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Stiles is in the middle of separating months' worth of physics notes from history notes when Scott trips into his room unannounced in December. "Your dad said to remember to lock the door after you kick me out and get to bed at a totally reasonable hour."
Stiles grabs his phone and thumbs at it rapidly. "Take that," he mutters in satisfaction, reminding his father that he has spies everywhere and will so definitely know if the Brussels sprouts he steamed earlier wind up anywhere but the stomach they are intended for. He tucks his feet in so that Scott can make room for himself at the end of the bed. "Hey," he finally says.
His phone chirps before Scott can answer. His father would like him to remember who carries the gun in this family. Stiles quickly swears that consumption of vegetables will keep that implied threat from going public during the next election, then tosses his phone aside. "Sorry," he says. "What are you doing here? I thought the pack was gonna pick each other's fleas or something tonight."
"Ha ha," Scott says easily. "Derek kicked us out after the other pack left."
"The other what?" Stiles' mouth goes dry and he gives Scott his full attention for the first time. "It's not -- shit, the alpha pack isn't back, is it? They -- oh my god, did you guys just leave Derek alone? He does dumb things when you leave him alone, Scott, he -- "
Stiles stops short. He doesn't really want to get into the kind of dumb things Derek apparently does when his territory has been challenged. Scott is giving him a shit-eating grin besides, utterly unconcerned. "Yeah, the thing is...Derek kind of already did his dumb thing for the night. And -- Stiles, dude! Breathe. It's not the alpha pack. Just a regular one travelling through and they were totally cool, I swear."
"Oh." Stiles slumps back into his nest of pillows. "You could maybe have led with that fact, you know." The rest of Scott's words sink in and he groans. "Oh shit. What did he do? How bad is it? He -- okay, look, I know he's all ooh, I'm the Alpha and all, but you guys have to -- it's like my dad, okay, sometimes you parent the parent and they can just shut up about it, too, it's not like they're gonna be the ones cleaning up the mess later when their heart explodes or some offended wolf has a few human-sized, retaliatory snacks."
Scott blinks at him. "Uh." His face scrunches in sudden worry. "Hey, your dad's heart isn't exploding, is it?"
"No, but that's beside the -- constant vigilance, Scott."
"All right, Mad-Eye, geez." Scott pouts for all of a split second. Then his I know something you don't know smile returns. "You really should have been there."
"Sorry, man. Relative lack of life-threatening circumstances equates to no excuse not to study my ass off." Stiles gestures vaguely to the swamp of papers surrounding them. "What did Derek do that was so dumb, anyway?"
Scott giggles.
Giggles. Stiles has a very bad feeling all of a sudden.
"Well," Scott says. "The thing is, the other Alpha? Is this, like...chick. We're talking if -- if Allison and Lydia got mushed together into a super-being of everything awesome either of us could ever come up with, and then the mush was a werewolf with a leather fetish on top of it."
"That should really not sound as hot as it does," Stiles remarks. His imagination, however, is serving up a steaming pile of amazing on a platter of spice. "Huh."
"Right?" Scott lapses into his own far-off expression of thinking things Stiles really doesn't want to know about, then abruptly snaps back to attention. "She was all about Derek. You missed the funniest shit ever."
Something in Stiles goes uncharacteristically still and quiet. "She was...what, do we have a case of puppy love on our hands?" he asks, forcing a laugh.
"Are you kidding? We're talking about Derek, I don't think that part of his brain even works." Stiles is sure -- fairly sure, at least -- that he manages to contain any visible sign of how that simple, true, and tragic statement affects him. Even so, he's grateful that Scott is so oblivious most of the time.
Case in point: Scott barrels right on with a snort and sits up, folding his legs and taking the deep, preparatory breath of someone with a story to tell. "But really, you missed out. Picture this, okay. Derek being...well, he's Derek, what are you gonna do? But then you've got Xena the warrior tomb raider looking like she's literally about to drool on him."
Stiles pulls a face. Scott doesn't even notice.
"And Erica! Oh man, Erica, I was afraid she was about to give herself a seizure somehow, just trying not to go for Alana's throat. And Isaac -- " Scott dissolves in more giggling, slumping over his knees and chortling at the memory. "All -- all lurking and, and -- he wouldn't go more than five feet from Derek, I thought he might actually pee on him to warn her off. It was so weird."
Stiles chews his lip and watches Scott snicker out the bits and pieces of what is rapidly shaping up to a you had to be there kind of story. "Yeah," he says absently. "I read that somewhere. Betas can get really twitchy over their Alpha taking a new mate."
Which is totally not anything he's ever stressed over in that part of his brain that insists on worrying about completely imaginary problems that will never impact his actual life. Definitely not. Not him. Not at all.
"Oh, oh, oh god! But see, that's the best part!" Scott hiccups and actually slaps his own knee, shuddering with amusement. "So -- so Derek, he's like -- he's trying to be nice and all but it's like, you know he doesn't do that so well, so like...awkward. And then Alana just outright says that they should 'form an alliance'. In this total innuendo voice, too, she was not subtle. And she'd only met him like two hours ago!"
Stiles grimaces. "She didn't sniff him in weird places, did she?"
Scott swipes under his eyes at non-existent tears. "Five more minutes, I bet she would have. Only then Derek goes and announces that he already has a mate."
He what, Stiles thinks. "He what?" Stiles says.
"Yeah, man." And right about then, Scott dissolves into another fit of laughter and falls off the side of the bed. "You," he caps off, from somewhere in the pile of dirty laundry on the floor.
Stiles' mouth falls open. "He...what."
Scott sits up and props his chin on the mattress. "I told you, you missed out. It was -- hey, would I be the best man or the man of honor?"
"You -- shut up!" Stiles shoves one leg out as if to kick Scott in the head. His face feels too hot and he hopes Scott keeps failing the fuck out of noticing anything is off about him. "Derek is a moron," he mutters. "We knew this."
"We definitely knew this," Scott agrees. He takes a few deep breaths, reins in his mirth, and climbs off the floor. "Anyway. Can I borrow your pre-cal notes? Mine aren't so good for the last, like...um, month."
Scott and Allison got back together a month ago. Color Stiles shocked. "Blue notebook on the desk," he says, rolling his eyes. "You get one night, guard them with your life."
"The very life you just saved," Scott agrees cheerfully, hopping off the bed and going to gather his prize. "I should go. Mom's home tonight, it'll probably make her year to see me in early and learning stuff."
"Go forth and become knowledgeable, my brother," Stiles says with a snappy salute. He manages to hold together his desperately casual posture until he hears the front door actually slam behind Scott -- and then he collapses back into his pillows and stares at the ceiling in shock.
Derek fucking Hale went and fucking announced that Stiles is his fucking mate.
Fuck.
Stiles actually has a fairly healthy grasp on reality. So it's not like he thinks it means anything. He doesn't think Derek meant it. And he doesn't even particularly care about the royal headache's worth of ribbing Derek probably just bought him, especially since Jackson was doubtlessly present for this ill-considered pronouncement.
No, the thing of it is that Stiles didn't need to know about anything even remotely like this, even as an epic bout of self-cockblocking verbal diarrhea, having actually happened in actual reality. It crowds into his awareness, already nibbling at the slightly ragged edges of his ability to handle shit with Derek in a sane fashion. He's been holding it together as best he can since what he's come to think of as the faery fuckery, and for the past couple of weeks Derek has been delightfully cooperative in those efforts. He didn't go back to avoiding Stiles, but he hasn't exactly gone out of his way to offer up more than the barest acknowledgement of Stiles's existence.
Which...well. Fine by Stiles. Getting passively ignored is sort of his specialty in life. It had given him a nice bout of normality to wrap around himself, let him create a happy little cocoon of, quite nearly, convincing himself that a hysterical break from reality had made him hallucinate letting Derek fuck him.
Twice.
And it was going well, too. He'd been making real progress in relegating the memories to the same part of his brain where he stores German vocabulary and weird dreams and sports trivia and some of the memories of his mom, the sort of stuff he needs to get at and think about sometimes but not on a daily basis.
Hell, he only jerked off thinking about Derek once the day before. Total improvement.
But blown all to hell now. He already hit that quota this morning in the shower, and no way is he going to be able to abstain now that he has the idea of Derek calling him his mate rattling around up top. Stiles stares forlornly for awhile at the pile of notes he meant to finish organizing and read through at least once tonight. It's...not going to happen, who is he kidding.
When he sighs and scrambles to crawl off his bed to go strip down to a more practical number of layers for taking care of business, Derek is just climbing in his window.
Stiles is very, very certain that he must have offended all the deities ever in some way he can't even begin to guess. "Uh," he says lamely. "Hi."
"Hi." Pleasantries, Stiles notes, sound ridiculous on Derek's lips. Derek looks past him to the schoolwork scattered about. "Oh. Are you busy?"
"Nah, I'm giving up for the night," Stiles admits. "You've got good timing, I guess."
"Oh. Good, that's -- listen, I did something I shouldn't have," Derek blurts. Stiles blinks, sort of surprised at Derek just getting right to a point that doesn't make him look all that great. "It concerns you."
Sudden and unexpected pity is the last thing Stiles wants to feel towards Derek, but there it is regardless. Derek just sounds so uncomfortable. "Yeah, yeah, I know," he says. "Scott stopped by already and explained what happened. Dick move, by the way, dragging me into it. But whatever. I get it."
Derek's forehead tightens into a little furrow. "You...get it."
"Sure. I mean -- you had to do something. And in terms of viable options...what were you supposed to do, say Lydia? Or oh god, Allison, wow, talk about a disaster, Scott would have blown a gasket. Not that it wasn't still a dick move, though, don't think I'm forgetting that."
"I'm sorry, for what it's worth," Derek says awkwardly.
Stiles rolls his eyes. Of all the times for Derek to give a go at being thoughtful and considerate, he decides to practice with some idiotic comment that doesn't even matter. So Stiles is bound to have to field a few jokes for awhile. That's kind of the least of his concerns when it comes to Derek.
But Derek catches his gaze and something in the serious set of his eyes makes Stiles stop and pay attention, at least try and give Derek space to spew his excess of intensity. "I wasn't thinking," Derek mutters. He sounds so bleak that Stiles nearly boggles outright. "I don't want you to think I assumed that you would just be -- "
"Derek. Ugh, wow, chill. God, don't give yourself an aneurysm over small potatoes. I mean...that's how this goes, right? We do what we gotta do and everything blows over. No big, not like I care."
Derek's mouth tightens dangerously. Despite having no clue what he said to warrant irritation all of a sudden, Stiles battens down the hatches and braces himself for whatever storm of unreasonably offended werewolf temper is heading his way. "No big," Derek echoes. "You don't...care."
"Wow, is it Repeat Stiles day?" Stiles asks in exasperation. Derek's frown deepens. "No, I don't care. I do not give a hoot. It does not bother me, it is not a problem -- " Derek just keeps looking angrier and angrier. Seriously, Stiles just cannot win. "Oh my god," he says, flailing in exasperation. "How many different ways can I say this? It's fine, honest. You're making a mountain out of a molehill. Like, fuck, I have plenty of things that actually matter to worry about, do you realize that exams are starting and I haven't even thought about my Christmas shopping and -- what is wrong with you?"
A muscle in Derek's jaw flexes wildly. What's more, Stiles is really not sure exactly when or how he took a left turn into seriously red-eyed territory, but he seems to be smack dab in the middle of it all of a sudden. Derek glares at him in this way that makes Stiles very, very aware of his throat's very vulnerable existence as he swallows hard and contemplates his own mortality.
He starts to take a step back. For, like, safety's sake.
He doesn't get far. Derek's hand flashes out, twists fast and tight in a deathgrip on the front of Stiles' t-shirt to reel him back in and --
-- and sniff him.
Not a what is that smell, is that you? sort of experimental, investigative whiff, either. More like a full-blown, nose behind ear, jaw-nuzzling, your neck is cocaine and I want to snort you kind of sensory hit that has the strange side effect of relocating things in Stiles' body. The air vacates his lungs, the blood in his head puts on sunblock and heads south for winter, and he doesn't know where his strength went, but it has sure as hell departed his knees for greener pastures of some kind.
Derek rubs his face roughly against Stiles' neck. It fucking hurts.
It makes Stiles moan. And that's before Derek's mouth latches on like a fucking leech, sucking wetly at the turn of his jaw. "Oh," Stiles breathes.
Because seriously, oh. Oh, oh, but maybe Derek wanted him to care, and --
Derek's tongue drags over his skin, his teeth scrape and --
-- except that doesn't even make sense, though, Derek is -- and he's not --
-- and Derek's hands are on his hips, rearranging his entire understanding of balance and gravity, pulling him onto the strong stretch of Derek's thigh and --
-- and anyway, Derek probably just got sick of his babbling as usual and, well --
-- and he's going to bruise, he bruises easily, Derek needs to stop or he's going to have marks that will have to be explained and he doesn't care, this is --
-- he knows some people like to work out irritation with sex, and it's not like he hasn't put out for the sake of Derek's emotional needs before, why wouldn't Derek think this would be okay --
-- wait, he doesn't have a shirt all of a sudden, where did his shirt go?
Stiles' back hits his mattress, Derek's body right there to stop his bouncing rebound in its tracks. And rationally, intellectually Stiles knows things about erogenous zones, the common ones, the spots he's long since developed a game plan for hitting if he ever got so much as one other human being to offer him unfettered access to theirs, but.
But.
There's knowing and then there's experiencing first hand, and Derek's mouth is teaching him invaluable lessons about how this one particular inch of real estate under his jaw is evidently hard-wired to his dick. "Oh fuck, fuck," Stiles gasps, his hips driving up hard to grind against any piece of Derek available to offer up some pressure.
Derek finds his collarbone, sucks again. Stiles feels like a live wire, snapping dangerously out of control, flying wild. His hands aren't his anymore; they're fumbling balls of dough for all the good they are, pulling ineffectually at Derek's shirt. "Derek, just -- " he grumbles.
Complaining works in his favor for once; Derek rears up and drags his shirt off by the back of his collar. And shit shit shit but it's not really fair how Derek's skin and the sixty watt bulb are making sweet love to each other, it's not fair that Derek has muscles Stiles is pretty sure aren't supposed to actually exist in the human body or at least don't exist in his, it's not fair that --
Stiles is done with things not being fair. He wants to get what he wants for once. He's done not getting it.
He shoves up onto one elbow and drags Derek down into a clumsy kiss.
Derek freezes.
Stiles sort of does, too, only less from surprise than from the abrupt, gnawing fear that he just crossed whatever line might even exist in this mess they have going. He starts to drop back down, opens his mouth to apologize. He should have known better, anyway.
Whores aren't supposed to kiss.
But Derek suddenly vibrates with this weird noise. It's half-purr and half-growl and all hot, and it comes just as he follows along to press Stiles down into the pillows. His lips catch at Stiles', suck and bite at them, and Stiles opens his mouth to just, to just breathe, to get air.
And just like that Derek's tongue is in his mouth.
Derek's tongue. Is in his mouth. Which has always, historically, emphatically been a single occupancy kind of space but is adjusting quite adeptly to an unannounced visitor dropping by for what Stiles seriously, immediately hopes will be an extended stay. "Mmmph," he mumbles.
Derek's thumb pops the button on his jeans with a dexterous ease. "Off," he grunts against the corner of Stiles' mouth.
That would maybe be a fairly simple order to follow, except it's more complicated than one might think to have two people trying to remove the same pair of jeans, hands everywhere and then a couple of sets of legs involved for good measure. Derek doesn't exhibit any kind of inclination to get the hell off of him to facilitate the whole getting naked endeavor and Stiles --
Stiles kind of doesn't care. Because a) he is getting naked in b) someone else's presence and c) that someone is Derek and d) every time he shimmies and kicks and writhes to try and work denim farther down, something awesome inevitably happens between his dick and some part of Derek's body.
It only gets better once Derek wriggles out of his own jeans and slots himself between Stiles' legs. His damp breath huffs out against Stiles' cheek as their cocks slide against each other. "I need lube," he mutters.
Stiles can't be bothered to mock him for being so dazzlingly romantic. He's too busy tipping his head back to expose his neck to the scouring pad that is Derek's nuzzling face, and flinging one arm up to fumble blindly over his head at the clutter of crap in the recess of his headboard. "It's -- I've got it somewhere, just -- "
Derek looks up long enough to paw his groping hand away and find it himself. Which is good, totally good, Stiles has way more important things to deal with. Like hooking his leg around Derek and trying to find some leverage to thrust up against him, like trying to figure out the exact right alignment and speed to force of their dicks together because if he can he might actually manage to have the most magical orgasm ever.
He doesn't quite make it. But that's okay, that's fine, he's not going to sweat it at all -- mostly because his failure seems due to Derek shifting to the side and forcing two slick fingers into him without warning. "Sorry," Derek mutters, his voice utterly lacking in anything recognizable as remorse. Stiles debates driving home a point of some kind with a fist to the side of Derek's head.
Before he can reach a decision, though, Derek hotwires his prostate to spit lightning straight into his brain. Anything coherent is something of a pipe dream after that. "Ungh," he manages vaguely. Derek gnaws on his collarbone and fingerfucks him relentlessly. "That's -- you can, it's -- your dick, man, I want, just c'mon and -- "
Derek, for once in his life, is cooperative. His fingers tugging out is a loss, sure, but Stiles hasn't even caught his breath before Derek is folding one of his legs up and straddling the other, twisting him onto his side, scooting in close and pushing in with one smooth thrust. "Fuck," Derek swears quietly.
Stiles wholeheartedly agrees. He may have only done this twice before, but he's rapidly becoming a freaking gourmand when it comes to taking Derek's dick and liking it. He hooks his own arm behind his knee to keep it hugged to his chest, only to find that relatively unnecessary once Derek crawls in even closer to scissor Stiles' body between his folded legs. He's able to crook his upper leg over Derek's thigh, hook it behind the small of Derek's back as Derek grabs at his hip with kneading hands and rocks into him. "Ah, fuck, god -- Derek, oh god, oh -- wait, wait, just -- "
Derek's pace makes it clear that he's not inclined to wait for anything, not this time. He anchors Stiles into place to take the rapid plunge of his cock, quick deep strokes patently designed to get him off as quickly as possible. It leaves it up to Stiles to grab at his own dick, wrap himself in a tight fist and jerk off in hopes of beating Derek to the punch. He tugs fast and hard, matching each snap of Derek's hips with a twist of his palm over the head of his cock, letting his grip sweep in tandem with every burst of friction from Derek moving inside him.
Until Derek seizes his wrist and wrenches his entire arm out of the way so that he can push Stiles' upper leg back against his chest and curl down over him, bite and suck across the skin stretched over his heaving ribs. "You smell like me already," he mutters. He sounds satisfied, triumphant. "That's good, that's, you smell right, you smell like you're mine -- " The pace of Derek's stuttering thrusts picks up, too, like he's pleased, like just the concept of altering Stiles' scent like this turns him on even more. Stiles can't help but think that this --
this this this
Fuck, but this is what being wanted must actually feel like.
He hugs his leg up closer and claws at the seamed ridge on the edge of his mattress and comes, right into the hot, sweaty space of stomach and thigh and sheet. He comes and cries with the relief of finally having something he hasn't allowed himself to miss -- because he can't miss what he's never had, what wasn't his yet -- and goes pliant under the jolting rolls of Derek's body.
Derek moves him. Stiles hardly notices, can't be concerned with being pushed onto his belly right in his own mess, with being held down flat and ratcheted into a wide, boneless sprawl so that Derek can fuck into him harder than he's ever done before. Derek's chin rubs hard over his skin, sandpaper-rough, spreading a rash all across the back of his neck, his shoulders, his spine.
"Stiles," Derek says suddenly, plaintively, like he's asking for something.
The blaze of pain spreading through his shoulder makes Stiles miss it, the moment Derek hunches in deep and starts to come. Blunt, mercifully human teeth gripping tight on a solid stretch of muscle, while Derek makes softs little grunts of satisfaction and grinds downs, stays pressed in deep as his cock pulses out his release.
"Ugh, Derek, come on," Stiles mumbles, after what feels like a very long time of Derek lying slumped on top of him. "Heavy."
Derek makes an exceedingly grumpy noise but pulls out and gets the hell off of him at last. Stiles grimaces, pretty sure he's never going to get used to the messy aftermath of sex, and sits up slowly with a groan. "Okay, just," he says vaguely. He fishes his boxers out of the tangle of his jeans on the floor and lurches up to stumble out to the bathroom and clean up a little.
It's when he's tugging his shorts on that he gets distracted by his reflection in the mirror. "Holy shit," he breathes, leaning in close to stare. He laughs shakily as his eyes roam over his own image, cataloging the shallow sets of parallel scrapes scattered over his body, the swathes of pink where Derek dragged his damn beard over thin skin, the large blotches of pinprick red where capillaries burst under the suction of Derek's mouth.
He's just leaned in to stare and poke at the worst, the indentations atop his shoulder that he can tell are going to bruise darkly, when Derek appears behind him, fully dressed and hovering in the bathroom door. Stiles' dick twitches weakly at the sight of Derek and the memory of the mark being laid, both. He catches Derek's gaze in the mirror and forces a smile, shoots for a casualness and ease that he doesn't really feel but figures is how it's supposed to be when there are, like, feelings involved. "This one's gonna last," he says lightly.
Derek's expression stays neutral. "Bites are...extremely common," he says tightly. "Especially on human mates. I don't think she'll be disrespectful enough to touch you and move your clothes, but if she does...I think she'd know something's wrong if you weren't properly marked."
Stiles frowns. "She -- what, move my -- wait, when --?"
"Be at my place in the morning, early," Derek says flatly. "You can come home and take care of the scent after, before school. Just don't skip it -- she's sticking around to pay her respects to you, all of this was pointless if you don't show up."
The pointless drops like a steel ball to the pit of Stiles' stomach.
Something twinges in his memory, as sharp and sickening as the snap of a tendon. He's got a stack of books collecting dust on the floor of his room that have amassed over the months, scavenged from Derek's paltry, smoke-scented belongings for the sake of particular things he needed to research but with the intent to find time to read them more in depth at some point, learn anything he could about werewolf history and dynamics.
Only shit's always had a habit of getting in the way, and he hasn't had enough of a chance to do more than glance through them. But there was a chapter, a stupid freaking Emily Post-esque chapter on basic etiquette between packs, he read it back in the spring when the alpha pack first showed up. And fuck, but he should have remembered as soon as Scott started laughing his ass off like there was something funny about this.
There is nothing funny about this. Stiles has to meet Alana -- or rather, she has to meet him. Has to acknowledge him in person as the mate of another Alpha, especially since she inadvertently challenged his, shit, his claim on Derek by making her move. But if he doesn't smell right, she'll know that Derek lied to her. If he doesn't look like someone Derek -- Derek and his stupid stubble, Derek and his fucking teeth -- marks up to his heart's content --
Stiles feels sick. Bile actually rises in his throat and he has to swallow it back, sour and stinging. "I'll be there," he says dully, sounding out the idea. He pushes past Derek and stalks back to his room. He wants clothes, he wants to be dressed. "I -- of course I'll be there. That's why we, I mean -- yeah. Definitely. I have to meet her."
He has to meet her. Derek had to do this. Derek is sorry, Derek wasn't thinking, Derek didn't mean to assume --
Assume that Stiles would just spread wide and give it up like it doesn't even matter to him.
Like he really is a whore Derek can use to fix things whenever he needs.
He yanks on the first t-shirt he can lay hands on in his room, only looks at Derek again once he has the minimal safety of being covered back in place. Derek just gives him one last hooded gaze and then slips out the window. Stiles is left wondering why Derek wouldn't assume that, especially now.
Third time's the charm, after all. Past is prologue. History repeats itself.
Derek fucked him to solve a problem. This time, every time.
Stiles blinks back a sudden sting in his eyes and moves to start stripping down his bed. He may need to reek of Derek, but there's no reason his sheets have to.
He has laundry to do.