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Title: unfamiliar things
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Series: trust and consequences
Rating: NC-17
Pairings/Characters: Derek/Stiles
Content Advisory: Stiles is 17. Eventual D/s. References to Derek's unhealthy past relationship with Kate.

Summary: Stiles hangs around after they finish up, giving Scott a flimsy excuse about looking up some Hale family talismans with Derek. It's an obvious lie, but Scott just glances between the two of them, exchanges a separate glance with Stiles, and leads the rest of the pack out.


Their meeting is at Derek’s, because the Sheriff got sick of the amount of furniture that gets broken when Scott, Isaac, and and the Terrible Twins all attempt to occupy the same space, and Derek’s apartment is basically empty. Nothing in it to break. There’s also no TV, so their Batman marathon gets postponed until the following Saturday, when Melissa’s begrudgingly allowed them to take over her house for the night.

Stiles hangs around after they finish up, giving Scott a flimsy excuse about looking up some Hale family talismans with Derek. It's an obvious lie, but Scott just glances between the two of them, exchanges a separate glance with Stiles, and leads the rest of the pack out.

Scott's trust is an unfamiliar thing.

Scott trusts Stiles even when he know Stiles is lying, and seems to think that if Stiles trusts Derek, he'll be safe. Derek, who's getting tired of tiptoeing around Scott, but is constantly worried about overstepping his bounds, always feels off-balance if they spend too much time together.

"Is, uh--is your offer still good?" Stiles asks, when the apartment empties, and the echoes of the sliding door slamming shut have died away.

Derek's loft still smells like pack. The mingled scent of all of them is a comforting elixir even with its uneven notes. Allison's distrust and control alongside Isaac's nervous, new found happiness; the twins' intertwined youth, fear, and anger; the overlying scent of Lydia, who has always smelled like flowers and saltwater. Scott smells like Alpha. He used to smell like gym class, his mom, and cut grass.

Derek walks towards Stiles and presses him backwards until they are a series of parallel lines; Derek, Stiles, and the door.

"Yes," he says. He wants to bury his nose in Stiles's neck and breathe him in: the Jeep, the Sheriff's cologne, paper, loneliness, and something that Derek has only ever been able to identify as a sense of humor. Something that tickles his tongue, but not his nose; something like feels like a smile might smell.

"Good," Stiles says, licking his lips. "But I have, uh--stipulations. Before we start."

"Okay." Derek forces himself to take a step back. "That's fair."

"You're being very agreeable," Stiles says suspiciously. Derek shrugs. He's only an asshole when time is short and hard decisions have to be made. Or when other people are acting stupid. It's not his fault he hangs out with a bunch of hormonal teenagers. Or, well, maybe it is. Fuck it. Stiles narrows his eyes and asks, "Have you been replaced with a happy-go-lucky podperson Derek?"


"That's what pod-Derek would say," Stiles points out unhelpfully. "What if I called you a good boy and told you to roll over and play dead?" Stiles seems ready to smile when Derek growls at him. "Okay, so. I just want to talk for a bit. About the, uh--the sexing."

"I think you can just call it sex."

"Or I could call it frottage, or awkward, or mortifying."

"I'm going to stick with 'good sex.'" He takes another step back, trying to take in all of Stiles's body language; he doesn't understand what Stiles is doing. "What are we talking about?"

"I want--I need to know why."

"Why what?"

"Why me," Stiles says, exasperated. "Because it can't just be for convenience, since you could go to literally any bar anywhere and get laid by, like, a dozen people, who would probably be better at it than me. And I doubt it's overwhelming desire for my hot bod, because I know you have a mirror, and the different leagues we're in are from different sports. My sport is curling. And if you went after anyone else in the pack--literally anyone, except possibly Allison--there would be fewer complications, so..." His body is tensing; hunching over. "Are you doing this to mess with Scott?"


"...would you care to elaborate on that?"

Derek sighs. Humans are so difficult. Stiles can't smell the want wafting off of Derek. Or the frustration following in its wake. Besides, Stiles is even more complicated than most other people; his mind jumps in ways that Derek can't always follow, and his scent and posture and words so often mismatch. He's a puzzle that Derek doesn't think he'll ever fully put together.

"I like you," Derek says, looking Stiles in the eye and pretending that it's easy for him to admit something that private.

"Would you care to elaborate on that?" Stiles replies, his voice turning into a squeak at the end.

Derek has a list of reasons. It starts with Stiles's intelligence, includes his loyalty, and ends with his bravery. But ever since Derek lost Laura and disappointed Cora, he's been trying to be better at protecting himself. "No."

"You like me?"

Derek doesn't bother to repeat himself.

"You like me. And you want to sex me up. You want to sex me good."

Derek growls, grabs Stiles's wrists, and pins them to the door above Stiles's head. "Any other stipulations?"

Stiles had closed his eyes when Derek grabbed him, and they flutter open when he tries to answer. "Yes. There were--there were definitely other stipulations," he says, breathless. Derek bites at Stiles's shoulder lightly, though the layers of flannel and cotton. "I want to tell Scott."


"Really? Wow. Uh--also, if we’re going to get to the stage of sex that’s slightly less clothed and slightly more...dick-engaging...then we have to use condoms.”

“Werewolves can’t get or give STDs.”


Derek heaves a sigh. “Yes, seriously. I’m not going to joke about something important. We can use condoms. But we don’t need to.”

“I won’t end up on, like, a Teen Mom ‘Werewolf Edition’ Special?” Stiles sounds half-serious. Derek is trying really hard to be patient.

“No. What other stipulations?”

“Oh. I, uh--that was kind of it. I only had the three. I was expecting more of a fight. I have counter-arguments prepared, if you want to hear them."

Derek growls, inhaling the scent of Stiles, wiping everything else out of his mind. "I can’t get you pregnant. I don’t mind condoms. I want you, and I don't care who knows. If you want to tell someone, you tell them. If you don't, then don't." Derek's been a dirty secret before; he hadn't enjoyed it.

"I'm going to tell Scott that you made me come in my pants," Stiles warns. "And that you're Mr. Grabby Hands when I try to have conversations. And I'm going to tell him that you're nice to me--"

Derek lets go of Stiles's wrists and lifts Stiles off the ground, his hands on Stiles's hips. Stiles wraps his legs around Derek's waist, the way he had last time, like he wants Derek to stay in the cradle of his body. Derek carries him across the room and lays Stiles down on the bed carefully, even though he really wants to throw Stiles down on the floor and tear the three layers of his shirts off with his bare hands.

"Jesus god," Stiles says. "You're so strong. You're stronger than pornstars. Not that I watch porn. Or not that I don't watch porn, I'm a normal teenage boy, this is a no-judgment zone."

"Are you planning to take your clothes off in this no-judgment zone anytime soon?"

"Maybe?" Stiles says, sounding nervous again. "I did use that whole 'different leagues' metaphor earlier, right?"

"I want to take your shirts off," Derek says slowly. He’s trying his best here, but he doesn't know how to make Stiles stop smelling nervous. "I want to make you come again. Want to watch your face while you do it. Maybe put you on your belly and have you rub yourself off against the mattress, bite you when you come--" Stiles whimpers and Derek stops talking. "Is that not something you want to do?"

"No, I just--I don't want to come in my pants before you even touch me," Stiles says, his face flushed.

"You could come just from me talking about what I want to do to you?" Derek asks curiously. Stiles nods. "Let me take your shirts off, and I'll give it a shot." Stiles squirms under Derek again. "You made this a no-judgment zone," Derek whispers. "I'm adding a stipulation of my own, which is that you have to do what I tell you."

"That's a pretty big damn stipulation, dude. That's more like a new piece of legislation. A change in the structure of the government kind of big." Derek slides his hands under Stiles's t-shirt, and, just as he hoped, Stiles stops talking.

"I'm not going to ask you for anything big," Derek says. "I just--I need you to trust me when I tell you that I want you to do something. It's the same as last time," he continues, getting up on his knees and straddling Stiles's hips. "No strings attached. You say no to anything you don't like. You can leave whenever you want." Stiles nods. "But if you stay, will you do what I tell you to do?” Derek waits, listening to Stiles’s heartbeat and comparing it to the frantic tempo of his own.

Stiles’s voice, unsure and curious, brings him back. "Do you promise you're going to keep being Nice Derek?"

Derek's not entirely sure what that means, but Stiles is pack. Derek's first choice, if he wanted to protect Stiles, should be to leave Stiles alone. Since he hasn't mastered that level of self-control, he'll do the second best thing. "I promise to take care of you."

He watches the pale line of Stiles's throat move when he swallows. "Then take my clothes off already," Stiles says, the bravery that Derek admires so much shaking in his voice.

Derek peels the layers off one at a time. Hoodie, flannel, t-shirt. The t-shirt, he removes slowly. He bends down and licks each new inch of skin that's revealed, reveling in the fact that he's the first one to touch Stiles like this.

Stiles is blushing when Derek finally peels the shirt over his head (and decidedly does not tangle it over Stiles's wrists, because if he's going to start tying Stiles up, then they're going to have to draw up about a hundred more pieces of legislation).

"Good thing the lighting's dim," Stiles says, with an uneasy laugh. "Otherwise I'd blind you." Derek raises an eyebrow at him. "Because of how pale I am."

"I can fix that," Derek says.

"I know you're hot like the sun," Stiles says, "but I don't think you can make me tan--" Derek licks the space between Stiles's collarbones and grins when Stiles's voice squeaks to a stop.

"You look good," Derek says, trying to remember what it used to feel like when he took his shirt off and had to worry about someone being displeased. "I want to mark your skin," Derek explains. Use your words, his mother had always said. You have no idea what you're doing, Kate had said, when he'd been nervous and new with her. He'd probably smelled the way Stiles smells now.

"Do you have any idea how bad I want to touch you?" Derek asks. He doesn't give Stiles time to make it into a joke. "I want to lick the dips between your ribs. Bite your nipples. Fuck your belly-button with my tongue the same way I'm going to suck and fuck your hole. I want to leave marks on you--hickeys, maybe. Bite marks, if you'll let me. I just want to..." He looks Stiles over. "I want to play with you."

Stiles makes a strangled sound. "You might be playing a very short game," he gasps, "because I'm pretty sure that if you touch my nipples--or say nipples again, or if you--if you touch my dick--I'm going to come." His blush is an angry red.

"You can come more than once, can't you?" Derek says with a shrug. "You're a teenager. I can make you come in your pants, get you hard again, then make you come for me a second time. Or did you have other plans for the evening?"

"No," Stiles says, lifting his hips off the bed to press his groin against Derek's ass. Derek, whose thighs had just begun to notice the effort of holding himself up for so long, rewards Stiles by grinding himself downwards. “No other plans,” Stiles moans. “Nothing but you, you and my--playing, with me, please." Stiles leans back tilts his head, exposing his neck, just like he had last time, when Derek had been pulling his hair, forcing his head back, only this time Stiles is doing it all on his own.

Derek puts a hand in Stiles's hair (even though he wants to wrap it around Stiles's neck, just rest it there, just to feel him breathe) because he knows that this is okay. He pulls until Stiles whimpers. Then he kisses Stiles for the first time that night, and smiles, because it already feels familiar. Then he says, "Stop me if this is too much," and moves down the bed.

Stiles's cock is a hard, prominent line pressed against the front of his jeans.

Derek's fucked around with a lot of guys, but he's never been on this side of a first time, and he wants it to be good. He kisses Stiles's cock through his jeans before he starts licking at it, pressing his face up against the hard line of the shaft through the fabric, losing himself in the overwhelming smell. Precome's made a small dark stain in the denim, and Derek sucks at it until front of Stiles's jeans are soaked.

"Talk," Derek growls, his hands on Stiles's hips, even though Stiles has been tremblingly holding himself still on his own so far. "Tell me what you're feeling." Mostly, he wants to make sure Stiles doesn't feel uncomfortable, or used, or just not-that-turned on, but what he gets is a moan that rises and falls with the rough strokes of Derek's tongue.

"Feel--I feel you, your mouth," Stiles says, his voice a tight, rambling comfort. "Can't stop thinking about what it would feel like on my cock--if you'd suck it, or lick it, or press your face against it--"

"I'd take you down to the root," Derek says, because he'd picked up a few tricks in New York, and that had been one of them. "And swallow when you came for me."

"Jesus fuck," Stiles swears, fighting against Derek's grip. "I love how strong you are. Got--I've got bruises on my ass from last time, and it hurts when I sit. I get hard just thinking about your hands on me."

Derek takes one hand off Stiles's hip and presses it against Stiles's cock, feeling the hot length throb against his palm and fingers. Stiles's whole body freezes. "Talk," Derek says gently.

"I want to come," Stiles whispers. "Please. I'll come again for you later, I promise, but I want to come with you--with you between my legs--your mouth on me, holding me down, making me stay still."

"Say my name when you come," Derek says. He feels calm, like he only ever has in a few of the times he'd dommed in New York. He feels calm even though his heartbeat is threatening to break through his chest and his cock is painfully pressed against his zipper. He feels in control for the first time in months; he feels like he's not in danger of making a mistake. "I'm making that a rule."

"Yes," Stiles says. "Can I move my hips?"

"No, but you can try," Derek says with a grin, putting both hands on Stiles's waist and suckling the head of his cock through his jeans until Stiles kicks the mattress in frustration, his hands scrambling in the blankets for something to hold onto.

"Coming," Stiles stutters, "Derek, please, you--your mouth--"

Derek sucks harder, presses Stiles down deeper into the mattress, and pulls off just long enough to say, "You look so beautiful right now."

Stiles's cock jerks and his mouth shuts with an audible clack. His stomach muscles go tense, come starting to pulse out of him. His abs tighten until his torso comes off the bed, curling forward, his hands grabbing onto Derek's shoulders. His feet are pressed against Derek's thighs now, digging in.

"Good," Derek says. "Keep coming for me, exactly like this, just like I want you to." Stiles is making wounded noises, and his body spasms with every piece of praise that Derek doles out to him.

There's power in making Stiles feel good.

(He shoves away thoughts of Kate calling him Good boy, because he has to believe that this is different; he can't stop himself from having this with Stiles.)

Eventually Stiles loosens his grip on Derek's shoulders, and his legs relax to sprawl onto the mattress on either side of Derek. Derek stretches and moves until he's in a push-up position over Stiles. "You good?" he asks.

"I think I might be dead," Stiles says frankly. "I think you might have killed me with your mouth. I've never come that hard in my life. And I've come a lot. I've got toys and gigabytes of porn and--"

Derek rests his weight on his right arm and grazes one of Stiles's nipples with his left hand. "I can make you come harder than that," he says quietly, because he doesn't want Stiles to leave yet. "Do you need to take a break before I do?"

Stiles looks up at the ceiling. "This is the best sex dream ever."

"Fair warning: I'm going to pinch you again to prove you're not dreaming." He pinches Stiles's nipple this time. Stiles squeaks in protest.

"That hurt!"

"I warned you," Derek says, rolling his eyes. Then he moves a bit lower on the bed. "Want me to kiss it and make it better?"

"Fuck. Yes. Please."

"How long will it take you to get hard again?" Derek asks, before licking a circle around Stiles's nipple with the tip of his tongue.

"Like, fifteen minutes?" Stiles says. "Although that's usually with me watching porn, and you're actually hotter than pornstars, so maybe less than that?"

"Do you like nipple play?"

Stiles groans. "Definitely less than fifteen minutes if you keep asking me shit like that."

"Do you?"

"Not really? I mean, it never did anything for me when I was fucking around with myself."

Derek hums, then sucks Stiles's nipple into his mouth. He keeps his hands on Stiles's rib cage, tracking his breathing patterns, listening to the beat of his heart, trying to translate the garbled words that break before Stiles gets them out.

Stiles is, in fact, into nipple play. He likes having them suckled, likes having them flicked with Derek's tongue, but doesn't like Derek's teeth making contact at all. He whimpers when Derek pinches both his nipples at the same time and tugs them gently away from his chest, looking down at Derek like he's gotten lost and is looking for direction.

"I want to give you a blowjob," Derek says, tugging hard once more before smoothing his hands over the planes of Stiles's chest. "Is that okay with you?"

"Yes, please," Stiles says, nodding so fast he's probably giving himself whiplash.

Derek peels Stiles's boxers and jeans off slowly. Derek's not a talker, never has been, but he says, "Nice," when he's got Stiles spread out in front of him. Stiles shivers with the praise. Derek will think of more compliments for next time, if there is (please) a next time, because he wants Stiles to always be comfortable in his body.

He cleans the cooling semen from Stiles's dick and stomach with his tongue. Revels in the salty taste of it, because there's nothing else that will ever taste more Stiles than this. He wants the scent of Stiles in his bones, the taste of him lingering on his tongue, Stiles's skin forever against his skin.

By the time he's licked up every bit of come from Stiles's body, Stiles's dick is hard again, and dripping pre-cum onto his stomach. "And I just finished cleaning that up," Derek says, with mock disapproval.

"You know me," Stiles says, his breath shallow but steady; he's trying to keep himself under control. "Never been good at following the rules."

Derek raises an eyebrow. "You follow my orders pretty well." Stiles eyes go wide, and Derek says, "I'm going to suck your cock now. You can put your hands in my hair. Pull it, pull me closer, push me back, whatever you want. I'm not going to hold your hips down this time." Stiles is panting harshly out of his open mouth, and his muscles are already shifting against Derek's hands. "I want you to fuck my mouth until you come," Derek says.

"And say your name when I do," Stiles replies.

For the first time, Derek wants to jerk himself off while he has Stiles here. He wants to jerk off while Stiles is watching him, listening to him, while Stiles does what Derek tells him to do because it makes both of them feel good. But he doesn't think he can do that, doesn't think he can concentrate on both of them at once, and Stiles's first times (first orgasm with another person, first blowjob; first fuck, maybe, eventually, hopefully) are going to be as good as Derek can make them.

He hasn't sucked cock in years. He lets himself moan when he slides his lips over Stiles's pretty dick. Sucks at the precum until the taste of it overwhelms the taste of skin. He puts one hand on the base of Stiles's cock, because he can't take much into his mouth just yet, and it feels almost as nice in his hand as it does under his tongue.

He fucks his mouth up and down on Stiles's cock for a while. Plays with the head, licks at the veins, twists his mouth in a way that's made more experienced men than Stiles lose control. He looks up at Stiles's face, eyes trailing over his chest (marked with Derek's fingers and mouth) and sees Stiles biting his lip.

Derek pulls off for long enough to say, "I told you to fuck my mouth," then wraps his hands around Stiles's buttocks, puts the head of Stiles's dick in his mouth, and doesn't move.

Slowly, Stiles starts to move on his own. Derek hums his approval and Stiles starts talking again. “‘Fuck my mouth,’ he says,” Stiles says, in a terrible imitation of Derek. "Like it's supposed to be easy, and not--not--" His hips settle into a choppy rhythm, his muscles too tense for grace, and his voice dies in a groan.

Derek closes his eyes and enjoys himself. Enjoys the tastes and smells and sounds of Stiles. Knows that later, when Stiles is gone, the shadow of Stiles's pleasure will be embedded in Derek's bed.

"It feels like--like I'm jerking off with your mouth," Stiles says, the words tumbling out of him. "Like you're...like it's all you, everything is you. Not a toy, not my hand--I'm not making this up. I'm not dreaming anymore," he slurs, "this is real. You pinched me and kissed it better. This is real and happening, I'm--I'm having sex with Derek Hale--"

He finally puts his hands in Derek's hair, and pulls him down on his cock until Derek gags. "Sorry, sorry sorry sorry," Stiles says, pulling Derek off. Derek glares at him. "Or...sorry, not sorry?" Derek snarls before going back down, taking Stiles far enough back in his mouth that his eyes begin to water again.

Obediently, Stiles goes back to the long strokes that make Derek gag (leaving an ache that always fades too soon). Maybe it's a werewolf thing, maybe it's a slut thing, maybe it’s just a Derek thing (cockhound, a hook-up had called him once), but when he swallows around Stiles's cock like he wants to drink it down, pretty soon it slides into his throat.

It hurts, taking all of Stiles at once. It hurts just the same with every thrust, but Stiles is pulling his hair and babbling things that aren't actually words anymore and Derek feels so proud--no, happy, he feels so happy--that he's capable of making Stiles feel this good.

Dimly, he's aware of Stiles saying his name, over and over again. He can feel Stiles cradling his head in his long fingers, not pushing, not pulling, just resting there. Derek forces himself to focus when he feels Stiles's hips hitch and then freeze. Derek stays true to his word, so when Stiles comes ("Derek, I'm gonna--watch out, I can't, this is as long as I'm gonna last, I even tried thinking of coach naked, but I can't stop it"), Derek swallows every drop.

At first he chokes a little, fighting his gag reflex, fighting against the instincts that tell him to pull away. But then he swallows, his body welcoming it instead of fighting. He wants to take everything that Stiles gives him.

Every bit of the discomfort is worth it when he sees the expression on Stiles's face when Derek pulls off and licks his lips.

"I think I may have been the Dalai Lama in a past life," Stiles says eventually. "Because there is no way I've done anything good enough in this life to deserve getting a blowjob from someone as hot as you." Derek knows it's a compliment. A really nice one. It's just the first time Stiles has flat-out called him hot, and Derek had managed to avoid thinking about that up until now.

"You can't be resurrected as someone who's still alive, Stiles."

"Okay. Joan of Arc, then."

"Better," Derek admits. Stiles is still mostly naked (shirts fanned out around him, jeans and boxers tangled around his ankles, Derek's hands resting on Stiles's thighs without him having made a conscious decision to put them there).

"You're...really not at all naked," Stiles says. "Which is probably a crime. I'll ask my dad; I'm sure there's an exception to the indecency laws in there for you."

"You're so weird," Derek says, sounding fond. His words feeling foreign again, like they had in the weeks after Laura, when he’d been lost and packless. He rolls himself off Stiles, goes to his drawer, and throws a pair of sweatpants at him. "There's semen all over your clothes. Do you need to wash them before you go? Or will your dad not notice?"

"My dad tends to notice little things like me wearing other men's clothing," Stiles says, with a stilted laugh. "This, uh--this feels more walk-of-shame-y than last time." Derek's still standing by the bed. His arms feel awkward by his sides. He feels like he doesn't fit in his body. "You're really hard," Stiles says, staring at Derek's dick.

"It'll go away."

"I could, uh--aren't I supposed to help with that?" Stiles asks. Derek shakes his head. Stiles looks like he has more to say, but instead he just squirms the rest of the way out of his dirty jeans and tugs Derek's sweatpants on. "Dad's on the late shift. He won't notice." One of Stiles's hands goes to scratch his chest absentmindedly, and he hisses when his thumb brushes against his nipple. "Aw, man. I'm going to have to wear my softest t-shirts to keep from getting hard every time I move."

"Sorry," Derek says.

"Sorry, not sorry," Stiles murmurs. He sits back down on Derek's bed. "Look, did I--are you okay?" Stiles asks. Derek doesn't feel okay, but he doesn't have energy to admit to weakness right now. "You said you were going to be Nice Derek," Stiles says, with a little laugh. "Not Grumpy Derek Version Three."

"There are three grumpy versions of me?"

"Five. This is the third one."


"This is the one where you look like you're about to overflow with manpain. Just FYI."


"Is there something I should apologize for? Because I kind of--I think I did everything that you told me to do. Which is also what you told me to do, so..."

"Why do you want me?" Derek asks, because Stiles had gotten to ask him that. It had been stipulation number one, damnit; Derek should get an answer, too. And if Derek had anyone of his own to talk to about this, about Stiles, maybe he would have asked for that, too. Scott's his alpha. Stiles telling Scott is probably the closest Derek would get.

Part of Derek doesn't want Stiles to answer Derek's question. He doesn't want to take his clothes off and smell how much more Stiles is attracted to his body than he is to Derek, and his goddamn face, which apparently has a documented series of unpleasant expressions. Then Stiles answers, saying, "Have you seen you?" and it’s actually easier for Derek to accept since he’d been expecting it.

"Yeah," Derek says. He looks down at his hands, which Stiles likes, because they're strong. Derek works out. Keeps himself fit. Keeps himself in fighting form. Tries to be hot instead of pretty, because he'd been skinny and pale when Kate had licked his stomach and called him sweet. "You have, too. It’s not a big deal."

"The bad guys do seem to really hate your shirts."

"Maybe I should shop at a different department store," Derek says. Maybe he should. His henley feels like it's scratching against every inch of his skin, and his jeans are too tight. Maybe he should take his clothes off, and let Stiles touch his body; let that be part of his first time. Let Stiles brag later about the hot guy he banged when he was seventeen.

"You don't have to get naked," Stiles says slowly. "And if you're anti-orgasm, that's--I mean, I haven't actually heard of anyone being anti-orgasm before, but I'm cool with whatever you are. I just want to make you feel good. Return the favor, you know?"

Derek turns away to grab Stiles a t-shirt from his dresser, a soft one, one that won't distract Stiles when he moves. He's supposed to be Nice Derek, he reminds himself, feeling stupid and angry instead.

"Do you have homework to do?" he asks, trying to think of a reason for Stiles to stay that doesn't involve Derek's body or any favors Stiles thinks he owes him. "Or any actual research?"

"No. That was, uh--that was my flimsy excuse to get alone time with you."

"You should still eat something," Derek says, tossing Stiles the shirt and going to the kitchen area (he can still see the bed; see Stiles there, looking small all by himself on the mattress, pale skin against the dark sheets). "I can make dinner."

"You make it sound like cooking dinner would be physically painful for you." Derek rests his hands on the counter and drops his head, lets it hang loose between his shoulders. "Are you okay?"

Stiles stays still while he waits for Derek to answer. Derek wonders if Stiles knows how much he fills the space even when he's silent; how much less alone he makes Derek feel.

Derek grabs some granola bars and bottles of water and goes back to bed. "I don't want to talk about it," he says. Even admitting that much feels like he's scraping his throat raw with sandpaper.

Stiles says, "Okay," and leans towards him slowly, giving Derek every chance to pull away, before kissing him. "You made me feel really good tonight," Stiles says. "And if there's ever a way that I can make you feel anywhere near that good, I want you to let me know how." Stiles grabs the food and starts fighting with the wrappers, eventually handing Derek one of the two granola bars, which is already dropping crumbs onto his bed. "I kind of like you, in case you hadn't noticed."

Derek, who can smell Stiles's arousal (and has been smelling it for years), has, indeed, noticed. He still lets himself eat the food that Stiles gives him, and curls around Stiles on the bed while Stiles strokes his hair. Derek wishes he could manage a full shift, as weak as he feels, and give himself an excuse to be silent and get Stiles to keep petting him.

"I want to kiss you goodbye again," Stiles says, when the food's gone and they're both blinking away sleep. "And on Saturday, when my dad's working late shift, I want to come back here and kiss you hello. How's that sound?"

"Good," Derek says. "Really, really good."


He dreams about Kate that night. Dreams about Kate and the years after her, when he'd fucked his way through crowds of people who were willing to punish him even though they hadn't known why he deserved to be hurt. Years where he'd doled out pain because he'd needed to feel powerful, when he could make someone cry and bleed and smell their arousal; know that they wanted it, the same way he had when he was fifteen and a slut for Kate's touch.

Stiles is seventeen and Derek doesn't want to call Stiles Beautiful and leave him scarred by it.


Saturday, he will take his clothes off and do his best not to blame Stiles for liking his body more than he likes the man inside of it.


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