something that could pass for a home, at least for a while.
And in spite of his instincts, in spite of the ever-present threat just beyond
his reach, Derek got complacent. That was the only possible explanation for
how, on a warm night in late July, someone was able to get in through his open
window and nearly to the bed before creaky wood gave him away.
In a flash, Derek was off the bed, claws scraping worn floorboards and eyes
flashing red.
The intruder gave a shout and stumbled back, tripping over his own feet, hands
coming up in the universal sign of "unarmed". "Whoa whoa whoa, I just want to
talk!" he hissed.
As soon as Derek smelled who it was, he paused, nostrils flaring. He
straightened up and put away the fangs, running his hand through his hair in
irritation. "Do you have a death wish?" he demanded. "Sneaking up on a sleeping
werewolf? Real smart move, Stiles. There's a door for a reason."
The shape that was Stiles huffed and straightened up. His presence in the room
stood out like a brick in the middle of a sidewalk—boy and dirt and sweat and a
thousand shades of second-hand everything from the Sheriff's work, none of
which belonged in his space. Derek wrinkled his nose at the olfactory
intrusion. "Oh, so now you like doors. Good to meet you, Mr. Pot. I'm Mr.
Kettle."
Derek snorted and flopped back on the edge of the bed, glaring. "Whatever it
is, it had better be good. I was asleep."
"I just came to talk. Give me five minutes and you can go back to dreamland,
okay?"
The light of the waning half-moon should have been plenty to see him in, but
Stiles had picked a dark corner, and the room was just bright enough to make it
hard to adjust to the shadows. Derek took another deep breath, sorting out the
scents that were overlaying over the ever-present one that was purely Stiles.
Something was off about them, but he couldn't put his finger on it. It was all
there, grass, sweat, hormones, werewolf—
"What happened to Scott?" The question popped out of Derek's mouth before he
could stop it. That was it, the werewolf scent was all wrong. Stiles always
smelled like werewolf, he spent too much time in their company not to carry
traces. But Scott's scent on Stiles had changed, gotten deeper, more
threatening. Just a whiff of it made Derek's hackles rise. He wanted to rub it
off, get rid of the scent and replace it.
Stiles froze. "You know?" he asked, voice cracking.
"Not anything specific. Just that you smell wrong." Derek made to reach for the
bedside lamp, but Stiles had already started to edge sideways, toward the
window.
"You know what? This was a bad idea. I'm just going to—"
Before Stiles could escape, Derek lunged off the bed, grabbing his shoulders
and pinning him back against the wall with a snarl. "Don't even think about
it," he snapped, teeth bared and sharp. "You're going to tell me everything."
"You don't scare me," Stiles managed, pushing back into the wall like it could
swallow him.
"That can be fixed." They stared at each other, close enough that he felt
rather than heard Stiles' heartbeat stutter the lie, and suddenly Derek
realized that he was looking up.
Stiles had always reminded Derek of a puppy in a lot of ways. When they'd first
met, he'd been Derek's height, and still an awkward mess. Big hands, big feet,
body not quite fitting anything yet. What he'd forgotten about puppies, though,
was that they tended to grow into their paws.
Somehow since that first meeting, Stiles had done exactly that. He had a good
inch, maybe two on Derek now. Some of the roundness was gone from his cheeks,
and even his hair was different, a little too long and shaggy, like he just
hadn't bothered to keep up with the cut. His clothes still smelled like a
department store and plastic, the scent of things just bought for a boy who was
outgrowing them too fast for his wardrobe to keep up with.
Derek swallowed and eased back, so that he didn't have to feel Stiles' every
breath. "Tell me," he said, no longer growling. "If something's happened to
Scott, I need to know."
Stiles licked his lips nervously, tongue wet and pink even in the moonlight.
"He's—Scott's an alpha now." His heart was still beating prey-quick, but it
stayed steady. "It happened at the last full moon."
"Remind me to send a card," Derek sighed, pushing away from the wall to get a
few more inches of freedom. "Is that what you wanted to tell me?"
"No!" Amazingly, Stiles followed him off the wall, getting into his face in a
way that he never would have six months before. One of his hands wrapped around
Derek's wrist, big and callused, long fingers finally starting to fit with the
rest of him. "He's been acting— Look, I need you to tell me what to do. You're
an alpha, how do we handle this?"
"You don't." Derek had to lift his chin to hold Stiles' stare, but he stood his
ground. Some human brat wasn't going to make him back down. "Use heavier chains
when you lock him up on the full moon, keep him away from Allison, and he'll be
fine. It's all instinct."
"Scott's instinct had him try to bite me today! Twice!" There was barely
concealed panic in Stiles' voice, laced under his scent. "I don't want to be a
werewolf!"
His heartbeat skipped.
Derek's eyebrows went up. "Really."
Everything about Stiles screamed lying lying lying, but what he said was,
"Yeah, really." Stiles held Derek's stare as firmly as if he were an alpha
meeting a challenge. "I don't want Scott to bite me."
Heartbeat steady.
"Huh." Derek shrugged off Stiles' grip and turned away, deliberately showing
his back as he flipped on the light and reseated himself on the bed. "Sit down.
What do you want to know?"
For his debut into breaking and entering, Stiles had put on a gray long-sleeved
shirt with a hood that had to be stifling in the summer heat, and his jeans
were stained with mud. There was a surprising amount of lean muscle under those
clothes, only visible because the cloth was thin and damp with sweat. Broad
shoulders, narrow waist and hips, legs that looked a little less like they'd
trip out from under him at any second. He watched Derek like he might go full-
wolf at any second, but edged over to the desk chair and sat. His limbs were a
little too long for it, folding up awkwardly, and he sprawled like someone
still getting used to a world made for people smaller than him.
After a moment of silence, Stiles said, "I need to know why he's trying to bite
me, and how to make it stop."
No reason not to rip off the band-aid. "He's trying to bite you because he
wants you as pack," Derek explained, with as much patience as he could muster.
It wasn't much. "Scott never learned to control his instincts; he wasn't a beta
long enough, and as an alpha they're much stronger. A new alpha has two
instincts—to find a pack, or to find a mate to breed a pack." The longer Derek
talked, the faster Stiles' heart got. It made it hard not to grin maliciously
as he said, "Since Allison's off the table, guess who's on it?"
Stiles swallowed. Derek could actually hear Stile' knuckles crack as he flexed
his hands on the arms of the chair. "So how do I make him stop?"
Derek shrugged and tried not to watch Stiles fidget too blatantly, the way his
fingers worked and his muscles flexed. "Stop being his friend—"
"Not a chance," Stiles cut in, slamming to his feet and nearly toppling the
chair. "No way in Hell am I abandoning—"
"Or," Derek kept talking, raising his voice, "you can join another pack."
The silence was thick enough to cut.
"No." Stiles had gone pale. "That would be worse than abandoning him. I can't
do that."
That was what Derek liked about him, when he liked him at all—Stiles didn't
need it pointed out that there was really only one other pack available that
would take him. Of course, it made him a pain in the ass the rest of the time,
but the little moments almost made up for it.
And then Stiles had to go and ruin it. "What's my third option?"
Derek stared. So much for Stiles being the smart one. "Your third option?"
"Yeah!" Stiles paced, footsteps heavy, and Derek silently gave up any hope of
Isaac and Peter not waking up to hear the whole discussion. "There's always a
third option. Like with the kanima—werewolf, human, or freaky lizard thing.
What's my freaky lizard thing?"
"Your third option is to get used to the idea of being a werewolf," Derek
snapped. "Now's a good time to take the bite. You'll have three weeks to the
next moon and no school for a month after."
"I don't want—"
In one bound, Derek was off the bed and had Stiles pinned. Now that he knew to
look up, it was easier to glare at him, lip curled and one hand planted on the
rickety wall beside his head. Their bodies pressed together, chest and hips. "I
know what you don't want," he snarled, "but I'm telling you that you don't have
a choice. You're either part of Scott's pack or you're not. You're either a
werewolf, or you're not. Two. Two options."
"Ah-ha-ha-ha," Stiles laughed stiffly, in a thick and painfully fake
Transylvanian accent.
Derek didn't bother trying to glare more. Might as well spit into the wind.
"I'm serious, Stiles."
Stiles' weight sank back and down, knees bumping into Derek's as he bought
himself a few inches of leeway. "Why could I be a human in your pack, but not
Scott's?" He didn't lower his eyes, which was either a massive failure of all
body language skills—a highly likely possibility—or a conscious challenge—also
highly likely.
"Because I have the control not to want to bite you every time you touch me."
Taking pity, Derek lowered his voice to something less like a growl. "You're a
scent tease."
According to the GPS of Stiles' expression, Derek had passed Reasonville and
was on the train to CooCooLand. "Scent tease. Right."
It wasn't Stiles' fault he didn't understand, and it was probably wrong for
Derek to want to throw him down on the bed. Somehow, knowing that didn't help.
"Look, it's body language and scent," Derek tried again. "You and Scott touch a
lot, casually. To a human, it's just touching. To a werewolf, it's bonding.
You're sharing scent."
The moment Stiles got it flashed through his eyes like a cartoon lightbulb.
"And sharing scent means I'm pack."
"Which is why he wants to bite you."
Stiles stared at him from a few inches away. Somehow, leaning on the wall had
turned into leaning on Stiles; they'd gotten close enough that their chests
were brushing. His heartbeat was loud in Derek's ears, his breath rattling and
still short from the climb, and it was starting to get distracting.
Since losing Erica and Boyd to the alphas, Derek was back at the proverbial
square one. There was Peter, who was more annoying than helpful, and he had
Isaac. That wasn't enough. He needed at least three.
And Stiles smelled like wolf.
"There is a third option," Derek finally admitted, lifting himself away from
Stiles chest. The extra room was just enough to breathe again, but barely. "But
it's dangerous."
"I knew it!" Stiles crowed, throwing his arms into the air. "I knew there was a
third way! What is it?"
Derek looked around, but what he'd hoped would be there wasn't. It was his own
fault for doing laundry so often; he'd spent so long on the run with Laura that
having easy access to a Laundromat and clean clothes had gone to his head. So
instead of grabbing up something close to safe, he pulled up the hem of his
tank and stripped it off, then flung the shirt at Stiles' face, where Stiles
fumbled three times to catch it. "Wear that to bed."
"Dude." Stiles held the shirt up by one of the straps, like a delicate fifties
housewife holding a dead rodent. "I already said that I'm not joining your
pack."
"That's not joining my pack," Derek explained as he dug through his things for
another shirt. Normally, he wouldn't have bothered to find a replacement,
especially not on a hot night, but he was going to get enough shit in the
morning just for having had Stiles in his room. He didn't want to have to deal
with that and jokes about his state of undress. There were limits to what
patience Derek could reasonably exhibit, and that was one of them. "If you
smell like another wolf, it might confuse Scott's instincts into leaving you
alone."
"Orrrrrrrrr..."
"Orrrrrrr," Derek mimicked, admittedly a little cruelly, "he'll take it as a
challenge and bite you right away. There's no telling which."
"And in the meantime, I'll smell like you." Stiles' heartbeat did something
interesting, a sort of double-pound that Derek tried hard not to over-
interpret. "Because that's not weird or creepy or anything."
In the bottom of a milk crate, Derek found a shirt that would do and started
pull it on. "Isaac won't do, he spends too much time with Scott for his scent
not to have rubbed off. I could borrow a shirt from Peter, if you want."
"Sleep in your shirt, got it," Stiles said hurriedly, tucking the thing into
his back pocket. "That's it?"
"That's it." Flopping back to the bed, Derek watched as Stiles edged toward the
window, obviously trying to be subtle about it. "There's a front door, you
know."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah, Mr. Pot, I know. Thanks for the help!" The hint did it in
for Stiles' attempt at nuance. He all but threw himself out the window,
scrambling down in a series of thuds and curses. It took a long time before his
footsteps faded entirely, and then there was only the sound of summer coming in
through the window.
Sighing, Derek turned out the lamp and tried not to think of Stiles curled up
in bed smelling like him. There were more important things than one human to
worry about, like Scott's sudden jump in social status. If the sudden
appearance of a second alpha in town didn't get the alpha pack moving, nothing
would.
So much for a quiet summer.
===============================================================================
Stiles twisted Derek's shirt in his hands and kicked idly at the wall, using it
to swivel himself back and forth in his desk chair. The laptop's clock ticked
down another minute. He'd worn the shirt to bed for two nights as ordered, and
had even worn it under a t-shirt for a while that morning, just in case. It
felt grubby, like Derek's BO and dead skin and dirt were still clinging, even
though it didn't look or smell dirty. At least, not to Stiles' nose. He'd
sniffed it surreptitiously a couple times—purely for non-illicit purposes, he'd
swear to God, judge and a jury—so he was fairly sure no one human would be
smelling second hand sweat on him. Hopefully it would reek to Scott's nose.
And also hopefully Scott wouldn't take it as a challenge and try to stake his
claim.
This is such a bad idea.
Not that he hadn't had bad ideas before. Going out to the woods in the middle
of the night to look for a dead body had been one of the bigger ones. But this
was Derek Hale's bad idea. The same Derek Hale who'd bought the old wives' tale
about snake venom and then tried to use it on Jackson. The same Derek Hale who
had thought biting Jackson in the first place was a valid life choice. The same
Derek Hale who was, quite possibly, made entirely of bad decisions, hair gel
and muscles. When Derek Hale had bad ideas that went wrong, people died.
On his desk, his phone let out the buzzing chime that signaled a text message.
A second later, another one followed. For a minute, Stiles seriously considered
ignoring it. Then he remembered The Very Bad No Good Plan was actually in
motion and grabbed for his cell so fast that he dropped it twice before finally
managing to get his fingers around it.
Scott: Im outside.
Scott: R u sure???????
"Yes, dumbass, I'm sure,'' Stiles lied to his empty bedroom, thumbs tapping out
his reply.
Me: Y! get up here b4 dad comes home.
It was important that they do it while his dad was at work. If everything
turned into an Rubes-Goldberg of failure, Stiles didn't want to have to explain
why Scott had bitten him or, worse, have his dad find the body. One day, his
dad was going to have to be introduced to the reality of werewolves. It wasn't
going to be the day Stiles might maybe possibly kind of oh god became one.
Unlike a certain werewolf whose name rhymed with Ferek Fail, Scott hadn't
exactly taken to being an alpha with open arms. Stiles tried to give him the
benefit of the doubt and assume it was because he hadn't actually wanted the
position, rather than allow himself to give in to the creeping thought that
Scott just kind of sucked at werewolfing in general.
Fortunately, there was no way he could be worse than aforesaid Ferek Fail, so
there was always that.
The same Fail who had come up with the plan.
Such a bad idea. So bad. So very, very bad. Terrible, awful, no good...
Scott knocked on the bedroom door, quietly, like he thought maybe Stiles
wouldn't hear and he could use that as an excuse to sneak off. For once, Stiles
wasn't buying it. Bros to the end. "Come on in, Scott, you're not fooling
anyone."
The door cracked, and Scott sort of sidled in, eyes down and shoulders hunched
like he could make himself tiny.
Stiles waited.
Scott didn't move. His face was slowly turning red.
Squinting, Stiles examined his freshly-alphaed best friend. "Dude, are you
holding your breath?" Looking around for something to do, Stiles found a small
book and lobbed it. It landed right in Scott's stomach, forcing him to take a
sharp gasp of air.
Sitting up straight, Stiles braced himself for whatever was coming.
Red flashed through Scott's eyes as he finally took a deep sniff of Stiles'
room. Then his nose wrinkled. "Ugh, you stink. Are you sure you don't want me
to just bite you? It couldn't be worse than this."
"Bros don't bite bros, Scott." Scott was a great best friend. Stiles might have
to stab himself in the eye if he ever had to follow him as an alpha. It would
ruin everything. "So... did it work?"
Scott nodded and rubbed at his nose. "Yeah, I think it worked."
Every muscle in Stiles' body relaxed all at once. He sagged in his chair, arms
flopping like cooked noodles. All of a sudden he could breathe again.
"Hallelujah and praise Holy Mary, blessed be her name, something something,
daily bread. Amen."
"I don't think that's how it goes," Scott said, but he was starting to smile a
little, and that? That was pretty much the best thing Stiles had seen in two
weeks, even better than Derek's abs in the moonlight.
And they'd been some killer abs.
"You're sure it worked?" Stiles double-checked, just in case. It felt a little
like a dick thing to say, but his humanity was on the line. He sort of felt
like he had a right to be certain. "No urges to sink those pearly whites in?"
"No biting." The smile was getting bigger. Scott plopped down on Stiles' bed,
folding his legs into some weird geometric puzzle that was probably only
possible because he was a werewolf. Human joints just didn't do that. "Though I
kind of do want to rub up on you. Like, nuzzling and everything. That's new."
"I'll take it." Grabbing up a wireless controller, Stiles hurtled it at Scott,
who caught it with the sort of grace that was definitely all wolf. "Come on,
you and I have some video games to catch up on."
===============================================================================
Derek paced under the window, nostrils flaring. The room above smelled weird.
Like his, but not his, and also like someone else's without actually being
that. There were a thousand different smells for him to trace, and all of them
were off by just enough to be disconcerting. His shoulders rolled, bones
shifting, sliding against each other in complaint.
It didn't smell like new werewolf though, so at least there was that.
Giving himself a sharp shake, Derek made the leap to the ledge provided by the
kitchen window overhang, and then scrambled up the incline on silent feet.
There was only one light on in the house, but it never hurt to be careful, to
keep in the habit of stealth.
Once to the window, he put his hands on the sill to lift himself up, and then
froze, brought up short by the sight in front of him. It had been open and the
light was on, so he'd mostly expected Stiles to be at his computer, or reading
or something. Which—well, there was a book, but it had fallen to the mattress
and was currently collecting a damp spot from drool. Stiles had fallen asleep
on it, sprawled out like he was trying to hug the mattress.
And he was wearing Derek's shirt. It didn't really fit well; Derek was wider in
the chest, and had stretched it out a little. But it still showed off his pale
shoulder blades, with their scattering of freckles and moles and a surprising
amount of muscle. Which shouldn't have been a surprise—he'd noted it before,
but somehow the image of Stiles as a beanpole had snuck back in. Where the
shirt rode up at the hem was a similar story of unexpected things, of muscle
and skin and growth spurts. One mole in particular drew Derek's attention. It
rode low on Stiles' back, hiding in the dip of his spine just above where his
shorts started.
Derek must have made a noise, because Stiles groaned, one hand flopping in an
aborted gesture that could have been either come on and make yourself at home
or fuck off I'm trying to sleep. There was no telling which—when he spoke, his
words were lost to the book. Quickly, Derek finished hefting himself in, taking
a seat on the sill like he'd intended to be caught. By the time Stiles actually
opened his eyes, Derek had managed to arrange himself in a comfortable lounge,
one knee up and the other dangling outside.
For once, Stiles didn't seem surprised to see him there. He grunted and pushed
himself upright, broad shoulders rolling. About six inches in, he gave up and
collapsed back to the bed, accompanied by the sound of tortured springs.
"Give me a second," he mumbled, this time coherent but with a voice still foggy
with sleep. His heartbeat had the smooth, even pace of someone on the edge of
sleep, nothing like its usual frantic patter. "I just—I just need one minute.
Maybe two. Ten?"
"I don't have anywhere to be," Derek shrugged, leaning back against the
windowsill. It was actually starting to cut into his ass, but damned if he was
going to show it. "Take your time."
One honey-brown eye opened. Its lashes were clumped from sleep, and Derek was
pretty sure that it wasn't focusing, but he appreciated the effort. "You're
here for your shirt, right?" Stiles asked. The reminder seemed to perk him
up—both eyes opened. "It worked! You can probably smell that, but it really,
really worked. Scott didn't even growl, except when I kicked his ass at Games
of War. Looks like you were right for once."
"For once?" Derek repeated, eyebrows rising.
Stiles didn't bother to pretend it was a slip of the tongue. "Yeah, dude, you
don't exactly have a good track record." Once more, his shoulders moved, but he
managed to make it all the way up on his second attempt. His legs stretched
out, knees open, bare toes curled into the carpet.
Derek tried not to look. He really hadn't been prepared for how much Stiles
would smell like him. It had only been a shirt, but the scent clung to his
skin, dripped off him.
Maybe he hadn't thought things out as well as he'd hoped.
To take his mind off it, he reached for the hem of his black t-shirt and pulled
it up, but not so fast that he missed seeing Stiles' jaw drop, and there was no
missing the way his heart rate spiked.
"Wh—what are you doing?" Stiles stammered. King of subtle, he wasn't. A deep,
lingering spice colored his scent, blending perfectly with the second-hand
remnant's of Derek's on his skin.
"Trading." Balling up the shirt, Derek threw it at him. It hit Stiles square in
the chest without him making even a token effort to catch. "That shirt's going
to be running low on scent. This one's fresher."
The shirt wrinkled in Stiles' hands. "But it worked—Scott didn't try to bite
me, problem solved! Right?"
"Scott has total control?" There wasn't enough derision in the world to fit in
Derek's tone, but he tried. "Doesn't growl on accident, no claws when he gets
angry?" Guiltily, Stiles shifted over on his bed, sitting on a portion of the
quilt that had been mended. "I thought so."
Stiles' face drew in, and the argument was visible there, fighting it out on
his expression. "Would have thought you'd be a lot grumpier about this," he
finally said, reaching down to pull up the tank. "I'd almost think you like
having me smell like you."
Derek's mouth went dry at the sight of a trail of dark hair leading down from
Stiles' belly button. By the time he realized he really should grunt, or deny,
or at least stop staring, it was already a beat too late. Stiles stared at him,
wide-eyed and mouth open again.
"You do!" Glee twined around a thread of fear in Stiles' voice, but both were
buried under a heavy layer of confusion. The shirt was still tangled around his
arms, twisted in long, lean fingers that were going to be Derek's undoing one
day. "You do? I mean—you do?"
"Shut up and put it on," Derek grunted threateningly.
All the magic had gone out of his threats. "Oh no. No no no, we're discussing
this." Both shirts tumbled to the ground as Stiles stood. "Right now, before
you try and slip away again."
Instinctively Derek leaned away toward the safety of the thick, muggy night
air. He realized his mistake when Stiles leaped for him. For once, he wasn't
fast enough to get away before one of those hands wrapped around his arm and
yanked him inside the bedroom. He hit the floor hard, the sound accompanied by
the slamming of Stiles' window. In a second, he was on his feet, teeth bared at
boy standing between him and his escape.
Stiles crossed his arms and planted his feet, eyes firmly on Derek's. Even his
heart was steady, without any sign of the terrified speed from previous
encounters. "You are not getting out of this."
It couldn't have been more of a challenge if he tried and, strangely, that only
made Derek's blood heat more. "It's none of your business," he growled, letting
his eyes slip to red.
No effect. Of all the times Stiles stopped believing his bullshit, it had to be
then. "If you're getting hot to trot because I have to wear your shirts, I kind
of think it is my business."
Humiliation churned Derek's stomach. He'd never wanted to have this discussion,
much less with someone who was still in high school. "I'm not Scott. I can
control it," he said, letting his eyes slide away. The least he could do was
give in there. It didn't cost anything except his pride, and that had always
been pretty cheap.
Stiles licked his lips and uncrossed his arms, then crossed them again, and
finally ended with shoving them in his back pockets. He rocked back and forth
on his bare feet, growing joints cracking from the motion. Red started coloring
his cheeks, creeping up from his chest until even his ears were bright. "What
if I don't want you to?"
It took a second for that to sink in. Derek's lips pressed together in
annoyance. "Don't you?"
"Well, look at you." One hand waved somewhere toward Derek's knees, then
spiraled up to take in the whole of him. "I know you have a mirror. I saw it.
You've got to know what you look like."
Derek risked a step forward. His feet felt heavy, and he could almost feel
Stiles' heartbeat, pounding away just a few feet in front of him. Another step
brought him in close enough to press a hand to Stiles' bare chest. "And is that
it?"
Breath rushed in and out, making Stiles' lungs stuttered when he tried to
breathe too deeply. He swallowed, adam's apple bobbing in a way that made Derek
want to lick it, to find one of the still-soft places on Stiles' body to sink
his teeth in and hold on. Stiles was frustrating and self-righteous and always
too damned sure of himself, but... safe. Smelling like wolf, even before the
damned shirt idea. Willing to tread water for someone he had no real reason to
want to keep alive, not even his own protection at the end of it.
The silence dragged on just a second too long. Derek dug his fingers in, the
tips of his claws coming out just enough to prick the pale, smooth skin of
Stiles' chest. "I said, is that it?"
"I don't know." Just like before, Stiles looked him in the eye. The challenge
shouldn't have been so good. Even when he was a beta, Derek had never liked
seeing people cower. It was necessary sometimes, to put someone in their place,
but it didn't fill him with satisfaction. Fear wasn't respect. Maybe other
alphas could get by on the one, but Derek's mother would have rolled in her
grave if she thought he was going to be one of them.
Stiles didn't respect him. Probably he didn't respect anyone, except maybe his
father. But he wasn't afraid anymore either, and that went a long way. Still,
Derek hadn't expected it, whatever it was, to feel so nice.
"What do you want?" Slowly, Derek's hand crept up to Stiles' neck, thumb
pressed against the hollow there where the pulse fluttered. His claws looked
strange against so much skin. Wrong. Derek willed them away, didn't move until
his nails were human-smooth and blunt again. Then he looked upward the few
inches it took to meet Stiles' eyes now. "Tell me, what do you want?"
Again, Stiles swallowed, the motion making Derek's thumb rise and fall. His
head dipped down. Derek saw it coming and didn't move, didn't try to escape
when their mouths pressed together in a hard kiss.
The kiss was wet, and messy, and composed of a lot more teeth and tongue and
awkward angles than Derek had experienced since high school. He had to tilt his
head back to keep the kiss going. It was bizarre, but good on a whole new
level.
Derek fought to keep them from falling as they staggered back to the bed
together. They only managed to land half-on it, Derek's legs and Stiles' feet
still hanging off. It was just to get away from the window, Derek told himself.
They weren't going to go that fast. Really. But he couldn't deny the way his
stomach twisted in anticipation when the bed springs squeaked, or when Stiles'
knees bracketed his thighs.
Red flushed Stiles' face as he stared down at Derek. Objectively, it wasn't
very attractive; he looked like he'd been doing suicides in practice. But his
heart pounded in Derek's ears, and his excitement and nerves were thick in the
air under the second-hand scent of Derek on his skin, and that more than made
up for it. Derek tangled his fingers in the mess of Stiles' not-quite-short
hair, using the grip to take back control of the kiss.
It was a battle at first. Stiles went at it with more enthusiasm than grace,
which pretty much summed up the entirety of Stiles-ness as Derek had come to
know it. Pulling away to start up again only made Stiles try harder, like he
was afraid that if he gave Derek a second to think he'd change his mind. Just
slowing down almost got him bitten.
Finally, he got his hand around the back of Stiles' neck and just held him like
a puppy. Stiles made a noise like he was cursing against Derek's lips, but
without being able to put his weight behind it, he was pretty much trapped. But
by the time Derek's grip loosened, he'd stopped pulling and at least seemed to
have grasped the theory of rhythm, if not the entirety of its practice.
"Calm down," Derek muttered, dragging his lips across Stiles' jaw, then down to
his neck. There was a spot at the hinge that that begged to be bitten. It
smelled like Stiles, like fresh skin and sweat and a hint of their two personal
scents blended. He let himself have a little nip, worrying the skin between his
teeth. Maybe it was only a little more subtle than rubbing his cheek all over
Stiles' body, but it would have to do.
Stiles gasped, head tilting back in invitation. His hands kneaded the bed by
Derek's head, long fingers digging in like they'd rip the blanket anew. "If you
could see you, you wouldn't be calm. And I kind of—really—didn't expect this."
Derek found a new spot to work at, closer down to Stiles' collarbone, where any
bruises would be easier to hide. It earned him a rock of Stiles hips. "You
smell good."
"I—" Stiles actually pulled away, lifting up like he was doing a pushup. Arm
muscles that had been unfairly hidden under too many layers of ugly plaid
flannel bulged. "Is this some weird werewolf thing because I've been wearing
your shirt? Because dude, I'm not—you're—" His face was still that horrible red
and he sucked in air like he was going to steal Derek's. Then he finished
sitting up, planting his ass straight on Derek's dick, and it really did make
it hard to breathe. "I'm not some scent slut."
Derek had to stop himself from just yanking Stiles back down, or rolling him
over, or any one of a hundred things that would inevitably not be worth the
trouble they'd cause. "Really? Because right now you smell like two different
alpha werewolves have had their hands all over you."
If he'd thought Stiles' face couldn't get redder, it was because he'd
underestimated the power of color. Even Stiles' eyebrows pinked visibly. "Scott
wanted to cuddle," he mumbled, shoulders hunched up.
"Of course he did," Derek sighed. It would be just like Scott to face an alpha
challenge with cuddling. "But this isn't about that." Entirely, at least, but
he'd never be caught dead admitting that he liked the way Stiles smelled like
him. Dignity wasn't a lost cause yet. Keeping his grip on Stiles' neck in case
he decided to do anything irrational—like move—Derek shifted a little, grinding
their hips together. The move sent a shock through him, good enough that he did
it again.
A whole-body shudder ran down Stiles' frame. He ground down, breath hissing
between his teeth. Experimentally, he rocked back against Derek with a whisper
of cloth rubbing. His dick was a hard line tenting his shorts. Stiles cupped it
gently, like it might actually be physically painful to do so.
Then the hand slid down to the fly of Derek's jeans. "I'm gonna grab your dick
now, okay? Okay." Stiles' fingers actually shook a little as he tugged the
button loose and slid down the zipper. The edge of his thumb brushed over
Derek's cock under the thin cotton of his underwear.
The change in pressure was enough to make Derek groan. Bracing his feet on the
floor, he lifted up, knocking Stiles off-balance. It was just enough space to
shuck his jeans and boxer-briefs down. The head of his dick brushed the light
blue poly-cotton whatever of Stiles' shorts, leaving a dark smear of precome
behind.
Baring his teeth in something that might be mistaken for a grin, Derek hooked
his fingers in Stiles' waistband. "Your turn."
Another shudder slipped through Stiles, and a spike of lust turned his scent
dark and musky. He moved so fast that he almost fell off the bed, struggling
with the inexplicably difficult buttons of his shorts. When he finally got them
down, Stiles sent them flying into the desk with a hard kick. The recoil
knocked him off balance again, straight back onto Derek's chest.
"Victory!"
A laugh caught in Derek's throat, coming out as a strangled huff. "Yeah, you
showed them." He slipped one leg between Stiles' thighs, pressing up against
his cock. There was more muscle there, more freckles to be mapped by fingers
and tongue and teeth. And Derek might do that later, but just then, he had
other priorities. "Now, come here."
For once, Stiles didn't argue, falling back into the kiss with the sort of ease
he hadn't had before. His hands slid along Derek's skin like he wasn't really
sure he was allowed, all light pets and tentative scratches. Derek made
encouraging noises where it seemed appropriate, taking advantage of the moment
to explore Stiles' skin. His moles added texture, bumps that were just frequent
enough that they could almost be read like braille. The one he'd seen before,
in the dip of Stiles' back, was especially prominent. When Derek brushed his
thumb over it, Stiles groaned and rocked against Derek's thigh like he wasn't
sure which way to move.
Derek sank his teeth into the red curve of Stiles' ear. "You have any lube?" he
asked, voice low and rough, like he'd been choking on gravel. His fingers
pressed into that spot again, just to feel Stiles buck against him. "Vaseline?
Lotion?"
"I—" Stiles' breathing stuttered against Derek's neck. "Lotion. Headboard."
The headboard which was definitely out of reach. Damn it. Well, he'd have to
move anyway. Derek dragged his fingers across the curve of Stiles' ass, scraped
his nails across his inner thigh. "Move."
Stiles moved slowly, way too slowly, brain still apparently caught somewhere
between his dick and Derek's hand. In the end, Derek just shoved him over and
climbed to his knees, reaching for the family sized pump bottle stashed just
behind some conveniently placed tissues. He tossed it back, almost smacking
Stiles in the chest.
"You ever do it between the thighs?"
A complicated noise sounded behind him, like the bastard child of a groan and a
choke. There might have been words in there, somewhere, but they were totally
lost. The only reason he knew the answer was negative was because Stiles shook
his head.
It probably wasn't kind to laugh. Derek did it anyway. "First time for
everything. Slick up and come here." And, if the way Stiles had been fumbling
was anything to go by, Derek wasn't letting him in his ass without a lot more
work. Werewolves could heal, but bad sex was bad sex.
Watching Stiles work the lotion over his cock was definitely worth the price of
admission. His nose wrinkled at the first cold touch. Then his whole expression
changed, eyes closing and pulse rising as the lotion warmed up. That, Derek
suspected, he could watch for hours without getting bored.
But touching. Touching was always better, and the crick in his neck took away
from the view. "Stiles," Derek barked, when it seemed like Stiles might be
getting a little too invested in stroking himself. "Come. Here."
Stiles' eyes opened. They were unfocused, but his grin still managed to reach
them. "Pushy," he grumbled, but he grabbed another squirt of lotion before
sliding up the bed. "So, how do I—just, between the thighs? That's it?"
"Think you can manage?" Derek settled down on his elbows, anticipation and
anxiety fluttering in his throat. He hadn't—not in a couple of years, and his
sex life had been spotty before that. But Stiles' bed smelled like he'd already
been there, and Stiles smelled like he'd been there, too. When he dropped his
head, he could press his nose into the sheets and feel like he belonged there.
It was still hard not to tense when Stiles ran a lotion-slick hand across his
ass. Warm breath feathered across Derek's shoulder, his back. Cool fingers
traced his crack, smearing more lotion between his thighs, behind his balls.
The touch wasn't much, but it ripped a soft groan from him.
"You like that?" Stiles asked, sounding surprised, and far more coherent than
he really had any right to be.
"Would I have asked you to do it if I didn't?" Twisting his head around, Derek
contrived the most vicious glare he thought wouldn't send Stiles screaming for
the jar of wolfsbane Derek could smell under his bed.
He must have been losing his touch. Stiles just grinned, his heart not even
jumping a little. "Fair point. I'll just—"
"Get on with it."
He almost wished he hadn't been able to see Stiles rolling his eyes. But then
those strong fingers were gripping his hips, and the hard length of Stiles'
dick slid between his clenched thighs.
Stiles seemed to have some idea of what he was doing, because he kept the
pressure firmly on that stretch of skin behind Derek's balls that sent sparks
flying through him. The thrusts were long and slow, rolling, exactly the
opposite of what Derek would have expected from him. When he hit the right
angle, the shaft of his dick slid along Derek's balls. It made him rock, back
arching with a growl.
Groaning, Derek dropped his forehead back to the mattress, watching the head of
Stiles' dick sliding into view between his thighs. Then he closed them, before
he came embarrassingly fast. Instead, he focused on other things—the chemical
tang of the lotion, the way Stiles' fingers pressed bruises into his hipbone,
each and every noise Stiles muffled against Derek's shoulder blade. It all
curled through him and settled in his stomach, joined by every jolt and stroke.
Slow couldn't last forever, though it felt like it did. Stiles sped up, the
slick noises of the lotion becoming filthier when he added more. His moans and
curses got louder too, cut-off half words getting more and more obscene.
Propping himself up on one hand, Derek reached for his dick, wrapping his
fingers around and giving himself a hard jerk. A second later, Stiles' still-
slick ones joined him, fresh lotion easing the way.
Derek felt it a moment before Stiles came. His whole body tensed against
Derek's back, hand slipping from where it was jacking him. Then it was there, a
low oh my fucking God being hissed into his skin. Come splashed against Derek's
balls, smeared between his thighs. The hand reappeared on Derek's dick and
fumbled, working hard and fast. It didn't take long before Derek came too, hard
enough that his vision blurred out for a second.
As they lay there panting, Stiles gave a strangled sound. "Better than a
shirt."
If Derek laughed, only Stiles was there to hear it.
===============================================================================
"I'm not going in there."
"Scott—"
"No." Scott plastered himself on the wall across from Stiles' bedroom door. His
eyes rolled alpha red as he stared at it, panic written all over his face.
Well, mostly all over his face. It looked like the panic was going halfsies
with horrified embarrassment. "Just—no, dude, you have no idea what that smells
like, but I'm not doing it. You come out here."
It was totally and completely breaking at least six unwritten rules of
friendship for Stiles to feel smug. So he tried really hard not to show it.
Okay, he tried a little.
Sort of.
"Dude, you have to come in sometime," Stiles wheedled. He was standing just
inside his door, far enough out of reach that Scott couldn't just yank him out.
"Just try?"
"It smells like Derek rolled in your bed." Reaching up, Scott ran his hands
through his hair, ending with an actual yank on his curls. "At least before it
kind of smelled like me. Now it's all him, and I kind of feel like I'm going to
get my throat ripped out if I even try."
An evil, horrible, really no-good thought did a sexy dance behind Stiles' eyes.
Derek's t-shirt, the replacement for the first one, sat heavy on his shoulders.
"Well then," Stiles said slowly, tasting each word before letting it out. "Then
you should probably do some rolling of your own, right?"
Scott blinked at him, but his head came up and he looked a little less ready to
alpha out. "Rolling of my own?"
"Yeah." The idea did an entirely metaphorical hip wiggle, and really, who was
Stiles to question it? "Yeah, you totally should. Come in here and mark it all
up. That'd make you feel better, right?"
If ever there was a bullshit detector designed specifically for Stiles, it was
probably in Scott's possession. His mouth pulled aside as he considered. "Won't
that just make Derek want to do the same thing?"
"In a choice of cold war of scent marking or biting the Stiles, I know which
one I'd rather have." Taking a chance, Stiles stepped out of the room, waving
an arm to gesture Scott in. "Go to town, buddy."
It still didn't look like Scott believed him, but he slipped into the room
anyway, nose wrinkled. Stiles watched as he circled a few times, hands absently
brushing against walls, shelves, and a couple of Stiles' things that Derek had
toyed with. The circuit ended when he sat down on Stiles' freshly laundered
sheets and flopped, spread-eagle and wiggling.
A not-entirely-nice smile curled Stiles' lips as Scott made a mess of his bed.
He was so getting laid again.
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