Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The rusted, unused brakes of the bicycle squeal in the wet heat, the scream of Cicadas drowned out for just a brief moment. Stiles squints at the row of old brick ruins that hunker far away from the road, hidden mostly by a veil of kudzu. The Florida afternoon is breathless and stiflingly humid, the blue glazed dome sky framed by thunderclouds drifting closer from over the Gulf. He mops at his brow before taking a big gulp from his water bottle. He should have put more sunscreen on, or at least brought a hat, his pale skin not used to this latitude’s summer sun.

   There’s a small, overgrown track just off the road which he assumes lead to the ruins. Mulling it over, he’s distracted by the ping of a message on his cell.

   Scott:

 You do know we have beer. And an ocean view.

Stiles:

My thirst for adventure knows no bounds.

Scott:

   Just be careful. That bicycle looks ancient.

Stiles rolls his eyes.

Yes dad

   Scott:

Don’t take that tone with me young man

Luv you too Dork.

   Pocketing his phone, he looks back from where he came, the air rippling over the road. He takes one last look around then pats the handlebars. “Giddyup, Pricilla.” and peddles onto the small track.

   At one point he loses sight of the place, the tropical lushness a world away from the dry hills of northern California. He emerges in a clearing right by the building, and stops dead in his tracks, mouth falling open.

   “Whoa.”

   There’s a giant mural painted on the side. Starting from the left, three-pointed geometric shapes in shades of purple and red flow and weave; interlocking ribbons that untangle to change shape and colour, transforming into otherworldly beasts of which Stiles can only think of as wolves. They’re painted to the minutest detail, each animal with a different coloured coat, each facial expression unique. They’re not depicted as vicious, bloodthirsty animals though, but as proud, strong hunters, running as a pack.

   He lets the bicycle drop right there and digs around in his backpack for his dad’s old digital SLR – grabbed on a whim just as they left for the airport. He takes a few pictures at different angles, having to stand far back to focus on it all. The wall is big, about fifteen feet across, and every inch is covered. The detail is amazing. Walking closer, he focuses on one of the magical wolves conjured up by the artist’s amazing mind, hand reaching out, fingers slowly inching closer…

   “Don’t.”

   “Waaah!” Stiles yelps. He jerks his hand away from the wall and spins around…

   … only to be confronted by a wolf. A paint-splattered snarling wolf, to be exact, emblazoned on a faded, loose fitting tank that hangs off thickly muscled and tanned shoulders. A pair of the most intense grey-green eyes - half a head higher than his own - pin him to the spot from underneath the visor of a dirty baseball cap.

   “It’s still wet.” the stranger points with a spray can-clutched in his large, thick fingers. Tufts of sweaty black hair curl from under his cap, the same colour as the thick scruff on his chiselled jaw; the same colour as the chest hair that peek from the deep pectorals above the frayed colour of his tank.

   Stiles has a hand over his heart. “Huh?”

   “The paint,” the stranger explains slowly. “Is still wet.”

   “Paint? Oh! Paint! Sorry, yeah of course! I thought, you know… I mean I wasn’t…” Stiles clears his throat, taking a step back from the strangers’ caterpillar-eyebrows that just grow closer and closer together. “Sorry.” he apologizes again, feeling like a blubbering idiot. 

   “What are you doing here?”

   “Uhm, yeah I was just, you know…” Stiles holds up his camera, face burning. “I’ve been cycling the whole day and then I saw the place and wanted to take some pictures it looked really cool from the road but up close it’s just wow and I really hope that’s okay I’m not trespassing, am I?”

   The stranger blinks a couple of times at the barrage of words, then gives a stumped head shake. “No.”

   “Cool.” Stiles nods on an exhale. “So you’re not gonna kill me and throw my body in the ocean?”

   The man’s eyebrows connect at last and morph into a unibrow, his eyes slowly drawing over Stiles. “Not today.”

   “Dude!” Stiles barks out, but his smile quickly falters. “That was a joke, right?”

   The stranger takes a small step forward and lifts his chin just an increment, his nose twitching. Stiles instinctively shrink back. When his stare only intensifies, Stiles opts for distraction. “I ah, I take it this is your handiwork then?” he asks, pointing at the wall over his shoulder, trying his best to sound nonchalant.

   Tall, dark and scowly just nods.

   “You’re really good. I… I mean it’s… It’s awesome.”

   “Thank you.” he answers curtly.

   Stiles scratch at the sweaty hair in his nape. “I’m Stiles, by the way.”

   The man looks at Stiles’ proffered hand, distrust so evident on his face it makes Stiles want to laugh. “Stiles?”

   “Yeah, long story, I’m half Polish, which means unpronounceable first names. ‘Stiles’ is the easier, shortened version.”

   The man eventually wipes the hand not holding the spray can on his equally smeared and worn cargo shorts. “Derek.” he says. Stiles watch with fascination as his hand all but disappears within the stranger’s mitt, his skin startlingly calloused and coarse. The man lifts his chin again, his nose clearly flaring this time. Stiles wonders if his own deodorant has finally failed him in the heat when the stranger’s – Derek’s – eyelids actually flutter. Stiles, certain he has misread, catches a faint whiff of sweat from the guy, pulling his mind in a different direction. It’s woodsy, strong yet sweet, and Stiles find himself wanting more of it. Which is why he pulls his hand free. The man blinks down at him like he has just been terribly offended.

   “So… uhm…” Stiles coughs, pointing at the mural. “Are you an artist or something?” Stiles asks, taking a deep breath against the lightness in his chest and that alluring scent still cloying to his senses.

   “No.”

   He waits, but nothing more is forthcoming. “Okay then.” he swallows.

   The stranger tilts his head. “Are you in high school?”

   “Sophomore at Berkeley,” Stiles smiles, frowning slightly.

   “Vacation, then.”

   “Bingo.”

   “Staying here on the island?” he asks, and Stiles would like to think the question sounds hopeful and not accusatory.

   “Yeah, a couple of friends and I. Lydia’s parents have a holiday cottage on Cravelle Beach.”

   “That’s out by the old stone lighthouse, right?”

   “Yes, it is. Do you live close by?” please God let him be our neighbour.

   “No, Cravelle’s for the tourists. I live on the mainland side.”

   “Oh.” Stiles nods, though he’s not exactly sure where the ‘mainland side’ is. “Man, is it always this hot?” he says and wipes a shirt sleeve across his forehead.

   “Wait till August.” he mirrors Stiles, lifting a muscled arm to take his cap off and wipe across his own forehead.  Stiles catches the dark bushiness of Derek’s pit, and quickly avert his eyes. Both fall silent. Derek just stands there, his gaze focussed on Stiles.

   “So, uhm… I’ll leave you in peace now. But it was nice to meet you.”

   “Yeah.” the man frowns.

   Stiles pushes his bicycle only a few yards when he stops, fingers clamped tightly around the handlebars. He exhales slowly and turns around, surprised to find Derek’s eyes still trained on him. “You know, I could mail you the pics if you want.”

   Derek takes a few seconds to respond. “Okay.”

   “Excellent!” Stiles quickly digs his phone out of his pocket. He just manages to unlock the screen when those thick fingers ever so gently fold over his own and take the phone from him. He looks up, startled when Derek’s huge frame fills his entire field of view when he was standing by the wall just a heartbeat ago. He inhales that wonderful, uniquely masculine scent he picked up before, headier now that he is standing so close.

   He watches him type away, square fingertips too big for the small icons on the screen. His fingernails are neatly cut but dirty (mostly bits of paint) which somehow gives some strange credence to the roughness he felt when they shook hands. His corded forearms are, like the back of his hands, covered with a fine pelt of black hair. Blue collar hands, Stiles realize, the phrase as alien to him as the climate. He never even questions his own patently cushy if boring existence back home.

   After a few seconds Derek wordlessly hands it back. Stiles quickly checks his contact list and hides the disappointment that it‘s only his email. “Awesome.” he still beams up at him. “I’ll mail them when I get home.”

   Derek nods.

   “So, one last one?” Stiles ask as he holds up his camera. “Of the artist and his masterpiece?”

    For a moment he’s sure the man’s going to strangle him right there and then with his camera’s cord, but he just nods after a second. “Yeah, sure.” He goes to stand next to the wall, arms crossed over his chest. Stiles lifts the camera and snaps a few pics. If he zooms in on the guys’ face it’s because he wants to capture the detail of the mural behind him. He’s about to tell him to smile, but thinks better of it.

   “Got it. Thanks.”                 

   Derek twitches, which Stiles takes as acknowledgment. He starts to shake the spray can lazily by his hip, never taking his eyes off Stiles.

   “See you around.” Stiles swallows, and finally peddles away. He turns to wave just before he gets swallowed up by the overgrowth and almost loses his balance in the process. Derek’s still watching him, though he doesn’t return the wave.

   When Stiles pushes Pricilla up the stairs of the beach house he can hardly remember the ride over.

oOo

   “Maybe he’s some cannibal that hides his leftovers in the swamp.”

   “He’s not a cannibal, Scott. And there aren’t any swamps here, just mangroves.”

   “Mangroves, then.”

   It’s coming up to dusk, the two lounging on the cushion-strewn daybed on the porch, the ocean breeze pure bliss after the days’ sticky heat. Even now the beach is filled with strolling couples and loud children, with a few bonfires starting to glow in the distance.

   “I mean he even looks like a caveman.” Scott continues, taking a swig from his beer and scanning through the photos Stiles had downloaded to his laptop.

   “That’s just because of the whole scruffy half-beard thing he’s got going.”

   “Yeah, but he looks really… pissed off.”

   “I think that’s just his default look.” Stiles holds his own icy cold can against the back of his neck. “Besides, anyone who paints like that cannot be a psychopath.”

   “Vincent Van Gogh cut off his own ear.”

   Stiles stares at his best friend. “How do you even know that?”

   “I read.” Scott answers innocently.

   Stiles takes a swig of his own beer and looks over at the old stone lighthouse, blinking its challenge to the coming storm that is building on the horizon. Seagulls squawk and ride the air currents, alighting on whatever perch is available to settle in for the night.

   Scott nods, and flick through more pictures. “Dude’s really good, I’ll give him that.”

   “Ugh.” Stiles irritably scratch through his hair. “I can’t get him out of my head.”

   “What do you mean?”

   “Exactly what I said.”

   Scott slowly looks up from the screen.

   “There’s something different here, okay?” Stiles sighs, then ads under his breath, “Apart from the fact that he’s smokin’ hot.”

   “Is this gonna be Danny all over again?” Scott asks warily.

   “What? No! No, don’t be stupid, this guy’s a stranger. It’s nothing,” Stiles scratches his arm. “And Danny was… Danny was a bump in the road.”

   “Hellavu bump.”

   Stiles throws a cushion at him.

   “Hey guys.” Allison calls, walking up the stairs and towelling her hair dry, Lydia in tow with Jackson trailing behind, all glowing complexions and skimpy beach clothes.

   “Hey babe!” Scott greets his girlfriend, eyes bright like a puppy. He pulls her down and gets a lap full of damp bikini, their lips and tongues seeking each other out at once. Stiles tries not to roll his eyes too much

   “I see you didn’t get lost, Stilinski.”

   “I see you didn’t get eaten by a shark, Whitmore.”

   Lydia grabs Stiles’ hand. “Come help me with dinner.”

oOo

   After dinner Stiles is back on the porch, staring out into the night. The lightning storm over the ocean is at once magnificent and terrifying, the sickle moon playing hide and seek amid the gathering clouds. 

   During dinner Lydia had to ask him twice to pass the salad until Jackson threw a bread roll at him to get a reaction. He looked at Stiles, puckering his lips and got the same bread roll to the head.

   Scott appears in the doorway. “Hey.”

   “Hey man. Thought you went upstairs?”

   “Not tired yet.”

   He plops down next him, mirroring his pulled up legs. They sit like that for a while as the lightning plays out over the ocean.   Stiles looks at his phone again, leaning back against the cushions.

   Scott gently bumps Stiles knee. “You okay, bro?”

   “Fine.”

   About an hour later, with the house now completely dark and silent – just like his cell phone – Stiles also heads to bed. The storm finally breaks as he switches off his bedside lamp.

   Lying on top of the tangled bed sheets he stares up at the lazy twirl of the ceiling fan. With every flash of lightning the shutters reflect against the whitewashed ceiling boards in barcode patterns. The rain drowns out the ocean, but now and then the crash of a wave does manage to rumble through the hissing of the downpour.

   He sighs and rolls on to his side to grab his laptop. The electronic glare lights up his darkened room. Arms folded, feet apart, Derek scowls at him from the screen, the entrancing colours of the mural coming alive behind him.

   The little green icon that announces his on-line status barely blinks to life (thanks to the intermittent Wi-Fi) when a new message pops up at the bottom of his screen. His heart lurch when he sees it’s from Derek.

   Thanks for the pics.

   Stiles gives in to the crazy smile that takes over his face and quickly types a reply.

   My pleasure! You’re super talented ;)

   Ten minutes later:

   Still there?

   Half an hour goes by, and with a heaviness in his stomach he hates himself for, Stiles types a final message.

   Well, good night then. Hope you sleep well.

   He falls asleep with his laptop on his chest and dreams of wolves coming alive on a mural.

oOo

Stiles finally caves.

   He grabs the bicycle and peddles out to the other side of the island. The old brick ruins still stand where he left them, the kudzu still on track to stake natures’ claim of dominance.

   It’s been only two days, but the mural is even more impressive than he remembers, the wolves as proud and fearsome as ever. Alas, there’s no Derek, like he knew would be the case. Still, one can live in hope.

   He idles around for about an hour, keeping to the shade. Scott sends a text that he should stop and get hotdogs for their barbeque that evening on his way back.

   It’s a complete detour. But then he did lie to them about where he was going.  

oOo

   “Catch!” Jackson throws his flip-flop at Stiles where he’s lying in the hammock, staring at his phone.

   “Knock it off.” Stiles rumbles, chucking the shoe back at him and missing by a mile. It ends up flying over the railing onto the beach.

   “We’re all down there, enjoying the sun and the beach, on our summer vacation, in case you were wondering.”

   “Since when do you care?”

   “I don’t. Lydia made me.” Jackson admits without a hint of shame.

   Stiles gives a disgusted grunt.

   “Are you vineing or composing sonnets?”

   “Contemplating your demise.”

   Jackson ignores him, collapsing down on the daybed next to the hammock. “Get off your ass and come join us. This is ridiculous. You've been moping around for the past week now, which is making Lydia nervous, which means I'm not getting any.”

   “Your sympathy warms my heart.”

   “Stop feeling sorry for yourself, Stilinski.”

   “I prefer the term ‘wallow in exquisite agony’.”

   “Doing a great job of that.” Jackson says as he picks at a cuticle.

   “You wouldn't understand, okay?” The moment the words are out of his mouth Stiles cringes at the whiny edge his voice took on.  

   “Stilinski, please don’t become that girl. I already have to deal with one.”

   Stiles turns away from him. “Leave me alone.”

   Jackson shakes his head, poking him in the ribs. “Hey.” 

   “Jackson? Please fuck off.”

   Jackson grabs the edge of the hammock and unceremoniously dumps Stiles on the floor.

   Stiles’ swearing follows him as he beats a hasty retreat down the steps to the safety of the beach.

oOo

   Later that evening Stiles is sitting on the front porch steps, staring out over the ocean. The evening sounds of birds and crickets are just starting to settle in after another day in paradise. The palm trees rustle in the breeze, the swish-scrape of surf ever on sand ever present, and if it were any other time it would have been the perfect setting.

   But he couldn’t care less about all these things. He lays his phone down on the steps between his feet. It stares back up at him, silent and blank.

   “We’re leaving in five minutes!” Jackson calls from inside the house. They’re going out to a proper restaurant at the local village tonight. Very adult. But Stiles doesn't want to go out. He wants to sit here on the steps and stare out over the ocean like some whiny, love sick teenage…

   “Oh God I am becoming that girl.” he sighs miserably, hanging his head between his knees.

**

The twinkling lights and strings of multi-coloured lanterns reflect in the water of the picturesque small bay where they’ve just finished dinner. The restaurant is part of a little village perched around the rocky edge of the water, rows of cars parked in front of colonial styled buildings, painted in pastel colours with white lace trim. Tourists crowd the palm tree-lined boardwalk and umbrella-covered decks looking out onto the bay. The evening is balmy and perfect, the boardwalk filled with couples holding hands, shrieking children playing hopscotch between pools of light cast from lamp poles. The gang strolls down the boardwalk, looking for somewhere to have a final drink.

   “How ‘bout this place?” Allison points, Scott’s arm around her shoulders. Everyone looks, except Jackson and Lydia, who are too busy trying to find each other’s tonsils with their tongues.

   Lively music spill out from the building Allison points at, with a professional hand painted sign above the entrance that simply reads Laura’s. A shock of magenta-coloured bougainvillea creep up the side, creating a lush canopy of bright flowers across the reveller-filled deck that faces the bay.

   “Looks good.” Stiles observes and drags a hand through his wild hair. The ocean air has played havoc with it, and he now just lets the unruly crop have its own way. He’s so glad they forked out for the taxi and didn’t nominate a designated driver. He really just wants to get completely wasted; order a few shots of tequila with his friends, get piss-drunk and forget all about those cursed grey-green eyes.

   They somehow manage to get a small table in the corner of the deck, and Stiles offers to get the drinks. He weaves his way through waiters and patrons alike, music and laughter assaulting his senses from every angle. He notices that it’s mostly women at the crowded bar, a whole gaggle of scantily clad beach babes giggling and chatting at once, some standing on their toes to peer over the counter.

   “Hey cutie, what’ll it be?” the gorgeous blond bombshell behind the counter interrupts his thoughts. Stiles grins shyly and place their order. She turns to the row of liquor bottles behind her and tsk’s when the one she’s looking for is empty. “Der, please tell me we’ve got more tequila?”

   From behind the bar at the furthest end where he was crouched down, (and where the gaggle of women are by now almost vibrating) Derek Hale stands up to his full height and glory, broad back to them. “We should have in the back. I’ll go…” he stops dead and lifts his chin, his chest expanding as he breathes in deeply. “Stiles.” he exhales, then turns around to stare right at the gobsmacked boy, completely ignoring the salivating groupies.

   “Derek?”

   Gone are the ratty tank and shorts. A plain white v-neck is filled to bursting, his hair a mess of raven locks. While the pair of jeans look like they’ve been sewn on to him, it’s the belt buckle that draw Stiles’ eyes down like a magnet to the unapologetic swell and stretch of the dark denim just below it. The frizzon of lust that sparks in Stiles’ belly colours his cheeks and he quickly looks away from the scowl that he has by now committed to memory.

   Bombshell cocks her hip, blood red fingernail signalling between them. “You two know each other?” 

   Derek blinks once. “No.”  

   “Wait.” Her mouth falls open. “Is this him?”

   “Erica.” Derek all but growls.

   Bombshell – or rather, Erica – mimics zipping her mouth shut, then winks at Stiles.

   “Uh…” is all Stiles can manage, too overcome for anything more intelligible.

   “What are you doing here?” Derek grabs his attention.

   “Ordering drinks?” he squeaks.

   “Yeah Derek, he’s just ordering drinks.” She shields her mouth with one hand. “And he’s delectable, by the way.” she mock-whispers.

   The look Erica receives is enough to peel paint. She smiles coyly before she rolls her eyes. “Okay, okay.” She quickly turns to Stiles. “If he tries to bite, just smack him on the nose with a rolled-up newspaper.” And without another word sashays to the back, presumably to go get the tequila. Stiles watches her go, his head in a spin. Derek takes her place and plants his hands on the counter in front of Stiles, a towering column of angry muscle. Stiles wonders if Erica was really joking about the newspaper. How can anyone look stupidly hot and ready to maul at the same time?

   “Well, this is a surprise,” Stiles peeps.

   Derek only lifts his chin, eyelids fluttering close as he inhales deeply. When he opens them again those grey eyes seem to reflect the red Chinese lanterns on the deck. The effect is, to say the least, unsettling. Stiles is about to point it all out when a curly-haired young guy comes to stand next to Derek. He looks terrified and in awe at the same time. “Derek?”

   “Man the bar.” Derek orders without even a sideward glance.

   “Yes alp- yes sir.”

   Stiles rock on the balls of his feet. He knows he doesn’t stand a chance in this staring contest. “Sooo… Come here often?”

   “I own the place.” Derek replies, like it is common knowledge.

   “Cool! That was a joke, by the way.”

   When Derek just scowls, Stiles looks away to where curly-haired cutie throws weary glances his way, pouring drink after drink for the now visibly put-off groupies. Stiles waves but the guy quickly averts his eyes. Derek’s scowl intensifies, and Stiles kinda wish he had that newspaper.

   “Well, it’s a great place you got here.”

   “Thanks.”

   Stiles drums his fingers on the smooth surface on the bar counter. “And how’ve you been? I’ve been emailing you, you know. Just to say hi.”

   “Yes, I know that.”

   Stiles blinks, straightens and pulls his shoulders back. “Uhm, okay. Wow.” he laughs nervously. “Guess I should get the message, huh?”

   Confusion, then comprehension play tug-of-war with Derek’s eyebrows. “What? No, wait…”

   Five sets of shot glasses and the rest of their drinks appear on a tray before Stiles, cutting Derek off. “There you go, handsome.” Erica smiles and lean forward, impressive cleavage on display.

   Stiles digs around in his pocket but she stops him. “On the house.” she smiles.

   Stiles tries his best to sound pleased. “Thanks.”

   Derek turns to her, ready to attack, then grunts when he gets a foot to the shin. Erica’s smile though stays perfectly in place.

   “And I’m Erica, by the way.” She holds out her hand.

   “Stiles.”

   “The puppy down there is Isaac, and of course you’ve met sourwolf here.”

   “Sour… What?”

   “Erica.” This time Stiles is sure he is going to maul her.

   “You need help with that?” she asks, ignoring Derek like he doesn’t exist.

   “No, thanks, I got it.” Stiles takes the tray. “Thanks for the drinks, Erica.”

   “My pleasure, sweetheart.”

   He looks up at Derek and shrugs half-heartedly. “See ya.”

   He’s not sure if he hears Erica’s angry Idiot! over the noise of the restaurant, or if it’s just his imagination.

   “Asshole.” he mumbles under his breath.

oOo

“He looked dodgy to me anyway, bro. Good riddance.” Scott claps him on the shoulder. He’s happily flushed, as are the rest of them, Lydia and Allison giggling like two teenagers and constantly steeling glances towards the bar.

   “I guess,” Stiles worries his lip. “And what’s with the dog jokes?”

   “Taxi will be here in five. Let’s go, losers.” Jackson says when he pockets his phone. Stiles spares him the barest of glances. He does his best not to look over to the bar when they walk out. He has to concentrate on not bumping into people in any case, which is how he misses Erica poking Derek in the chest. They’re standing in a corner at the back of the restaurant, the big guy’s eyes downcast, arms folded, eyebrows one continues angry black line as she rants on.

   Back home Stiles downs two Advil with his third glass of water, Scott snoring away merrily next to him on the couch, the rest of the gang long gone to bed. He massages his temples. His headache isn’t all alcohol.

   He opens his laptop and navigates his way to the photos he took of Derek and his artwork. The beautiful mural in all its different angled-glory is the first to go. One by one, he deletes all the pics, hitting the delete button a tad harder when he comes to the ones with Derek in it. He also clears his inbox and sent folder in his mailbox, then moves on to empty the recycle bin as well.

   Are you sure you want to delete this file permanently?

   “Oh yes I am,” Stiles mumbles and completely rids his life of Derek Hale.

oOo

The next morning after breakfast everyone heads for the beach. The day is glorious, the beach dotted with colourful umbrellas, the salty ocean breeze invigorating. Stiles decides to join the gang, but only before plastering himself with factor fifty and slapping on one of Lydia’s ridiculous, wide brimmed straw hats. Normally he would have balked at the idea, opting for the shade of the porch with an ice cold drink and his laptop. But his mind is too preoccupied to focus on anything else. He needs the distraction.

   A volleyball game is started, Lydia and Jackson against Stiles and Allison. Scott elects to shout and cheer along from under the cluster of umbrellas.

   With about as much ball sense as a moose, Stiles is once again reminded why he used to warm the bench during lacrosse games. Yet he throws himself into the game with abandon. Thanks mostly to Allison they keep the score tied, but have to stop every five minutes for Stiles to pick up his straw hat, and then wait for Lydia to stop laughing.

   Stiles can’t remember the last time he had so much fun.

   That evening they make s’mores over a bonfire on the beach, and Stiles realize he hadn’t thought about Derek once.

Chapter Text

The horizon is set alight by breath-taking colours painted across the edge of the island, the sky growing brighter by the second.

   Stiles pulls his hoodie closer around him, sitting on a weather-beaten bench at the base of the old stone lighthouse. He’s staring out over the grey waters of the Gulf that will soon wake up and change into their tropical aquamarine hues as the sun climbs into the heavens. His camera rests in his lap, the metal and plastic casing cold to the touch. Seagulls and sandpipers rule the beach this early, diving and scrabbling for breakfast. Skedaddle birdies, he smiles when he thinks of the name him and his mom used to give them when he was little. They used to go to the beach a lot, up in California, when the Stilinski’s where still whole and happy.

   A lonely pelican ambles up from the waterline, but stops short when it spots Stiles. Stiles lifts his camera but only succeeds in startling the bird. It takes off in a ruffle of feathers, landing a way off, ignoring Stiles for the rest of his hunt. “You remind me of someone, you know,” Stiles informs the bird. The pelican shakes out its feathers then waddles away along the shoreline, completely unimpressed. 

oOo

“Stop it.”

   Stiles turns to Lydia. “Stop what?”

   She flicks over another page of the magazine without looking up. “Thinking. About him.”

   “I’m not thinking about him,” he counters irritably.

   “Uh huh.”

   Stile stands up and walks away, leaving Lydia alone on the porch. “Only Pricilla understands me!” he calls back.  

oOo

“How big is this freakin’ island?” a red-faced Stiles asks the deserted road before him. It’s already dusk, and what started as a short bicycle ride has ended in a murderous three-hour trek. Turns out circumnavigating the island is much more difficult than one would think, especially if you have to backtrack when the coastal road just ends without warning. Or you get a bit lost because you’re preoccupied by a certain tall, dark hunk with a predilection for being an unfriendly, passive aggressive asshat…

   At least he brought enough water this time.

   He starts to peddle faster, darkness falling quickly now, the streetlamps already sputtering to life. The road curves along a deserted stretch of coast at one point, palm trees bowing in the breeze that chase swirls of beach sand across the tarmac. A shiny black Jeep Wrangler approach from the front, and he instantly misses Baby. She’s not nearly as kitted out as this topless sports model, but his butt and legs would not know the difference.

   On instinct he moves over to the shoulder for the car to pass. As it drives past he locks eyes with a pair of now infamous black eyebrows that turn up in a study of surprised recognition. A second later and the short squeal of tires join the glare of brake lights in the early evening dark.

   “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

   Stiles watch with dread as the car reverse around, then pulls over in front of him. He briefly entertains the idea of just peddling off, but the door opens and Derek folds himself out of the cab, head bowed to not hit the roll bar, stuffed into shorts and a godforsaken wifebeater. His eyebrows are firmly in place again as he walks closer, his stride even and powerful, shoulders broad and fingers lightly curled by his sides.

   Stiles heart jackrabbits around in his chest, and he quickly gets off his bicycle so that it’s between him and the approaching man.  

   “Stiles.” Derek grits out when he’s standing in front of him. Stiles ignores the goosebumps raised across his skin from hearing his name through that voice. Whether it’s meant as a warning or just his usual way of greeting, Stiles isn’t sure, nor does he care. He’s spoiling for a fight anyway. He squares his shoulders when Derek all but looms over him. 

   “What? Does this road belong to you too?”

   Derek halts, looks at him askance. “No. Of course not.” he folds his arms across the broadness of his chest, eyeing his mode of transportation. “What is it with you and that piece of crap?”

   “Hey! Be nice to Pricilla!” he points. “I found her in the beach house all lonely and neglected. And she has saved me from many an hour of boredom.”

   “You named the bicycle Pricilla?”

   “You have a problem with that?”

   “No, I don’t have a problem with that. Just… Let me give you a ride.”

   Stiles blinks in surprise. “A ride?”

   “Yes. A ride.” he explains slowly.

   “Ah, no. Thanks, I’m… I’m good.”

   “You shouldn’t be out by yourself,” Derek huffs.

   “Why? Is there a marauding herd of alligators I’m not aware of?”

   Derek looks at him as if he’s crazy. “What? No, there are no marauding herds of alligators.”

   “Well, then, I’ll just be on my merry way. But thanks for your concern. You are too kind.” and swing his leg over the bicycle.

   Derek’s arms drop. “I’m serious. I don’t like it,” he says with clenched fists.

   “Don’t like what? What the hell are you talking about?”

   Derek blows out his breath through his nose. “I don’t like it that you’re out alone.”

   It catches Stiles off guard, the sudden blaze of anger that thunders through his chest. “What do you even care?” he yells and throws his hands up. “I mean, the one moment you hate my guts, and the next you’re worried about my welfare? Do you have any idea how creepy that is? I mean what the hell is wrong with you!”

   Derek looks stunned. Stiles thinks if he slapped him across the face it would have been less of a shock. He almost feels sorry for the guy. Almost.

   “Stiles, that’s not… I could never hate…” he looks down at the tarmac. “It’s not that at all.”

   “Then what is it? Because seriously man, you’re killing me here.”

   Derek’s Adam’s apple bobs up and down beneath thick stubble. His frown only grows deeper. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to… to be so… abrupt.”

   Stiles can only stare, mouth half open. He has to fight to keep his resolve.

   “It’s just that…”

   “Just what?”

   “You’re…” he looks at Stiles with an almost pained expression, then sighs loudly and rubs the back of his head. “I’m not good… with this.” he waves between them. “With people.”

   “You don’t say.” 

   It earns him an-almost-there-but-hijacked-half-way-through-by-a-scowl grimace. Stiles waits, jaw set. He will not give in, no matter the hopeful flutter in his stomach. But then Derek stuffs his hands into his pockets and the big guy looks so forlorn it’s almost comical.

   Stiles finally deflates. “Okay, whatever, apology accepted. It’s an island, so, were bound to run into each other again, right? Might as well let bygones be bygones.”

   “Right.”

   He regards the brooding man for a second. “You are a special kind of weird, you know that?”

   “You named your bicycle Pricilla.”

   Stiles lips are pursed. “Touché.”

   Derek nods, like he accepts Stiles defeat, and curls a hand around the handlebars. He looks questioningly at Stiles when he doesn’t get off.

   “Uh, what are you doing?”

   “Taking you home.” Derek frowns, like it’s the most obvious thing.

   “What? No! I told you I’m fine.”

   “I’m not letting you cycle back alone.” and again he tugs at the handlebars.

   Stiles tugs back. “Let. Go. You’re not the boss of me.”

   “Stiles, get off the bike.”

   “Excuse me? Who the hell do you think WHOAA!!”

   He’s lifted off the bicycle with such ease it takes his breath away, the two rough, large hands that grip him around his hips solid and warm. When he’s safely deposited on the road Derek picks up his bike – with one hand – and loads it into the back of his jeep as if he’s filing away a book on a shelf. Stiles had trouble getting Pricilla off the three steps of the porch. He isn’t sure if the shaking in his knees is indignation or awe. “Did you have weapons-grade plutonium for breakfast?”

   Derek opens his door then stops to look at him. “Only on Mondays.”

   Stiles narrows his eyes. “Oh, it’s contagious now, is it?”

   “Are you gonna get in,” Derek motions with his head. “Or do you want to jog behind the car?”

   “This is tantamount to kidnapping, you know!”

   When he’s seated he crosses his arms with a huff.

   “Buckle up.” Derek commands like one would a child.

oOo

It only takes them a few minutes to get to the beach house, but it feels like an hour to Stiles. The drawstrings of Derek’s shorts drape over the generous swell of his crotch, two white lines hugging and curving over a clothed hill. They mock him. They call to him.

   Neither says a word, Derek’s eyes studiously fixed on the road, Stiles trying his best not to fidget. Soon Derek turns onto their gravelled driveway. 

   “Where do you want this?” he asks when he lifts the bicycle off the back, again with only one hand, not a flicker of strain visible in his features.

   “Dude, how do you even… Never mind. Ah, the porch, please.”

   The bike is leaned up against the railing while Stiles plays with the straps of his backpack. Tall, dark and morose only stand there, hands back in their respective pockets.

   ”There’s more.” Derek finally chokes out.

   “Oh God, now what?”

   “Of the paint stuff.”

   “Paint stuff? Like the mural you did?”

   Derek nods.

   “Well… That’s cool. Like I said dude, you’re super talented.”

   “Would you ah,” Derek clears his throat, “Like to see it?”

   “Seriously?”

   “Yes.”

   “I would love to!” Dial it down, Stilinksi. Dial it down. “I mean, yeah, why not.”

   “Are you free tomorrow?”

   Stiles’ stomach twists in gleeful anticipation. “I am. On vaycay, remember?” he chuckles. “So yeah, I’m available.”

   “Okay. I’ll pick you up at 9. Can you bring your camera along?”

   “Yeah, of course.” There’s a grunt that Stiles takes as a thank you. Just before the silence stretches into uncomfortableness, Derek speaks again. “And remember to put on some sunscreen.”

   “I will.” Stiles laughs.

   And of all things, this is what makes Derek smile. It’s so small he almost misses it, just a slight uptick of the corner of his mouth. Stiles thinks it’s the most beautiful thing ever, more so when the man scowls at the floorboards like he’s been caught out. 

   Derek points over his shoulder. “I need to get back now.”

   “Yeah, sure.” Stiles takes a deep breath. “Thanks for the ride.”

   “My pleasure.” With a last burning look he turns away. “See you tomorrow, Stiles. Have a good evening.” and steps down the porch.

oOo

“Dude, I’m not so sure about this.” Scott says and scratches his naked chest, still in the boxers he slept in.            

   Stiles pushes the fridge door closed with the water bottle in his hand. “Why not?”

   “Because just the other night you said what a creeper he was, and now you’re going out with him.”

   “I’m not going out with him. I’m just gonna take some pictures of his murals. And he’s not a creeper. I completely and unreservedly retract that statement.”

   “Dude, he practically forced you into his car.”

   “He didn’t force me!” Stiles sticks the water bottle in his backpack. “He’s just… socially awkward, okay? I told you guys last night, the man’s barely able to string two words together.”

   “Yeah, but still. He could be a serial killer or something.”

   “He’s not a serial killer.”

   “You don’t know that!” Scott points.

   “Scotty, it’s okay.” Stiles shoulders his backpack. “Nothing is gonna happen. He’s harmless.”

   “He’s twice your size.”      

   “He’s harmless.”

   “Bro, just…” Scott sighs. “Just be careful, okay?”

  Stiles looks at his best friend. “I will. Promise. Now stop worrying.”

   “And call me if there’s anything.”

   “Yes, dad.”   

  The unmistakable crunching of gravel announces the arrival of a car and Stiles spins around. “Gotta go, bye!”

   “Stiles wait! Argh.”

oOo

Stiles opens the screen door just as the shiny black Jeep comes to a stop.

   “Morning.” Derek nods shortly when Stiles climbs in. He’s wearing boardshorts and an old t-shirt with the arms cut-off, showing way too much tanned skin for Stiles’ own sanity.

   “Hey.” Stiles blushes.

   “Bring your camera?”

   Stiles pats his backpack.

   Except for a few wispy cirrus clouds drifting across the great blue expanse, the day is clear, set for another scorcher. “You forgot to put on sunscreen.” Derek notes.

   Stiles gawks at him. “No I didn’t.” 

   “Liar.” Again there’s that almost-smile that distracts Stiles from the fact that Derek somehow knows he didn’t put on any sunscreen. Then Derek leans over him to open the glove compartment, and he has to sink back against the seat to give the big guy enough room, hands held awkwardly in the air. He could just drop them onto that broad back, stroke down the muscled cords outlined by his t-shirt…

   Derek pulls out a small bottle of sunscreen and the same grimy baseball cap he wore when Stiles first met him. Stiles breath gets caught in his throat as Derek pops open the cap on the sunscreen and squirt a dollop of coconut-scented cream in his broad palm. Rubbing his hands together he turns to Stiles who’s still gawking at him. Derek tilts his head, then makes a turning motion with his finger. Stiles, too stunned to say anything, does as he’s told.

   Thick, warm fingers slowly rub over the back of his neck and down past the collar of his baggy tank, then sideways across his shoulders, again slipping under the fabric without a hint of hesitation. Stiles bites on his lip. Derek’s hands feel enormous as they massage the lotion into his skin, quickly turning him into putty. One hand returns to the back of Stiles neck and gives it a final squeeze.

   “You’re good.” Derek announces. Stiles turns, a bit dazed, to watch him adjust the straps of the cap. He sticks it on Stiles’ head. Satisfied, he turns the ignition.

   “Do you always rub sunscreen on strangers?” Stiles asks, hands a little shaky when they brush across the cap’s visor.

   Derek puts the jeep in reverse. The easy, practised way with which he twists around in his seat should not be as sexy as it is.    “You’re not a stranger.”

   One hand on the steering wheel, the other around the back of Stiles’ seat Derek reverses the jeep back onto the road again. The motion pulls his loose t-shirt open even further and Stiles’ lips part on a silent whimper when a dark nipple set low on a solidly muscled pectoral peek out, black chest hair curling around the dusky oval. The fabric catches on the thick nub when he twists back in his seat.

   Stiles quickly looks out the window. “You know, if I didn’t know any better I would think you actually like me.”

   “Buckle up.” Derek informs him like he didn’t hear a word he said. Face burning, Stiles quickly does as he’s told.

oOo

   Derek drives with one hand curled around the steering wheel, the other arm casually slung across the driver’s side door. Through the open top the wind tousles his hair, whipping them across his forehead and aviators.

   Stiles licks his lips and wipe sweaty palms on his shorts. He keeps sneaking looks over at him, at the tanned skin if his torso on display through the cut-away t-shirt, all the way down to where his pelvic muscles form a thick ridge above the waistband of his shorts. He can spot wisps of wiry black hair curl out from his armpit and a fat vein that snake down from his bicep, over his forearm where it splits and meanders across the back of the hand folded around the steering wheel…

  …the same hand that now covers his knee, stilling his leg where his foot was tap-tap-tapping against the floorboard.

   “Sorry.” Stiles blushes.

   “It’s okay.” Derek says without looking. He keeps his hand on Stiles knee for a second longer before subtly dragging it off, back to the wheel.

   “You know, I drive a jeep too. Well, not like this one, Baby’s seen her fair share of miles, but still. Nice ride.”

   “Thanks.”

   They cross the barrier causeway connecting the islands to the mainland, the deep blue inlets and bays around them teeming with birdlife and the occasional sailboat.

   “Who’s Laura?”

   Derek glances over at him, a bit startled. “Excuse me?”

   “The name of your restaurant?”

   “Oh.” Derek rolls his shoulders and settles back into the drive. “She was my sister.”

   “Oh. Sorry.”

   “It’s okay, you didn’t know.”

   Stiles isn’t aware that his fingers are knotted on his lap. “So you named it after her. That’s cool.”

   “Yes.”

   “How long have you had the place?”

   “A few years now.”

   “Cool. And Erica’s your girlfriend?”

   Derek eyebrows lift up from behind his sunglasses. “She’s married. To someone else.”

   “Oh! Okay. Good. Good to know.” His fingers untangle. “So, no girlfriend then?”

   Derek tightens his hold on the steering wheel. “Do you always ask so many questions?”

   “Dude, I’m going easy on you right now.”

   It’s minute - the uptick of Derek’s mouth - but it’s there none the less; a half-smile that after all the broodiness has Stiles heart leaping.

oOo

   They drive past grassy planes and wind swept, palm dotted beaches. Before long Derek slows the Jeep. They pull into a crumbling and overgrown parking lot bordering an abandoned warehouse. The façade of the building is all cracked brick, flecking paint and broken windows. The ever present scream of cicadas is deafening after the open air drive.

   Stiles takes Derek’s cap off and unclasps his seatbelt at the same time. Standing next to the jeep he lifts his arms above his head, stretching up to his tippy-toes after the long ride, eyes shut, joints popping.

   “Aaaaaah… Whoa!” Derek is looming over him when he opens his eyes. “Hey there big fella!” Stiles quickly pulls down his shirt, painfully aware of the expanse of white skin he was showing off.

   “You ready?” Derek asks, and Stiles’ sure he sees Derek’s eyes flicker down over him.

   “Yep.”

   “This way.” He places a warm, heavy hand on the small of Stiles’ back, and he lets himself be steered onwards. Derek keeps his hand there for a few paces before he lets it drop away. Stiles miss it the moment it’s gone.

oOo

   It’s wolves again. Stiles isn’t sure if it’s the same pack that he saw the first time, but here they are at rest in a beautiful meadow. He counts twelve, all with various coloured coats, some sleeping, some frolicking. He reaches out, then quickly pulls his hand back, turning to look at Derek.

   “Go on ahead, it’s dry.”   

   Stiles turns back and carefully run his fingers along the surface. One particular wolf draws him closer. He’s pitch black and magnificent, off to the side and watchful over the rest. 

   “This is amazing Derek. It’s… just amazing.”

   “Thank you, Stiles.”

   “What’s it with you and wolves?”

   Derek doesn’t answer him, nor does Stiles really expect one either.

   “No one even knows it’s here.”

   “I know it’s here.” Derek answers.  

   Stiles nods like he gets it. “I’ll start shooting then.”

   Taking a deep breath, he starts on the right, taking about five frames in quick succession, then walks to the left, back and forth, zooming in on different details of the painting.

   “When you’re finished there is one other place I want to take you to.”

   “Cool.” Stiles calls, not looking at him. He kneels for a different angle, the shutter clicking twice, then stands up to find Derek watching his every move.

   “Last one of the artist?” he calls.

   Derek goes to stand next to the mural, just like that first day.

   “A smile won’t kill you, you know.”

   Derek huffs, but his face relax a moment later, and tine smile adorns his features.

   “There we go!” Stiles takes two frames, and then gives Derek the thumbs up.

   “We all done with smiling?” Derek asks.

   “Yep.” Stiles answers brightly. He quickly packs his stuff, his emotions all over the place now, nerves sparking. Walking back to the entrance, Derek takes his bag from him.

   “Oh. Thanks.” Stiles smiles shyly.

   “You’re welcome.” His hand finds its place on Stiles’ back again, and stays there a bit longer this time.

oOo

   Their next stop is a concrete retaining wall well below road level that face the ocean, softened somewhat by a narrow, rocky strip of beach and a grove of palm trees that cools the bright sun with dappled shade. The wall is covered by a single black wolf, about two stories high, twenty feet from end to end. It’s half finished, rough outlines following the beast in motion as it’s frozen in mid gallop. Only the head is finished, ears, muzzle and eyes painted to such stunning detail, Stile’s is sure if he reached out he would be able to feel that shiny raven coat flow through his fingertips.

   Instead he just stands quietly, visual overload making him lift his camera, then just dropping it again. Derek comes to stand behind him, so close his body heat radiates against him from heel to head.

   “What do you think?” Derek asks, his mouth next to Stiles’ ear.

   “I think you’re wasting your time behind that bar.”

   He can hear Derek smile when he speaks again. “You should start.”

   At one point Derek disappears. He comes back with a cooler box.

   “Oh my God you brought food!”

   “Roast beef and mustard okay?” Derek asks and lifts the container.  

   “Perfect! Hey, I eat anything that doesn’t eat me first.”

   Derek’s pupils dilate, even in the bright midday light. “That a fact?” It’s the same look he had that made Stiles position the bicycle between them the other night.

   “Ah, yeah. Thanks for the food.”

   “Don’t mention it.

   Derek lays out a spread of sandwiches and fruit on the lid of the cooler box next to one of the palm trees. They sit on an old tree trunk, just an inch apart as Derek’s bulk takes up most of the space, his legs spread wide. The woodsy scent is deep and strong, just a trace of masculine sweat underneath. It’s so unmistakably Derek Stiles wants to lean in and plant his nose in the hollow of his throat.  

   “You should really do something with this.” Stiles implores through a mouthful of roast beef.

   “The sandwich?”

   “No!” he laughs. “With your art. You’re too talented to just let it go to waste.”

   “I don’t. You can see for yourself.”

   “Yeah but, I mean, you should be doing this, not, I don’t know, lug around boxes of tequila.”

   “Lugging around boxes of tequila pays the rent.”

   Stiles trails his eyes over Derek’s arms. “I’ll say.”

   “And you?” Derek asks after he finishes his sandwich. “What are you planning on doing to pay the rent?”

   “Criminology.” Stiles answers.

   “Criminology?”

   “Yeah. My old man’s a sheriff. I used to drive him wild about his cases, always wanting to go along to crime scenes, always asking questions.”

   “You? Asking lots of questions? Who would’ve thunk.”

   “You know, I liked you better when you communicated in grunts and growls.”

   Derek rolls his eyes, which Stiles refuses to find adorable.

   “And your family?” Stiles asks.

   “I’m it.” Derek answers as he draws shapes in the sand with his big toe.

   Stiles pauses in his chewing for just a second. “I lost my mom when I was thirteen.”

   “It is what it is.” Derek shrugs.

   “Yeah.” Stiles waits a few more seconds before he changes direction. He starts to interrogate Derek about his taste in movies and is delighted when he discovers they both have a penchant for classic horror, sci-fi and zombie flicks. Derek watches him as he animatedly recounts parts from his favourite superhero movie.

   “My favourite part,” Derek looks at his feet, “is when the Hulk falls from that ship and crashes through the old warehouse? And the old security guard looks at him all deadpan and says, ‘Well son, you have a condition.’”

   Stiles brays with laughter. “I know, right?”

   “Yeah, that was a cool movie.” Derek chuckles.

   Stiles shakes his head. “Look at you.”

   “What?”

   “You. All fuzzy and happy. What happened to Grumpy McGrumperson? You’re changing, man. I don’t think I can be seen with you anymore.”

   Derek dips his head. “I have a condition.”

   “Oh do you now?” Stiles giggles. “And how’s that workin’ out for ya?”

   Derek fights a smile. “Watch this space.”

   “Hmm. It’s okay, you can thank me later.”

oOo

   Driving back, Stiles will steel furtive glances at Derek, at his strong profile while he concentrates on the road. Traffic is heavy and it takes them an extra half hour to get back to the island. Stiles eventually nods off, and by the time they pull up in front of the beach house, it is almost dusk.

   Derek switches off the ignition, waking Stiles.

   “Wha’? Oh.” Stiles wipes his eyes, sitting up straight.

   “Home sweet home.”

   Stiles looks out the window, sleep confused. “Did I drool?”

   “Like a toothless Wonder.”

   “Did not.” Stiles cuffs him, his fingers glancing off a solid bicep. Derek just smiles – so effortlessly now - and Stiles thinks he’ll die happy just from that.

   Both fall silent. Their eyes lock awkwardly.

   “So.” Stiles begins.

   “So.”

   “Thanks for today. I had great time.” Stiles offers, giving Derek a shy smile.

   “Me too.”

   “I should…”

   “I’ll walk you.”

   Derek waits on the other side of the jeep for Stiles, again carrying his backpack for him, even though it’s just a few steps to the front door. 

   Derek remains standing on the last step, Stiles one step above on the porch – now at eye level with the big guy. Tall sea oats and cord-grass flow over the sides, a slight breeze playing with the sandy coloured stalks. Derek scuffs the riser board with one foot. “There’s a Stephen King marathon at the drive-in in Cape León. We should go.”

   “Yeah? I’ve never been to a drive-in.” 

   “Really? We’ll I’ll be honoured to fix that, then.”

   “Why mister Hale, are you asking me out on a date?”

   Derek’s eyes grow darker. “Guess I am.”

   Heat unfurls in Stiles’ stomach and the sly smile drops from his face. “Say wat now?”

   But Derek is already reaching out to him. Stiles’ breath catch in his throat when the big guy cups his neck, pulling him closer he leans forward and Derek is kissing him, the softness of his lips a bit of a shock as adrenaline threatens to smash through his sternum.

   Derek’s kissing me.

   Stiles squeeze his eyes shut and grab hold of Derek’s arm like it is a lifeline. Slowly he parts his lips and Derek pushes his tongue in right away, a soft moan escaping him. Just the one swipe and he pulls away slowly, letting his hand slip from the Stiles’ neck.

   “That was… yeah… wow.” Stiles licks his lips. “You just kissed me.”

   “Was it okay?” Derek asks with a smirk.

   “You should probably do it again, you know, just so I can make sure.”

   Derek folds his hand back around Stiles’ neck. “Gladly.”

   Derek’s stubble scrapes along his lips. Emboldened Stiles slips both hands through the open sides of Derek’s t-shirt. His skin is so warm, muscles firm and bulky, and Stiles is rock hard in his pants. Derek’s tongue fills his mouth over and over, warm and slick. Stiles can taste the lingering saccharine sweetness of the soda, the bitterness of the mustard and he sucks Derek’s tongue in further, earning him another moan that has his cock smearing precum along his boxers.

   They finally stop, breathing heavily. Derek smirks and looks down. “I think The Shining’s showing tomorrow evening. I’ll pick you up around six?”

   It could be a documentary on the mating habits of North Sea clams for all Stiles cares. “Yeah. Yes. Six. Six is good.”

   Derek nods slowly. “I’ll see you tomorrow then.” 

   “Yeah. Okay. Tomorrow.”

   But Derek doesn’t leave right away, just stands there on the step below, faded green eyes flaying Stiles open to the bone. “Have a good evening, Stiles.” Derek greets.

   “You too.”

   Stiles stays out on the porch long after the jeeps’ taillights have disappeared from sight.

oOo

Of course he can’t sleep.                

   He can’t stop smiling, can’t focus on anything else than those grey-green eyes and the feel of Derek’s tongue. He reaches down to his straining cock, images of Derek and those big hands rubbing in lotion, cupping the back of his neck, those soft, full lips and…

   He shoots all over his stomach with a gasp.

oOo

“Do people even still go to drive-ins?”

   Stiles flicks a piece of flotsam with his big toe. “Evidently.” he answers Scott with a dreamy smile.

   “I think it’s romantic. So old-school.” Allison chips in, brushing her shoulder up against Stiles where she’s walking on his other side.

   It’s overcast and cool – perfect for strolling on the beach and walking off the enormous breakfast they just had. Lydia and Jackson are a few yards ahead, laughing and shoving at each other.

   “Yeah well, I still don’t trust him.”

   “Dude, you haven’t even met him. Believe me he’s… he’s great.”

   “Awww.” Allison croons, giving Stiles a quick hug.

   “I mean, the way he kisses…”

   “Bro, seriously.”

   “Nothing like a good kisser.” Allison agrees.

   “Hey! Who’s side are you on?”

   “Babe, come on. Stiles is just having fun. It’s just a sweet summer fling, right?”

   Stiles looks back down at his feet. It takes him a second or two to answer. “Of course.”

   Lydia squeals when Jackson picks her up and digs his fingers into her ribs.

oOo

Derek pulls into their designated spot, the drive-in about three-quarters full already. He backs the Jeep up, nose facing away from the giant white screen. “Time to get comfy.” he smiles, and hops out. Not sure what he means Stiles follows the big guy, eyes glued to his ass (a pair of sinfully tight shorts this time) to where Derek folds down the tailgate. He smiles when he sees the folded blankets and pile of lounger cushions.

   “Planning something?”  

   Derek starts to lay out the cushions. “I can assure you my intensions are pure.”

   I hope not, Stiles thinks, eyes traveling from Derek’s flip-flop clad feet up to where his poor t-shirt struggles to keep his biceps in check.

   “Get settled, I’ll get the popcorn.” Derek offers when the back of the jeep is laid out.

   Stiles halts him with a hand on his chest. “No, my treat.” he smiles up at him, his fingers splayed over the firm, bulky muscle. He blinks then, letting his hand fall away, and for just the briefest of moments his trailing palm brushes over a fabric clad nipple. “I’ll ah… be right back.”

   “Hey Stiles!” he calls.

   Stiles turns around mid-stride. “Yeah?”  

   “Could you get me some jelly beans?”

   “Jelly beans? Really?”

   Derek’s folded arms are called out by his smile. “You got a problem with that?” 

   “Just didn’t peg you for a jelly bean kinda guy!” and with a flash of his cocky grin he’s lost between the cars.

oOo

Stiles solemnly swears that drive-in’s are the best.

   The balmy, humid evening is like a holiday all on its own, and he could not feel further away from the snowy Colorado vistas currently showcased on the huge screen. Add to the fact that he’s basically snuggled up next to one big, hot, block of muscle in the open bed of said muscle’s jeep, and Stiles is damn sure that drive-in’s should become state law. Well, in Florida, at least…

   They’re propped up against the back of the cab with their legs stretched out on the makeshift bed; Derek with his Dr Pepper and an open packet of jelly beans nestled in his lap; Stiles with his jumbo bucket of popcorn and a Slurpee.  

   The popcorn and Slurpee doesn’t last long though, victims of Stiles’ nervous scoffing at being in such close quarters with Derek. He’s once again reminded of their difference in stature, his feet only reaching to Derek’s ankles. Even seated the man is still a few inches taller than him, solid and broad in the narrow space between the wheel housings.

   They watch with rapt attention as Jack Nicholson terrorize his family all across the Overlook Hotel, or at least Derek is while he makes light work of the jelly beans. Stiles’ mind is far from the movie though, focused on Derek’s particular deodorant, mixed in with the smell of popcorn, engine grease and verdant, wet earth. It all combines to form a visual in his mind of the man sitting next to him, a visual he knows might just become the yardstick for all future endeavours of the heart.

   How to set yourself up for romantic failure 101 – by Stiles Stillinski.

   “You know, Stephen King hated this movie. It totally deviates from his book.” Stiles says after taking a big sip of his Slurpee in the hope he’ll get brain freeze to clear his mind.

   “Uh huh.” Derek mumbles as another handful of jelly beans disappear into his mouth. Stiles turns toward him, his head at an angle.

   “I think I may have just found your kryptonite.”

   “Huh?”

   Stiles bursts out laughing.

   “Wha’?”

   “May I have some of those before it’s all gone?”

   “Help yourself.”

   Stiles reaches for the packet, at once aware of the fact that he’s basically about to grab Derek’s crotch. Eyes studiously fixed on the screen he digs into the packet, and if he takes his time to swirl around the multi-coloured candy bits it’s because his attention is divided – at least that’s what he tells himself. But then Derek has to tilt his hips just a fraction in Stiles’ direction - to aid him in his search, of course. And Stiles press down just a bit more against the considerable mound he can feel underneath. Derek lets out a soft groan, barely audible over the speaker hooked onto the roll bar above their heads.

   Stiles quickly retrieves his hand, lifting his chin to funnel the candy into his mouth. “Thanks.” he mutters. Derek only nods, but from the corner of his eye Stiles can see the colour on his cheeks.

   “Bathroom break.” Derek announces.

   “You can’t go now, this part is classic!”

   “Tell that to my bladder.” and with a quick kiss to Stiles’ head, grabs his flip-flops and jump off the tailgate, the whole jeep bouncing. “Just don’t eat all the jelly beans.”

   “Hurry back I’m scared!” Stiles calls. The bashful smile and quick wink Derek sends his way turns a flutter to his heart.

   While Derek is gone Stiles takes the time to answer the text Scott sent just as the movie started. Stiles felt the vibration, but didn’t bother to look.

   Scott:

I’m still not okay with this.

Stiles:

May you someday find inner peace.

   The text comes back with Scott telling him to knee Derek in the balls if he tries anything. Stiles replies with a few suggestions of what he’d rather do with Derek’s balls. Scott lets him know that he is now scarred for life.

   He’s still grinning when Derek returns.

   “You don’t look scared anymore.” he smiles as he climbs back on.

   “It was touch and go there for a bit.”

   “Glad you made it.” he says and settles back against the cushions, much closer to Stiles than before, his hairy thigh pressed up against Stiles’ own.

   With his concentration now completely shot the movie just plods along, and Stiles finds all of his attention narrowed down to where Derek’s body heat leaches into him.

   “You’re really hot.”

   “Why thank you.”

   “No.” Stiles playfully smacks his thigh. “I mean, you’re body temperature. It’s like you have a fever or something.”

   He can feel Derek shrug. “You just haven’t acclimatized yet.”

   Stiles knocks a foot against Derek’s while the big guy digs into his jelly beans again. 

   “And you have really big feet.”

   “Do I?” Derek asks distractedly through a mouthful.

   “Yup.”

   “Hmmm.”

   “So is it true then?”

   “Is what true?”

   Stiles is glad for the dark. It lends a certain amount of bravery. “About guys with big feet.”

   It takes a few seconds for Derek to answer. “Oh yeah. Especially in my case.”

   Stiles turns to gape at him.

   “Big feet,” - Derek pops a jelly bean into his mouth - “immense IQ.” His face slowly cracks into a shit-eating grin and Stiles kicks his foot.

   “Smartass.”

   Derek throws a leg over Stiles’ and rubs his instep against Stiles’ creamy white bridge. Where Stiles’ feet are mostly hairless, Derek’s are tanned and covered in a fine dark pelt. “And anyway, I like your feet better.” Derek answers. He locks eyes with Stiles, then leans over, fingers holding his chin and tilting his head backward.

   It’s a slow, dizzying kiss of Derek’s slick tongue claiming his mouth, tasting of jelly beans and soda pop, large fingers firmly but gently holding his face still. Stiles’ dick strains against his zipper. His face still cradled, he feels Derek’s broad, warm palm cover his stomach, slowly rubbing and working his t-shirt up to expose his belly. Thick, calloused fingers spread out over his skin, Derek’s pinkie finger playing just above his waistband. Stiles knows Derek can feel him tremble, can feel his heartbeat trampoline across his midriff.

   They eventually part with Derek clearing his throat. “That reminds me. It’s a congregation of alligators, not a herd.”

   Stiles half open mouth is joined by a frown. “Huh?”

   “A marauding herd of alligators? Remember? I looked it up.”

   Stiles blinks. “You are weird.”

   “You named your bicycle Pricilla. Now hush and watch the movie.” he commands and sling a heavy arm around Stile’s shoulders.

   Stiles sighs, grin like the Cheshire cat splitting his face. He snuggles deeper into the broad, muscled, wonderful weirdness next to him.

oOo

   The drive back is silent, Derek clearly deep in thought. He has a hand on the back of Stiles’ neck though the whole way, his grip definite. Somehow Stiles knows that he wouldn’t be able to move unless Derek wants him to. The spark of lust at the thought is surprising and wholeheartedly welcoming.

   When they stop in front of the beach house and Derek has turned off the engine, he just sits there, hand paused on the keys in the ignition, staring out of the windscreen at the dark, starry night. Stiles can see his jaw working.

   “Derek? Everything okay?”

   Derek blinks. “Yeah. Yeah, everything’s fine.”

   “You sure?”

   There’s a moment’s hesitance that blips across his face, then Derek’s smile is back, his eyes clear and soft and so goddamn handsome Stiles can’t be sure he didn’t imagine it all. “Positive.”

   “Okay.” Stiles acquiesces after a second or two.

   Derek opens his door. “Let’s get you inside.”

   Derek walks with his palm pressed to the small of Stiles’ back. He only lets go once they’re on the porch. There he hesitates, caught between the stairs and the front door. “Sorry, I need to… hold on.” and settles his hand to the nape of Stiles’ neck again. He proceeds to rub from his hairline to his shoulders, rough fingers big enough to wrap almost all the way round to his throat, his thumb brushing the tender skin underneath his ear.

   Stiles forgets what he wanted to say, forgets his own name when Derek pulls him closer and starts to rub – rub – his scruffy beard against his neck and cheek like some overgrown cat or something. The rumble from his chest even sounds like one purring – which only barely registers in Stiles’ lust-addled mind.

   Derek proceeds to walk them back till the handle of the screen door dig into Stiles’ flesh, their faces inches apart. Derek cradles Stiles face with both his hand. They share the same breath, then Derek attacks his mouth, his tongue as dominant as his grip. He grinds him into the door, and Stiles eyes flutter wide open. There’s no mistaking the thick, solid length that press all along his hip. Derek’s erection actually feels ridiculous and Stiles is about to say as much, but his mouth gets claimed before he can get a word out.

   It takes him a second or two to gather his thoughts once they eventually part, Derek’s stubble a delicious lingering burn. “You wanna… come in for coffee… or something?”

   Derek drags his nose along Stiles’ jaw. “Or something.”

   “Yeah, yeah, I love something. Something’s the best,” Stiles swoons, his boxers by now smeared with precum.

   Derek grinds his hips down again, mouthing over the pulse point in Stiles’ neck. “Fuck,” he breathes. “I wanna come so deep inside of you that you’ll taste me for a week,” he says before he licks a stripe up Stiles cheek.

   Stiles mouth opens on a silent whimper.

   Derek moves back to Stiles’ throat and leaves a wet, suckling kiss – sure to bruise. His teeth are sharp as they dig into his skin - too sharp - and through the a fog in his head from Derek’s erection still grinding into the juncture of his hip and thigh, Stiles also becomes aware of several knife tips that dig into his side and neck where Derek grips him tightly…

   And then it’s gone before he can really comprehend.

   Derek steps back so suddenly Stiles stumbles, lips still comically puckered at nothing but thin air. When he blinks them open the big guy is slightly turned away and hunched over, fists clenched white-knuckled by his sides, eyes scrunched shut.

   “Uh, Derek?”

   “Just give me a sec.”

   “Are you okay? You look like you’ve got brain-freeze.”

   “Gnat flew into my eye.”

   “A gnat?” Stiles frowns, lips bruised and legs a bit wobbly.

   Derek blinks and looks up. “Sorry. I need to go.”

   “What?”

   “I… sorry, I have too… I’ll call you.”

   And just like the first night Stiles watches the taillights of Derek’s jeep get swallowed up by the dark.

   “What. The ever. Loving. Fuck.”

oOo

Derek parks his jeep between the stilts of his boatshed-turned-home, so used to manoeuvring around the stacks of crab cages and other rusting junk he can do it blindfolded by now. He stays in the cab for a minute or two while the cooling engine ticks away, then scrub both hands over his face and climbs out. The strong, salty air that blows over from the ocean unravels his tight chest and he sucks in deeply - what feels like the first real breath ever since they left the drive-in.

   Through the row of bamboo palms that run between his place and the house nestled next to his own, the dim glow of a light in Erica’s place feels like a godsend. He knows she’ll never let him live it down, not with the smell of him right now. His underwear is sticky with precum, his erection only now beginning to flag.

   But he needs the calming words of his beta.

   He takes the sandy path right by the small rocky bay. The bungalow is, just like the boatshed, balanced on stilts. The branches of a gnarled live oak creek against the roof, and trails of Spanish moss flow from its thick branches to dance in the breeze.

   He takes the stairs up to the backdoor and tries the handle, the door opening easily. He doesn’t call out, mindful of the one resting heartbeat he can hear.

   He walks through the empty kitchen with its homey, cooked-in smell - as familiar and welcome in the space as if it was his own - through the dark hallway to the front of the house where the screened-off porch faces the bay. The breeze is moist, the sounds of the ocean calming. He finds her sitting in an old wicker chair in the dim light cast from inside, a bottle of red and half full tumbler on a little table just to her side.

   She looks up, her eyes tired but her smile warm when she sees him. “Hey! How was your whoa…” she fits a knuckle under her nose. “Okay. So it was that good.”

   “Where’s Isaac?” he ignores her.

   “Locking up. He’ll be here in a while. Derek, what’s wrong?”

    Derek glares at her, jaw tight and fists pumping by his sides. He looks over his shoulder at the darkened hallway from whence he came. “Just gonna give the pup a goodnight kiss.”

    “Okay.” Erica nods, her eyes filled with concern.

   At the second door to the right of the short hallway, the one just before Erica’s bedroom, Derek halts and lean against the jamb. It’s a typical little boy’s room, toys and colouring books strewn across the floor, more stacked on shelves. The ceiling fan spins around lazily, the open glass louvres of his bedroom windows letting in the fresh, humid night air.

   He can just make out the tiny sleeping form between the army of stuffed animals keeping watch over him. He can feel the tension leave his shoulders. He walks closer, his eyes drawn to the two framed pictures next to the nightlight: one of Derek on a jet ski holding the little one, their faces caught in a moment of timeless joy; the other picture that of a family of three, Erica holding a baby, Derek’s best friend behind her, his arms wrapped protectively around his mate and son.

   Derek gently brushes the cloud of dark ringlets from the boy’s sleep-flushed forehead. A frown mars the little ones’ brow, and a puppy growl squeaks from his lips, his little fingers sprouting tiny claws for just a second before the nightmare skitters away again. Derek cups the back of the boy’s soft, fragile neck, then leans down and leaves a soft kiss on a plump cheek. “Love you.” he whispers. He leaves the room, tapping on the doorframe as he walks out.

   Back out front he goes to stand behind Erica. “All good.”

   “Did you remember to lift your leg against his doorpost?”

   “Funny.” he pinches her ear, then settle both hands on her shoulders.

   “He insisted on waiting up for you again. Finally just keeled over while Elsa kicked ass.”

   “How many times has he watched that movie now, a hundred?”

   “More like a thousand. He can’t get enough of Olaf.”

   “Yeah. Who can.”

   She reaches up to take hold of his hand. “Pull up a chair.”

   He makes no move, fingers tight.

   “Derek, sit your alpha ass down.”

   Derek gives in and pulls a similar wicker chair closer. It creaks under his solid weight when he settles in it.

   “Pour you one?” she asks, holding up the bottle.

   “I’m good, thanks.”

   She slowly twirls the tumbler glass around, making the wine cling to the sides, her eyes on Derek the whole time.

   “I don’t care how much you reek, you know I’ll sit here the whole night, sunshine.”

   Derek heaves a sigh and rubs his face like he did when he climbed out of his jeep. “I almost bit him.”

   Erica knows Derek caught the heavy thump of her heart. Nevertheless she quickly composes herself, puts her glass down and folds her legs underneath her. “What happened?” she asks softly.

   “I dropped him off, and we were at his door and we started…” Derek vaguely motions with his hand in the air. “And the next moment I’ve gotten a hold of him and my claws are coming out and my teeth drop and I’ve got my mouth on his neck and…” he sucks in a rattled breath. “I pulled back just in time.”

   “Did he notice anything?”

   “I don’t know. I don’t think so. I bailed.”

   “You just left him?”

   “Please, make me feel worse than I already do.”

   “Is he okay though?”

   “Of course!” The wicker cracks under his fingers. “Sorry. Yes, he’s fine.”

   “Call him. Let him know everything is all right.”

   He looks away, elbows rested on his knees, hands clasped together. “Do you think it’s because we’re so close to the full moon?”

   “It could play a part. If anything it only sharpens your instincts in this case.” she runs a finger along the rim of her glass. “You do know what this means, right?”

   Derek nods.

   “And he’s not gonna stay on the island forever.”

   “Yes, I’m well aware of that, thank you.”   

   “So what are you gonna do?”

   “I have absolutely no idea.”

   “Derek…”

   “What?”

   She can hear the challenge in that single word, and count her own carefully before replying. “If ever there was a time-“

   “DON’T!” The menacing growl that breaks into the last uttered syllable vibrates through the glass tumbler and rattles the louvres. Derek stands up abruptly. His chair tilts back but his reflexes are quicker. Erica waits for his eyes to bleed back to normal before she looks up again, her head tilted to expose her neck.

   Just like her alpha, she turns her ear to the inside of the house. “It’s okay, he’s still sleeping.”

   “Yeah.” Derek confirms, then releases a shuddery breath. “I’m sorry. That was stupid.”

   “It’s okay.” she smiles sadly.

   “No, it’s really not. I… I can feel myself slipping whenever I’m around him. It’s like I don’t care if he finds out. And I almost… Jesus Erica, I almost bit him.” He sits down heavily. Shoulders slumped he runs fingers dangerously close to talons through his hair.

   For a while it’s just the sound of the ocean between them.

   “Do you understand now why I tried to stay away?” he finally tells the darkness outside the screens before turning back to her.

   Erica reaches out, her hand soft and comforting across his cheek. “Silly wolf. Like that was ever an option for you.”

Chapter Text

Derek steers his jeep off the tarmac and onto the beach house’s driveway. The car crunches across the gravel and comes to a stop more or less where it did before when he dropped Stiles off after the movie.

   The boy is already waiting for him on the steps. Even before he opens the passenger door he can hear the kid’s excited heartbeat and breathes a sigh of relief. The past forty eight hours have been torture.

   “Hey.” Stiles greets, face heating up when he opens the door.

   “Morning.” Derek says when he climbs in, his hand automatically going to its place on the back of that slender neck. He doesn’t even wait for him to settle before he pulls him in close for a kiss. Stiles braces a hand against his chest, surprise and ecstasy all rolled into one, sweet scent.

   “Okay,” he leans back, tongue soothing across those plump, beard-burned pink lips. “Apology officially accepted.”

   Derek looks down with a blush high across his cheekbones. “Yeah, again, I’m really sorry about the other night.”

   “Like I said, must’ve been a big-ass gnat.”

   “The biggest.” He dips his head to look at the hickey on Stiles’ throat, his fingers ghosting over the bruised flesh. “Sorry,” he grimaces.

   “Don’t be. I bruise if someone just looks at me.” Stiles grins. “Anyway, I wear it with pride.”

   The leather around the steering wheel creak under Derek’s grip. He inhales deeply, his face unreadable, eyes focused on the mark he left.

   Stiles plays with the flap on his backpack. “Wanna tell me what happened?”

   Derek pulls at his bottom lip with his teeth. “Got a bit too excited. Didn’t want to mess things up.”

   “Ah, if you remember correctly, I was all for messin’ things up.”

   “Yeah, well. I wanna buy you drink a first.”

   “D’awww. And they say chivalry is dead.”

   “We are a dying breed.”

   Stiles nods noncommittally. “My friends said I should’ve blocked your number, told me I was crazy to go out with you again.”

   Derek looks out the windscreen. “Maybe you are.” he answers softly.

   Stiles eyes him. “Naw. I told them your bark is worse than your bite. Plus you kinda need me.”

   “I need you?”

   “Oh, more than you know. Who else’s got the patience to help you become more human?”

   “Become more human.” Derek slowly repeats, watching Stiles beautiful, grinning face.

   “See?” he giggles. “You need me, man.” and bumps him on the shoulder, looking very pleased with himself. He fishes Derek’s cap from his backpack and mash it down on his head. “So where are we going, papi?” he asks, smoothing out the visor.

   Derek eyes the cap. “Fish market, an’ then booze.” he says distractedly.

   “Sounds like a party.”

   “Yup.” Derek nods, eyes lingering on his cap. “You look good in that.”

   “Yeah?” Stiles blushes, smoothing the visor down. “It smells like you.” 

   Derek swallows. “Buckle up.” he instructs, and pulls away.

oOo

The trip to Cape León takes about an hour, and by the time they reach the central business district, the little port city is bustling with early morning traffic. Derek drives on, away from the tourist trap, palm tree-lined waterfront shops and towards a more industrialized part of town.

   Finally he pulls into a dockside area filled with warehouses and ugly, low-slung office buildings, throngs of people scurrying between loading bays and trucks. The smell had hit him blocks before already, though he can see Stiles crinkle his nose only once they drive through the gates.

   A forest of masts and rigging stick out from behind the warehouses where fishing trawlers are moored by the harbour. The sky is alive with flocks of seagulls and other birds scavenging for something to grab from an unsuspecting fisherman.

   “First stop.”

   Derek knows exactly where he’s going, at home between all these workers, and Stiles follows him like a lost puppy. They enter a long warehouse and the sharp smell of ocean and fresh fish makes Stiles’ eyes water. Row after row of stacked polystyrene cases and stainless steel display trays filled with ice and fresh catch line the space, hardened fishermen and workers yelling and selling.

   Stiles stares bug-eyed at the variety of sea life on display.

   “Don’t get lost now.” Derek breathes close to his ear and settles a hand between his shoulder blades. Stiles starts a bit, but his smile is quick, honey-coloured eyes big and bright. Derek returns the smile, his hand sliding up to squeeze his nape before settling on the small of his back.  

   They walk slowly past all of the traders, stopping here and there to glance at the wares on show, Derek by his side the whole time. His hands are continuously touching Stiles: knuckles skimming across a hip; a palm gently urging him on, warming his arms at the chilled air. At one stage he hooks a finger over the waistband of Stiles’ shorts when he absentmindedly steps in front of a fully laden pallet jack, and reels him back in to his side. 

   He never lets Stiles further away from him than an arm’s length after that.

   “C’mon let’s go, enough playing tourist. We got work to do.”

   “Yes sir.”

   Derek pics up the pace, ignoring the sudden tightness in his pants.

oOo

   “You know, I thought I smelled wet dog.”

   “Boyd? Thought you’re only back next week?”

   “Naw, shoals have moved on.”

   The two bro-hug with lots of back slapping. The man called Boyd is dressed in a plastic fisherman’s bib, the grey Henley underneath pushed up to his elbows. The high-bay fluorescents gleam off his shaved head.

   “You good?” Derek asks.

   “As always man, as always.” Boyd pats him on the shoulder. “Pickin’ up?”

   “Yeah, Erica sent me.”

   Boyd chuckles. “You know, sometimes I wonder who’s the real Alph…”

   “Boyd I want you to meet Stiles. Stiles this is Vernon, but we all call him Boyd. He’s Erica’s husband.”

   Boyd looks past Derek, momentarily confused until he spots Stiles, his mouth forming a surprised ‘o’.

   Stiles steps closer. “Hey man.”

   “Uh, hey.” Boyd smiles and shakes his hand, a raised eyebrow at Derek. “Hey.”

   He scents Stiles as inconspicuously as possible, until Derek’s glare has him stepping back. Derek rests his hand on the back of Stiles neck again, chin jutting out. Stiles cheeks go a bit red at the obvious display.

   “Boyd here has his own trawler. Plies us with all the fresh catch we’ll ever need.”

   “Yeah, yeah.” Boyd nods, looking down at Stiles. “I do.”

   Derek clears his throat.

   “So Stiles, are you being held hostage? Cause I cannot imagine why you would willingly want to spend time with this guy.”

  Stiles grins and looks up at Derek. “He’s actually not so bad. I got him smiling, you know.”

   “Smiling? He’s able to do that?”

   “He is. And I mean, look at him.”

   Derek tightens his grip.

   “Oh he’s the leader of the pack alright.” Boyd grins.

   “If you two are quite finished?"

   Boyd winks at Stiles. Derek ignores him, and rubs his thumb across Stiles’ hairline. “We seeing you tonight?” he asks.

   “Not sure. Got a couple ’o loose ends here. But I’ll let you know.”

   “Okay. Well, we need to get going.” Derek slides his hand down to Stiles’ lower back.

   “Yeah, okay. Hold a sec.” Boyd shouts over his shoulder in Spanish. “It was nice to meet you Stiles. I’m sure we’ll see each other again.”

   “Yeah, that’ll be cool.”

   “Let’s go.” Derek guides Stiles away, Stiles giving Boyd a small wave in parting. They haven’t gone ten feet before Derek’s cell pings with a message.

   Boyd: Are you fucking shitting me???

   “Erica.” He explains when Stiles sees him stuffing his phone back in his pocket without reply. “Impatient as always.”

   Ten minutes later they’re on their way back out to the jeep, followed by a dock worker with a trolley laden with half a dozen or so rectangular polystyrene boxes. Derek opens the tailgate to reveal two huge plastic containers with clip-on lids.

   Opening the top of the containers in the back of the jeep – which are filled with icepacks – Derek and the worker starts unloading the boxes and stacking them inside. Stiles tries to pick one up but only succeeds in dropping it again. Derek takes the box from him quickly with a grin, lifting it up like it’s stuffed with feathers.

   “What are in these, gold bullion?” Stiles groans.

   Derek lists them off. “Some snapper, blue crab, dolphin…”

   “Dolphin?!” Stiles cries out.

   “The fish, not Flipper.” Derek quickly explains at his shocked expression.

   When everything is loaded, Derek signs on the electronic pad the worker holds out to him, then close the tailgate with a final rap on the metal.

   Half an hour later they’ve added a few boxes of liquor to their tally, the back of the jeep fully stacked.

   “Time for breakfast.” Derek declares.

   Stiles rubs his hands together. “Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about.”

   Derek leans over and plants a kiss on his lips.    

oOo

   “Oh. My. Gaaaawd.” Stiles groans through a mouthful of his breakfast Cubano.

   They’re sitting on an old worn bench in the shade of a frangipani tree, the sweet smell of the yellow flowers mixing with the heavenly aromas coming from the brightly painted foodtruck behind them. It’s a siren’s call to all with empty stomachs.

   When Derek drove past all the little cafes and restaurants he just patted Stiles’ leg at his mournful stare, promising to take him to where the locals eat. 

   “And?” Derek asks.

   “This is… heaven.” Stiles smiles through his full mouth. He scoops up a dollop of sauce from the corner of his mouth, lost in savouring the perfectly balanced flavours. He takes another hungry bite, melted cheese trailing strings of yellow perfection to break and curl on his chin. He catches Derek staring at him, his lips slightly parted.

   “Wha?”

   Derek blinks, licking his own lips. He reaches out and gently wipes the string from Stiles chin, then, without preamble, holds his finger up to Stiles mouth.

   Stiles’ heartbeat lifts off like a rocket.

   Derek keeps his finger there, his eyes never leaving Stiles, jaw set. Stiles can’t hold his gaze. He slowly opens his mouth, the tip of his tongue leading out before he sucks the bit of chees off of Derek’s finger. He’s still licking his lips when Derek brushes across the corner of his mouth with his thumb, before he brings it to his own mouth.

   Stiles neck and cheeks flame red. He’s trembling slightly.

   “Good?” he asks, and parts his knees further, his pants uncomfortably tight.

   “Yeah.” Stiles breathes.

   Around them the world carries on, oblivious.

oOo

   It is late morning by the time they head home. Every so often Derek will reach over and gently squeeze the back of Stiles’ neck. Stiles leans into his touch without even realizing it, which has Derek rumble deep in his chest.

    The little village comes into view, framed by palm trees and azure waters. Derek parks the jeep to the side of the restaurant next to a smaller set of stairs leading up to a side entrance.

   They climb out of the car just as a little boy of about three years old come bounding down the stairs, a mop of dark ringlets falling past his ears, angelic little face beaming.

   ‘Uncle Dewek!”

   The little dark-haired cherub launches himself at Derek, and he swings the squealing child in the air before giving him a fierce hug, the little boy all but disappearing in Derek’s embrace. Tiny little arms lock themselves around Derek’s neck before he gives Derek a quick peck on the lips. “I missed you.”

   “You missed me? What, you been drinking again?”

   The little boy giggles are pure heaven. “I’m too young to dwink, silly.”

   “Yeah you know it.” Derek says and boops him on the nose. He boops him right back, tiny little fingers scratching through his beard as he mimics Derek’s scowl. Stiles just about melts.

   “Is momma inside?” Derek asks, adjusting the little boy so he can sit in the crook of his elbow, one little arm still hooked around Derek’s neck.

   He nods furiously. “She says the touwists are demanding. What’s demanding, uncle Dewek?”

   “It’s when people ask a lot of questions.” Derek answers, and throws a cocked eyebrow in Stiles’ direction. Stiles pulls a face.

   “Hey, this is my friend Stiles. Stiles, this is Rico.”

   “Hey little dude.” Stiles holds out his hand.

   “Hi.” The little boy shakes it quickly, smiling shyly before burying his face in Derek’s chest.

   “Stiles!” a woman suddenly calls. All three look over to where Erica comes marching down the stairs, her short, flowery dress wrapping around her shapely legs, an apron tied around her waist.

   “Hey Erica!” Stiles waves.

   She walks up to them and gives Stiles a fierce hug, which he returns gladly.

   “It’s good to see you again.”

   “Yeah, you too.”

   “Did this oaf give you any trouble?”

   “Naw, that rolled-up newspaper did the trick.”

   Erica bursts out laughing and looks at Derek, who’s doing his best not to smile. “See what you’ve done?” he scowls.

   “Did you get everything?”

   “Loot’s in the back.” Derek answers.

   “You’re the best.” She pulls him down to plant a kiss on his forehead, then takes the squirming boy from him. “You boys got anything planned for the rest of the day?”

   Derek looks at Stiles, who looks back at him expectantly. “Now that you mention it, Scorpio Key sounds like a pretty good idea.”

   “Ooh! Nice.” Erica nods.

   “Uh, Scorpio what?”

   “Believe me, you’ll love it.” Erica winks.

   “Hope you don’t get sea sick.” Derek says.

   “Ah, I don’t think so?”

   “Well, you two have fun.” Erica smiles, eyes on Derek, and hikes the little boy higher up on her hip. “Nice to see you again Stiles.”

   “Nice to see you again Stiles!” Rico parrots, and his mother pinches the boy’s nose.

   “Bye.” Stiles waves.

   When both mother and child are gone, Stiles joins Derek where he is busy opening the jeep’s tailgate. “Rico’s a little nuggit.”

   “He’s the best.” Derek says while he lowers the tailgate and grabs the first container.

   “So, where exactly are we going?”

   “It’s a surprise. Come help me pack lunch.”

oOo

   The kitchen is a hive, Stiles having to dodge staff while at the same time try and keep up with Derek’s long strides. Once the jeep is unloaded, Derek grabs a couple of ingredients from the walk-in fridge, setting them out on a nearby stainless steel work surface.

   “For how long are we going for?” Stiles asks, eying the stack of plastic containers Derek has lain out.

   “Sour dough or Italian olive?” Derek asks instead, holding up two loaves.

   “Wow. Okay, uhm, the olive.”

   “Good choice.” Derek grins, and starts carving up the bread.

   Together they make sandwiches with cold cuts, homemade mayo, thick slices of aged cheddar and butter lettuce. Derek packs a tub of potato salad in the basket together with a container of decadent looking brownies while Stiles chatters away about the fish market. 

   Derek listens, content. 

oOo

The concrete launching ramp is on the end of the village boardwalk, parallel to a wide timber jetty that reaches far into the bay with other sailboats and a small yacht or two moored to the pylons.

   While Derek slowly winches the motorboat into the water, Stiles fetch his backpack and the cooler bag from the jeep.

   “Let’s go, time’s a wastin’.” Derek calls and makes a come hither motion with his fingers. He’s standing in the water holding out his hand toward Stiles, the other keeping the boat in place so it doesn’t drift away.

   Stiles shoulders his backpack, leaving his flip flops on so as not to slip on the slimy, submerged concrete. He hands Derek the cooler bag first, then takes his outstretched hand, carefully stepping into the crystal clear water. Another tentative step and big hands wrap around his waist, lifting him clear out of the water and depositing him in the boat.

   Stiles grabs hold of those thick, solid forearms to steady himself, the boat rocking gently.

   “You know I do know how to get off bicycles and climb into boats.”

   Derek tries his best to keep a straight face. “Just trying to be chivalrous.”

   “Uh huh.” The moment Stiles turns around Derek lightly tips the boat, which has Stiles’ arms shooting out at the same time that he lets loose a high pitched yelp.

   The murderous look Derek receives is so worth it.

oOo

   Stiles lifts his chin, hands clenched around the rail where he sits at the front of the bow, feet skimming along the water. The boat cuts through the multi-coloured blues of the island-dotted stretch of sound created by the barrier islands. He lifts his arms and shout at the top of his voice “I AM KING OF THE WORLD!” With the goofiest smile possible on his face, he turns to look at Derek where he is standing at the helm.

   “I don’t think I can be seen with you anymore!” Derek shouts to be heard over the rushing wind.   

   “You’ll miss me too much!” Stiles shouts back.

   Derek doesn’t dare answer him.

oOo

   Scorpio Key is a mile long twisting stretch of brilliant white beach with a vegetation-covered rocky outcropping right where the “head” of the scorpion would be. The ‘tail” curls out into the sound, a thin line of scraggly grass, palmettos and purple flowering railroad vines running along its spine. Sun bleached driftwood mixed with great swaths of crushed shells and other ocean detritus litter the beach right at the high tide mark.

   Two smaller islands – about a hundred feet in length each - lie just off the “head”, sickle-shaped grassy dunes forming a very small yet perfectly secluded little open sided lagoon, barely sixty feet across.

   These are the “pincers”, as Derek explains to Stiles, and just like its celestial namesake - together with a series of small sand banks like so many stepping stones scattered throughout in the azure waters - become Scorpio Key, if you were to connect the dots.

   “It’s like a James Bond set,” Stiles stands in awe, hands on his hips.

   “Beautiful, isn’t it?” Derek hands him a bottle of water, then loosely drape a heavy arm around his shoulders while taking a long gulp from his own bottle. Stiles slings his arm around Derek’s waist.

   “Thank you, Derek, for this. For everything.”

   Derek smiles down at Stiles, his eyes searching. “You’re welcome.” and kisses him. It quickly turns heated.

   “I’m a… Just wanna get my camera,” Stiles breathes after they break apart.

   “I’ll get the food.”

   While Stiles snaps away around the little beach, Derek lays down some blankets in a small patch of shadow cast by a clumping of palmettos. There’s a constant breeze blowing, just enough to cool down heated skin, and he takes care to keep the blankets free of sand.

   He has the containers spread around them, not even bothering with cutlery. It’s a Roman feast, lying down while stuffing their faces. Stiles gradually grows quieter. They’ve finished lunch, Derek reclined on one elbow while he watches the boy sitting crossed-legged, drawing shapes in the sand next to the blanket.

   “I can hear you thinking.”

   Stiles looks up, eyes big and bright, hair all over the place, and smiles shyly.

   “I was thinking about melted cheese.” he replies, then looks at Derek through his lashes.

   It would be so easy to pull him close and hold him down. Derek’s cock loves that idea, but he cannot even fathom the idea of scaring him away.

   “C’mere.”

   Stiles’ heart sets off on a steep canter, and he rises up to his knees. He bends toward Derek, planting a hand on the other side of the food, careful not to knock something over. Derek pulls him the rest of the way until he’s lying down on top of him.

   Lips become tongue in a matter of heart beats, and Derek groans when he shifts his legs so Stiles is nestled in between them.

  With their mouths level, Stiles’ crotch reaches up to just above Derek’s groin. He slowly grinds it against the hard plains, one hand going to Derek’s hair, the other scrunching up the fabric of his shirt. Derek wraps him up tightly, one hand reaching up to lock around his neck, the other slowly moving down over the delicious swell of his ass. Derek cups one globe, hand big enough to cover it almost completely, squeezing in rhythm with Stiles’ grinding hips.

   He loosens his grip on Stiles’ ass a fraction, slowly gliding his palm over so it’s settled half over both cheeks. Letting his middle and index fingers dip in between the cleft, he tap-taps against his hole before pressing down, rubbing it through the fabric, tongue still buried deep in Stiles’ mouth.

   Stiles moans into Derek’s mouth. He inches down to get more friction and starts to shift one leg up to throw over Derek’s thigh, but Derek pushes his leg back and rolls them over, only for Stiles to cry out when the food gets squashed against his back.

   “Oh shit, are you alright?” Derek quickly rolls back around, taking Stiles with him.

   Stiles sits up, straddling him. He reaches behind like he wants to scratch his back, grimacing. “I think I’ve got potato salad down my crack.”

   Derek sucks in his lips before he breaks out in deep belly laughter. Stiles starts giggling too, planting his palms flat on Derek’s chest.

   “Very funny, huh?”

   “I’m sorry.” Derek breathes, patting Stiles’ thighs. “That was a much smoother move in my head.”

   “Yeah, I’ll forgive you this time.” Stiles taps against his chest. “But right now I have to get this potato salad out of my ass.”

   Derek’s ensuing laugh crinkles his eyes shut, Stiles bouncing along on his stomach.

   “Staaahp.” Stiles whines, flicking Derek’s nose. Derek grabs his hand, still huffing with laughter, and pulls him down for a kiss.

   “Be right back. Don’t go anywhere.” Stiles smiles when they part.

   Derek watches him walk to the boat. He’s achingly hard, precum coating the inside of his shorts. He uses the opportunity to reach in and adjust himself, smearing the excess against his skin and pubes.

   At the boat Stiles pulls off his shirt, and Derek breathes in at the sight of that perfectly curved back and lithe arms, his skin creamy and unblemished, save for the few dark moles scattered from surprisingly wide and athletic shoulders, all the way down to the dimples just above his ass. Stiles is, in actual fact, perfectly proportioned from head to toe. Derek has a brief glimpse of his hands around those slim hips, assured that his thumbs would touch when he pins him down and…

   Stiles heartbeat spikes all of a sudden. Derek sits up, ready to defend, to protect, when Stiles glances over his shoulder, eyes full of mischief, and in one fluid movement shucks off his shorts, steps out of them - albeit a bit ungainly - and dashes into the lagoon, naked like the day he was born and crowing like a madman. He dives in and comes splashing back up, hair sticking in every direction.

   A glob of precum drools out of Derek’s dick.

   He accidently rips a seam when he strips his t-shirt off. The shorts also barely survive, his cock heavy and slapping against his thigh when it’s freed.

   He jogs down to the water, and only when he splashes in does Stiles look around. He dives under, swim the last few feet before surfacing close to him. “Mind if I join ya?” he asks, and wades closer.

   There are droplets caught in those long, almost feminine eyelashes. More bead on his cheeks, roll over his parted lips, and his tongue dart out to lick them away. “Uh, yeah. Come on in, water’s fine.” Stiles answers, his voice just a tad too high. He starts to tread water, lifting his knees up high, bobbing along on the tide.

   “Weren’t you supposed to just put on another t-shirt?” Derek asks, lazily weaving his hands through the water.

   “Are bartenders always this patronising?”

   “Only if the situation calls for it.” Derek shrugs, wading even closer, zoning in on his prey. He notices how he’s trembling again, which only excites him more.

   “And this is one of those situations?”

   “It is, but then I got distracted by a very fine ass running into the ocean.” he says before his hands dive beneath the water, fingers curling around Stiles’ calves to tow him closer. “So I’m just making this up as I go along.” he smiles sweetly and spreads Stiles’ knees to manoeuvre his legs around his waist.

   “Oh boy.” Stiles inhales.

   Wet skin meets gloriously warm and naked wet skin. Derek dives into Stiles mouth, and as always Stiles submits eagerly. He scrapes his chest hair against pebbled nipples, grinding his erection against the boy’s own. He looks down to where his uncut cock is visible through the clear water, reaching to Stiles’ navel where it’s propped up next to his’.

   Stiles’ cock is an extension of himself: slender, smooth and beautiful. It’s perfectly proportioned, cut, the head pink and swollen. It makes his own cock look brutish in comparison – twice as thick, aggressively veined from root to tip, the foreskin pulled back from the fat purple head.

   “Whoa,” Stiles shakes out, long, slender fingers folding around and along his meaty girth. “Guess you were right about that immense IQ of yours, huh?”

   “Shut up.” Derek grins, then plunges his tongue back into Stiles’ mouth. He wedges his hand between them to grip both Stiles’ hand and their erections. He starts rolling his wrist, jacking them both slowly up and down, his face inches away from Stiles.

   “This good?”

   Stiles nods, eyes hooded and jaw slack, and Derek brings their mouths together again.

   The kiss is slow and utterly filthy, tongues licking and sucking. He never lets up on his slow and torturous jacking, almost pained little broken off sounds coming from Stiles.

   He lowers them in the water until they are covered up to their necks. “Fuck I want you so much.”

   “You… have no idea.” Stiles answers, his voice even more wrecked.

   Then they’re kissing again, Derek roughly cupping his ass, water splashing as he pulls the boy even closer to his chest. Derek groans impatiently before canting his hips and tucking his cock into the stretched crack of Stiles’ cheeks.

   He starts to grind against Stiles, the head of his cock continuously brushing along Stiles’ taint and puckered entrance. He groans into the boy’s mouth, his breathing speeding up as he thrusts harder. He’s been so worked up the whole day he knows he’ll come just from this. Which is a good thing: let some steam off, clear his head a bit.

   “Fuck,” Derek growls and attacks his mouth. He has to fight to control his claws from coming out. His grip around Stiles’ waist tightens with every drive, his other hand alternating between jacking him off under the water and gripping the back of his neck to plunder his mouth.

   Stiles moans wantonly. He digs his fingers into the solid bulk of Derek’s shoulders, pressing his face into the crook of Derek’s neck and clenches his eyes shut. ‘Derek… I’m… I’m close…

   Derek speeds up his hand, almost viciously, until Stiles comes with a drawn out, painful moan, curling forward in his arms. Derek finds his own release with a full-body shudder, and groans open mouthed against Stiles’ hair. He almost bucks them out of the water while at the same time crushing Stiles’ slight frame to him. His eyes glow fiery red behind his lids as his cock pulse between Stiles’ cheeks.

   When he’s able to open them safely again he see’s pearlescent swirls of semen floating in the bottle-clear water around Stiles’ cock head, some sticking to Stiles’ stomach, some getting caught in his own treasure trail. He can feel strings of his own seed ghost around his cock, much more viscous than Stiles’.

   They drift in place, spent and out of breath. Hugging him closer Derek trace his lips across the top of Stiles’ head, nudging his face up to plant soft kisses on his mouth.

   “I think we scared the fish away.” Stiles quips, his voice raw.

   Derek snorts. Stiles head fall against his shoulder, and he breathes in his washed-away deodorant and sweet, sweet male scent. He kisses his temple, dusted with residue sea salt. Derek holds him tight while they peacefully drift in the warm lagoon water.

oOo

   Their skin is well and truly wrinkled when they finally walk out onto the beach, which is when Stiles notices the tattoo on Derek’s back, right between his shoulder blades.

   “Cool tatt.” he says when they stoop to pick up their shorts, Stiles unable to look away from where Derek’s heavy junk pendulum against his inner thighs as he slips back into his boardshorts.

   “Thanks.”

   “That’s the same as what you painted on that wall, with the patterns spiralling into the wolves, right?”

   “A triskele, yeah. It’s Celtic.” he explains. “Wanna walk down the tail?”

   “The tail?” Stiles frowns, his thoughts still with the tattoo.

   “Down the stretch of beach, to the end. Come on, sun’s about to set.”

   Stiles’ shoulder bumps against his bicep, the back of their hands brushing against each other until Derek threads his fingers through Stiles’. He looks down at their interlaced hands where his hand all but disappears wrapped up in Derek’s, to their footprints in the wet sand - a pair of sizeable indents next to a smaller, narrower set.

   They walk down the ‘tail’ right to the end where the ‘stinger’ sinks away into the turquois depths.

   Stiles is busy drawing shapes in the wet sand with a piece of driftwood, watching with child-like fascination as the scribbles dissolve under the slow lapping of the incoming tide. Derek stands behind him, hands stuck in his pockets as he smiles down at him. A moment later Stiles squeaks in surprise when big hands take hold of him around his waist and lift him off his feet, Derek’s head popping out between his legs. He effortlessly hoists him onto his shoulders and stand up straight – the sensation not unlike an ascending elevator. Stiles lets out an elated whoa! and Derek firms his grip on his shins.

   “You get off on manhandling me, don’t you?”

   “I blame my immense IQ.”

   Stiles laughs from his stomach and leans down to plant a kiss on top of Derek’s head. “Knucklehead.” 

   Together they watch in silence as the sun sets fire to the horizon.

oOo

On the way back, the breathless silence of dusk is only broken by the wine of the outboard motor, the ocean surface mirror-flat between the little islands and sandbanks. True to their summer form the clouds have once again stacked up, flashing in the distance.

   Derek found evidence of their perfect day dried and clumped in the hair on his inner thigh. He’s not even sure if it’s his or Stiles’. An image of Stiles drenched in his seed –inside and out - has him pressing up against the wheelhouse.

   Stiles is sitting at the bow again, leaning forward against the railing, chin resting on his hands.

   “You okay there?” he calls.

   Stiles turns. “Yeah,” he smiles.

   They make it back just as night settles over the little bay, the lively music from several bars and restaurants greeting them when Derek cuts the engine. He jumps out and pulls the little boat the last bit to shore.

   The twinkling lights and strings of lanterns reflect in the water, seeming to mesmerize Stiles where he’s standing in the shallows, holding the boat in place and frowning down at the slivers of light dancing around his calves. Derek watches him for a second before he climbs into his jeep.

   Before long the boat is winched back onto the trailer. Stiles is about to get into the car when Derek folds his hands around his waist, gently turning him around. The kiss has Stiles on his toes, arms slung around Derek’s neck.

   “You’re quiet.” Derek states when he releases him.

   “Can’t really talk when your tongue is down my throat, now can I?”

   Derek burrows his hands under Stiles’ shirt, and scrapes blunt nails down his back. “Gonna have to do something about that smart mouth.” he rumbles with his lips against Stiles throat. Stiles lifts his chin, giving him better access, which has Derek squeezing his eyes shut against the sudden burn in his gums and fingertips.

   “Any suggestions?”

   Derek mouths at his throat. “A few comes to mind.”

   “How about that coffee?”

   Derek scrapes his rough chin across Stiles’ cheek, nips at his ear. “Coffee sounds like a good idea.”

   “And no gnats allowed.”

   Derek shakes with laughter, Stiles trembles with something more. He slides his hand down the front of Derek’s shorts.

   “How fast can you drive?” 

   “Like the wind.”

oOo

The Jeep skids to a stop on the gravel. Stiles somehow manages to walk up the stairs and open the door with Derek’s tongue never leaving his mouth.

   “Hey Stiles!”

   Stiles shoots out of Derek’s embrace. “Allison!” He wipes across his mouth, the blush on his cheeks matching the redness of his lips.

   “Who’s you friend?”

   “Uh, Derek. This is Derek. You know, Derek?”

   “Stiles? That you?”

   “Scotty! Hey buddy, hey pal! Watcha doin’?”

   The hallway is suddenly very crowded. Stiles glances up to see Derek rub his nose like he’s about to sneeze.

   “We were just about to go down to the beach for a walk,” Scott says while he looks Derek up and down. “You guys wanna join us?”

   “Naw, we’re just gonna hang out here, ya know. Just, hang. But take all the time you need, though! Like all the time.”

   “Okay. I’m Scott, by the way.” He holds out his hand to Derek.

   “Oh yeah sorry this Derek!”

   “Oh sorry this is Scott!” Allison and Stiles talk over each other while hands cross and bump in the air.

   “Hey.”

   “What’s up.” Derek glowers, and shakes his hand. Stiles doesn’t miss the way Scott flexes his fingers when he takes his hand back.

   “So, we’ll see you guys later then.” Allison smiles, and grabs Scott by the arm. With one last narrow-eyed stare at Derek, Scott turns and lets himself be towed away.

   The moment they’re out of sight Stiles flings open his bedroom door and bundles Derek inside. “So now you’ve met my friends. Ha! Well, half of them anyway, there’s still Lydmnggf…”

   Derek’s tongue ends the string of words and muscle Stiles up against the door. He grinds the solid length of his cock against Stiles’ crotch, and what little brain function remained gets wiped away.

   Derek’s hand slips down Stiles’ back, into his shorts and creeps down his cleft. “Uhm.” Stiles pulls away a bit, swallowing. “I need to, uhm, tidy up.” He drops his eyes, face burning.

   Derek kisses the top of his head. “Hurry back.”

   Stiles tears through the bathroom like a man possessed. The toilet flushes, faucets open and close several times. He catches sight of himself in the mirror, takes a moment. “Just, be cool.”

   He closes his bedroom door behind him and locks it. “I’m back, ready to go, ready to… rumble… fuck.”

   “That would be my intention with you, yes.”

   Derek is laid out on his bed, stark naked, legs spread, lazily working an erection that alone has Stiles gulping. The ambient glow from the bedside lamp paints shadows across his face, pool in the valleys and indents of his muscled, hairy torso. His breathing is deep, broad chest rising and falling. He looks over at Stiles, like a cat bored with his human. “Is this going to be a party for one, or are you gonna join me?”

   “Join… uh, join you… yes. Definitely join you.”

   Stiles doesn’t strip as much as wrestle, jump and kick at his clothes. His cock slaps against his stomach when freed, his hands awkward in their rush to cover himself.

   “Come here.” Derek instructs gently.

   Stiles takes a breath and walks to the bed on rubbery legs. He climbs up and settles himself across Derek’s thigh, straddling the thick mound of muscle. Derek lets go of his cock and brush a finger across Stiles’ knee. Stiles shivers, running his tongue over his lips. “This is really happening, huh?”

   Derek nods, his eyes dark and hungry.

   With a shuddery sigh, Stiles moulds his hands to the grooves between Derek’s abs and runs them up to between his pecks. “You are un-fucking-believable.” Stiles murmurs.

   Derek frowns. “Have you seen yourself?”

   Stiles just smirks. He combs through the hair on Derek’s chest, then follows the wide trail of hair down, over his bellybutton, to where those two perfectly delineating muscles curve around his hips down to his groin.

   “These are my favourite.”

   Derek smiles and props his erection up with his index finger.  “How about this?”

   He’s almost burning hot when Stiles takes him in his hand, the deliciousness of his fingers just able to span his girth having him shudder with pulse-hammering lust. “Close second.”

   He pulls down gently on Derek’s cock, stretching his foreskin halfway back to find the whole head coated in slick. He milks the heavy rod of flesh and watches as even more precum weeps from his slit to run down his frenulum.

   For all his apparent calm he can feel short trembles shake through Derek. He looks up at him, his darkened face absolutely debouched, full lips parted in a freeze frame of pleasure. Stiles leans forward and slowly lap at the drop of pre-cum. Derek’s musk fills his nose, thick and pungent here where it’s most concentrated.

   Derek groans, one hand coming up to tangle in his hair. Stiles smiles, stroking him slowly, then sticks out his tongue and fit it underneath the head. He tastes him, laves back and forth along the thick, flared ridge a few times before leaning in and closing his mouth over his cockhead, stretching his jaw as far as it will go.

   “Fuck…” Derek exhales.

   Stiles hums, hollowing his cheeks as he tries to suck in as much of him as he can manage which is barely two inches past the head. So he does is best to work with his tongue around the fat crown, plays with the slit. His mouth is flooded with precum, the salty flavour all Derek.

   He pulls off only to give his jaw a reprieve, but Derek uses the moment to sit up and flip them around. He lies down on top of Stiles, and holds his gaze for just a second before he fills Stiles’ mouth, moaning with every swipe of his tongue, pressing his head down into the cushion. Stiles grinds his cock against Derek’s, smearing precum over both of them. He has his arms stretched around the broad expanse of Derek’s back, fingers kneading the muscles that play and jump under the skin. Derek is an immovable block of heat on top of him and he shifts his legs from underneath Derek, lifts them to hook around his waist. Derek immediately grinds down, catching him off guard and startling a deep oomph from him.

   “Sorry.” Derek breathes.

   “’s okay don’t stop.” Stiles assures him.

   Their cocks slide against each other in their gathering sweat and precum, and Stiles grimaces in a second of pain when Derek’s cock catches his balls, the big guy all but crushing him into the mattress.

   Derek abandons Stiles’ mouth in favour of his neck, sucking from his throat up along his jawline, grinding down into the junction of Stiles’ hip and thigh. He lifts himself off Stiles, straddling him, one hand stretched across his toned stomach. He lightly teases the trail of hair joining Stiles’ belly button and groin, seemingly lost in caressing the young man whom lies panting beneath him.

   “Look at you.” Derek breathes, eyes drawing over his lithe frame, following his stroking hands up to his face, his pupils blown. He crawls over him until they’re face to face. His smile is positively carnal when he brush his lips against Stiles’ ear. “I’m going to fuck you now.” he announces easily. Stiles’ mouth falls open, but he is easily flipped onto his stomach before he can respond, Derek’s strength as much a turn on as the almost fervent way with which he grips his hips, running his hands up and down the curve of his back before kneading the globes of Stiles’ ass, parting his cheeks with his thumbs.

   “Lube. Bedside drawer.” Stiles points, then adds under his breath, “Cause we’re definitely gonna need that.”

   Derek smirks, then reaches across towards the little bedside cabinet, opens the drawer and scratches around for a bit. Stiles cranes his neck to watch Derek’s progress until he finally produces the small bottle. There’s a snick as it’s opened, and Derek squirts a generous amount of clear lube into his hand. Then he’s leaning down half over Stiles, bracing himself on one hand, and when his lube-slicked fingers find their way to Stiles ’ass, all his thoughts blink out.

   Dropping down to his forearm, Derek softly bites along Stiles’ neck and shoulders when he presses slick fingers against Stiles’ hole, coating him completely, rubbing until it’s warmed up. Then he dips his thumb in, just the first digit, Stiles clenching around him, earning Derek a deep breathy groan. He slowly drags his thumb in and out while flattening his palm against Stiles’ taint, urging Stiles’ hips up and caressing his balls and cock with the rest of those thick fingers. He continues to fuck Stiles with his thumb while his fingers manage to work him over at the same time.

   Soon Derek’s thumb is buried to the webbed junction with his palm, and pulling out, replaces it with both his index and middle finger.

   “Aahh…” Stiles groans, grabbing fistfuls of bedding.

   “Okay?” Derek asks, and Stiles quickly nods, not able to string two words together, Derek’s thick digits curling and dragging along his insides. Stiles soon lose track of time, two fingers becoming three.

   “You still with me?” Derek asks, lazily working Stiles’ ass while rubbing across his back.

   “Full.” Stiles offers.

   “Good.” Derek hums. “Need to get you ready for me.”

   He opens his eyes when Derek’s fingers leave him, his hole loose and fluttering at the sudden emptiness. The bed dips as Derek gets off. He walks over to his discarded pants to fish his wallet from the pocket, and extracts two little foil packets from between the folds.

   He gets back on the bed, erection swinging obscenely from side to side. One packet gets dropped on the bedside table, the other is torn open with his teeth. He rolls the condom down over his length, then squirt a thick dollop of clear lube all along the top of his erection. Derek proceeds to slowly spread it along his shaft, his hand angled with his thumb turned towards him. He smiles lasciviously as he slicks up the head with Stiles watching him. “Still good?”

   “Be generous with the lube. Really.”

   Derek wipes his hand on his thigh and crawls over him. “We’ll take it slow. No rush.”

   Stiles sinks down into the mattress under Derek’s solid weight. He locks their fingers together above Stiles head, and rolls his hips, nudging his fat cockhead up in between his cheeks and right up against Stiles’ entrance. It’s slick and so warm. He’s testing, poking, prodding the muscle to open, begging for entry. 

   “Just relax for me, okay? Let me take care of you.”

   Stiles sighs into the pillow, and Derek squeezes his fingers, leaving a deep, lingering kiss on the nape of his neck at the same moment as he gives a few final exploratory prods, then bears forward, ever so slightly, just an inch…

   And Stiles’ mouth opens in a silent gasp as the tight ring of muscle stretch around Derek’s girth. Derek’s cockhead pops through, and he almost mangles the bigger man’s fingers.

   “Fuck, Stiles…” Derek groans.

   Stiles tries to ignore the burn, the dull pain that starts to build, focussing instead on Derek’s heart thundering against his spine.

   “You… okay?” Derek trembles.

   Stiles slowly nods before answering. “Yeah… Fuck you’re big.”

   “Tell me when.”

   Stiles tries to settle into the stretch, sucks in a deep breath through his nose, taking in Derek’s scent, the big guy never stopping with his soft kisses. When it doesn’t feel like he’s being wrenched apart anymore, Stiles squeezes Derek’s hand, giving a small clench around the head of his cock, which has Derek groaning in return.

   Letting go of Stiles’ hands Derek slides his arms underneath Stiles to cross his chest. He holds his teeth to the back of Stiles’ neck as he drives his hips forward again torturously slow, inch by ridiculously thick inch.

   “Aaah… Fuuu…” the words are cut off as velvet smooth walls part to fit around Derek’s cock, the pressure and heat increasing in tandem with Derek’s grip around his chest until tears form in Stiles’ eyes, until he is sure he’s going to implode.

   “Push back, push back.” Derek whispers in his ear. Stiles bears down to aid with the progression, grabbing hold of Derek’s upper arm in painful concentration.

   “Okay?” Derek asks, and Stiles want’s to scream no, that his intestines are being squeezed into his chest cavity. He releases his pent up breath, rather focusing on how amazing it feels to have Derek’s solid weight pushing him down, thick arms holding him tight. An image of Derek smiling at him for the first time pops into his head, and slowly he relaxes, his muscles settling to accommodate Derek’s girth.

   “Yes. Yeah. Okay,” he manages. Derek sucks on the junction between his neck and shoulder, then slowly pulls out, taking a deep drawn out groan from Stiles in the process. As slowly as his shaking hips would allow Derek pushes back in again, sliding deeper than before and drawing an ever deeper moan from Stiles. He does it again and again, slowly out, slowly in, easy does it, holding Stiles tight while he opens him up further and further, until he’s completely buried inside him, and then just holds it there.

   There are no words, just harsh panting. Derek shifts to rest on his forearms, decreasing the pressure on Stiles’ chest. He peppers him with soft love-bites all over his neck and shoulders, the side of his jaw – wherever his mouth can reach – all the while keeping himself buried deeply and tightly inside Stiles without moving so much as an inch.

   “Feels… oh God.” Stiles groans, tightening his hold on Derek’s arm.

   “You have no idea…” Derek breathes, kissing him on the cheek, then nudging the side of Stiles’ face to steal a sloppy kiss from his mouth that’s more tongue than anything else.   

   “Move with me.” Derek lifts himself onto his hands and scoop a shaking Stiles up with him, their hips joined. Even if he didn’t support him, Stiles is sure he would’ve been lifted by Derek’s cock alone, tied to him as he is.

   Derek crouches flush over his back with his hands planted next to Stile’s, the smaller body fitting snugly underneath him. Hot breath against his cheek, Derek starts rolling his hips in tight circles, barely sliding in and out, curling warm slickness around the shell of Stiles’ ear with his tongue. “This okay?” Derek asks, voice wavering.

   “S… So good.” Stiles answers, and grabs hold of a muscled arm to steady himself, Derek’s ever increasing pace starting to pull his breath from him in short bursts. The dull pain that threatened to end his evening has been replaced by a steady fullness and small pulses of pleasure that increase with every push and drag of Derek’s cockhead. It has him reaching for his own neglected cock where it’s swinging between his legs.

   Suddenly he’s hauled up and leaned back against Derek’s chest as the big guy sits back, feet tucked underneath him. He lets Stiles straddle his legs and start to rock his hips again, arms clamped around his sweaty torso. Derek thighs quaver with every measured slide, lips pressed against the damp skin of Stiles’ neck. He drags a hand over his firm stomach, past his groin to between his legs. He slides his fingers past Stiles’ drawn-up sack and prods the flesh where it’s taut around his cock.

   “Feel that? Feel me stretching you open?”

   Stiles strips his cock. “Yes… yes.”

   Derek cups his other hand around Stiles’ throat and angles his head back at the same time as he knuckles Stiles hand away to take over his dick. “Get used to it.” and capturers his mouth in a filthy kiss as his hips speeds up. Stiles groans his agreement and lifts his arms up and over to link his fingers behind Derek’s neck. They find a rhythm; Stiles driving down against Derek’s every up-stroke.

   “I’m… close…” Stiles whimpers.

   “Not yet.” Derek just grunts, and leaves another bruise with his mouth on Stiles skin, each upward thrust like he’s aiming to knock Stiles’ heart right out of his ribcage, like he wants to bodily lift him off the bed.

   “De… Derek… I’m… gonna…”

   Derek brutally snaps his hips up, biting down hard against the junction of Stile’s neck and shoulder, and Stiles’ walls contract around his cock.

   “Unghhh!” Stiles shoots an arc over the bed onto the rumpled linen, the following spurts of cum splattering over Derek’s knuckles. With his hole still convulsing Derek follows suit with his own orgasm, blunt teeth digging into the back of Stiles’ neck, his hips stuttering with his cock pumping load after load into the condom. He crushes Stiles to him, bending him over as his own body curls in on itself.

   When the shocks die down, Derek sags forward, taking Stiles with him, both collapsing onto their sides at the foot of the bed. They’re wiped out, drifting, flushed crimson from head to toe.

   “So that’s… how it’s suppose… to feel.” Stiles pants in a dazed state, eyelids drooping, floating on a cloud. Derek pulls him closer and kisses the sweaty side of his neck.

   After a few minutes, Derek pulls out as slowly as he can. Stiles hisses, and Derek lightly press his fingers against Stiles’ fluttering hole, holding them there. Stiles reaches behind him to caress Derek’s head, his eyes catching sight of the slick, cum-filled condom hanging from the end of his flagging cock.

   Derek slips off the condom and closes his hand around it without a care. “Bathroom?”

   Stiles just points in the general direction of the hall.

   Derek plants a quick kiss on Stiles’ forehead. The mattress dips when he gets up. Stiles turns to watch Derek walk towards the door, sweat-shiny ass flexing, the hair on his solid thighs washing over the lower half of his glutes and disappearing into his crack. 

   He returns a minute later with a glass of water and two washcloths. Stiles grins when he imagines what could have happened if someone had walked in on him in the kitchen.

   “What?” Derek asks.

   “Nothing.” Stiles smiles, and quickly downs the whole glass before collapsing back on the bed. Derek straddles Stiles’ prone form, and with one cloth draped over his thigh, proceeds to wipe up Stiles’ cum with the other.

   It’s like he’s handling a priceless artefact, the way Derek gently cleans him. It clenches at Stiles’ heart. The warm, moist cloth feels like heaven, his lips parting just a bit when Derek moves down, pausing to dip into his belly button, before gently cleaning his still sensitive cock.

   Satisfied, Derek moves to his own flaccid cock, pulling back his foreskin to wipe around the head, blinking up at Stiles with a dreamy smile.

   Throwing the soiled cloth on a nearby chair, he takes the clean  one and shifts to sit between Stiles’ legs, nudging his thighs apart.

   “Lift ‘em an’ spread ‘em.”

   Stiles colours. “No, wait, you really don’t have to aah…” Derek ignores his protestations and lifts his legs for him. The warm, moist softness that glides across his still very tender hole has his eyelids fluttering. He wipes up and over Stiles’ taint and along his sack, even cleaning the back of his thighs.

   It should be so embarrassing. Hell, mortifying. And yet it’s the most intimate thing Stiles has ever had done to him. Derek’s big hands are gentle, hovering almost, touching Stiles in a way that has him finally closing his eyes in surrender. A thick, calloused finger run oh so gently over the puffy flesh of his entrance, inspecting him.

   “Everything okay down there?” Stiles asks sleepily.

   Derek looks up, his brow creased in concentration. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

   “Nope.”

   “Liar.”

   “I’m not!” When Derek just looks at him Stiles sighs. “Okay, so I’m definitely gonna feel you in the morning. But it’s fine, so very, very fine. I promise.”

   “’m sorry?” Derek offers.

   “Oh man, you never have to say sorry.” Stiles grins and drags a hand through his sex-mussed hair. ”Like ever. Like, I’m able to see the earths’ magnetic fields now.”

   Lifting an eyebrow Derek slowly nods. “Glad I could help.”

   Stiles smiles sardonically, and Derek goes back to his task. He gives one last wipe before flinging the cloth away to join the other one. He then sits back, feet still tucked underneath him and run his hands along the inseam of Stiles’ thighs, brushing down to his sack.

   Stiles watches him closely, completely relaxed. “Is this where you yawn and tell me you have to get up early?”

   Derek’s hands pause, and for one icy cold second Stiles thinks he’s gone and jinxed it all.

   “Do you want me to go?”

   “No!” Stiles sits up, his post-coital composure out the window. “No, I don’t want you to go. Like, ever. I mean, of course you’ll have to go sometime, to your own place, cause you don’t live here, and why would you, we’d probably drive you nuts, but what I mean is…

   Derek folds his hand over Stiles mouth and gently pushes him back down. He lies down on top of him and brackets his face with his forearms, fingers locked on the pillow above Stiles’ head. “I would like to stay.”

   They kiss, slow and easy, taking their time, steeped in their mutual afterglow. Stiles embraces him, drowning in the pure bliss of having all that solid, warm muscle overfill the circumference of his arms, of Derek’s ample junk pressed up against his own like it’s the most normal thing ever.

   He waits for the awkwardness to settle in, but eventually it’s only sleep that comes knocking.

oOo

Stiles feels like he’s barely closed his eyes when a wall of heat slowly pull him back to consciousness.  

   “Oh good, you’re awake.” Derek nuzzles into his neck and tightens his hold around him, his erection hot and thick where it’s laid up against the small of his back. “I have to open up for the morning staff in twenty minutes.”

   “Hmm.” Stiles grinds back against him. “Then we better take care of that, don’t you think?”

   “You read my mind.”

   He’s still not quite back to his senses when Derek hitches his leg up. A sleep-dumb hand reaches behind him to find Derek’s hip, and Derek presses forward at the invitation, coating Stiles still tender entrance with his precum.

   The mattress dips as he shifts to prep himself. He lies back against Stiles, takes him in his arms, smears lube against Stiles’ hole with the fat tip of his cock, and on an exhale that turns into a groan spears him in one continues, leisurely slide. Stiles sucks in his breath, whimpers as Derek immediately starts to roll his hips, doesn’t give him time to accommodate. He lies half over Stiles, pressing him into the mattress, the speed of his thrusts picking up.

   “Slow… Slower…”

   “No time… for slow.” Derek grinds out. He only half listens to the rest of Stiles’ pleas, kisses away his broken-off sobs. He rolls over and hooks an arm around the back of Stiles’ knees to lift him snugly into his lap, then lies back against the headboard. The boy’s hands flutter around for purchase, and Derek grabs them both, cross them over his chest with one hand while his free hand takes ownership of Stiles cock to bring it to full hardness.

   Derek’s grunts mix with Stiles’ increasingly high moans as Derek pile-drives upward, heavy sack bouncing around.

   “Oh fuck…” Stiles whimpers and Derek spills into the condom with a low groan and stuttering deep thrusts, just as Stiles shakes through his own orgasm.

   He holds him there in his lap, arms tight around his slender frame. He is a solid, wide bed of muscle beneath Stiles, hard and yielding at the same time.

   “So no breakfast?” Stiles asks, his breath racing, his whole body rising and falling with Derek’s.

   “You were breakfast.” Derek answers, and drags the hand covered in Stiles’ cum up his trembling stomach.

   “Next time, then.” Stiles repeats dreamily.

   “Next time. Promise.”

   “Don’t disappear again.” Stiles murmurs just before he drifts off again.

     Derek kisses a sweaty temple. “I won’t.”

oOo

Chapter Text

“Good morning, stud!”

   Derek startles, knocking the mouse which blinks the computer screen back to life. He looks up to find Erica leaning against the door of his small office at the back of the restaurant’s kitchen. He ignores her and squints at the computer screen.

   “Well?”

   “Well what?” Derek asks the screen.

   “Is he still able to walk?”

   Derek can’t help the blush that tints his ears. “Don’t be crass.”

   “Hey, living vicariously.” She saunters in and perches on the edge of the desk, next to Derek’s keyboard. “So?”

   “So what?”

   “Oh my god! Stop being so obtuse. How did it go?”

   “Fine.”

   Erica folds her arms. “Seriously, Derek?”

   Derek sighs. “If it was up to me I wouldn’t have left him.”

   Her features soften. “I know.”

   Derek makes a well there you go then gesture with his hands before turning back to the computer.

   “When are you seeing him again?”   

   “We haven’t made plans yet.”

   A paperclip bounces off his cheek, and he slowly turns his stormy gaze at Erica.

   “Have you called him yet?” she asks sweetly.

   “I don’t want to crowd him.” He starts tapping away at the keyboard with two rigid index fingers.

   “How do you even manage to tie your shoe laces?”

   Derek sighs. “Shouldn’t you be out front?”

   There’s the electronic click of a camera shutter. Derek looks at her, scowl and eyebrows working in unison. “If you post that anywhere, so help me…”

   “Relax, I’m doing you a favour.” She snatches his cellphone off the desk and scrolls through his contact list.

   “Erica, what the…”

   “My pleasure.” She smiles wickedly, and hands him his phone back. “I’ll be out front if you need anything.”

oOo

Scott clinks his beer against Stiles’. “Hey, are you even listening to me?”

   “What? Yeah, of course.”                        

   They have their feet on the railing, each with a beer in hand while Jackson snores on the daybed behind them. On the beach below Allison and Lydia are soaking up the sun. Scott stares sidelong at a hickey peeking out from the collar of Stiles’ shirt. Stiles catches him and grins. “You should see the rest of me.”

   “Ugh, bro. No share.”

   Stiles chuckles. His cell pings with a message, and he quickly pulls it out of his pocket, hopeful that it’s from him. He got a ‘good morning’ and ‘phone you later’, but that was hours ago.

   The message is a photo of him, at least; bowed over a keyboard, forehead creased in concentration.

unknown number:

   I think he misses you.

   Then another, close on its heels.

unknown number:

It’s Erica, btw.

   Stiles thumbs dance across the keypad.

   “Oh my god, you are totally sexting!”

   “Am not!” Stiles blushes, and turns away from Scott.

   “Yes you are! You have that… that sexting face.”

   Stiles ignores him. Scott’s chair scrapes back. “I’m going down to the beach.”

   Stiles waves him off, eyes on the pic of Derek.

oOo

The ping of a messages has Derek scanning the desk for his cell. His irritation is quickly replaced by a small smile and a bubble in his chest when he sees it’s from Stiles.

Stiles:

All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy...

   Derek reads the words over and over, his smile growing as he replies.

Gotta pay the rent.

Stiles:

How about a distraction…?

   Derek rolls his chair closer to the desk to hide the obvious bulge growing in his crotch.

oOo

Stiles barely lets his phone ring before he answers it, but Derek still beats him to it.

   “Got anything in mind?”

   “Let me make you dinner.”

   “Guess it’s a bit late to buy you that drink.”

   Stiles wriggles in his seat. “I’ll live.”

   “Good to know.”

   Behind Stiles Jackson groans awake. “Well I just threw up in my mouth.”

oOo

“He’s hiding something.”

   Stiles thumps the knife down next to the chopping block and glares at Lydia. “Enough with the paranoia! And stop eating those, you’re gonna spoil your dinner.”

   Lydia just re-crosses her legs where she’s perched on the edge of the kitchen counter. Manicured fingernails disappear into the garishly coloured foil packet to retrieve yet another potato chip. “Not paranoid, just perceptive,” she replies calmly, still looking out to the front porch where Scott, Allison, Jackson and Derek are having beers. “And he’s guarded.”

   “He’s not guarded, he’s just… shy.”  

   “Looking like that? What the hell does he have to be shy about?”

   “Lydia, he’s fine, okay? The guy’s… He’s fine.”

   “I have some mace, if you want to borrow it.”

   “Oh my god!” the knife clatters on the counter.

   “What? Have you noticed the way he looks at you? No, you haven’t, because you’re all sexed-up.”

   “What are you even-”

   “A steak. He looks at you like you’re a big, fat juicy steak.”

   Stiles’ cheeks colour. “That’s not necessarily a bad thing,” he grins, and carries on with the chopping.

   “And when Scott ruffled your hair I though he was gonna jump up and tear his throat out. With his teeth.”

   “Will you stop it! Why can’t all of you just be happy for me instead of trying to pick him apart the whole time.”

   Lydia raises one perfectly plucked eyebrow. Stiles purposely ignores her, cutting into the vegetables with force. She places the packet of chips on the counter next to her, and flicks off the few crumbs that dare cling to her clothes. “You do know summer romances are just that; seasonal.”

   “What are you talking about? Of course. Don’t be ridiculous.”

   “Don’t do this to yourself.”

   “Do what?” Stiles asks irritably, not looking up.

   Lydia watches him as he carries on cutting. Eventually she sighs.

   “Careful with that knife.”

   A chair on the porch scrapes as someone gets up.

   “I’m not gonna cut myself. I think I know how to…”

   “Need some help with that?”

   Both look up at Derek standing in the kitchen, Lydia’s mouth at once turning down. Derek doesn’t spare her a glance.

   “Hey you! No I’m good, thanks.”

   “Here.”

   Derek moves to stand behind him, quite purposefully pressing Stiles up against the kitchen island when he leans over him. With his chest flush against his back he plants his feet on either side of Stiles’. He reaches around and covers Stiles’ hands with his own, his fingers – as long and capable as they are – still like a small bird in the cage of Derek’s own much thicker fingers.

   “Hold it closer to the blade, like this.” Derek breathes into Stiles’ ear, rearranging his grip on the handle. His crotch comes to just above the rise of his ass, right where the cleft begins, and he presses forward with his hips at the same time that he guides Stiles through cutting up the rest of the tomato.

   “There.”

   “Thanks.” Stiles answers, not nearly as together as his instructor.

   “My pleasure. Don’t want you slicing up these beautiful hands.” He places a kiss on the back of Stiles’ head, and grinds his hips forward one last time before stepping away.

   On his way out of the kitchen he purposely looks at Lydia and blatantly adjusts his crotch, then winks at her for good measure.

   “You will take my mace.” Lydia announces when Derek is back on the porch, and roughly digs into the packet of chips.

oOo

They have peanut brittle ice cream and caramel sauce for dessert while the storm breaks around them.

   An inebriated Jackson and Scott start a food fight while Allison (who is by now also a bit unsteady on her feet) thinks it good to referee. Lydia is chewing Derek’s ear off trying to pull him into a political argument, Derek listening attentively, even though Stiles is sure he has no interest in it.

   Underneath the table Derek’s hand is warm and heavy where it’s spread out over Stiles’ thigh. Stiles absentmindedly plays with the hair on his forearm, running his fingers along the veins to his knuckles.

   The rain lashes the side of the house, palm fronds shaking furiously.

oOo

The storm passes quickly, the invigorating smell of rain-washed freshness mixing with the salty ocean tang. The evening air is crisp and wet, stars twinkling where the clouds have broken up. Short burst of lightning still flash in the distant night sky as the storm moves up along the gulf, making for a breath-taking night-time light show. 

   Stiles isn’t aware of any of it.

   He’s sprawled out on the daybed on the front porch, an amorous Derek doing his best to unravel him one love bite at a time.  

   “I… ungh… I take it you liked… my cooking then?” he asks.

   “I loved your cooking.” Derek purrs, and grinds down again, Stiles tangled in his legs and arms. He nudges Stiles chin up with his nose and rubs his beard all over his throat. “Finally have you all to myself.” He says, and latches on to the soft skin. He sucks and licks until Stiles is a writhing mess underneath him. “Fuck, you smell so good…”

   “I do?” Stiles frowns, eyes fluttering open.

   Derek hums as he moves down Stiles’ body, off the daybed, until he’s kneeling on the floor. He pulls Stiles so his ass rest on the edge, his legs limp on either side of Derek. Derek starts to unbutton his jeans, and Stiles jolts upright.

   “Derek, wait!” he hisses, but Derek pays him no mind. “Someone’s gonna walk in…”

   “They’re all sleeping, relax.” Derek says smoothly,

   “You don’t know that!” Stiles forcefully whispers.

   “Oh, but I do.” and shoves Stiles back down with one hand while pulling his jeans and boxers down with the other. The cool night air washes over Stiles’ aching hardness, but he barely has time to register before Derek dips his head and sucks a violent red mark into his hip, right where the bone juts against his creamy skin.

   “Aaah!” Stiles hisses, and tries to squirm away, but Derek’s hold has him bolted down.

   “Shhh. You don’t want to wake up your friends, do you?” Derek smiles up at him, and immediately bites another mark on the opposite hip.

   “Ughh. Bastard.” Stiles moans around his fist.

   Derek’s breath washes over the blooming marks. “Fuck, look at that. Perfect.” And without another wasted second dives down to swallow Stiles’ cock to the root, the sudden warm, wet, Holy God don’t let this ever stop suction of Derek’s mouth spinning his eyes into his brain.

   “Holy… aaaah… fuck…”

   Derek doesn’t gag. He doesn’t even blink. His nose is buried in the curls at the base of Stiles’ dick, his tongue a slick sheath of heaven that suckles his cock against the insides of cheeks until Stiles can feel the back of Derek’s throat. His fingers find the Derek’s head, raking across his scalp to tangle in the damp tuffs across the top, his lips parted in breathless ecstasy. “Derek… wait… fuck.” Stiles whines, fingers grasping for something, anything, until they take hold of the big guy’s t-shirt where it’s stretched over his shoulders. Derek pushes Stiles own t-shirt up to under his arms and pinches both nipples. Stile twist and moans.

   Derek hooks Stiles’ legs over his arms and cup his ass. He starts to move Stiles hips up and down like he’s doing bicep curls, bobbing his head in counter, effectively letting Stiles fuck his mouth. Stiles is sure he’s going crossed eyed with pleasure. He weakly reaches out, Derek lost in his task, pumping Stiles’ hips like his only goal is to devour him.

   “Derek… Oh my god… I’m… I’m…”

   And Stiles comes down his throat. His back arches off the bed, one leg slipping off Derek’s arm. Derek doesn’t pull off, timing his sucking with every spasm Stiles cock gives. When Stiles mewls from the overstimulation he drops Stiles hips back onto the bed and rears up. He hastily rips open the buttons of his fly and frees his erection. He props one knee on the bed, leans over Stiles and fists his t-shirt over one shoulder. He starts to strip his cock furiously, his eyes hooked on Stiles.

   It only takes a few strokes before he comes, groaning through tightly pressed lips, the tendons in his jaw and neck bulging. His come shoots a searing stripe up Stiles’ chest, the next round catching his chin, then sideways across his ribcage. By the time Derek milks his dick for the last drop there is a gathering puddle of his seed in the dip below Stiles’ sternum.

   Stiles lifts his head with what little energy he has left. “I think you missed a spot.”

   Derek’s short laugh is breathless and filled with contentment.    “I think we should move this to your room.” He says, a whisper of a smile in his stupidly handsome face.

   “Are you staying over?” Stiles asks, and instantly hates how whiny and hopeful he sounds.

   Derek nods, and leans down to lip at his happy trail, then licks out his bellybutton. Stiles looks down with a grimace. Derek’s half hard cock leaves a glistening trail up his leg as he moves over him, licking up his own seed and spreading it further. His hand travels up Stiles’ thigh and slips between his legs, teasing over his asshole. “Are you sore? Can I fuck you again?”

   “Yeah, yes. I mean no! Not sore, I’m fine. And yes, you can. Absolutely.” He is still sore, Derek’s prodding finger insistent at his furled hole. But not even the Hounds of Hell can keep him from having Derek inside him again.

   Derek lifts an eyebrow. “Some other time, then.”

   “What? No! Seriously.”

   “Are you gonna stop lying to me then?”

   “Oh my god.” Stiles huffs. It’s creepy how well Derek can read him. But Derek’s attention is back to the mess he made. “Hey, Picasso, when you’re done inspecting your masterpiece, could you get me some paper towels, please? Next to the micro…”

   “No.” Derek cuts him off, eyes trailing over Stiles, brow furrowed. “You’re staying like this. Besides, I’m just gonna dirty you up again.”

   Ten minutes later they’re back in Stiles room and spread out on his bed, his tee somewhere over a chair, his jeans and boxers hanging off one foot. Derek sucks his third mark into Stiles’ hip, three fingers knuckle-deep in his hole.

   “I’m picking you up tomorrow at six pm.” Derek says and drag his nose down the crease of Stiles’ hip and thigh. “And pack a bag.”

   “Yeah, okay.” Stiles agrees, already half spaced-out.

   Derek settles between his legs, lifts one over his shoulder, the other gripped firmly by his ankle. “And Stiles? I always know when you’re lying.”

   Stiles can’t answer, his breath stolen by Derek as he fills him up.

oOo

Smoke. So much thick, chocking smoke. And the heat; singeing his eyebrows and skin, just to heal again once he’s beaten back by the flames. There are sirens everywhere; hazy red and blue flashes through the walls of black, acrid clouds. But the firemen and policemen all just stand in a circle around what was once his home, while his whole life disappears in a volcano of sparks thrown up into the night sky.

  “Do something!” he screams, loud enough to tear at his throat.

   They all look at him then with eyes as black soot.

   Derek wakes with an intake of breath, his skin sticking to Stiles where he lies with an arm flung across Derek’s chest, flushed and sweaty. He takes a moment to just get his breathing back, for the dream to fade away and the reality of the peaceful heartbeat next to him to calm him again. The instinct to gather Stiles up and curl around him is almost overpowering. Instead he smiles softly at the little bit of drool gathered at the corner of his mouth. His Cupid’s bow is squished up like a delicate piece of origami where his face is pressed against his pectoral. His wondrous scent finally chases away any and all ghostly traces of smoke.

   Flashes of lightning paint the walls and ceiling in bursts of brilliant white as the distant rumbling announces another night time storm. The humidity has doubled, the open shutters of Stiles’ room doing nothing to alleviate the mugginess.

   Ever so gently he rolls the sleeping boy to the side and slides off the bed. He turns on the ceiling fan, then digs his cell phone out of his discarded pants to check for the time, before walking back to stand right next to the bed, the slender form below him lying still and peaceful amid the rumpled sheets, those two perfect globes of that perfect, perfect ass on display.

   For just a sweet moment he affords himself the fantasy of having this every day, Stiles lax and spread out on his bed every morning when he wakes up, all pale skin and long limbs akimbo.

   He comes back to himself with a sharp intake of breath, his fingers curled around a slender ankle.

   A searchlight-strength flash lights up the whole room. Derek doesn’t flinch, nor does he steel himself against the thunderclap that follows. Stiles though jerks awake.

   “Derek?” he lifts his head, sleep-confused and a little bit panicked. Derek’s lying down behind him in a millisecond, arms around him, legs rucked up cover his’. Stiles instantly goes pliant.

   “Shh, it’s just lightning,” he calms him, kissing the back of his neck.

   “What’re you doin’?” Stiles asks, voice thick with sleep.

   Derek smiles, rubbing his hand up along Stiles’ stomach, his thumb grazing a soft nipple. “I was just turning on the fan.” 

   “’K. ‘S nice.” Stiles murmurs, sounding like he’s drifting off again.

   The first fat drops splatter down, rapidly turning into a steady downpour. It rises to a crescendo, drumming off the roof. The ceiling fan spreads the moist air rolling in, and soon it’s pleasantly cool.

   Derek buries his nose in Stiles hair, inhaling his sleep-warm scent.

oOo

Stiles wakes to an empty bed once again.

   Sitting up on his elbows he spots a sheet of paper resting on his bedside table. He instantly recognises it as one of the sheets torn from an outdated calendar that hangs in the kitchen.

   He carefully picks it up, his heart and stomach trading places when his brain deciphers what has been drawn across the back of the cheap pulp.

   Blue ink from a plain old ballpoint perfectly form the curve of his back and shoulders down to a suggestion of his ass, arms flung carelessly in slumber down his side and up by his head. It’s his face though that the artist has spent time on, forming and shading his features to detailed perfection. In contrast his hair is a cloud of almost angry scratches above the beautiful, descriptive lines the artist managed to capture.

   But it’s the smaller version of Derek’s triskele tattoo, artfully shaded as a suggestion on one shoulder blade, that has something warm and utterly delicious coil in his stomach.

   Stiles wordlessly cradle the artwork in his hands, staring at nothing in particular as the world around him slowly wakes up.  

oOo

   “Derek!” Erica shouts at them to be heard above the din of the restaurant. She’s dressed in a pair of Daisy Dukes and a frilly top, her golden locks a mass of loose curls around her shoulders. Derek tightens his grip on Stiles’ hand.

   “And what did you think about Scorpio Key?” she asks Stiles when they reach the bar-area from where Erica waved them over.

    Stiles forehead burns. He doesn’t look at either her or Derek. “Memorable.”

   She smirks at Derek. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

   “I believe you saved us a table?” Derek asks pointedly.

   Erica’s eyes linger on Derek for a moment longer. “Of course. Right this way, boss.”   

   Their table is at the end of the wraparound deck, the only one not occupied. Small lanterns flicker on each table where they stand next to the railing overlooking the dark bay, the balmy ocean breeze rustling the strings of bougainvillea hanging from the trellis above. Families and couples alike crowd the seating area; smiling, sun-kissed faces glowing in the light from the lanterns.

   “Nice.” Stiles remarks while taking in their surroundings. They’re barely seated when the curly haired pretty boy called Isaac, dressed in slops and shorts with a branded apron appears with a bottle of good wine. “Derek.”

   Derek nods, and Isaac places the bottle on the table.

   “Isaac, right?” Stiles pipes up. Two sets of eyes whip around to him.

   “Uh, yeah?”

   “I’m Stiles,” and he holds out his hand, smile as bright as the sun.

   Isaac hesitates, eyes jumping between Stiles and Derek – who is closely watching them both, his hand gripping the wine bottle.

   “Uh, yeah, I know.” Isaac nods, turns on his heels and leaves without so much as looking at him.

   “Okaaay.” Stiles pulls his hand back. “That wasn’t rude and awkward at all.”

   Derek uncorks the bottle and fill Stiles’ glass halfway. “You’ll have to excuse Isaac. He’s… new.”

   “New to what? Manners?”

   “Don’t mind him. He’s just nervous.”

   Stiles debates whether to call him on his bullshit or not when Derek lifts his glass, close-lipped smile back that makes him forget about everything. He joins his glass with Derek’s. “And what are we toasting to, Mister Hale?”

   Derek clinks, his smile roguish. “Potato salad.”

   Stiles grins. “I’ll drink to that.”

oOo

   By the time Isaac clears their plates (still barely acknowledging him) Stiles is pleasantly buzzed. Derek, on the other hand, is handling his liquor like a champ, his fifth empty beer bottle whisked away by another waiter.

   Unfair, Stiles thinks.

   “What?” Derek asks with a smile.

   “Nothing.” Stiles answers quickly. He takes one of Derek’s hands and turn it around, unfolds the thick fingers until it is spread out all wide and angular in his own. 

   “Your hands are so coarse.”

   “All those boxes of tequila.”

   Stiles trace over the fleshy cushion of Derek’s palm, mapping the crease of his life line. “The tattoo you drew on my back; it’s the same one as yours, right?”

   “It is.”

   “A triskele you called it, right? Does it mean anything?”

   “It’s symbolic of the power of three; man, wife and child; mind, body and soul; father, son and holy spirit… Different things to different people.”

   “What does it mean to you?” Stiles asks as his finger draws out the three-spiralled design on Derek’s palm

   “Nothing in particular. I just liked the shape.”

   Stiles looks up from Derek’s hand. “You know, you’re not the only one that can spot a lie.”

   “It’s just a tattoo, Stiles.”

   “If you say so.”

   Derek slides his feet to snugly bracket Stiles’ under the table at the same time as he turns his hand around to cover the smaller one underneath. “My dad had the same one.”

   “Oh.” Stiles lets go of Derek’s hand and sits back. “I’m sorry, I should have just left it.”

   A thick finger to his mouth stops him. Derek’s smile is soft, so beautiful it catches Stiles breath. “Wanna get out of here?”

oOo

Stiles rubs his arms. The open-top, night-time drive has completely sobered him up, but also cooled him down.

   “You cold?” Derek frowns, throwing an arm across Stiles’ lap to rub his legs.

   “I’m fine.”

   Derek ignores him, reaching behind him to grab a discarded towel from the backseat.

   “Here,” he says and drape the towel over Stiles as best he can with one hand.

   “Seriously Derek, I’m okay,” he smiles.

   “I know.” Derek smiles back, still busy covering him with the towel. Stiles lets him, the warmth he feels seeping into his bones having nothing to do with the towel blanketing him.

   “So, mister Hale, how good are you at driving while distracted.”

   Eyebrows regard him. “Distracted?”

   Stiles reaches out and drapes his hand on a solid, hairy thigh. “Yeah, distracted.” He slides his hand up and cup Derek’s crotch.

   Derek opens his knees without hesitation and shrugs.

   “And this?” Stiles wiggles his hand under the waistband, his fingers sliding through the bush of wiry curls before they close around the base of Derek’s half hard cock.

   Derek begins to whistle.

   Stiles turns in his seat. “Oh game on, you smug bastard,” and bends forward. He quickly frees Derek’s rapidly hardening cock from the confines of his shorts and leans forward, the veined girth of him familiar in his hand, the texture of his skin, the taste of his musk.

   Stiles opens wide and goes to work.

   A small moan has him looking up. Through the little light that filters into the cab Derek’s darkened face looks absolutely debouched, full lips parted in a freeze frame of pleasure.  

  “Stiles, fuck…” he mumbles, one hand finding the back of Stiles’ head. His fingers fidget, squeeze then release, squeeze then release. Stiles’ head bobs in and out of Derek’s groin, his jaw aching, saliva slurping from between his lips to dribble into the raven coloured curls at the base of Derek’s cock. The jeep swerves. “I’m… getting close…” he warns.

   Stiles speeds up, alternating between sucking and licking. Derek starts to quake underneath him, the grip on the back of his neck almost painful. “Stiles… I’m gonna… Ungh…” And with a low groan, head thrust back, Derek comes, his hand clamped around Stiles’ neck while the jeeps’ tires dig through the wild grass on the shoulder of the road.

   Thick, salty cum shoot against the roof of Stiles’ mouth, burning his throat as he tries to swallow it all down. It’s too much, and spills from his mouth down his chin to drip into Derek’s pubes.

   The Jeep comes to a stop. Derek’s chest heaves. Stiles can see sweat on his brow when he sits up and wipes his mouth. His eyes flutter when he looks at him. “Think I’ve found a way to keep that smart mouth occupied.”

   “You reckon?”

   Derek leans in, and gives him a deep, filthy kiss, attacks him, before he palms Stiles tented crotch with a hot, sweaty hand. Then he’s inside his briefs, the entirety of Stiles’ junk cupped in one hot, rough hand before his next breath. Stiles gasps as Derek spreads his own precum to coat his dick.

   “Let’s go for a ride, shall we?”

   “Wha…?”

   The Wrangler’s engine roars as Derek stamps down on the gas and Stiles has to grab hold of his forearm as he’s shoved back into his seat, the tires spitting dirt and grass. Derek instantly starts jacking him off. There’s no easing into it. And as the car speeds up, so does his hand.

   Stiles has his mouth open, both hands clamped around Derek’s flexing forearm, eyes glued to the white lines of the road zooming past in the beams of the headlights. The surging wind numbs his ears, Derek’s coarse fingers absolute bliss and torture. His left hand is gripped securely around the steering wheel, navigating the car with superhuman reactions around bends and corners while he strips Stiles cock.

   Stiles nails sink into the muscles on Derek’s arm. “I’m close. Fuck I’m close.”

   Derek’s jaw is set, lips curled back in a predatory smile when he floors the gas. “Hold it.”

   Stiles eyes almost pop out of his skull. “Wha… What?”

   “You heard me.” The jeep rounds a corner almost on two wheels. He doesn’t let up on Stiles either.

   “Derek… I can’t…”

   “Hold. It.”

   Stiles digs his feet into the floor panel and press his face into a solid bicep, drinking in Derek’s scent. He must be drawing blood, the way his nails cut into his skin. It feels like his balls are crawling their way up his spine. “Derek, please.” he whimpers and bites his lip, even though he knows it’s no use. The thought of defying Derek is even worse than not coming.

   “Almost there.”

   The jeep is absolutely flying now. Stiles’ whole existence is Derek’s thick, rough fingers pulling him apart while the world races by.

   Derek twists the wheel and the car swerves onto gravel. It jostles Stiles and he moans unashamedly.

   “Come, now.”

   And Stiles blows his load with a wrenched-out sob as the jeep skids to a halt. His safety belt digs into his chest, compounded by his muscles contracting from his toes to his shoulders. Derek catches most of it in his hand, squeezes him for every last drop. 

   Stiles sags back against the headrest and watch through watery eyes as Derek extracts his hand and cleans his fingers with slow, deliberate licks. He sucks his thumb like he had just finished off a juicy burger, then digs his hand back into Stiles pants to once again enfold him completely. Stiles holds on to his arm, out of breath and completely dazed. Derek smooths his other hand down the side of his face, his thumb stroking the corner of his eyes and then down across his bottom lip. Stiles sucks it in without hesitation.

   “God, you’re perfect.” Derek leans in and kisses him slow and tenderly.

oOo

   They’ve stopped in a clearing next to a secluded inlet choked with reeds. A majestic live oak draped in Spanish moss stands sentry over a modest but neat bungalow balanced on stilts, a screened-off porch wrapped around the side facing the inlet. Next to the bungalow and closer to the water stands and old boatshed surrounded by palms, a boat ramp leading down to the shore. It’s private, pretty and lived-in.

   “This your place?” Stiles asks.

   “Yep.”

   They walk up the old timber stairs in silence. Though his legs are still wobbly, Stiles’ eyes have no trouble focusing between Derek’s bunching calves and flexing, perfect ass. Less than a dozen steps remain to Derek’s front door, a countdown that has Stiles thrumming with adrenaline even after he just came. His boxers are tacky with his cum by now, and he can’t wait to just get rid of them all together.

   The screen door is a dented metal sheet banging open, the door unlocked. Derek reaches just inside to switch on a lamp, then stands aside to let Stiles walk in first.

   If he had walked in blindfolded with no idea where he is, he would instantly have known it to be Derek’s place. It’s there under that familial deodorant which seems to be concentrated in the hollow of Derek’s throat; the unmistakeable musky tang of male sweat, Derek’s sweat when he slings an arm around his shoulders. It’s fabric softener and cleaning aids and wood polish; all mixed up in the scent that settles in the nooks and crannies of a space someone calls home.  

   “Home.” Stiles smiles when he breathes in.

   “That it is.”  

   Stiles walks in, Derek right behind him, the space revealed one illuminating lamp after another.

   “Derek this is so cool.” Stiles says reverently, looking around. He peers up at the painted, exposed rafters, the pitched ceiling easily fifteen feet high, with a row of clerestory windows up where the walls meet the rafters. A ceiling fan hangs suspended from a steel rod, blades slightly dented. Everything, from the slatted ceiling above to the clapboard walls is painted a calming off-white.  

   “Not what you were expecting?”

   “Yeah this isn’t a man cave at all.”

   Derek nods amusedly, his forehead already glistening from the heat. “Well, this place was a dump when we got here. It was used as storage, packed tighter than a jar of pickles. Hardly space for the boat.” He says. “I fitted it out with the little kitchen,” Derek points at the row of neat cabinets and small island. “And back there is the bathroom. Just a shower, not really necessary for…”

   “Wait. You did it yourself?”

   Derek dips his head, a proud slant to his mouth. Stiles walks towards the kitchen with its painted cabinetry, hand smoothing over the polished butchers block counter tops and mismatched wicker barstools. Next to it, row upon row of bookshelves continue along the wall from the floor up to where the pitched ceiling starts. At a glance it looks to be crammed with comics, paperbacks and magazines. A fair sized bed is pushed head first against the wall, the shelves framing it. A single goose-neck lamp is fixed to one shelve, hovering over the bed, with a small bedside cabinet to one side, piled high with more books.

   Stiles turns around. Numerous framed pieces of artwork adorn the opposite wall above a threadbare, but comfortable looking couch.

   He walks closer, lips parted. Pencil sketches and colour renderings in thin black frames are arranged in a seemingly senseless, but clearly delicately thought-out formation.

   Some of the sketches are figure studies - a heavily wrinkled old woman sitting by herself; a homeless man sleeping against a lamppost. The detail and humanity captured in their faces is, quite frankly, astounding. Most, though, are of wolves – in particular, the lone black wolf.

   A frameless canvas leaning against the adjoining wall commands his attention next. Stiles walks closer, studying it in detail. The oil painting is atmospheric and gripping, luring the observer in to try and make sense of the eerily lit landscapes.

   Derek walks over and leans sideways against the wall next to it, arms folded. Stiles doesn’t say a word. He can’t think of anything even remotely appropriate. Keeping his expression as stoic as possible, he reaches out and prods one bulging bicep with his finger. Derek’s frown is questioning.

   “Oh, you are real.”

   Derek’s shoulders shakes with silent laughter. “Last time I checked.”

   “You are something else you know that?” Stiles slowly shakes his head.

   “Nope. Just a regular Joe.”

   “Oh no, you most certainly are not. A bag full of mysteries is what you are. A cornucopia of mysteries.” Stiles insists. “A plethora.”

   One eyebrow climbs up Derek’s brow. “Those are mighty big words. You been saving them up?”

   “I’ve created a monster.”

   He’s unprepared for Derek’s smile, even as crooked as it is. But it’s a smile none the less, and his whole face lights up with it. He looks around at all that Derek has created. “You seriously need to get out from behind that bar counter.

   Derek pushes away from the wall, closing the gap between them with one step, and reaches out to cup Stiles’ face. A sheen covers both their exposed skin now, the air inside oppressive. Still, it’s the last thing on Stiles’ mind when his tongue curls around Derek’s, when he tastes beer, when his nose is filled with the scent of him.

   “Mind if I take a quick shower?” Stiles interrupts.

   “Go for it. Bathroom’s behind the kitchen.”

   Stiles opens his backpack.

   “Oh, and Stiles?”

   Stiles turns with his toiletries bag in his hand. “Yeah?”

   “Use my bodywash and shampoo, okay?”

   Stiles frowns a small smile at the serious look on Derek’s face. “Uh, okay.”

   “There should be fresh towels on the rail.”

   The bathroom is small but perfect; a toilet, small basin and shower fitted neatly inside. He uses the toilet (silently thanking his youthful metabolism) and after flushing, catches sight of himself in the little mirror above the basin. He pulls his t-shirt away from his moist skin, cheeks flushed, lips worried from Derek’s stubble.

  He strips quickly. Standing under the spray, he squirts a dollop of Derek’s bodywash in his palm. It’s strangely unscented. With the rest of the evening in mind, he starts scrubbing away the day’s sweaty grime (and dried cum) thoroughly cleaning himself everywhere, inside and out.

   Five minutes later he’s towelled dry, tugging his shorts back on. He doesn’t bother with his briefs, leaving his t-shirt off as well. It’s just too hot, plus he feels a bit grossed out to put it all back on after he has showered. And Derek has seen him naked already.

   “Okay.” he exhales at that thought, and walks out the bathroom.

   He is met by a cool breeze, the previously stale humidity replaced with ocean fresh, salt laden air that washes over him. Rounding the corner Stiles takes in the view: the back wall has disappeared, folded up and out just like a garage door. Of course, he thinks, it used to be an old boatshed. He spots Derek leaning against the railing of a small deck beyond. Just like Stiles he has gone shirtless, his silhouette softened by the warm glow from the various lamps inside, the skin on his broad back a golden backdrop for the triskelion tattoo. Becoming aware of Stiles he turns around, leaning back against the railing, abs rippling, a slow smile brightening his face.

   He has changed into comfortable mesh gym shorts, the soft fabric perfectly outlining the fact that the big guy has gone commando.

   Stiles falters, standing still, drinking in the site.

   “Everything all right?”

   Stiles nods. “Ah, yeah. Yeah. All good.”

   He goes to stand next to Derek, the sky for once clear of storm clouds, the starry heavens light enough to reveal the shape of the small bay spread out below, the moon slowly cycling up to full.

   “You smell good.”

   Stiles smiles. “Really? I don’t smell like anything.”

   “Oh but you do.”

   “Ah, okay. If you say so.”

   “Mouth-watering, actually.” Derek hums and sidles up behind him, his arms coming around and gripping the railing next to his own hands, boxing him in. His chest is broad and firm against his shoulders, and Stiles shivers when soft, wet kisses start to bloom across the back of his neck. He’s shaking by the time Derek starts to slowly grind against him, pushing him into the railing.

   Derek circles one muscled arm around Stiles’ midriff, his kisses migrating to behind his ear, raising goosebumps across the tender skin. His erection is a thick, heavy prodding against Stiles’ ass, his own dick just about ready to burst from his shorts and chop the railing in half.  

   Folding his other arm around Stiles’ hip, Derek pulls him back even tighter, grinding down before slipping his hands down to the waistband of Stiles’ shorts. Never letting up on covering Stiles’ neck with kisses, he ever so slowly undoes the top button before lowering the zipper. He lets them drop, Stiles holding on to his arms to step out of the fabric pooled around his ankles, and Derek quickly rids himself of his own shorts. When he presses back, the skin-on-skin burn of Derek’s thick shaft is nestled into his cleft.

   Derek skims down the fluttering muscles of Stiles’ taut stomach, fingers brushing along his treasure trail, combing through his pubic hair before wrapping around his straining dick. He gives it a few languid strokes before moving further south. He cups Stiles’ drawn-up sack to finally reach his taint, tracing over the silky soft skin with worn, calloused fingertips.

   The delicious friction turn Stiles neck to rubber, and with his hold once again back around Stiles’ erection, Derek licks a wet stripe up his neck to end with his teeth around an earlobe. “Gonna leave more marks on this beautiful skin. My marks. So everyone knows who you belong to.”

   “Uh huh…” A trickle of precum oozes over Derek’s fingers. Who I belong to, Stiles thinks. He should be running for the door at those kinds of words. He should…

   He’s almost boneless when Derek picks him up with graceful ease and slings his legs around his hips. He carries him inside and gently deposits him on the bed. The mattress is depressed when Derek leans his solid weight down over him, his veined cock almost primal-looking as it bobs around with his ragged breathing. He reaches over him to swing the gooseneck lamp closer to the bookshelves, the lamp head swivelled around to shine up against the wall.

   When he’s satisfied with the light, he crawls back over Stiles and looks him dead in the eye. “Hold on to the headboard. Don’t let go until I say so.”

   Stiles obeys immediately, Derek’s satisfied smile a warm bubble in his chest. Derek nudges his hips and props two cushions under him. Stiles closes his eyes on a sigh when Derek lifts and spreads his legs…

   … until there’s a tongue, broad and wet, lapping from just behind his hole all the way up to his balls.

   “Aaaah!”

   Derek looks up from between his spread-eagled legs, his eyes positively animalistic. “First time.”

   “Yeah… yes.”

   “Telling the truth, for once.” Stiles doesn’t even try to work out how Derek would know. His lecherous smile has him worried and aroused in equal amounts when he lowers his head again. Even though he knows it’s coming, he still jumps at Derek’s tongue when he retraces his path along his taint, the tip flattening over his puckered entrance and leaving Stiles a quivering mess under Derek’s grip.

   “Oh fuck, Derek…” Stiles moans before Derek does it all over again, slower, applying more pressure as he goes. Stiles’ fingers dig into the headboard as hot breath puff over his clenching hole. Derek lets go of one leg to cup his junk and pull it back, then drops open mouth kisses against the sensitive ring of muscle before laying into him with his tongue.

   Stiles is aware of making noises; shamelessly filthy noises. He couldn’t care less. He’s slowly dissolving from the waist down, the pleasure of Derek eating him out a low, burning heat that should never ever end.

   But it does, with a few last licks, and Derek is crawling over him, hooking his legs over his shoulders. “Like this?” Stiles asks, eyes big, almost pleading.

   Derek nods and loosens Stiles’ fingers, tangles them with his own above his head. “Wanna look at you.” He kisses Stiles deeply, his cock pressed into the cleft of Stiles’ ass. He lazily rolls his hips letting his erection slip down so his cockhead drags along his taint to nudge against his fluttering hole, sweat, saliva and Derek’s own copious precum greasing the way.

   Stiles grinds his hips up against the furnace that is Derek cock. He swears they wouldn’t need lube, not with his hole as loose as it feels from Derek’s tongue. He’s so relaxed, so blissed out, he must be a sight when Derek pulls back to stare at him.

   “I want you to come inside me.” Stiles says, squeezing against Derek’s fingers.

   Derek, mouth half open, halts the movement of his hips. “You sure?”

   Stiles knows how irresponsible he’s being, can hear Scott’s voice of reason hammer at his conscience. He shuts him out. He wants this so badly. Derek shifts forward and rubs one hand up the back of his thigh. “Hey, I’m clean, you have nothing to worry about. But I don’t mind wearing a condom,” Derek says with such conviction Stiles nerves ease at once.

   “No, no, I want to. I trust you.” Derek does that funny flick of his eyes to his chest, then he’s looking back up at Stiles, and his smile can part storm clouds. “And I’m clean too, you know.” Derek’s stare is so intense, revered almost, Stiles has to look down. “Only if you want to.”

   “You have no idea how much I want to.”  

   Then he’s lifting his legs again, pushing his hips up and back, and dives down to lick, bite and suck at his hole. It’s like Stiles’ diaphragm gets knocked up into his chest, slamming his head back into the bedding.

   A bottle of lube appears in Derek’s hand. He slicks up his cock, then has two fingers at Stiles’ entrance. They dip in without warning, Derek’s lips parted as he watches Stiles mewl at the intrusion. His other hand slides over Stiles chest to thumb at a nipple. He pulls his fingers out and rests Stiles’ calves along his shoulders, leans forward and lines himself up. “Don’t close your eyes. Look at me.” he whispers, before pushing into Stiles.

   Stiles’ mouth falls open, eyes going wide, focusing on the thin hazel-green ring Derek’s irises have become, lips trembling as Derek slides deeper and deeper. Derek doesn’t blink, stares right back, his breath rattling from his lips, until Stiles can feel Derek’s sack coming to rest against the globes of his ass, Derek’s pubes scratching against his own scrotum. Hell, he’s sure he can feel the tip of Derek’s cock poking at a rib.

   “Holy mother… Just… give me a minute.” Stiles pleads, hands fluttering to Derek’s hips.

   “Take as long as you need, baby.”

   Baby. Stiles eyes snatch to Derek’s. Derek hasn’t looked away at all, holding Siles gaze while mouthing at the instep of one foot, buried deep inside his tight, warm heat. He gives a short, slow thrust.

   “Derek… fuck…”

   “Ssshhh,” Derek hushes him. “Just relax. Tell me how it feels.”

   Stiles lips tremble. Derek’s eyes bore into him. “Like you own me.”

   Derek softly bites at the tender skin of Stiles foot. “Good,” and slowly rolls his hips again.

   Somehow this position lights up a whole different array of nerve endings, the rim of Derek’s glans brushing against a spot inside him that Stiles has only read about. Yet there it is; a burst of sparks with a promise to dissolve his bones.

   “Fuck! Fuck, I think you just… I think that was…”

   “Prostate.” Derek utters, sounding as close to collapse as Stiles feels.

   “Yeah. That.”

   Derek caresses his face, his chest, teasing his nipples with his teeth, planting feather light kisses all over his face. “Okay? This good?”

   Stiles nods. “Yeah… okay… yeah. Can you… can you do that again?”

   “Gladly.” He leans up and carefully starts to pump his hips again. At first he falls into a smooth, slow and steady rhythm, clamp his hands around Stiles’ ribcage, thumbs dragging over the taut skin to his hips. He leans closer, stretching Stiles’ legs back and kisses him, whispers in his ear how beautiful he is, licking along his neck. Stiles does his best to reciprocate, holding on to a bulging bicep as he’s rocked to and fro, his heels digging into the small of Derek’s back, toes curled inward. He lifts his hips, staring straight into Derek’s eyes, trying to draw strength from them. Derek smiles reassuringly and speeds up until he is fully pounding into Stiles.

   He pushes Stiles’ legs up as far as they would go until his knees touch his shoulders and plunges deeper, Stiles grunting with every push. He looks down where Derek’s cock tugs at his hole, stretching the reddened rim to and fro along his slick, veined girth.

   “Derek…” Stiles moans, and drags Derek’s head down. They kiss sloppily, licking over each other’s mouths. His dick is weeping precum on his belly, sparks of pleasure firing through his groin without him touching himself.

   Derek speeds up, biting down on Stiles’ shoulders before curling his tongue around Stiles’ ear. His feet dig into the sheets, pushing him up the bed with every thrust only to haul him back down again onto his dick, half crushing him into the mattress. “Jesus… Derek… you’re gonna… kill… me…” Stiles cries, nails digging into Derek’s biceps and shoulders, the ridge of his cockhead now catching on Stiles’ prostate with every thrust. He’s never experienced anything like this before. And he knows Derek can feel it too. Sweat beads on the tip of Derek’s nose, run down his temples and drip down onto Stiles to mix with his own perspiration misting his skin. “Derek… fuck… what are you… I can feel…” Stiles babbles, his fingers digging into Derek’s shoulder.

   Derek slams into him over and over, the bedframe complaining, never taking his eyes off of him. “Make you- feel- me- only- me-”

   “I’m close, fuck… Derek I’m close… I’m…” Derek watches as Stiles’ eyes lose focus, the exact moment that he breaks apart. He thrusts as deep as he’ll go and Stiles climaxes. He jerks violently, his spine convulsing as he shoots across his stomach and chest.

   The absolutely wrecked look on Derek’s face morphs into one of pure ecstasy as he starts to shake. He slams his hips a few times more, then positively roars, eyes clenched shut as Stiles’ walls spasm around his cock, ripping his orgasm from him. His eyebrows are drawn in an almost painful frown, the veins in his neck popping, hips stuttering as he empties himself deep inside Stiles with an explosive burst of air from his lips. The feeling of Derek’s pumping cock, of the hot wet rush of his seed spilling into him is as close to heaven Stiles thinks he’ll ever get.

   It’s a symphony of ragged breathing. They stay like that, sucking in great gulps of air, small tremors rocking through Derek with the aftershocks of his orgasm, his hips still stuttering against Stiles’ bruised entrance. Derek sags down and buries his arms under and around Stiles, his cock still jerking every now and then, catching his breath.

   “Holy fuck.” Stiles says after a good five minutes, his voice raw.

   Derek shifts on top of him, holds him tighter. “Yeah.”

Chapter Text

There’s a sliver of indigo in the sky when Derek pulls his jeep out. He’d much rather be curled around the warm body he left sleeping in his bed, but the instinct to provide overrides all that. He did promise him breakfast after all, and he doubts if a heap of dead water fowl would make Stiles’ heart beat faster…

   About ten minutes later he catches sight of his reflection in the glass of the industrial, multi-tiered oven where a batch of croissants is rising to golden perfection. His hair is a crow’s nest from under his hoodie, eyes still a bit puffy. The dopy grin is a new addition though for this time of the morning, one he knows he won’t be able to wipe off of his face any time soon. He sighs and tells himself that the weightless delight in his stomach is just the smell of the croissants waking his appetite.

   Sporting some impressive wood in the morning is quite normal for him, even after it’s almost been two decades since he hit puberty – just part of being a young, virile alpha wolf. But he’s been hard ever since he woke up, with no signs of it waning. He knows it’s instinct; the drive to scent the boy as much as possible now that he finally has his seed inside of him. His wolf has decided, after all… 

   He tries his best to be as inconspicuous as possible, nudging his semi through his pockets while waiting for the croissants. In the end he just pulls his hoodie down as far as possible to hide the obvious bulge.  

   The shrill alarm of the oven has him grabbing for the handle without thinking, hissing when he burns his fingers. The breakfast staff has been prepping and baking since before daybreak, and one of them hands him a dish towel with a smirk.

   “Thanks.” Derek mumbles and sucks on the singed fingers – just for show, of course – it’s already healed. She winks back at him before returning to work. In fact, all of them have been sharing smiles and winks between each other at their usually grumpy boss’s expense. He couldn’t care less.

   On the drive back Derek turns his face up to the sun for as long as he dares. At least it’s a quiet stretch of road, and he’s the only one driving. Breakfast is carefully stashed on the passenger side floorboard, the wind blowing through the open cabin throwing the buttery aroma of the fresh croissants his way every now and then. He’s sure Stiles will love it. If they even get to breakfast…

   He wonders how Stiles would feel about being pounced upon, his mind rampant with images of those big amber eyes filled with laughter, mouth wide as he throws his head back; of those same eyes hooded with lust when he pins his slender, perfect body down on every surface available with his throat exposed, fully submitting to his alpha, which – yeah, there it goes – semi upgraded…

   One hand on the steering wheel, he lifts his hips and adjust himself down the front of his shorts - not worried about decency in his own car - when his fingers close over a bulbous swelling right at the base of his erection. “Oh fuck.”

   He almost misses the overgrown turnoff to the house.

oOo

   Stiles wakes slowly, frowning bleary-eyed at the bright, early morning light flooding the boatshed. Gorgeous, clear blue sky beckons to him through the open shed door, and he rolls onto his back, stretching out luxuriously until his ass – his whole lower half, really – reminds him of Derek. He turns to demand that the animal kiss it better, but finds only an empty bed, then vaguely remembers that Derek said he was going to get breakfast. He presses his face into Derek’s pillow, inhales his scent, ingrained here where he rests his head.

   He finds a pair of Derek’s boxers – tries it on for the hell of it. It feeds the growing urge in his heart, walking around in Derek’s underwear. He has to fold the elastic band over twice to keep it from slipping off his hips though. Every step has him smirking, his nether regions a dull but glorious reminder of last night. He brushes his teeth, inspects himself in the mirror; his neck, shoulders, the inside of his thighs all branded by Derek. It makes his cock twitch.

   He walks past the wall of Derek’s framed sketches, drawn to the wolves. They’re all variations of a theme, same as the murals, with the black wolf always to the side.

   “What is it with you and wolves…” he murmurs to the empty space.

   There’s one colour rendering of the pack, and upon closer inspection he finds the black wolf to have the most striking grey eyes.

   Grey eyes that bleed into green. With specs of amber.

   “Will you look at that.”

   ‘I shot the sheriff’ starts up from somewhere by the bed, and Stiles absentmindedly gropes for his cell phone, eyes still on Derek’s artwork.

   “Hey dad.”

   “Hey kiddo, how’s Florida?”

   “Florida’s good,” Stiles smiles at the wolf, “Really good.”

oOo

Derek takes the stairs one thoughtful step at a time. He had to wait in the car for his knot to go down, his knees still a bit week from the shock. The last time it happened… He shakes the memory away.

   With a last squeeze to his crotch he opens the screen door, box of baked goodies balanced in one hand. Only to find Stiles on his tip-toes in front of the wall with the sketches, one of his own boxers slung low around the boy’s slim hips, his smooth skin (slightly bronzed by now) a smudged canvas of moles and fading bruises.

   “Fuck.” Derek barely whispers and squeeze his crotch again.

   Stiles looks over his shoulder. “Hey there, wolfman.”

   Derek does a double-take. “Wolfman?”

   “Uh huh.”

   “What are you talking about?”

   He turns around and folds his arms “You. You’re the black wolf, in all your drawings, right? Can’t believe I missed that.”

   Derek sets the box down on the kitchen island as calmly as possible. At least his knot has all but fled. “What makes you say that?”

   “Come on.” Stiles starts to count off on his fingers. “You’re a bit of a loner, just like you depict the wolf, but you’re also the bossman, leader of the pack. Physically the similarities are there; big, dark and hairy. Plus, I swear you growl sometimes.”

   “Stiles…”

   Stiles smiles triumphantly. “Most importantly though, you have the same eyes.”

   No fear. Derek can smell no fear.  

   “Don’t get me wrong, I think wolves are totally cool, but I’m gonna have a picnic psychoanalyzing you over this.”

   Derek blinks. “Psycho… what?”

   “For starters,’ Stiles strides over. “I would love to know why you identify with them.”

  “Identif… Oh!” Derek releases the air in his lungs. He sags back against the island, his legs like rubber all over again. Thank God the boy can’t pick up on heartbeats. Or scents…

   “Hello? Earth to Derek?”

   “Uh, yeah. Well, wolves are… amazing.”

   “Oh, you think you’re amazing?”

   “Uhm, yes?”

   Stiles shakes his head and cups a scruffy cheek. “That makes two of us, then.”

oOo

About an hour later and the empty, crumb-filled confectionary box lie discarded next to the bed, the boxers Stiles wore stuffed inside. Stiles leopard-crawls across the bed, only to be dragged back by a hand around his ankle. He kicks out limply, still slightly freaked out by Derek’s seemingly crazy superhuman strength, and gets squashed into the rumpled linen when two hundred pounds of hairy muscle cover him completely.

   “And where do you think you’re going, hmm? I’m not done with you yet.”

   “Oh my god you are an animal.” Stiles tries to buck Derek off him, but it’s like he’s held down by a block of granite. Derek’s chest hair scratches at his back, and he rolls his growing erection against Stiles’ cleft.

   “My, what big eyes you have.” Stiles comments drily from between squashed lips.

   Derek grinds down harder for effect. Stiles can’t help the whimper that escapes from his mouth.

   “Did you say something?”

   “Yeah, your man-stink is making me dizzy.”

   “You like my man-stink.” Derek grins, and sucks yet another bruise on Stiles neck. Stiles squeals, kicking with his legs, which Derek just holds down with his own like the nuisance they are.

   “Seriously Derek, we need to take… ah… a shower. We’re both rank.”

   “I like it. You smell like me.” Derek licks a wet stripe from the middle of Stiles shoulder blades up to his neck.

   “Dude! Gross!” Stiles laughs.

   “Hmmm, finger lickin’ good.” Derek’s now full erection slips between Stiles’ cheeks, precum and leftover lube gliding the way to his still wet and bruised entrance.

   Stiles shivers, tries to stifle a moan. “Do you have any idea what a refractory period is?” he whines.

   “You know, being the younger of the two parties, one would think you have the upper hand when it comes to youthful stamina,” Derek wonders aloud as he bears down. His eyes flutter close regardless of the control in his voice as just the head of his cock breaches Stiles rim.

   “Unghhhh… Don’t have… upper hand…”

   “Best you remember that,” Derek breathes right by his ear. “Now be a good boy and say ah.”

   The watery aaah Derek pulls from Stiles as he enters him once again has him biting down on the back of his neck. He revels in the feel of Stiles’ trembling body, and does his best to pull as many noises from him as he dares.

oOo

“See? Told you we’d fit.”

   Derek doesn’t answer, just smiles fondly, his eyes closed and head bowed forward where Stiles’ got his fingers buried in the shampooed lather of his hair. He’s on the verge of purring from his ministrations. His bulk shields Stiles from the majority of the spray, their slick bodies pressed up against each other in the confines of the small shower. His hands rest on those sharp hipbones, thumbs lazily circling at the border of Stiles’ pubic hair. He fits them over the bruises he made, fresh and old, careful to not press down. He wants to, though; wants to see how Stiles’ porn-worthy lips part, how his eyes would grow hooded, how pulse-quickening receptive he knows he can be.

   “You have a thing for marking me up.”

   “Sorry.”

   “No you’re not.”

   “No, I’m not.” Derek smiles. “Besides, you were right, you bruise like a peach. How can I not be tempted?”  

   “Sadist. And look at you,” Stiles pokes him in the shoulder. “I know I got some nail-action in last night and not a scratch.”

   Derek schools his features, thankful that he has an excuse to keep his eyes closed. “Skin like a rhino.” 

   “Hmm. Aaaaand rinse,” Stiles instructs and tilts Derek’s head back to let the spray wash out the shampoo. Derek lets him, steeling against more questions. But Stiles just squirt some bodywash into his open palm and start to soap up Derek’s chest and shoulders.  

   His long, nimble fingers trace the soapy contours of his fleshy pecs, drawing doodles in his wet chest hair and around his nipples until they stand to attention. He follows the hairy path down to his groin and he cups Derek’s low hanging balls, lifting the hairy sack, testing the weight, before carefully pulling back the foreskin from his flaccid cock to soap it up as well.

   “Keep that up and we won’t fit anymore.”

   “At ease, soldier. I won’t be sitting down for a week as it is.”

   Derek has a flash of guilt when he thinks of the thin smear of blood along his cock the last time he pulled out of Stiles. He slides his hands around Stiles’ hips to cup a cheek in each hand. “I think I may have to keep you then,” he says, flicking water off his lips as he talks. “Nurse you back to health.”

   Stiles looks up, eyelids fluttering against the spray. He eventually looks down again to focus back on Derek’s chest. “Sheesh, first I can’t get you to smile, and now you go all Jane Austen on me.”

   “I don’t think Miss Austin had in mind the things I want to do to you.”

   Stiles doesn’t reply, intently focussed on Derek’s chest with a cocky grin.

   They wash each other, Derek’s broad hands covering Stiles’ shoulders; Stiles focusing on the muscled ridges that are slung around Derek’s waist – his favourite part after all. There’s a vein there that he traces with his thumb until it disappears into Derek’s groin. “You know,” he starts, “Back in high school, you’re the kinda guy I would’ve been running away from.”

   Derek frowns. “How come?”

   “The pale gay spaz versus the big jock-type? Hmm, let’s think about that.” A shadow passes over Stiles’ face. “I’m sure there are still Stiles-shaped dents in the lockers.”

   “If we were in high school together I would’ve definitely run after you.”

   “To throw me up against a locker?”

   Once again, Derek’s eyebrow does more talking that his mouth. “Something like that.”

  “Okay,” Stiles sighs. “So I’m gonna be all buzz-kill now and pull the low self-esteem card.”

   “Huh?”

   “Not that I’m complaining in any way, shape or form, but guys like me don’t hook guys like you. So what gives, big guy? Are you softening me up to go all Ted Bundy on my ass?”

   Derek glides his hands over smooth, wet skin, his brow wrinkled in concentration. “I want to cover you with more marks,” he slides his hands down to cup each pert globe. “Have more of my cum inside you. Because all I can think about is how many times I can fill you up again,” he drags his lips down Stiles’ slick skin, “Make you mine,” nips at his collarbone. “Own you.”

   Stiles trembles in Derek’s embrace. “So ah…” he swallows, “That’s a no on Ted Bundy, then?”

   “Hmm.” Derek presses his face into the juncture of Stiles neck, making him squirm.

   Derek was right. They don’t fit, after all.

oOo

One continues, hazy, sweat soaked dream. Yeah, that’s it, Stiles thinks of the first entry into his dairy. If he ever were to keep one, that is. But that would be the first line he would pen when describing his time here in paradise.

   “Penny for your thoughts,” Derek pulls him from his daydream. He hands him his ice cream then sits down next to Stiles, arm spread out on the bench behind him. “Hmm?”

   Stiles leans back against the muscled firmness of Derek’s bicep. Derek lightly combs his fingers through his hair while taking a bite of his icecream. “Just enjoying the view.”

   Derek looks out over the beach, the cluster of palms where they are sitting a cool canopy of flittering shadows in the blazing, midday sun. “It is something, isn’t it,” Derek muses and looks back at Stiles. Stiles is still staring at him.

   “It sure is,” he agrees and takes a bite of his ice cream.

oOo

“Batman or Superman?”

   “Wolverine.”

   “No!” Stiles throws a jellybean at Derek. “That’s not how it works, you can’t do that.”

   Derek peers at him over the edge of his book. He picks up the jellybean and pops it into his mouth. “I just did.”

oOo

“A roughneck? Out on those drilling platforms?”

   “Out in the gulf, yeah.”

   “But… that’s like… seriously dangerous!”

   “It is. It also pays really well.”

   Stiles swings his legs, hanging from the tailgate of the jeep. The beach before them is emptying out, the sun low and magnificent over the horizon. “For how long?”

   “About two years, straight outa high school.” He stares out over the ocean. “I was seriously messed up. Had to sort out my head.”

   Stiles knows it has something to do with his family, and is desperate to find out what dark places Derek’s mind drags him to when he mentions them. But he won’t prod. The little bits of info he offers every now and then is accepted like mana. “Did it help?”

   Derek nods with a wry smile. “Nothing like an eighteen-hour shift lugging drill pipes around to clear your mind.”

   “Dude, I cannot even begin to imagine how that must have been.”

   “It’s how I met Boyd and Erica. So it’s all good.”

   Stiles looks sidelong at him. He takes Derek’s hand and pecks a quick kiss on the back. Derek doesn’t let his hand go, instead gripping it tight and letting it rest on his thigh.

   They watch in silence as the sun disappears behind the ocean.

oOo

“You have a face.”

   Stiles doesn’t look up as he turns the page. “Your capacity for observation is astounding.”

   Derek digs his big toe into Stiles ribs where he’s lying on the opposite side of the couch between his outstretched legs, making Stiles squirm. “I mean, you have a face when you concentrate.”

   “Like this?” Stiles sticks his tongue out and cross his eyes.

   “Child.”

   “Grandpa.”

   Derek waits a beat before he pounces. The book goes flying, Stiles surprised yelp quickly turning into loud squeals of delight when Derek attacks his neck with his beard.

oOo

“Let’s go let’s go!”

   “Where?!”

  “Top shelf, third from the left!” Derek calls over the noise, his back to Stiles, the silver cocktail shaker expertly twirled around in his hands. Stiles scrambles, but still can’t find the bottle in question. Derek reaches past him and plucks it off the shelf, presenting it to Stiles with extremely judgemental eyebrows.

   “It was hiding from me, okay? They’re all hiding!”

   Derek ignores him, turning back to the bar to help the next set of customers. Stiles sticks his tongue out at his back like the child that he is.

   “I want a raise.” he whines sometime later when there’s a bit of a lull.

   Derek gives the counter another wipe-down. “And what makes you think you deserve one, hmm?”

   “Ah, I’ve been busting my ass the whole night?”

   “You offered.”

   “That’s before I knew you were a slave driver!”

   Derek slings the rag across his shoulder, trying very hard not to smile. “I can’t give you preferential treatment, now can I?”

   Erica plonks her tray and dirty glasses down right where Derek’s been busy cleaning. “Hey sweetie pie, you surviving?”

   “Your boss hates me.” Stiles pouts.

   Erica looks between him and Derek. “Oh I’m pretty sure he doesn’t.”

   Derek furiously wipes at the fresh spills Erica left.

oOo

“No, c’mon, seriously now.” Stiles lifts himself off Derek to straddle his hips. Derek quickly draws both his legs up and Stiles leans back against the proffered, solid thighs. “How would you prepare?”

   Derek runs his hands over Stiles’ naked hips. “We’re on an island. And as far as my very limited knowledge of zombies go, they can’t swim. So we should be perfectly safe here.”

   “Yeah, and when they bomb the bridges we’ll be cut off!”

   “Isn’t that a good thing?”

   “Not when all our supplies run out!”

   “We have boats. And we can grow stuff here.”

   Stiles bites the corner of his mouth. “I don’t think you appreciate the severity of this situation.”

   Derek sits up, abs squeezing. “I promise you I’ll keep you safe.”

   Stiles blinks, then swallows. “Ah, yeah, sure, I mean hypothetically, you know. The island would be very safe.”

   Derek lies back down again and fold his hands behind his head, pits flaring open. “Yes, it would.”

oOo

“Dude, this is not cool.”

    “Scotty, come on, it’s just for a few more days.” Stiles grabs another pair of t-shirts and hastily throws them into his backpack.

    “Yeah, a few more days away when you’re supposed to be on holiday with us is not cool!”

    “You guys barely notice me when I’m here. Besides,” he grins, “this way you loving couples can have the house all to yourselves.”

   “That’s not the point, Stiles. You’re… you’re investing too much in this.”

   “Scott,” Stiles sighs and walks up to his best friend. “Please let me have this.” he asks earnestly.

   Scott huffs. “You better be here for the full moon bonfires.”

   “Promise.” Stiles smiles brightly, and bump him in the shoulder.

oOo  

“Raaawrrrr!”

   Stiles mimics Rico and curls his fingers. “Raaawrrrr!” he growls back at the little boy and gets rewarded with little squealing giggles straight from a Hallmark movie.

   “Again!”

   “How about we do another animal for a change?” Stiles offers before taking a sip of water, his throat parched from growling, trumpeting and neighing.

   Rico jumps onto all fours and starts barking.

   “Yeah, okay, we can be doggies.”

   “Wolves!” Rico shouts and launch into another volley of high pitch barks.

   “Wolves, huh?” Stiles gets onto his hands and knees as well. “There’s a lot of that going around.”

   “Ricardo,” Erica appears out of nowhere, leaning around the door. “I think it’s time for bed.”

   “No!” Rico shouts. “I’m an alpha like uncle Dewek! Grrrrrr!”

   “Alpha?” Stiles smiles questioningly up at Erica.

   “Who knows, he comes up with the craziest things sometimes,” she smiles, though there is a tightness around her mouth. Stiles sits back on his haunches and watch her pick up the squirming, growling boy.

   “Did I hear somebody say wolves?” Derek suddenly fills the doorway, smile bright as he launches a tickle attack at Rico, still in his mother’s arms.

   Stiles is sure the child is going to pee himself, little face bright with laughter. He wriggles out of Erica’s hold and grabs hold of Derek, who covers his little plump belly with his beard.

   “Thanks for looking after him,” Erica gives Stiles a hug.

   “Believe me, he’s easier than having to play barman with that one.”

   Derek’s eyebrows precede the look he gives Stiles.

   “What?” Stiles innocently holds up a hand.

   Derek hands a giggling Rico back to his mom, his dark gaze zeroed in on Stiles. “I think it’s time for you to go to bed as well, young man.”

oOo

Derek opens his eyes to look right up at the ceiling of the boatshed, head thrown over the backrest of the couch, arms strung out to each side. He hasn’t switched on any lights yet. He can see perfectly, after all. Plus the open shed door lets enough light in, the moon as close to full as it is. He can feel the pull in his veins getting stronger, his whole body thrumming with energy just waiting to be unleashed.

   Slurping and squelching noises bring him back to the present. He looks down at the vertebrae of Stiles’ spine; a string of little hills between his scapulae where he’s kneeling between Derek’s spread legs, bent over and head bobbing, both hands wrapped around his erection. The moonlight has turned Stiles’ skin silver, in stark contrast to his own dark and hairy hide.

   Stiles’ mouth and tongue has Derek drifting with pleasure. He gives the leash some slack – just a tiny bit - and let his fangs drop, let his claws grow into the padding of the backrest. What would the boy do if he happens to look up to find fiery red eyes and a mouth full of fangs leering back at him, the beast’s cock halfway down his throat? Will the boy run? A part of him wants him to; the dark, selfish part of his wolf that wants his total submission, wants an excuse to chase him and hold him down and sink his canines into the soft flesh of his neck. Then he’ll be mine. Stiles will stay here with me, with his mate, and I’ll finally have some control over this all-consuming fire-        

   Derek blinks and sucks in a breath, the heavenly feel of that hot, wet mouth around his cock poking at his wolf. He lets a low rumble vibrate through his chest, his features begrudgingly melting back to human.

   He runs a hand down Stiles’ back, chasing the sweat from between his shoulder blades down to his tailbone. He stretches forward to slip a middle finger down to his hole, the other hand around the back of Stiles’ neck. Stiles must take it as encouragement, because he speeds up, swallowing Derek’s cock deeper than before.

   He barely gets halfway before his gag reflex kicks in. Derek quickly sits back and cups him under the chin. Heart-achingly plump lips turn inside out when Stiles pulls off with a slurp, a clear strand of saliva trailing from his lips to Derek’s cock.

   “Easy there, tiger.” Derek smiles and wipes his thumb across the wet corners of both eyes. “Don’t be greedy now.”

   Stiles swallows, looks up. “Your fault.”

   “My fault?” He rubs along the back of Stiles’ damp neck.

   “Uh huh. You don’t wanna come with me to that stupid bonfire thing, so now I have to make up the time.”

   “I told you, we need all hands ungh…” Derek hisses as Stiles takes him back into his mouth again and his hips stutter, “ah, we need all hands… on deck… at the restaurant fuck.”

   “Hmmm.” Stiles hums around Derek’s fat head, then pulls off with a wet pop. “It’s just, I promised Scott I’ll be there, and I can’t piss him off even more.” he pouts at Derek’s cock, lifting his full sack and lazily rolling it between his fingers. “He already wants to revoke my best-bro status, and it would’ve been nice if you were there to back me up.” he looks up at Derek through his lashes and licks a stripe up the length of Derek’s cock all the way to the tip where he rubs his tongue into the slit.

   “It’s an island tradition. Lots of fireworks, you won’t even miss me.” Derek gasps out in short succession.

   “That’s debatable. Now sit back, I wanna ride you.” Stiles’ smile is positively pornographic. “For your sins.”

   Derek does as he’s told, the idea of Stiles impaling himself on his cock enough to have it twitch up into the air and dribble more precum to mix with Stiles’ spit.

   Stiles finds the bottle of lube and Derek watch as he slicks him up from base to tip, stretching the foreskin back as far as it will go to work his fingers around the fat head. “Ready?” Stiles asks and straddle Derek’s hips, one hand braced on his chest, the other holding Derek’s cock, while hot, broad hands spread his cheeks for him.

   He sinks down but stops halfway, face scrunched up around the thickest part of his girth.

   “Easy, easy.” Derek croons and holds his hips still.

   “You’d think I’d be used to you by now, huh?” Stiles hisses.

   “Baby I don’t ever want you to get used to me. I want to see it on your face every time I open you up.”

   Stiles holds a palm to a scruffy cheek, then sinks down again another inch or two, his thighs taut. “Fuck.” he exhales through clenched teeth. Derek combs through his sweaty hair. Stiles leans forward and kisses him, deep and hungry, then moves down yet again, Derek’s broad hands around his slender hips guiding him, until his balls rest in Derek’s bushy curls. He waits there, letting his channel adjust, and they just kiss, his face held firm by both Derek’s hands.

   He rolls his hips experimentally, and as soon as he finds a comfortable rhythm Derek moves one hand flat against his flexing abs. Stiles’ erection begins to slap against Derek’s belly, leaving strings of shiny precum in the swathe of dark hair below his navel. He proceeds to pinch each of Derek’s nipples, then bury his fingers in his chest hair.

   Derek wraps his thick fingers around Stiles’ cock. “Na unh, hands off, mister. I’m driving.” Stiles says, out of breath. With a dark smile Derek sits back and stretch his arms back out across the couch. Stiles takes his own erection in hand and time his strokes with the rhythm of his hips. His moans become desperate, his stomach muscles flexing with each up-and-down roll. “Fuck I’m not gonna last like this.” He throws his head back, that pale, mole-dotted skin stretching over his throat, and Derek slips, his claws shooting through the upholstery to sink into the couch frame, his canines piercing his lips.

   It takes a few tries, each with the taste of blood, before he can speak in a normal voice again, albeit still wrecked.

   “Stiles. Stiles, look at me.” Stiles lifts his head like it’s a great weight, mouth slack and eyes dazed, the hair not plastered to his skull bouncing along with the almost desperate roll of his hips. “You are so. Fucking. Beautiful.”

   And Stiles explodes over Derek’s chest with a pitiful mewl.

   Derek sits forward and curls his free arm around Stiles’ hips while his channel spasm around Derek’s cock. As Stiles slow down, he picks up the pace with deep, precise thrusts, the arm curled around Stile’s hip forcing him down.

   “Derek-” Stiles whimpers.

   “Almost,” he grinds out. Stiles’ arms buckle on a pained sob, and he collapse against Derek’s cum and sweat-matted chest hair. Derek flips them around, keeps one knee on the couch, one foot braced on the floor, Stiles’ legs around his waist. He drives his hips forward, shoving the couch backwards with every brutal slap of skin-on-skin.

   “Derek… Jesus…”

   “Almost… fuck… unggh.” And with his face buried in Stiles neck Derek comes, each spurt of his seed punched from him with bitten-off grunts. He grinds his hips against Stiles until there’s no space to go any further. The pins-and-needles tingle of his claws and fangs dropping catches him off guard, his instinct to hold down and breed and bite so sudden it leaves him light-headed. He doesn’t stop pumping, squelching through his own cum, churning it with the lube until it’s a sticky mess that runs down to his balls and stick to Stiles’ ass in shiny patches. He can practically taste Stiles’ flesh and blood, his canines less than an inch from that sweet, sweet throat of his- until the base of his cock begin to inflate… “Fuck.” he sucks in a breath and grabs hold of his dick, squeeze as hard as he can.

   Stiles – bless his heart – just nods, blissfully ignorant. Derek shakes himself, willing his wolf back below the surface and with a final tremor collapse on top of Stiles, pushing him deeper into the cushions.

   Stiles fingers tremble up and down his sweaty back. “Okay… Okay… You can drive.”

   Derek doesn’t hear him over the howl of his wolf;

   Mine. Mine. Mine

oOo

Smoke, again, but the figure walking towards him through the deathly haze is new. He knows who it is though. All his muscles lock up in anticipation, his lungs sucked empty.

   “Hey baby.” her sultry voice reach him from somewhere inside that wall of swirling death. He tries to back up but, as is the nature of nightmares his legs won’t budge, his hands limp and useless. “See what you’ve done?”

   “Not… not my fault.” he chokes trough his tears.

   She finally clears the smoke. “Oh but it is, you silly boy. It is all your fault. You don’t care about them!” she laughs, walking ever closer.

   “NO! I… I do! I care about them! You killed them, you bitch!”

   Her hand shoots out and chokes the breath from his throat. “No Derek. You killed them,” she sneers as the skin on her face start to blister and smoke.

   Derek snaps upright, talons ready to shred and fangs bared in a vicious growl. An arm around his waist tightens its sleepy grip. He blinks down at Stiles, his heart still aiming to break free from his chest.

   Stiles nuzzles closer. “WhayadoinDer…” he mumbles into his cushion.

   Derek swallows heavily and concentrates on getting his wolf under control. “It’s okay it’s just a bad dream, go back to sleep.”   

Chapter Text

This isn’t right.

   Derek stands with arms folded and laser beam stare trained on the glass porthole of the washer while his bed sheets turn round and round in the suds. He’s not happy about it, washing their scents away. But it’s the last clean pair, and contrary to popular belief (even if Stiles keeps telling him that) he’s not a total animal.

   It would have been better if he could at least do it in the privacy of his own home, werewolf noses being what they are. But Erica and Boyd have the space for a laundry, so here he is.  

   He doesn’t look up when he hears Boyd’s heartbeat flutter awake. He’s the only in the house after all.

   “About time.” he growls.

   “Derek?”

   Boyd’s heartbeat picks up, there’s some rustling as he drags on a pair of sweats, and then he’s padding down the hallway.  “Hey man,” he greets when he appears around the corner.  

   “Hey yourself. Good to see you.”

   “Yeah. Glad to be back.” He yawns and runs a hand over his head. “Laundry day?” he asks and walks closer, then stops and wrinkles his nose. “Whoa. Can he still walk?”

   Derek’s cheeks colour. “Do you and Erica compare notes?”

   Boyd chuckles. “Where is he, anyway?”

   “Back at Cravelle for the bonfires tonight.”

   “Perfect excuse. Couldn’t have timed it better.”

   “Yeah. What time’s Deaton home?”

   Boyd yawns again and stretches. “Erica said the good doctor’s shift at the hospital ends at six, so we can go over at seven.”

   Derek nods. The machine stops, starts, turns and turns. Water gurgles as it drains and fills up again.

   “Can’t believe it’s my boy’s first run already,” Boyd says with a slow shake of his head.

   Derek shoots him a quick smile. “He’ll be fine.”

   Boyd regards his alpha. “Will you be fine?”

   “Yeah,” Derek answers after a moment’s hesitancy.

   Boyd walks over and rests a big hand on Derek’s shoulder. Nothing more is said, and right at that moment Derek has never been more grateful for his beta’s stoicism.

   “Coffee?” Boyd asks after a bit.

   “Please.”  

oOo

Isaac scratches his arm, watches Derek from where he leans against the kitchen island. “So this is different then.”     

   Derek looks up at Isaac, roughly stuffing a pillow into its casing. “Yes.”

   “Why? What makes him so special?”     

   The bottom sheet cracks like a whip. Isaac steps back, neck exposed.

   Derek sighs. “Come here.”   

   Isaac walks closer, head bowed until he’s standing right in front of Derek. Derek cups the back of his neck, brushes and squeeze, then rubs his cheek along Isaac’s skin, the boy’s familial scent soothing. “You know I have no control in this.”

   Isaac lifts his chin. “If you had a choice though, if it was just you and not your wolf, would you still?”

   “I am my wolf, Isaac, just as you are yours’. There’s no splitting the two.”                                              

   Isaac remains quiet, spares Derek only a quick glance before he softly kisses him on the lips, then steps away. At the door he turns around. “Sometimes I wish there was.”

oOo

   Stiles drops his backpack on his bed and looks around at his room. It’s exactly as he left it when Derek came to pick him up for dinner all those nights ago. Yet it feels like he’s been gone forever, like he never even laid his head down here to begin with.

    “Stiles?”

   Stiles smacks his elbow against a cabinet. “Jesus! Lyds, you almost gave me a heart attack.”

   “Glad you still know where we live,” she appraises him from the doorway.

   “Et tu, Martin?”

   Lydia softens her stance before she walks into his bedroom. She takes his hand and gives it a squeeze. “Come, let’s go burn stuff.”

oOo

The beach is awash in a silvery glow from the magnificent full moon. Bonfires further light up the night in a row of beacons dotted along the shore. There are hundreds of people crowding around, picnic chairs and cooler boxes set out all over, children running around with sparklers. Music blasts from several of these little groups, each song competing with the one next over. Several shirtless college jocks have started a ball game, running and tackling each other between the two lines of bamboo torches stuck in the sand, while their girlfriends cheer them on from the side lines.

   Stiles wants to throw his beer bottle at them, hopefully hit one in the head. At least it will distract him from the frigid wall between him and Scott. His best friend has barely spoken to him all night, poor Allison trying her best to lighten the mood. Stiles finally just got up and walked away.

   He’s been sitting at the base of the old stone lighthouse ever since, a spectator to the festivities around him. He checks his phone again for the thousandth time, the heaviness in his chest expanding every time the blank screen stares back at him. He looks up when a dazzling burst of fireworks explodes over the ocean, and starts when Scott’s figure is silhouetted by the bright flash.

   “Didn’t see you there.” Stiles tries to be as nonchalant as he can manage, picking at a loose corner of the beer label.

   “Yeah.” Scott shrugs. He looks back at the beach, hesitates for another second then sits down next to Stiles.

   “Allison make you come over?”

   “You’re pretty high up on my shit-list, okay? Don’t make me revise it.”

   The big, fat knot in Stiles stomach squeezes a bit. “Dude, I’m sorry, okay? I know I’ve been gone for a while.”     

   “You’ve practically ditched us.”

   “I haven’t ditched you! I’ve been… busy.”

   “Busy ditching us, yes. Total dick move.”

   Stiles face burns at Scott’s righteous anger. “Scott, come on. I’m sorry, really. But you can’t blame me for this.”

   “You’ve missed half our vacation, Stiles!”

   “Because I met someone! Derek is amazing, okay? He’s great, and I’ve never-”

   “Never gonna see him again when the summer’s over?”

   “Will you shut up and listen! You’ve got Allison, Lydia’s got Jackson, and I’m always just on the side; this whole vacation, every time we hang out back home; I’m always by myself. Do you have any idea how much that sucks? And now I’ve finally got someone that-”

   “What do you mean you’ve finally got someone? Dude, listen to yourself! It’s just a stupid summer fling! This is exactly the same as Danny, same as Theo Mcjerkoff in freshman year! I told you! You fall head over heels, then it all blows up in your face.”

   “Oh my god this is light years different!” Stiles stands up. “Why are you being such an asshole about this?”

   “Me? You’re the one that, that abandoned us!” Scott gets up too. “You’re the asshole!”

   If Stiles wasn’t so shocked he would have laughed at their juvenile tit-for-tat. “You know what? Screw you.” he spits.

   Scott watches him march away with disbelief. “Stiles! Wait!”

   “Don’t worry, I won’t abandon you again!”

   A hand grabs his arm and pulls him around.

   “Stiles! What the fuck?” Scott is all up in his face, puppy-dog eyes fiery and crooked jaw even more so in anger. “What’s wrong with you?”

   Stiles pulls his arm out of his grip. “Nothing is wrong with me. I’m going.”

   “Going where? To him? Seriously?”

   “What’s it to you?”

   “Stiles! The guy’s a creep! Open your fucking eyes!”

   “What does it matter, Scott! I’m never gonna see him again, remember?”

   Scott doesn’t follow him, let’s his best friend walk away until he disappears behind the dunes and into the night.

   One of the jocks scores a touchdown and, chest puffed out, howls at the moon until his buddies join in.

oOo

“Aargh! Mother fucker!” Stiles yells and sucks on his thumb. He wrestled Pricilla down the porch only to have the bicycle mash his hand against the railing. “Fucking useless spastic! FUCK!” and flings it down the rest of the way to roll then fall down on the gravel. If Derek was here he would have picked it up with one hand, and probably Stiles with the other. He sits down heavily on the steps, lets the tears flow, lets himself shake as he cries.

   After a minute he gets up, wipes his eyes and nose, and peddles off.

oOo

The village is bursting. He’s sweaty and irritated by the time he leans the bicycle against the railing, Scott’s anger following him like a swarm of bees. There’s a line in front of Derek’s restaurant that snakes out onto the boardwalk. Stiles walks past them, into the packed restaurant where he spots Miguel, the harassed looking manager, a clipboard in hand.

   “Evening!” the man smiles distractedly before he looks up. “How can I… Stiles!”

   “Hey Miguel.” Stiles gives a faded smile.

   “Buenos nochas amigo!” he slaps him on the shoulder. “What are you doing here?”

   “Looking for Derek. He at the back?”

   Miguel looks thoroughly confused. “No, they took the night off. I thought you were with them?”

   The leaden weight in his chest grows icy cold. “What? No. No, he said they’re too busy, that they’re all gonna be here.”

   “No, they’re all over at Doc Deaton’s place.”

   “What? Who’s doc Deaton? Where?”

   “Doctor Allan Deaton, out by Punto Verde. You okay, Stiles?”

   Stiles takes a moment before he answers. “How do I get there?”

oOo

His legs are screaming by the time he spots the post box with the name ‘Dr. A Deaton’ painted on the side, right at the entrance to the graveled driveway, just as Miguel explained. There are no streetlights this far out, but the moon is more than bright enough for him to see in the dark. He gets off and pushes the bicycle through the slivers of light that cuts through the foliage.

   At first glance, Punto Verde is just like the rest of the island; thick, tropical lushness. But beyond the wall of green it stretches out into a sizable peninsula.

   About twenty minutes in Stiles gets back on the bicycle even though his thighs are not on board. Miguel did warn him about the distance, but at that stage anger at being lied to was quickly outweighing all other emotions.

   Lights start to flicker through the bushes until he rounds a corner and the Deaton residence comes into view.

   An elegant one-story clap-board structure, it sits on stilts like most homes here, with a private beach just about on its doorstep. It’s a lot like their beach house, with white trim, plantation shutters and dormer windows and surround by a grove of palm trees. They sway and rustle in the ocean breeze, the sound of the surf a constant backdrop.

   Stiles spots Derek’s Jeep parked next to an unfamiliar SUV, and all the burning anger and hurt pushes back up his throat.  Bad idea, such a bad idea, his mind wags it’s finger at him. Just the fact that Derek lied to him should have been reason enough to stay away. But he knows he can’t.

   He climbs off the bicycle, his thighs like rubber, and takes the stairs to the wide porch that wraps around the house. “Hello? Anyone home?” he knocks on the screen door.

   Soon footsteps come closer, and a friendly looking, middle-aged gentleman opens the door. He frowns when he looks at Stiles and quickly scans the outside. “May I help you?”

  “Uh, hi, hey. Are you doctor Deaton?”

  The man relaxes only a fraction. “Ah, yes, but I’m afraid you’ll have to contact the clinic…”

  “No, that’s not… I’m looking for Derek? Derek Hale?”

  The doctor isn’t quick enough to hide the shock that flashes across his face. “Ah, I’m sorry, I don’t know any Derek. Now if you’ll excuse me…” and he starts to close the screen door.

   Stiles grabs it. “That’s his car right there.”

   The man slowly looks up from Stiles’ hand. “That’s my car.”

   “No, it is not. It’s Derek’s.”

   “I’m sorry, I can’t help you.” The man pulls the screen door out of Stiles grasp. “Good evening.” he nods, face tight, and closes the inner door as well.

   Gobsmacked, Stiles can only stare at the closed off screen door. He looks up and down the porch, at the wicker furniture scattered along its stretch. To feel powerless, he decides, is right up there with being lied to. That, and hearing your best friend telling you that you’re basically pathetic.

   “Fuck this.”

   He bangs on the door hard enough to leave indents on the side of his fist. “Hey! Open up! Derek! I know you’re in there!

   The inner door opens. “Young man, please.” Again he scans the outside. “I have had a very long day and I would appreciate it if-”

   “I know he’s here, so cut the crap!”

   The doctor gapes at him. “You need to leave. Right now.”

   “I’m not going anywhere until-”

   Until barking distracts them both and Stiles turns to see something small come barreling right towards the house. It’s a puppy; an adorable, dark brown puppy, all furry paws and ears and pink tongue lolling from its mouth. Not that familiar with dog breeds, Stiles first though is that it’s some German Shepard cross. It trips over its own paws a couple of times on the stairs and smacks right into his shins. It jumps up and barks excitedly, its whole backside wagging along with its tail.

   Stiles bends down to try and calm the little thing down. It’s a boy, he discovers when it rolls over to have its tummy scratched. ”Hey puppy, aren’t you just too cute.”

   The look of terror on the doctor’s face though is not what he was expecting. The puppy scrambles back on its feet and starts barking at the bushes from whence it came, where a set of glowing eyes has now appeared.

   “Get inside, quickly.” The doctor orders.

   Stiles stands up, puppy’s lineage quite clear now.

   “Is that… a wolf?”

   “Leave the puppy and get inside!”

   “In Florida?” Stiles ignores him. Puppy’s mommy (or daddy) has a tawny coloured pelt, and even in the dark Stiles can see it’s quite beautiful. The puppy goes nuts, bounces down towards it, licking at its face, then runs back up to Stiles.

   The wolf clears the undergrowth and trots right up to the stairs, ears flat, muzzle wrinkled in a silent snarl.

   “Whoa, easy there, it’s okay. Your boy’s perfectly fine. I was just playing with him, see? Perfectly fine.”

   The doctor grabs Stiles arm. “Get inside!”   

   The wolf chuffs, and the puppy jumps up, tail wagging all the way down the stairs again. The wolf carefully clamps the puppy by the scruff and starts dragging him back towards the bushes, at which the little pup begins to whine and dig his paws into the dirt.

   Stiles too is being dragged away – by the arm, into the house – when the evening’s surreal events takes another turn. Two more of the wild canines appear out of the dark, one a light sandy colour, the other – much bigger than the rest – a dark brindle. They stop in their tracks, heads hung low, eyes aglow.

   For the first time there’s a sharp spike of fear in Stiles’ chest.

   The tawny-coloured wolf is still trying it’s best to drag the puppy back into the bushes, but the little one wriggles so much it eventually breaks free, and makes a mad dash back up the stairs, straight for Stiles.

   “No, Rico!” the doctor shouts.

   And the world as Stiles used to know it, changes right in front of his eyes.

   Several things happen at once: the three grown wolves go ballistic, barking and charging after the puppy; Stiles retreats and collides with the doctor;

   And puppy – little adorable fluffy puppy – melts. Literally melts.

   Before Stiles’ eyes the animal stumbles, then starts to change shape in mid-run. In a horrible parody of time-lapse computer-morph animation its snout shrinks back into its face, its legs elongate, paws deform, and the brown fur that only a second ago covered its whole body thins away to expose the skin underneath.

   The puppy is gone, and in its place a boy crawls up the stairs. On the landing he stands up; a small, grinning boy with a mass of dark curls, naked like the day he was born. He lifts his hand to point at Stiles when he gets tackled by the sandy and brindle-coloured wolves.

   Stiles, all feeling gone from his limbs, has just enough time to look up when the tawny wolf brutally collides right into his chest. Both man and animal go down in a heap of fur and limbs, skidding along the polished timber floor of the entrance hall, the Persian runner concertinaed as they slide. The doctor gets knocked sideways into a console table which crumples under his weight, sending a lamp and some framed photographs smashing to the ground.

   Stars dance across his vision when Stiles comes to. He’s certain he’s broken something. The wolf is right up in his face, teeth exposed, its full weight behind the two paws on his chest. Even if Stiles wasn't paralysed with fear he wouldn't have been able to move. Shock has stolen away his voice, adrenaline a knife to his heart. He’s sure he’s peed himself, maybe even crapped in his pants.

   “Isaac! Get off him!”

   Stiles vaguely recognizes the female voice. But the snarling wolf currently inches away from his face makes it hard to have any coherent thoughts. There’s another voice, deep and soothing; a child crying. He can feel the first tendrils of a panic attack curl its slimy tentacles around his throat.

   In a flash of black the pressure on his chest is gone, the wolf tackled off him by another. There’s a scuffle, some more furniture that gets broken while blood-curdling growls mix with painful yelps. The same female voice shouts at Derek to stop it. Wait, what? Derek? Stiles has the wherewithal to get up on his elbows to first see the doctor holding a handkerchief to his bleeding head, leaning against the wall, then a huge black wolf with its jaws clamped around the smaller tawny wolf’s throat.

   “Derek. Derek!” a man calls. Stiles looks towards the doorway where a butt-ass naked man placates the black wolf with hands held in front of him. “He’s okay! Stiles is fine, look. Isaac was just protecting Rico.” Behind him on the porch a blond women, also naked, cradles the terrified boy in her arms. They’re all dirty, streaked with mud and bits of leaves and twigs stuck in their hair.

   Erica, Stiles’ over-stretched mind supplies. Erica, Boyd, and little Rico, who were all wolves just a second ago.

   Stiles scrambles back through the debris-littered floor until he’s backed up against the wall. The black wolf, bigger than anything he has ever seen, climbs off Isaac. Yes, the tawny wolf has changed into Isaac, curly hair wild and dirty, face drawn in pain as he holds his arm.

   “No. Nononono…” Stiles babbles, eyes wide. The black wolf rounds on him, head held high, two glowing coals for eyes, its muscles roiling under its thick fur. It howls, loud enough that the windows rattle, loud enough for little Rico to cover his ears. And then it too starts to melt and change-

   -into Derek; glorious, six-foot-and-a-whole-lotta-change naked Derek. A naked Derek with sharpened fingertips. Claws, Stiles’ heated brain offers. Then everything else comes into focus. He’s hairier than normal, his physique bulkier, veins popping over his shoulders and down his thighs. Even his cock looks fatter, draped over his full sack among a forest of black curls and… Stiles gawks. Derek’s cock isn’t just fatter, the base of it has a very distinct-

   “Stiles? Are you alright?” Derek asks. His barrel-chest heaves like he has just sprinted a mile. But it’s not his voice. It’s deeper, gravelly, like he’s talking through a mouthful of marbles. Stiles eyes snap up to his face, or what passes for Derek’s face.

   “Oh my god.” he whimpers. Fangs. Actual, honest-to-God fangs poke from Derek’s mouth where his lips can’t quite close around them. His brow is heavy with bony ridges, eyebrows gone. His ears are pointy, sideburns running down to his jaw. And his eyes; his eyes are glowing a fiery red, even the well-lit hallway. “Derek?”

   Derek walks closer, and Stiles presses back against the wall. Derek halts, burning eyes at once unsure, hurt. “Stiles, it’s okay. Everything’s okay. I’m not gonna hurt you.”

   “What… what the fuck?! Is this a joke? Am I being punked?” Stiles cries, eyes wide between Derek and the rest. “What the fuck is going on here?”

   “They’re werewolves,” the doctor answers calmly, and looks at the bloody handkerchief.

    Derek crouches down in front of Stiles and gently places his hands on his knees. Stiles flinch, the hairy paws – paws, you just thought paws – so big the claws could easily curl around to the back, thick black hair all the way up his corded forearms.

   “It’s okay. Your safe.” Derek tries to smile, but his thickened jaw and fangs just turn it into a nightmarish leer.

   For a second or two Stiles goes numb as if stunned by a physical blow, the point of impact lifeless before the blood rushes back to ignite all the nerve endings once again. It’s that stomach-clenching moment of silence between the cardboard box tearing open, and its contents crashing to the floor in a spectacular mess.

   The panic attack – first one in over a decade – finally dissolves what is left of Stiles’ already paper thin sanity. His rib cage squashes his lungs, hands curl into the spasm, and just before his eyes roll back into his skull he can hear Derek’s terrified voice calling to him through the rushing in his ears, while hot, rough hands gather him tight to his furry chest.

   Stiles’ last thoughts are of claws and burning eyes. 

oOo

Chapter Text

A feather-light touch. Small fingers poking at his cheek. Maybe even a little mouse of a squeak-giggle - Stiles isn’t sure if he’s still dreaming or not.

   “Ricardo, hey, leave Stiles be, sweetheart, he needs to sleep.”

   The bed dips as the small body fidgets and moves around. “Is he also a weahwolf now, mommy?”

   “No, baby, he’s still human.”

   Stiles cracks an eyelid. The skin on his elbows are tender, his whole sternum one big throbbing bruise. There’s a point on his back where something must have dig into the muscle when he got tackled. As awareness slowly creeps back though, his whole body comes alive with bone deep aches.

   “He’s awake he’s awake!” the little boy jumps. Stiles groans at the sudden bout of nausea it causes. Chubby little arms snake around his neck and the baby-powder softness of a little body hugging him close infuse his senses. “I’m sowwy I scawed you, uncoh Styes,” Rico whispers right into his ear and follows it up with a butterfly-soft peck to his cheek. Stiles blindly pats the little body.

   “Okay, little man,” Erica picks Rico up off the bed. “Enough excitement for one night, time for bed.”

   There’s a lot of protestation from the boy; a door that opens and Erica calling “Alan, he’s awake.” The boy gets handed to Boyd, who whispers something to her.

   Stiles winces and carefully opens both eyes. The bedroom has the neutral decor of a guestroom, the shutters open to the sounds and smells of the ocean. Lamps around the room cast a soft glow against the slatted ceiling. It’s all a little impersonal, but homely none the less.

   He doesn’t get up, but stays on his side when Erica sits down on the bed, a warm, soft hand on his hip. She tucks her hair behind her ear and smiles down at him.

   “Hey.”

   Stiles watches her closely. “Is it real?”

   “All real,” she nods. “How are you feeling?”

   Stiles rolls onto his back, wincing. “Sore.”

   “You had us worried there for a bit.”

   Stiles snorts. “I had you worried?”

   She rolls her eyes and combs the hair from his forehead. She smells shower fresh, but not like anything specific. Like Derek’s bodywash. Scentless.

   The doctor enters the bedroom, dragging a chair closer. “Hello Stiles,” he smiles calmly when he sits down. A small bandage adorns the side of one eyebrow. “I’m Alan, as I’m sure you know by now.” He pauses. “I wish we could have met under more… calm circumstances, but, here we are.”

   “Hey.” Stiles sits up and the room immediately spins off its axis. “Woah.”

   “Easy, easy.” Alan gently pushes him back against the pillows. “Other than the dizziness – which is completely normal - how are you feeling?”

   “Achy, all over, like I have the flu.”

   “That’s to be expected. You had quite a violent panic attack, the severity of which I have not encountered before, so everything will feel bruised.”

   “Not my proudest moment,” Stiles mumbles.

   Erica scoots closer and squeezes his hip. Alan nods. “It’s completely understandable. We’ve all had a stressful evening. May I?”

   Stiles offers up his wrist as asked, and the doctor checks his pulse against his own wristwatch, his calm, professional manner soothing in and of itself. He then produces a penlight and checks both of Stiles’ pupils for any uneven dilation.

   “All seems in order.” 

   Stiles bites back the sarcastic retort.

   “Thirsty?”

   Stiles nods and takes the offered glass of water. He downs it in one go. Erica pours him another one from the ice-filled jug. He blinks up at her, studies her face in the soft warmth of the bedside lamp.

   “Where’s Derek?”

   Alan shoots a quick glance at Erica. “He’s out front,” he answers evenly.

   “What?” Stiles demands, looking between them. “What’s going on? Is he okay?”

    “Derek is fine, Stiles.” Alan pats his knee.

    “Well, he is now.” Erica adds. “He was a bit growly after you fainted, wouldn’t let you go, and Alan needed to check if you were okay, so he gave him a shot. Several, actually. Alpha-idiot’s metabolism burned through the first couple.”

   There is so much in that sentence Stiles doesn’t even know where to begin. “Growly?”

   “He’s a bit feral at the moment. We thought it good to let him calm down a bit before he sees you,” Alan explains.

   Stiles looks from Alan to Erica, completely lost.

   “Okay, so, we only shift completely during a full moon,” Erica starts, “What you saw after is, well, what we normally look like when we shift during the rest of the time. It’s called a beta-shift. Only, Derek didn’t change back because his instincts told him you were still in danger, so he had to protect you.”

   “Is he still…?”

   “In beta-shift? No,” Erica shakes her head. “But he’s still a bit, crabby.”

   “But he’ll be okay, right?”

   “He will be fine, yes.” Alan answers.

   “Can I see him?” Stiles asks Erica.

   “In a bit, I promise.”

   Alan clears his throat. “Stiles, it goes without saying that tonight’s events cannot leave this house. It is paramount to our safety. And yours.”

   “Of course! Absolutely, I wouldn’t tell a soul,” Stiles shakes his head, eyes big and earnest. “Not like anyone’s gonna believe me anyway, right?”

   “Right,” Alan smiles. “Well, let me know if you start to feel worse.”

   “I will, thanks.” Alan gets up to leave. “Alan?” Stiles stops him. “I’m sorry I was such a brat with you, earlier.”

   Alan smiles. “Don’t worry about it.”

   Only when the door clicks shut does Stiles look back at Erica. “Is he…?”

   Erica looks back at the closed door. “Alan? No, no. He’s a friend of the family, so to speak. He looks after the land for Derek, and-“

   “Derek owns this land?”

   Erica nods. “The whole peninsula.”

   “Wow. All them boxes o’ tequila, huh?”

   “Nope.” She looks down at his clasped hands. “Inheritance.”

   Stiles shuts his mouth.

   “Anyway,” she waves it away. “We come here every full moon to shift so we can run around safely without having to worry about scaring some unsuspecting tourist half to death.”

   “God forbid.”

   “Yeah.” she laughs. “You know, I’m still amazed at how Rico picked up on your scent. I mean you were down-wind.” She smiles fondly. “If that kid didn’t have a nose like a bloodhound we would have saved ourselves a whole heap of trouble.” 

   “Yeah, my bad.”

   Erica ruffles his hair. “We’ll forgive you. This time.” She looks at him a bit longer. “Stiles, you know that Derek would never hurt you, right? Never.”

   “Of course I do.” 

   Something loosens in Erica’s face. “Good.”

   “I mean, the panic attack was just… I was caught off guard, you know?”

   “I can imagine. And Isaac didn’t exactly help, either.”

   “Yeah… That… I don’t know what I did to piss him off.”

   “You didn’t do anything, sweetie. Believe me,” Erica smiles knowingly, if a little sad.

   “Is he okay, though? I saw him holding his arm…?”

   “Oh, he’s fine, Derek just broke it.”

   Stiles sits up. “He did what?”

   “No, it’s okay. I mean it healed, of course.” At Stiles’ look of horror she quickly explains. “We heal immediately. No matter the injury. It’s all good.”

   “Derek broke his arm?”

   “Well, yeah. I mean he was protecting you, and everyone was panicking and all our emotions were running high… Things just got a little bit out of hand.”

   “He just broke his arm,” Stiles breathes incredulously.

   Erica grins. “There was this tourist at the restaurant once - real prick - got drunk as a skunk, abused some of the waitresses, then refused to pay his bill because he claimed his steak wasn’t cooked right. While the guy was passed out in the bathroom Derek dragged his Escalade onto the beach to just above the low tide mark. While the parking brake was on.”

   Stiles mouth falls open. “Holy shit.”

   “And it was a rental.” Erica adds with glee.

   Stiles blinks owlishly at her. “Okay, so Derek is really strong.”

   “Comes with the territory. We all are, but he’s an alpha, so he’s especially all mighty mouse.”

   Stiles leans deeper into the cushions. I… wow… okay…”

   Erica rubs his leg. “It’s a lot to take in, I know.”

   “To put it mildly.” Stiles rubs his arms. He frowns. “A lot of things make sense now, actually.”

   “Yeah? Like what?” Erica asks, sitting more comfortably.

   “All the stuff Derek did, stuff he said to me… God, it’s all so obvious now.”

   Erica hums in agreement. “Did you also realize he can tell when you’re lying?”

   Stiles eyebrows just about shoot off his forehead. “He can tell when I’m lying?”

   Erica nods again, eyes sparkling. “All our senses are heightened, of course, like our hearing. Which is how we can hear heartbeats. And when you lie, your heart stutters. It’s like a polygraph,” she smiles brightly. “Comes in very handy, I can tell you that.”

   Stiles shuts his eyes. “That’s why Derek would always stare at my chest.”

   “Well, it’s not like you have a cleavage…”

   “That sly dog…” And then Stiles snaps his mouth shut. “Oh, shit, no wait, I didn’t mean to call you…”

   “It’s okay.” Erica huffs out a laugh. “I know you didn’t.”

   Stiles drags a hand through his hair. “This is so surreal.”

   “Just another day at the office,” Erica shrugs.

   Stiles settles deeper into the cushions just as the bedroom door opens. Isaac walks in and stops at the foot of the bed, eyes bloodshot. He doesn’t look at Stiles, barely glances at Erica. Even so, Erica tilts her head like she’s listening to something, and then nods. “Anyway,” she taps a quick ta-da beat on Stiles’ thigh. “I need to go check and see if Boyd did actually put our son to bed or whether they’re watching cartoons and eating ice cream.”

   She stands up but doesn’t move away immediately, hesitant, unable to entirely meet Stiles’ eyes. “Okay, so, I’ll catch you later. Take it easy, okay?” She leans forward to peck a soft kiss to Stiles’ cheek.

   Stiles watches her leave, unease like a chill settling around his shoulders. Only when the door clicks shut does he turn his attention to Isaac. “Hey.” he offers after an awkward silence.

   “Hey.”

   “How’s your arm?”

   Isaac's mouth is a thin line when he folds his arms. “I really just came to apologies.”

   “I’m all ears.”

   Isaac huffs. “It’s just… When we’re fully shifted our wolf instincts take over completely, and I thought you were gonna hurt Rico, so I sorta… Well, you know. And then Derek thought that I was attacking you, so, yeah.”

   “You thought I was going to hurt Rico?”

   “Yes. I’m sorry.” He shuffles his feet, looks out the window. Stiles just watches him, the distance between himself and the edge of the bed a yawning chasm.

   “Listen, Isaac, whatever I did to piss you off, I wish you’d tell me.”

   Isaac looks back and shrugs nonchalantly. “What are you talking about?”

   “Dude, come on. I know I’m still new to werewolfdom, but we both know Rico was never in any danger. Not from me, anyway.”

   “My wolf didn’t know that.”

   Stiles cocks an eyebrow.

   Isaac just out his chin, arms still tightly folded over his chest. “Okay. So I may have overreacted a bit.”

   “Overreacted? That’s what you’re going with?”

   “Look, Stiles,” Isaac drops his arms, jaw tight. “Apart from the fact that we’re not entirely human, we live very ordinary lives here. Peaceful and quiet. You have no idea the amount of shit we’ve had to wade through to be where we are today. As in life-threatening shit. Especially Derek. He has been through more in his teens than most people go through in a lifetime. That he is even a functional member of society is a miracle!” Isaac takes a breath and decides to stuff his hands into his pockets. “I just… I don’t want to see him get hurt again.”

   “Get hurt again? What are you talking about?”

   Isaac looks up. “You still have no idea, do you?”

   “No, Isaac, I don’t! Care to enlighten me?” Stiles asks angrily, his patience running thin.

   Isaac’s eyes cut into him. “It’s not my place, is it?” He suddenly looks of to the side, a frown pulling his eyebrows together before he shuts his eyes. For just a fraction Stiles is sure his chin trembles. When he opens them he doesn’t look back, and slowly nods.

   “Isaac?”

   “I’m sorry. I have to go.” And without another word he leaves the room.

   Stiles sits for a moment longer, then gets off the bed. He opens the bedroom door and pads out into the hallway to find Boyd walking towards him.

   “He’s out front, on the beach.”

oOo

Stiles finds Derek sitting against a fallen palm tree trunk. The moon is bright enough for him to see where he’s going, and with the help of the lights from the house behind him he easily finds his way, the beach sand soft and cool and strangely comforting between his toes.

   He’s back to normal, clothes haphazardly pulled on, hair still a bit of a mess. But even in the semi-dark he is as breathtakingly handsome as always. Stiles tries to picture him with claws and fangs and distorted features and his brain shudders at the memory.

   He sits down next to Derek, pulls his knees to his chest to lock his arms around his shins. “Just a regular Joe, huh?” he nudges Derek.

   The corners of Derek’s mouth twitch.

   They watch the brilliant silver disk’s reflection ripple on the dark ocean. Waves crash and scrape endlessly across the sand.

   “Are you okay?” Stiles asks.

   “I’m supposed to ask you that.”

   “I’m fine, Derek, really. I’m… jeez… this is just… I’m still waiting to wake up.” Stiles huffs out an exasperated laugh.

   Derek’s eyes flicker. “Stiles, I… This is not how I wanted you to find out.”

   “Were you planning on jumping out of a cake?” Stiles grins.

   The corners of Derek’s mouth barely lifts. “Not quite.” He finally looks at Stiles and wordlessly cups his face. Stiles covers his hand with his’ and leans hungrily into the touch to kiss his palm before his eyes flutter closed. Derek rubs his thumb over Stiles’ cheek, then lets his hand fall away again to look back out over the beach. “When I was sixteen my girlfriend burned my house down with my whole family still inside.”

   Stiles stops breathing for a second, only to pull a shuddery breath over his lips, his skin pulling tight across his scalp.

   “Turned out she was a hunter,” Derek carries on, his voice dull. “They’re people who believe that my kind is an abomination, that we need to be exterminated. She only used me to get to them, and I was too blind and selfish and fucking horny to see-” the last bit gets swallowed by a watery sob as he drops his head.

   “Derek…” Stiles tries to find something to say, but just closes his mouth again. He reaches out and lays his hand on Derek’s arm.

   “I never meant for any of this, Stiles.”

   “I know, Derek. It’s okay, I promise.”

   Derek blows out his breath and shuts his eyes. “You should go now.”

   “What?” Stiles pulls his hand back. “Why?”

   “It’s better this way.”

   Stiles can feel his palms grow clammy. “Did I do something wrong?”

   “No, god no, you didn’t do anything wrong. Just… Trust me, it’s better. For you.”

   Stiles tries his best to keep his voice steady, panic pummeling at his heart. “Derek, please, I don’t want to leave. I won’t tell anyone, I promise.”

   “It’s not that, Stiles. I know you won’t.”

   “Then why?” Stiles pleads, his voice cracking. “Whatever it is, I don’t care! God, you’re the best thing that has ever happened to me and I-“

   “Stiles,” Derek looks at him, eyes filled with defeat. “We both knew this wasn’t gonna go past the summer.”

   It’s a bucket of ice water right in his face. “How can you say that?”

   “Because it’s the truth.”

   “Bullshit!”

   Derek lifts his chin, eyes steely. Stiles isn’t fooled. “Don’t you dare pull that crap on me, Derek! Not now, not after everything that’s happened! Not after everything that we’ve done! It’s not just a summer fling for me. I… I don’t think it ever was.” Stiles throat burns but he can’t seem to swallow. Derek’s eyes flick to Stiles chest. “Yeah, I’m telling the truth.”

   “Stiles, I’m barely holding it together as it is.” Derek says lowly, voice trembling.

   “You won’t hurt me! I’m not scared off you, okay? God, if anything I’m even more-”

   Derek stands up, towering over Stiles. “You need to go. Now.” His eyes flash red in the dark.

   It’s frightening and brilliant to see it again, to know that this is what Derek really is. He quickly composes himself and also rise to his feet. “I’m not going anywhere.

   “Stiles.”

   “No.”

   “Stiles God dammit! You have a life somewhere else! A family that cares for you; a whole future! I’m not going to take that from you too!”

   Stiles blinks, completely thrown. “What? What the hell are you talking about? Why would you take anything from me?”

   “Just, please go now.”

   “Derek! Tell me!”

   “I WANT TO CLAIM YOU!” Derek roars right in his face, eyes ablaze and mouth brimming with fangs. Stiles snaps back like it’s a physical blow and almost tumble to the sand.

   “I want to claim you, Stiles,” Derek repeats softer, voice broken through all those teeth, chest heaving. His face is a Halloween mask if not for the pure agony in his eyes. “Ever since that first day, ever since I caught your scent I can’t think of anything else but you, and all I want is to sink my teeth into your neck and bind you to me, make you mine, in every way.” Clawed hands come up to gently cup his face and Stiles grabs his wrists like he can keep Derek there with him. A sickled thumb lightly caress along the line of Stiles’ trembling jaw. “I tried to stay away, god knows I tried but you smelt like… You smell like home.”

   Then he pulls away suddenly. His features melt back to normal, to shiny, red rimmed eyes and a mouth twisted in pain. “I’ll make this right. I will not destroy any more lives. I will not let you get hurt too.”

   Stiles can only look at him, too stunned for words. He frantically digs for something to say, so desperate he’s sure he’s going to start vibrating at any second. But all of his words, his ability to speak has just left the building in one, loud whoosh.

   Derek takes a few steps back. “Goodbye, Stiles.”

   “No. No, wait, please, Derek-“ Stiles hiccups as a dry sob escapes his mouth. “Please, let’s just talk about this.”

   Derek keeps on slowly walking backwards, shaking his head. “Look after yourself, okay?”

   “Derek!”

   And then he’s gone, swallowed up by the darkness.

   The tall palms rustle and creak, the waves’ crash-scrape on the beach never-ending. Stiles doesn’t move, nor does he make another sound.  

***

Boyd takes him home. He vaguely remembers Erica saying goodbye, crying.

   At the beach house Boyd lays a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll talk to him.”

  Stiles nods mechanically and climbs out the cab without looking back.

   Back in his room he stares at his bed, at his clothes strewn all over. Less than twenty four hours ago he was in Derek’s arms, on his couch, the world perfect and normal in every way…

   Every light in the house seems to be on, the beach party still going strong, the kitchen a mess of empty cans and bottles. He takes a shower, his movements jerky and robotic. There’s a knock on the bathroom door. “Stiles? That you?” he hears Allison call.

   “Yeah.”

   There is pause. “Oh. Okay.”

   Back in his room he’s busy pulling on an old t-shirt when footfalls stop at his door.

   “Dude!” Scott’s puppy-eyed face brightens when he sees him. “I am so sorry, man. I didn’t mean to fight with you. Are you okay? I’ve been calling you all…” Scott’s voice dies away when Stiles turns to look at him. Their eyes meet, and a sob rips from Stiles’ throat, then a gasp for breath. His whole chest convulses, sob after sob just spilling from him as his face crumples. He sits down heavily on the bed, shoulders bowed and shaking.

   Scott is there next to him in an instant, holding him tight like he’s scared Stiles will fall apart if he lets go. “Fuck, Stiles, I’m sorry I yelled at you, okay? I didn’t mean it, man, please stop crying.”

   Stiles lets his head fall on Scott’s shoulder where the fabric soon gets soaked to the skin.    

oOo

Chapter Text

Stiles pulls his jacket tighter around him and flips the hood over his head. It has started to rain again; a fine, soft misty precipitation, so typical of San Francisco. It is quite cold though, and the rain slowly permeates to the bone until it feels like you will never be completely dry or warm again.

   He wrinkles his nose when he walks down the front steps of their apartment building. The pungent smell of urine is heavy, even in the rain. Ever since they got back about a week ago it has started up. Their building’s super is up in arms about it, but no one has even seen the culprit, let alone been able to catch the guy.

   His breath fogs as he speed walks to the little grocery store just around the corner. A lonely police cruiser rolls by, the officer glancing at Stiles, but Stiles pays it no mind, eager to get out of the rain.

   The bell above the door chimes when he steps into the grocery store. “Hey miss Peggy.” 

   “Stiles! You’re back! How was Florida?” the little grey Asian woman calls from over her shoulder. She’s on a step ladder trying to reach the top shelf.

   “Ah, good, fine, thanks.” Stiles steps around the counter and grabs the tin container of Chinese Jasmine tea for her.

   “Thank you, dahling.” she pats him on the cheek.

   He grabs a few bottles of water and some snacks, then heads back to the front. He’s about to hand over the money when miss Peggy produces a packet of jelly beans. “Welcome back gift,” she winks.

   There’s a second where Stiles can’t move. He watches as she’s about to drop the packet of candy in his paper bag, and then he’s smacking her hand away, the packet skidding across the counter.

   Her round face is a caricature of shock.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry miss Peggy.” Stiles fumbles and picks it up again. “It’s, a… Scott. Scott’s allergic to them, so, yeah. Sorry.” He leans over the counter and plants a kiss on the bewildered woman’s forehead. The bell announces his quick departure.

   Miss Peggy stares at the closed door for another second, then shakes her head, mumbling something in Cantonese.

oOo

“Last chance.” 

   Stiles doesn’t look up from his laptop. “Enjoy.”

   “You do know they’ve got curly fries, right?” Allison tries while Scott helps her into her coat.

   “Yes, I am aware of that. Now go and leave me in peace.” He re-adjusts his black framed glasses on his nose, and dives back into his work.

   Scott and Allison share a look. “Okay, well, see ya later, bro.”

   Stiles waves them out. When he hears Scott’s key in the lock he closes the essay he’s been working on and maximises his browser.

   He’s got several websites open. It’s nothing he hasn’t seen before. He’s trawled each and every one known to man, knows them by heart now. But it still angers him; the drivel they sell as the truth, the ridiculous movie-monsters they claim as sighted.

   He brings up his email account, fingers poised over the keyboard to - once again - open the vein that will bleed forth the address that he has deleted so many times, the contact that he can recall in his sleep; the contact that never responds. None of them do.

   The reflection of blue and red lights from the street pulls him away. Stiles walks over the window in time to see a police car peel around the corner and into an alley. There’s the distinct sound of a car door slamming and someone shouting.

   In the back of his mind he wonders if the neighbourhood is taking a turn for the worst

oOo

   “I said!” Scott yells through the thunderous noise of the night club. “No more moping!” He slings his arm around Stiles neck and haphazardly pulls him closer. “You need to get out there an’ get some, bro!”

   Stiles laughs despite himself, “Yeah, yeah.”

   Through the packed club their friends come and go; refilling drinks, grinding it out on the dancefloor, laughing and joking. Lydia totters over on her impossible stilettos. “I want you to meet someone!” she yells over the din.

   “Lydia, no, seriously, I don’t-” but she already has a death grip on his wrist.

   The base drops and strobe lights kick in as the crowd roars. He feels like a pinball between the mass of bodies that sway with the music while Lydia leads them towards the bar.

   They stop behind a broad shouldered, black t-shirt-clad figure, the guy leaning over the counter.

   Lydia taps him on the shoulder, and he turns, short, jet-black hair perfectly styled. Stiles heart gives a painful thump, briefly roused from its coma. But it’s not him.

   It’s never him.

oOo

   Stiles stares up at the water stain on his bedroom ceiling that’s shaped like Long Island. He eventually gets up and pads over to his desk. He switches on the desk lamp and opens the bottom drawer, pulling out an empty paper towel roll holder, the crumpled edges of a piece of rolled-up paper sticking out at both ends of the cardboard cylinder.

   Carefully he extracts the piece of paper and unfurls it on his desk, using the lamp base and a chipped coffee mug/ pen holder to keep it from curling back in on itself.

   He traces across the triskelion, follow the pen lines across the paper. Nothing’s changed. It’s still a beautiful as always, as the day Derek sketched it. Perfect, except for the scorched bottom right corner where he tried to burn it, just days after they got back from Florida.

   He looks out the window, at his reflection in the glass and the sparkling lights of San Francisco beyond.

oOo

   “Pizza Cones! I mean, whoever invented these deserves a Nobel Peace prize, through and through.”

   Stiles’ mouth is too full to answer, but he vigorously nods in agreement with Scott. Allison just laughs and grimaces when Scott takes an exaggerated bite, grease running down his chin. She squeals when he pulls her closer for a kiss and tries to swat him with the bag full of goodies they picked up from the Saturday street market.

   Stiles looks away with a smile. It still feels wrong though, like it doesn’t belong on his face. But he has to start sometime.

   “What’s going on?” Allison asks as they round the corner of their block. A uniformed police officer is standing on the front steps, busy talking to a very animated mister Zabrovsky - the building super. The rail-thin man is gesturing wildly while the officer has his hands up, trying his best to calm him down.

   “Dude, you think there’s been a burglary?” Scott asks, pizza cone forgotten.

   “Dunno.” Stiles frowns.

   They walk closer until mister Zabrovsky sees them. “Ask them! This is nice place! Only student here!” the man points and pushes his glasses back up his nose, his heavy east-European accent intensified by his distress. “Now they come and do this,” he points to the building’s entrance, “and do their stinky-stinky business on stairs! I have to mop every day!”

   The police officer turns to the trio. “You guys live here?”

   “Ah, we do.” Scott says, pointing between himself and Stiles.

   “Seen anything or anyone suspicious?” the cop asks, directing his question at Stiles.

   Stiles takes him in - Parrish, his name tag says. The officer’s young, very attractive in a clean-cut, wholesome kind of way. Defined, broad shoulders and biceps fill out his uniform. Not bulky like Derek, his traitorous brain supplies, but lean and strong. His clear auburn-green eyes are penetrating, truly focusing on him and only him, like the others don’t exist.

   “Ah no, we haven’t. We’ve been away all morning. What happened?”

   “They attack door!” mister Zabrovsky cries, again pointing at the entrance.

   Stiles, Scott and Allison peer around him.

   The front door’s frame has been bent outward, the laminated glass shattered. The inner, solid timber door, though still intact, bares five deep and ragged gashes diagonally across its surface, bits of splintered wood littering the tiled floor.

   “What the hell?” Scott frowns, Allison standing behind him with a hand on his elbow.

  The taste of melted cheese suddenly burns Stiles throat. He swallows, taking a step back.

   “You sure you haven’t seen anything? Anything at all?” Officer Parrish asks him again, completely ignoring the other people.

   Stiles shakes his head, eyes glued to the door. Scott looks back, frowns at the policeman.

   “This is weird,” Allison comments.

   “Why you not catch them! I see you drive by every day!” mister Zabrovsky yells at the cop.

   Stiles goes out later to buy two cans of pepper spray.   

 oOo

The words are swimming on the page by the time the librarian – a fellow student, really – stops by his table.

   “We’re closing in five.”

   Stiles stretches and yawns. “Yeah, okay, thanks man.”

   Outside he zips up his hoodie and takes a deep breath. The night air is chilly, the twisted old stone pines scattered across campus eerily spooky in the dark. Hands stuffed in his pockets and satchel securely hooked across his shoulder, he walks down the wide steps.

   His bus stop is in sight when a dark figure, big and bulky, steps out of an alley on the opposite side of the street and starts to cross the road. Stiles doesn’t think much of it at first, until it becomes clear that the man is heading straight in his direction. He digs around in his satchel for his can of pepper spray, breathing a little easier when his fingers close around the small metal canister. He tells himself the guy also just wants to catch a ride.

   When the stranger steps onto the sidewalk right in front of him though the first bout of panic races down his back like an ice cube slipping past his collar. The stranger is huge, linebacker-huge, a whole head taller than Stiles with thick shoulders sloped like an ox and a beard worthy of a lumberjack. But it’s nothing compared to the brilliant, bone chilling red glow of his eyes in the dark. Stiles’ satchel slips from his shoulder.

   “Well Christ on a cracker, ain’t you just a purdy little thang,” the man growls as he stalks closer, his voice deep and distorted. “You really shouldn’t be out strollin’ by yerself, sweetheart.”

   “Shit.” Stiles whispers and takes a step back, his legs boneless all of sudden.

   “That’s right, run. As fast as your little legs can go.” He takes another step closer and inhales deeply. “Cause I like to play with my food.”

   Stiles whips the pepper spray out of his satchel and delivers a face full of the stinging teargas. Linebacker jerks away, holding up a hand against the noxious spray - only to sneeze, wipe his face with a meaty hand and turn back to Stiles, his smirk filled with viciously sharp teeth. “Now that wasn’t very nice, was it?”

   Stiles drops the useless spray can. And bolts.

   He barely makes it a few steps before he is lifted off his feet and crushed against the man’s chest by his tree-trunk arms.

   “Silly rabbit,” the werewolf chuckles, his breath sour against the side of Stiles’ face. The guy’s heartbeat is like a fist tapping at his back. “You really think you can git away?”

   Stiles screams but it’s choked off by one paw, rough and dry, clamping the entirety of his lower face. He grabs at his arm, nails uselessly scratching at the man’s iron grip, the red welts disappearing as soon as he renders them.

   “Can’t wait to feel how far you’ll stretch around my knot, sweet thang.” One giant paw massages Stiles’ crotch, pushing him back against the man’s own groin. Faint with panic Stiles is close to tears when he feels the man’s erection press up past the cleft of his ass, impossibly large. “That’s right baby, gonna spear ya wiiiide open. I’m gonna tie you to me all good an’ proper, and then I’m gonna claim you. You’ll be my little fuck pup, won’t you now?”

   Stiles tries to scream again, tears streaming and feet kicking out –  his whole body convulsing in his effort to get away, but linebacker just laughs. He tilts Stiles head and buries his nose against his neck with a deep, snorting inhale, then slowly licks up the side of his face. He swallows with his eyes closed. “Hm hm hm, taste even better. Think I’ll keep ya. Now be good boy and-“

   Out of nowhere, the man gets tackled by another, the rest of his sentence cut off with a grunt. All three go tumbling to the ground. Stiles smacks into the pavement, his shoulder and head bearing most of the brunt.

   He rolls around in time to see his saviour jump on the linebacker and land blow after blow, the giant grunting and growling with each impact, trying his best to block the claws of the man above him. Fists swing, legs kick out, quicker than his eyes can follow. The new attacker pulls back a clawed hand and swipes it across the other’s face. Linebacker howls in agony, more animal than human, and throws his adversary against the side of a car like a ragdoll. It crumples in a spray of glass and rocks to the side, its alarm screaming at once.

   Linebacker staggers up and wipes blood off his face. He advances on Stiles, face twisted in a murderous snarl, but again gets tackled and goes face first into the paving, the stranger clamped to his back like a nightmarish jockey.

   “Stiles! Get out of here!” he yells.

   Stiles’ heart just about cracks his sternum at hearing his name from the stranger. He stays on the ground though, too paralyzed to do anything other than watch.

   Linebacker uses the distraction to pitch the him off. But the stranger rolls gracefully and is back on his feet in the blink of an eye. He circles around so that he’s between Stiles and the other wolf, the flickering hazards of the destroyed car painting both in bursts of orange.

   “You have no claim to him,” Linebacker growls, his claws splayed.

   The stranger spits a glob of blood at his feet. “Neither do you.”

   Stiles brain stumbles to catch up, that voice so familiar… It’s the cop! Palmer… Pardon… Parish!

   Linebacker charges, but the cop is faster on his feet. He grabs the man by his shirt and uses his momentum to swing him around and through the air. The guy goes flying and shears a streetlamp in half before crushing the roof of a car on the opposite side of the street. The severed streetlamp topples to the ground in a shower of sparks and powerlines as more car alarms join in the cacophony.

   Stiles is still focused on the wrecked cars and howling alarms when he’s picked up bridal style by lean, muscled arms. “Hold on,” is all the warning he gets before his stomach flips as the ground disappears beneath him. They land on the roof of a nearby apartment building and the man is running the moment his feet touches the bitumen. Stiles grabs hold where he can, the man jumping and running at inhuman speed. The rushing cold night air burns his nose and ears. Stiles is weightless for a second before they’re back on the ground again, the impact easily absorbed.

   His legs won’t quite support him when he’s let down. “Easy,” the guy murmurs and helps him to sit on the steps. Stiles shivers, and the guy quickly takes off his leather jacket and drape it around his shoulders. He looks up at the strange apartment building.

   “Hold on,” the guy says, and unzip his jeans.

   Stiles can only gape as he steps away, whips out his dick and urinates against the side of the stairs. His brain turns over and Stiles finally finds his voice. “It’s you… you’ve been-”  

   “I needed to mark your building, so they’ll know to leave you alone.” he explains before he zips up.

   “They?”

   “Let’s get you inside. Can you walk?”

   Stiles just nods, and lets himself be pulled up. The guy walks behind him the two flights up to his apartment. Once inside he locks the door and secures both chains in place. 

   “Something tells me that won’t keep him out.” Stiles is amazed at how calm he sounds, what with his whole body shaking.

   “Don’t worry, you’re safe now. I promise,” the man answers with a frown, and cups the back of Stiles’ head. Stiles breath catches in his throat, but he just gingerly prods at the good sized lump already formed there. “How are you feeling? Are you nauseas?”

   Stiles pushes his hands away. “I’m fine,” he says.

   The stranger wrinkles his nose. “You should go take a shower, I can smell that creep all over-”

   “I don’t wanna take a fucking shower!” Stiles snaps. “I want to know who you are and what the hell is going on!”

   “We’ve met, remember?” he reminds him and lifts his jacket off Stiles to dig in an inside pocket. Confused, Stiles watches him pull out a badge and flip it open.

   Officer Jordan Parish, SFPD.

   “And what happened back there is not the first time I’ve had to persuade another wolf to stay away from you.”

   Stiles has to remember to breathe. “You’ve been following me?”

   Jordan drops his chin and sighs. “Derek asked me to keep an eye on you.”

   To hear his name again, spoken so casually; Jordan might as well have punched him in the stomach.

   In a daze Stiles walks further into the apartment. He sits down heavily on the couch in the open-plan living room. The leather jacket creaks and he pulls it off like it burns him. He winces at the low throbbing in his shoulder that he knows is just the beginning of stiff muscles and a fantastic bruise that will spread down his arm in no time. He falls back against the cushions and stares ahead of him. “He knew this was gonna happen?”

   “No. No, Stiles, there’s no way he could’ve known. I swear to you on my life the last thing Derek would do is put you in harms’ way.”

   “Then why ask you to babysit me?”

   “Because he cares about you.”

   Stiles looks away at once. It’s like trying not to inhale too deep, lest the broken ribs puncture your lungs. Looking back, he takes in Jordan’s bloodied shirt and general dishevelled appearance.

   “I’m okay, it’s already healed.”

   “Why am I being chased?” Stiles asks, not really caring about his physical state.

   “Well,” Jordan sits down on the armrest of the couch, “Mostly, they ah, want to claim you.”

   All the blood drains from Stiles’ face. His mind pulls him back to that night on the beach. “That’s… that’s what Derek wanted, too.”

   “And that is completely different.” He leans forward, hands pressed together as if in prayer. “It is so important that you understand this, Stiles. A mating claim is a connection based on love and care and respect. It’s got nothing to do with what these assholes want. Wolves like that creep, they’ve gone feral. They want nothing more than to use you, have control over you.”

   “But why me?” Stiles pleads.

   Jordan drags a hand through his hair and scratch at his nape. “It’s your scent.”

   “My what?”

   “Your scent; you naturally smell like prey, like you need to be chased, and held down. That, and the fact that you look the way you do… You’re like opium for werewolves. Even I had trouble ignoring it.” A blush spreads high across hic cheeks. “And when you got back from Florida you reeked of wolf, which just compounded everything. Plus, you weren’t claimed, so…”

   “So now I have a bunch of crazy horndog werewolves who want to rape me?”

   Jordan looks away, face grim.

   “Jesus…” Stiles walks back to the couch and sits down on the opposite side of Jordan. He lifts his feet onto the cushions and hug his knees close to his chest. “And when will it stop?”

   Parish frowns. “When will what stop?”

   “When will I stop smelling like, like werewolf catnip? Tomorrow? Day after? Next week, next month? When?”

   “Stiles, I’m a police officer and a werewolf. I’ll make sure you’re safe.”

   “By pissing on my front steps? Yeah, that really did the trick, didn’t it?”

   “I stopped that guy and I will do it again!”

   “You can’t follow me around 24/7!”

   “Listen to me! Derek-“

   “DEREK’S NOT HERE!” Stiles slams a balled fists on a cushion. “He made his choice, didn’t he? And now I’m being fucking hunted!”

   Jordan bites back his retort, jaw clenched. “Stiles,” he speaks softly, “Derek’s a good guy. One of the best. I know you know that. He never meant for any of this.”

   Stiles does, of course he does. But it hurts more to acknowledge it. He drops his head on his knees.

   “And I promise you I will look after you.”

   Stiles barely lifts his head when he speaks to Jordan, his eyes wet. “I really want to believe you.”

   Jordan looks down at his feet, thumbs rubbing over his clasped hands. “You still smell a bit like him, you know.”

   Stiles slowly blinks up at him. “How’s that even possible?”

   “Well, ah…” Jordan struggles, his cheeks heating up even more. “Werewolf semen, it’s ah, it’s potent. Much more so than human’s. And Derek is a born wolf, and an alpha, so… you know,” Jordan gestures, “His scent will still linger.”

   “Anyway,” Jordan stands when Stiles doesn’t respond. “You’re staying here tonight.”

   Stiles looks up at him, eyes wide.

   “Just as a precaution.”

   Stiles nods, too tired to counter him. “I should ah… I should probably call Scott.” He looks around the room, then shuts his eyes in defeat. “Shit, my phone was in my bag.”

   Jordan picks up his jacket where Stiles dropped it on the couch and digs in one of the pockets. “Fuck,” he groans when he pulls it out and sees the smashed screen. He drops it on the coffee table. “There’s a payphone across the street. I’ll walk with you.”

   “No it’s okay, I mean, he’s staying over at Allison’s anyway, so… I’ll call him tomorrow.”

   “Okay.” Jordan looks at him. “You can take my bed, I’ll take the couch.” 

   Stiles does a take shower. He viciously scrubs himself till his skin is raw.

oOo

Jordan waits for Stiles’ heartbeat to settle down as he slips into a fitful and exhausted slumber, then gets off the couch to pad to his closet. He throws on a pair of sweats and sneakers then turns to leave, but stops at the foot of his bed.

   Stiles is on his stomach, one arm curled almost protectively by his head. He’s wearing one of Jordan’s old t-shirts, the collar pulled down to reveal the ugly bruises on his long neck and a slip of skin down his shoulder.

   Jordan inhales through his mouth, exhales through his lips. It scares him how much he wants to go over there, gather Stiles in his arms and just, protect him.

   “Hale, you’re a fucking idiot.”

   He softly shuts his bedroom door and leaves his apartment, making sure to lock it behind him. Outside he takes a second to scent the air before he crosses the street. He hunches into the payphone and slips in the required amount of quarters.

   He shakes his head when it goes straight to voicemail.

   “Derek, it’s Jordan.”

oOo

“Get what you need?”

   Stiles nods and pulls the door shut before throwing his backpack on the back seat. He looks up at his apartment building, at the new front door, at the people just walking by, going about their normal lives.

   “Ready?” Jordan asks.

   Stiles nods.

   Jordan looks at the dark rings under Stiles’ eyes. Neither of them really slept. “How’s your shoulder?”

   “I’ll live.”

   Jordan pulls away from the curb. Eventually the city gives way to green hills, the green hills to forest.

   “Just a few days, right?”

   Jordan nods. “You’ll like my aunt.”

   They don’t speak again after that.  

oOo

It’s dusk by the time Jordan pulls off the highway and into a service station. A couple of big rigs - trailers stacked high with enormous logs - are parked next to a shingle-clad little diner, aglow in the night while the dark forest looms behind it.

   Stiles jostles awake, blinks at the lights. Jordan parks the car in the furthest corner of the parking lot. He gets out, Stiles following suit, both stretching.

  It’s when Stiles turns that he notices him.

   Even in the half-light, face shrouded in shadows does he recognise the breadth of those shoulders, the masculine ease of him in the way he stands to attention, arms crossed and feet apart.

   “He made me promise not to tell you,” Jordan says behind him. “He was afraid you wouldn’t have come otherwise.”

   Stiles doesn’t look back at Jordan. He can’t. He’s glued to the man that is currently speed-walking towards them, his almost predatory gait so painfully familiar. His hair is a bit longer, thick, his beard full. He stops a few feet away like he’s too afraid to come closer, gaze combing over Stiles from head to toe, concern and fear and hope all running through those grey-green eyes. “Are you okay?”

   Stiles’ breath leaves him in a rush and he has to concentrate to form any words. He can’t help his chin from trembling when he shakes his head.

   Derek squeezes his eyes shut, hands fisting. “Stiles, I’m so incredibly sorry.”

   “It’s okay,” Stiles manages a watery smile.

   “I… I was a fucking idiot.”

   “Yes, you were,” Stiles agrees, tears spilling. “A fucking big hairy idiot.”

   Derek looks down at his boots. “I thought it would be best. For you.”

   “Do you still think that?”

   Derek looks back up at him, slowly shakes his head like he’s trying to get rid of a bad memory. “I won’t be that selfish.”

   “It’s not selfish if I want it too.”

   “Stiles, you don’t know what you’re saying.”

   “I know that you’re all I can think about, that I want to be with you, want you to make me yours,” Stiles says with a soft lilt. “I know that I love you.”

   Derek’s head falls with his shoulders as he starts to shake, his wide frame almost crumbling in on itself.

   Stiles closes the gap between them. It’s a bit awkward, pulling this big man’s head down to rest on his shoulder, trying to hold his bulk close, hold him tight. He buries his face in Derek’s neck and just breathes him in - a heady mixture of musky wood shavings, leather jacket and Derek.

   “I want you… so much,” Derek barely whispers through his broken sobs. And slowly those two big arms come up to hug him back, crush Stiles’ slender form to his chest, one clamped around his waist, the other hand cradling the back of his head.

   They barely notice Jordan driving away.

oOo

Chapter Text

There are very few cars out this time of night, the headlights of their SUV cutting through the dark but only managing to illuminate the road ahead, the forest a wall of impenetrable black on either side.

   Derek glances at Stiles, his face lit up by the electronic lights of the console. “I can hear you thinking,” he says with a soft smile.

   “This is really happening?”

   “It is,” Derek nods, growing serious. “Should have happened a long time ago.”

   “And you’re sure? About me being… being your mate?”

   Derek stares intently at the road before answering. “I’ve been sure from the moment I’ve met you, Stiles. I’ve just been too chicken shit to acknowledge it.”

   Stiles lays a hand on Derek’s thigh. “You had your reasons. I mean, hell, to have gone through all of that… I would have been institutionalised.”

   Derek picks up Stiles’ hand up from his thigh and places a soft, lingering kiss on his palm. “When Jordan called, said you were attacked… The idea of losing you…” the leather around the steering wheel creaks. “Woke me up. Showed me what I was doing to you.”

   “I’m okay, promise. Just few bruises.”

   “You never should’ve gotten them in the first place.”

   “Well, you’re here now.”

   “I’m here now.” Derek affirms, and covers Stiles’ hand with his, back on his leg.  

   Stiles sighs. It’s only been a day, but it feels like a lifetime ago that Jordan saved him from the clutches of that monster. And here he is now, back with Derek. He rolls down the window, the crisp, cold mountain air a blast of pine woodland and wet freshness, straight to his heated mind.

oOo

   A few hours later and Derek stops the car underneath the portico of a grand, prairie-style stone building. Two bellboys appear out of nowhere but Derek waves them off. Stiles climbs out of the car, gawking up at the carefully illuminated façade of the understated sprawling luxury lodge. He stretches and takes in a lungful of fresh, moist, pine-scented air, the only sound around them that of crickets. He can just make out the lake due to the scattered pinpricks of light reflecting off its surface.

   He turns to see Derek watching him intently, both their bags slung over his shoulder.

   “Ready?”

   For? Stiles wants to ask, but there is no ambiguity in Derek’s question. He nods and Derek takes hold of his hand. Stiles follows him up the wide front steps of the main building, a valet already taking care of their car.

   The lobby is plush and softly lit, dominated by a stone fireplace big enough to roast a bison in. There are no other guests around at this hour, safe for the front desk manned by a lone concierge.

   “Good evening. Welcome to Seven Hills.” the dark haired beauty greets them, her voice rich and hushed. “Mister Hale?”

   “Yes,” Derek answers curtly, his broody-face firmly back on. While she checks her computer, Derek pulls Stiles closer to his side with a hand around his waist. He leans into his hair and inhales before asking. “You okay?”

   Stiles knows by now the futility of trying to lie to him. “Just a little bit overwhelmed.”     

   “Good overwhelmed or bad overwhelmed?”

   “Good. Definitely good.” Stiles squeezes the hand around his waist and smiles bravely. “And a little bit scared.”

   Derek frowns and pulls him in tighter. “It’s okay. Just know that I’m here now, and that I will take care of you.” He lays a gentle kiss just above Stiles’ ear.

   The concierge looks up the moment they turn their attention back to her. “This way, please,” she points to her side and walks out from behind the desk.

   “Let’s go.” he smiles down at Stiles. Fancy, Stiles thinks as they follow the receptionist to their room. But instead she leads them down a hallway that is clearly to the administrative part of the main building. She knocks softly on a dark wooden door with no discernible identification.

   “Come in.” a husky female voice answers, the gorgeous southern twang in her accent unmistakable. The concierge opens the door, and Derek thanks her with a simple nod.

   They walk into a beautifully appointed office, Tiffany lamps scattered throughout the space lending even more warmth to the rich wood panelling and embroidered drapes. Behind the monolith of a desk a woman stands up, her smile as wide as the ocean. Her silver hair is combed back into a stylish, shoulder-length bob, her ivory-coloured silk blouse and grey slacks perfectly tailored. Pearls adorn her neck, her skin wrinkled yet unblemished.

   She drops her wire-thin gold framed glasses to hang on a chain around her neck, revealing clear blue eyes sparkling with intelligence. She holds up both her hands in invitation to Derek. “My darling boy,” she greets him, her voice rich and smoke-cured.

   “Alpha.” Derek smiles, and let go of Stiles’ hand. They meet in front of her desk, and Derek tilts his head to side.

   “Oh pish posh,” she tuts, “We’re practically kin,” and pulls him down for a hug, Derek’s big frame folding around her slender shoulders. They finally break apart, Derek’s hands still clasped tightly in hers, and the woman just looks at him with love and tenderness clearly spread across her face. “My God,” she breathes, “You look so much like her.”

   Derek looks down at his boots. The woman quickly dabs at her eye before she leans up to plant a kiss on his cheek, and with a last squeeze of his hands, turn to Stiles.

   “And you must be Stiles.”

   Stiles gapes like an idiot.

   “Alpha,” Derek saves him. “I would like to introduce my mate-intended. Stiles, this Alma Rutledge, Alpha Regent of the Seven Hills territories.”

   “So proper,” Alma rolls her eyes, then wink at Stiles, her smile warm.  

   Stiles holds out his hand, still struck mute, but the woman pulls him in for a hug instead with startling strength in her thin arms.

   Of course. She’s one too.    

   “Now,” she hooks her glasses back over her nose and holds Stiles at arm’s length. “Let me have a look at you, child.”

   “I’ve had all my shots, promise.”

   Derek cringes, and Alma looks momentarily amused before she breaks into a hearty chuckle. “Oh you’ve got a live one here,” she tells Derek over her shoulder.

   “Don’t I know it,” Derek answers with a soft smile.

   “Let’s get comfortable, shall we?” She leads them over to a seating area with plush chairs and more lamps. She sits down in a wingback, while Derek and Stiles takes the couch, Derek’s arm at once around Stiles’ shoulders.

   “Now, Stiles, I can imagine you must have a mountain an’ a moles heap o’ questions.”

   “A few,” Stiles nods and smiles a bit shyly.

   “Well, the most important is that you understand why you’re here. It’s Derek’s duty, as an alpha, to claim his intended on his ancestral ground, which is Seven Hills.”

   “Ancestral…?” Stiles looks at Derek. “Is this where… your family…?”

   “Yeah,” Derek nods, and brushes away a lock of Stiles hair.

   “So you are aware of the history, then?” Alma asks.

   “Well, only broad strokes, really,” Stiles says, again looking at Derek.

   Alma nods. “Good, well, this used to be Hale territory, but then, after the fire, it was put into a - for want of a better word - trust. What it basically means is that it’s still Derek’s land, and I, as the alpha of my pack and emissary to the old Hale pack now oversee things,” she smiles. “And of course, run the lodge.”  

   Stiles turns to Derek with big eyes. “You own this land too?”

   “Some of it.”

   “Holy shit. Ah, sorry,” Stiles blushes when he looks at Alma.

   “That’s quite all right, dear. I believe that is the correct description for it.”

   “So, that’s why you are regent then?”

   “Correct again,” she nods with a smile. “And now that Derek has takin’ a mate, all that might change.”

   “Alma…” Derek groans.

   “What?” she smiles innocently and again winks at Stiles. “Well then,” she rubs her hands together as they all stand up. “I do believe you kids have more important matters to attend to rather than listen to an old woman ramblin’ on.”  

   That earns her a deep blush from Stiles, who steals a quick glance at Derek. The big guy holds his gaze and just gives a warm, closed-lip smile.

   “It was lovely to have met you Stiles,” Alma smiles and takes his hand.

   “Ah, you too, Mrs… ah, Alpha Rutledge.”

   “Alma, please. And welcome to the family, m’ dear.” she kisses his hand, and the crimson flash of her eyes is so quick Stiles almost misses it. She holds his gaze, to such an extent that Stiles begins to think the woman can read minds.

   “You can feel it, can’t ya? Right here,” she taps a finger at the hollow of his throat. “A big ol” ache. My daddy use to say it’s where your heart beats the loudest.

   Stiles swallows, in awe at this women’s perception. She takes hold of his shoulders. “Derek’s a fine man, and an even greater wolf.”

   “He is,” Stiles agrees, feeling his heart swell.

   “And I know you’ll look after him, just as he will look after you.”

oOo

   They’re at the end of the corridor before Stiles speaks. “Wow.”

   “Yes, she is. You should’ve seen her and my mom together.”

   They’re back in the lobby, and it’s as if Stiles sees for the first time, details that escaped him when they first entered; the stylised painting of a wolf’s head above the fireplace; the two Art Deco table lamps depicting running wolves at each end of the reception desk.

   At the lobby entrance Stiles lays a questioning hand on Derek’s arm. “Aren’t we staying here?”

   “Of course we are.” he answer cryptically.

   Outside they climb into a little golf cart that silently whisks them away from the main building, along a narrow little path that leads down through the canopy of dark woods. There are lights scattered all along the dense landscaping, highlighting tall tree ferns and other sculptural bushes. Stiles peers up at a particularly magnificent tree, trunk as wide as a small car, the crown disappearing into the dark above. “Is that… a Redwood?”

   “Yes sir.” The driver answers in his rich baritone. It’s not the only one, Stiles discovers as they drive deeper into the night.

   The steady ascent of the path becomes more pronounced, as does the chill in the air, and Derek pulls Stiles closer into his warmth at the first sign of a shiver. Stiles just melts against his heat.

   The driver slows the car when the lights of a beautiful, modern, private log cabin come into sight. No, scratch that, it’s a Villa, Stiles corrects himself, the place bigger than his childhood home. Picture windows splash warm light onto the surroundings and across the tranquil waters of the lake, the building perched right on the shoreline.

   Stiles mouth drops open.           

   With the driver gone Derek leads him up the stairs to the wide front door. They enter into the living area, the double volume ceiling cathedral-like, the wrought iron chandelier subtly highlighting the thick timber logs that support the pitch roof. A stone fireplace takes up much of the western wall, the hearth big enough for him to stand in, he’s sure of it. Then he locks eyes on the full height glass wall with a view of the lake. He’s vaguely aware of Derek dropping their bags somewhere as he walks through the open plan room with its cream-coloured sofas and leather cigar chairs. 

   The front deck stretches the length of the house. There are deck chairs and loungers scattered across its wide expanse, and Stiles can make out their very own jetty leading off into the dark. The gentle lapping of water is much louder here, the rich mossy smell of wet earth and pine needles thick on the cool breeze.

   Derek’s heavy boots sound on the deck behind him. He pushes Stiles forward with his bulk as his hands curl around him and fold over the railing. He plants a kiss to the side of his throat and Stiles lets Derek’s weight hold him firmly against the railing. He is a wall of heat at his back while the crisp lake air washes over them. A lonely night heron call to its mate, the haunting sound drifting across the lake. Stiles pulls Derek’s arms tighter around him. “Derek… This is… Oh my god.”

   “I’m glad you approve.” Derek answers with a kiss to other side of Stiles throat.

oOo

    The four-poster, king-size bed in the master bedroom is Nirvana, wrapped in a zillion thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets and blessed by the lips of a thousand virginal maids. Stiles takes a running leap and falls into a sea of clouds that smell like the summer sun. He sinks down, and down, and down, until Derek picks him up with one arm and drapes him half over one shoulder - like one would a rambunctious toddler – to turn down the fluffy duvet, before laying a giggling Stiles down again.

   “You may go now.” Stiles yawns and nestles down.

   “May I buy you proper pyjamas before I leave, your majesty?”

   “Don’t hate.” Stiles flutters his eyelids and snaps the waistband of his Spongebob boxers. Derek rolls his eyes, and then he’s launching himself in the air and crashing down next to him. Stiles screams, the comforter fluffs up, pillows go flying. “You are a man-child!” Stiles laughs.

   Derek leans over him. “Then I have an excuse to do this.” and he blows the loudest raspberry Stiles has ever heard on his stomach. Stiles screams again, tears in his eyes from all the laughing while Derek continues to blow one after the other, leaving pink smudges all over his skin.

   “You are evil.” Stiles giggles breathlessly once they’ve calmed down.

   Derek makes big eyes. “Nope, just the big bad wolf.”

   Stiles dopily smiles up at him. “It’s like you were never gone.”

   “Does that mean I don’t have to sleep on the couch?”

   “Yes,” Stiles giggles, “You don’t have to sleep on the couch.”

   Once he has turned off all the lamps Derek is back in bed and rakes Stiles against him. They both sigh deeply and Derek nuzzles a kiss on Stiles’ neck. “God I missed you.”

   “Please don’t leave me again,” Stiles asks softly, internally cringing at himself.

   “Never,” Derek answers.

   Stiles fits himself deeper into the cradle of Derek’s body.  “What’s gonna happen now?”   

   Derek touches his lips to the top of Stiles’ head and holds him tighter. His voice is soft when he speaks. “When the time comes in the next day or two, I will go hunting and offer you the kill as a sign of my strength and devotion. If you accept-“

   “When I accept.”

   Derek smiles and brushes his nose against the shell of Stiles’ ear. “When you except, I will expect your submission in return.”

   Stiles inhales deeply. “Submission?”

   “Nothing to be scared of. I’ll be wolfed-out and therefore would need you to except me as your alpha.”

   “Okay.” 

   “Normally I would have taken you somewhere in the woods, out in the open, but…“

   “But you will take mercy on my soft, city-dwelling ass?” Stiles finishes for him.

   “But I will take mercy on your blindingly perfect ass,” Derek smiles, “And take you to bed.”

   Stiles’ heartrate climbs a notch. He knows Derek picks up on it and press back against him. Derek answers with a soothing press of his lips.

   “Now, you know I have a knot, right?”

   Stiles nods, swallowing. “I ah, I think I saw it, that night.”

   “Well, the moment I have tied us together I will bite you, right here,” Derek plants a tender kiss over the bump of vertebrae at the base of Stiles’ neck. “Both our nervous systems will be flooded with hormones. I’ll drink in yours, while my knot will inject mine into my seed, and in turn will be absorbed into your system. The circle will be completed and our bond will be formed.”

   “Will it hurt? Your knot, I mean. It looked huge.”

   Derek leaves a gentle kiss on Stiles’ shoulder. “I promise you I will take care of you,” and continues with kiss after lingering kiss down Stiles’ shoulders until Stiles is completely pliant in his arms.

   “Hmm,” Stiles moans, “I think you should start now.”

   “I think so too,” Derek agrees. He tests his building erection against the small of Stiles’ back. Stiles’ answering moan has him sliding his hand down Stiles’ stomach, through his treasure trail to slip large, warm, fingers under his waistband and over his equally aroused sex.

   He rolls on top of Stiles and part his legs. Stiles is shivering and Derek hesitates. “Okay?”

   Stiles nods. “Please.”

   With a last kiss he moves down Stiles’ body to lie between his spread legs. He slowly works him open, alternating between his tongue and his fingers, the scattered reflection of the moon on the lake painting Stiles arching torso silver, his moans soft and breathy.

   Derek sits up, his fingers hovering over the ugly bruises on his shoulder and all down his side. He starts when Stiles lays a hand over his’ and blinks up to find him flushed and heavy-lidded.

   “Hey.”

   “Hey.” Derek smiles shyly.

   “I’m fine, Derek. Promise,” Stiles murmurs.

   “Will you ever forgive me for this?”

   Stiles runs a hand up Derek’s hairy chest to rest over his heart. “There’s nothing to forgive.”

   Derek lifts his legs and crowd over him, his cock lined up and pressed against his wet entrance. “God I love you,” Derek breathes, and eyes locked with Stiles’ he slides in, Stiles channel yielding inch by inch, accommodating his girth as he goes until he’s filled to the brim.

   Stiles’ mouth falls open, bearing his neck, and Derek immediately latches on as he starts up with slow, deep strokes. He makes sure to pull out all the way before driving back in again until he’s squeezing the air from Stiles in drawn-out, rhythmic, high pitched moans, the vibrations thereof held in his teeth when he clamps his mouth over Stiles’ throat.

   Derek holds a steady speed, lets the ecstasy build up like a rolling ocean wave instead of just racing towards the cliff. They kiss languidly, savouring each other. Their fingers entwine, shaking with tenuous restraint. Derek angles his hips to aim at that sweet spot he knows so intimately by now, knows he’s hit the target by the way Stiles’ trembling body curls tight against him. Derek too is right at that mind-numbing tipping point, and just half a dozen swipes of his thumb over the precum-slick frenulum of Stiles cock is all it takes. They orgasm together, Derek buried so deep inside Stiles his eyes water; Stiles arms and legs clamped around his lover’s body till it hurts; and they ride it out, falling, floating.

   Face buried in Stiles neck, Derek’s hot breath raise chills along his sweat-slicked skin, and Stiles plants a kiss on Derek’s equally moist shoulder. He can taste traces of his deodorant, the salty residue of his sweat, and he licks across the solid mound of flesh before he can help himself. Derek cranes his neck to watch him and captures his mouth.

   They are asleep in minutes, safe in their cocoon of white.

oOo

“Is this like, a test? To see if I can survive in the wilderness? If I’m worthy before we get werewolf-married? Because that water is freezing, Derek. And-”

   “Werewolf-married?” Derek splutters.

   “And I do not want to fall into freezing water, Derek.” Stiles forges on. “Hypothermia is real and-“

  “Stiles,” Derek silence him with a gentle but firm grip to the back of his neck. “Please, shut up.”

   “Harsh.” Stiles narrows his eyes at him.

   “It is a beautiful morning. There are coves out there that no one knows about.” Derek lifts the canoe and paddle gripped in one hand like it’s a bundle of twigs. “And I promise to keep you dry.”

   “I would appreciate my own paddle, then.”

   “You’ll injure yourself.”

   Stiles throws his hands in the air. “Where’s the trust!”

oOo

   Steam rises off the lake in lazy swirls, and small insects buzz and skip along the mirror-smooth glassy surface. It’s a gorgeous day, not a cloud in the sky, the early morning air so fresh and cold it burns Stiles’ nose. He wraps his jacket tighter around him.

   “Scoot back.” Derek instructs behind him.

   Stiles does, sliding in between Derek’s open legs. Derek lifts his paddle and Stiles leans back against him. He wriggles down further until his crown fits under Derek’s chin. Comfortable against his solid, wide heat, his eyes flutter close for a second, Derek’s scent and warmth surrounding him. “Hmmm.” he groans in contentment. 

   The forest looms over them from the rocky shoreline while several birds take flight when they glide closer, squawking as they rise into the air.

   Derek rests the paddle on the canoe’s edge, the shaft in front of Stiles chest, and they just glide through the water. Stiles cranes his neck and squint up at him. Derek plants a quick kiss on his forehead, and start up with his rowing again. The blades soon cleave through the water, the purposeful monotony enough to lull his mind.

oOo

   Stiles sits up when the keel of the canoe scrapes across sand and stone. He takes in the grey granite boulders tossed around the little alcove, dotted by aspens and firs.

   “Pretty.”

   “That one has a nice lookout.” Derek points. Stiles follows his finger to the largest of the boulders, easily the size of a small house, jutting out across the water. “Come on.”

   “Uh, and how are we gonna get up there?”

   Derek picks Stiles up bridal style, and without warning leap into the air to land on top of the boulder. “Like that,” he announces, feet firmly planted apart.

   “Well,” Stiles straightens his jacket when Derek lets him down. “That’s one way, I guess,”    

oOo

“Just not a bunny rabbit, please. You will scar me for life. Ah, wait, I mean,” Stiles looks over at Derek. “You know what I mean.”

   Derek throws a rock and it splashes down some distance away. “I promise I won’t kill Thumper.”

   “Or Bambi.”

   “Or Bambi.” Derek reiterates. “Besides, I need to prove my worth to you. So it’ll be something big.”

   “You don’t need to prove anything to me. I’d rather you not slaughter an animal.” Stiles throws his stone, but it’s short of Derek’s distance by a few dozen feet. Derek throws another stone, barely swinging his arm and a small splash break the calm surface far into the middle of the lake.

   “Show off.”

   “What?” Derek grins. He goes to stand behind Stiles and pull him in against his chest, his hands buried in Stiles’ pockets. “Just think; if ever there is a zombie apocalypse, you won’t have to worry about food.”

   Stiles bring his arms around Derek’s. “I knew there was a reason I kept you around.”

oOo

The sun is about to disappear behind the hills. The temperature has fallen dramatically with the arrival of dusk, and Stiles lift his feet onto the deck chair to hug them to his chest. Derek brought the chairs out to the end of the jetty, together with a thermos of hot chocolate. They watch as banks of mist form low over the water and with it the haunting calls of a loon sound across the lake.

   Stiles hand goes to the back of his neck again, his fingers absentmindedly playing over the bumps where his vertebrae push against the skin. He looks over at Derek when warm, thick fingers cover his own. “Let’s go inside.”

oOo

Flames lick and dance up the mountain of logs inside the giant hearth. They’re nestled on one of the overstuffed chaise lounges, wrapped in a satiny soft throw. The heat from the fire warms Stiles’ face, while the silent mountain of a werewolf at his back – whose arms and legs are hooked around him under the blanket – slowly seep the cold from his limbs with his naturally superior body heat.  

   A shiver will race through Stiles every now and then, at which Derek will hold him tighter, rub the soles of his feet over Stiles’ frozen toes, or gently knead his fingers in his big hands and seal it with a soft kiss.

   Derek leans up and rolls Stiles into his arms. He carries him to the bedroom to lay him down on the bed. They discard their clothes bit by bit, unhurried.

oOo

   Their ragged breaths are the only sound in the perfect silence of the darkened bedroom. Derek kisses Stiles’ sweaty brow, and slowly pulls out with a wet squelch. A thick strand of milky, viscous cum trail from his cockhead’s slit to Stiles’ hole before breaking off, with more dribbling form the red, puffy entrance. “Lift your hips for me.”

   Stiles does and Derek’s hand goes to the furled ring of muscle. He holds it there while he slides a cushion under his hips. He leaves a tender kiss on the inside of a thigh before he slips off the bed. When he’s back he settles between Stiles legs again and lifts each foot to brace them on his shoulders.

   “Lemme see?” Stiles holds out a hand. Derek lays the plug in his palm. He tests the weight, roll it around his fingers which easily fit around the bulbous head. “I’m sure you’re bigger?”

    “I’m not gonna stretch you more,” Derek rubs up his leg. “This is just to make it easier. My knot needs some resistance.”

   Stiles hands the plug back to Derek. Derek rubs it along Stiles’ stomach, smears it through his come. He leans forward, pushing Stiles’ leg back. He holds the plug to Stiles entrance, twirl it around to smear it with residue lube and his own seed. There’s a moment where Stiles dig his fingers into the meat of Derek’s thighs, eyes scrunched shut. But the plug pops through the bruised ring of muscle easily enough, and Stiles’ breath shudders from his lips.

   Derek takes down his feet and moves him carefully onto his side, then lies down behind him. He wraps Stiles up in his arms. “Okay?”

   “Full.” Stiles groans as he tries to get comfortable.

   “Here,” Derek notches a thigh between his legs and spoon him close. “Rest your leg over mine.” Stiles does, and the pressure eases a bit. “Better?”

   “Yeah,” Stiles nods and holds onto Derek’s arms. “I love you.”

   “I love you too, baby, so much. Go to sleep now.”

oOo

Everything is a blur; streaks of green and a million scents rush past as he pounds across the forest floor, his big paws digging up mulch and rocks in their wake. Racoons, deer, even a cougar scatter before him.

   He bursts through the undergrowth into a clearing right at the top of a hill. He pants, tongue lolling, dawn a thin promise of light across the horizon while the starry heavens still hold sway. Down there at the edge of the lake his mate is waiting for him.

   He lifts his head and howls.

oOo

   Stiles sits up like a marionette pulled by its strings just as the last notes of a distant howl die away. The dregs of sleep dissipate at once, and in its place the crisp clear scent of deep wet forest fills his nose. The phantom sting of pine needles and small rocks make him rub his palms together.

   There’s a pull, right behind his heart. He has never been surer of anything in his life.

   Trembling slightly, he gets out of bed. The plug jostles, which just reminds him more of Derek, and a low hum of arousal climb up his spine. He doesn’t get dressed. There’s a patchwork quilt draped over one of the chairs. Wrapped up and warm Stiles slides open the bedroom glass door leading out onto the deck.

oOo

   The weathered timber of the jetty bites at Derek’s feet. He leaves wet foot prints, black against the faded grey. The icy waters of the lake has centred him again, washed away the sweat and dirt from his run. Most importantly the blood. Through the rolling mist he can make out the house, still dark and silent but for the heartbeat he knows like his own, that familiar lub-dub like a lullaby to him.

oOo

   Rolling banks of mist spill over the shoreline and through the trees in the grey dawn. Stiles is mesmerised by his own feet when he walks down the steps to the jetty. They look almost as white as snow against even the sun-bleached wood of the deck. He thinks of Derek’s feet, all wide and hairy and olive-toned. He’s waiting for him somewhere out here. He can feel him. It should freak him out, this sudden and inexplicable sensory connection that has been created, but the cold, misty wetness on his naked skin tells him this is as real as the wolf his boyfriend becomes.

   And exactly as it should be.

   He finds the enormous dead stag at the start of the jetty. The fur around its throat is caked with blood, though the unnatural angle of its neck tells him that wasn’t the death blow. At least it was quick.

   Stiles swallows heavily and dips a finger into the bloody fur. It’s still warm. He has to swallow a couple of times more before he coats his hand with the blood. The angle is awkward, but he leaves a hand print on his sternum right over his heart, accepting Derek’s gift, just as he explained.

   The end of the jetty is hidden from view. In the deathly quiet a hulking figure slowly darkens the billowing fog, two fiery orbs where his eyes should be. Clawed hands curl listlessly by his side. He walks with strong, measured steps towards Stiles and clears the mist. Powerful hairy thighs flex with each stride, his cock slapping from side to side. Tendrils of steam - like the breath that fogs from Stiles mouth - trails from his hirsute skin, his wet hair.

   He walks right up to Stiles and stands before him, tall and proud. He grazes the back of a hairy hand down his cheek, then cup his neck, careful with his claws yet firm in his hold.

   Stiles trembles. He opens the quilt to reveal the bloody handprint on his chest. Those burning eyes flicker down to the mark, his bony, hairless brow furrowed, his canines pushed past his lips. Derek pulls him into his embrace and lowers his head, the warped voice that rolls from his chest enough to raise the hair on the back of Stiles neck. “Will you kneel for me?”

   Stiles goes down on his knees without a thought, the quilt fallen from his shoulders and bunched up around his waist. Derek shifts so that Stiles is between his legs. He covers the side of his face with one hand, claws down to his neck, and leans Stiles head against his thick, hairy thigh. His full sack brush against Stiles’ forehead and Stiles catches the pungent musk of his sex.

   “You are mine, and I am yours, and I will protect you, and provide for you, and cherish you. This I swear on my life.” 

   Stiles close his eyes against the chatter of his teeth, his whole body shaking with adrenaline and fear and pure want.

   “Will you have me?” Derek asks.

   Stiles wraps his fingers around a thick, hairy calve and bow his head, neck exposed. “Yes.”   

   With a last caress, Derek picks him up, wrapped in the quilt, and carries him through the fog to the house. Once inside, Derek carries him to the bedroom and lays him down in the middle of the unmade bed. He proceeds to unwrap him, like a gift, and Stiles has to fight the urge to cover himself, to draw up his knees.  

   “Don’t,” Derek growls, not unkindly, but the authority in his voice leaves no room for doubt. “I want to look at you.” He stands back - towers over Stiles - his erection slicing up from the bush of dark curls, a network of thick veins popping all along its length. The foreskin is pulled back to just behind the head. It twitches constantly, the head coated with an exorbitant amount of slick, with more dribbling from the slit. His chest heaves, clawed fingers flexing.

   Finally he climbs on the bed to kneel between Stiles’ legs. One hand lifts a thigh while Derek milks his cock with the other, coating it in his own precum from root to tip. He pushes Stiles’ leg back and slowly pulls at the plug until it pops out with a wet squelch. Stiles watches in fascination as the talons on his one hand recede, the fingers shiny and slick. Derek slips three into Stiles hole. They go in without much resistance, thanks to the plug. A fourth joins them, Stiles body going tight, his hands finding hold on Derek’s knees.

   Holding Stiles’ gaze, Derek adds his thumb, letting his whole fist slip past the abused rim. He twists it around, and slowly pull back out, making sure to drag his fingers along Stiles’ prostate.

   “Fuuuck…” Stiles curls off the bed, and Derek uses his momentum to turn him over. He tucks Stiles’ knees under his chest and with a hand between his shoulder blades gently presses him down till his shoulders are flat against the bed. Derek takes a moment to just glide his hands over the perfect, round globes of Stiles’ ass, his hole pink, shiny and stretched. He buries his face in his cleft, licks and sucks, inhales his mates’ scent that is still drenched with his own, spicier musk.

   “Belong to me,” Derek rumbles and folds himself over Stiles’ prone form. He grasps Stiles’ wrists above his head, the wet tip of his cock greedily pressing against Stiles’ winking wet hole. Stiles squirms a bit to get comfortable but stops when Derek’s low growl reverberate through his bones. He bares his neck without even having to think about it. Derek’s growl softens to a purr and he pushes into him in one, steady slide.

   Stiles strains against the hold around his wrist with that first slow thrust. Derek is thicker in this form, and even though the plug has stretched him, it still burns. He barely has time to catch his breath as Derek pulls back and then grinds back in. He nudges Stiles’ head to the side and dives down like a man starved, licking and sucking at his neck as he drives in again and again, his full sack smacking against Stiles’ taint.

   “Mine.” Derek growls again, and speeds up. “All mine.”

   Stiles whimpers into the bedding. Derek licks a stripe up his spine and just pinch his teeth to the base of his neck. The burn starts in his groin, his canines dropping even further as his knot begins to swell.

   “Stiles,” is all the warning Derek gives.

    Once, twice, three times and Derek’s knot catches on Stiles rim. Stiles cries out but Derek holds him down by his sheer bulk, and with one last, deep thrust he wrenches his knot past that stretched ring and at the same time sink his fangs into the tender flesh of Stiles neck.

   Derek’s orgasm hits him like a punch to the gut. Blood fills his mouth as his seed pumps into Stiles.

   Stiles screams and buck against Derek, but he might as well have pushed against a mountain. Derek’s hips grind in short, tight circles and Stiles’ orgasm snaps like a whip through his spine. His channel contracts around Derek’s knot and Derek bites down again, involuntarily, his seed pulsing out with every throb of Stiles’ climax.

   It’s a sharp lance through Stiles’ brain, followed by a brilliant flash behind his eyes - millions of memories and emotions from Derek’s whole life racing through his head like a film unspooling.

   Stiles goes limp, and Derek collapse on top of him.

oOo

Stiles comes back to consciousness with a pair of hairy muscled arms clamped around his torso and a wide, solid chest pressed to his back. The room is still dark, though his eyes adjust quickly enough. Derek is half on top of him, his breath hot against the nape of his neck. The bite throbs, but Derek’s slow, thorough laving with a tongue that feels much too rough to be all human soothes the hurt.

   They’re still tied together, a thick, hairy thigh pushed up between his own. With every breath he can feel the wet, slick jostling of Derek’s knot and his still rock-hard cock – the latter still twitching erratically. The inside of his thighs are sticky, the pressure on his bladder and stomach almost too much. He clenches experimentally and gets a soft growl for his troubles.

   “Derek.”

   “Shhh. Sleep.” Derek rumbles and softly fits his mouth over the wound and bites down.

   A memory, as clear and fresh as if it was his own drifts to the fore of his mind; Derek, all of five years old, surrounded by his siblings while his parents watch on. As one they all shift and change, the freedom of leaving his human body and slipping into this wondrous animal form – for the first time - enough to have laughter bubble from Stiles’ mouth even in his fugue state. The joy and happiness of that memory clench at his throat. Because he now knows that the smiling faces surrounding him are all long gone, ripped from Derek in the cruellest of ways.

   Stiles drifts away again, his eyes wet.

oOo

When he wakes again it’s to Derek’s face in the late afternoon light streaming through the double doors, his eyebrows drawn in concern. He immediately reaches out to caress the side of Stiles neck, up to his cheek.

   “Hey.”

   “Hey,” Stiles smiles dreamily. He twists and stretches, his ass reminding him in the best of ways who he belongs to now. The stickiness is completely gone. His mind offers hazy glimpses of Derek sponging him clean somewhere along the way. Something pulls at his neck, and his fingers touch the padding of a gauze bandage.

   “Is it… okay?”

   “Perfect.” Derek smiles softly, proudly, and drags a thumb over Stiles’ lower lip. Then he’s pulling him closer, crushing him to his chest. “God I love you so much.”

   Stiles rubs his face in Derek’s chest hair. “Love you more, soppywolf.”

oOo

   “Did you know?”

   Derek nods, eyes roaming over Stiles as if he’s seeing him for the first time. “My mom used to tell us how freaked out my Dad was when she claimed him, that suddenly she knew him better than he did himself.”

   Stiles pulls the covers around them. His hands rub down Derek’s chest - his skin so warm - up again to his face.

   “Her name was Talia.”

   “Yes,” Derek nods

   “I’m so sorry, Derek.”

   Derek covers his hands. “It’s okay.”

   “It wasn’t your fault.”

   “I know that now.” he smiles.

oOo

One year later

“And just think; you guys have free accommodation on a tropical island whenever you want.”

   “It’s still on the other side of the country,” the sheriff grumbles.

   “Dad.”

   The sheriff pats his son’s knee. “Yeah, I know, I know.” He stares out the window of the little church office, then turns his attention back to his only son. “Derek’s a good man. I’m so proud of you.”

   “I know.” Stiles smiles. “Shall we go?”

   The sheriff swallows. “Okay. Wait!” He frantically pats his jacket. “Where’re the rings?”

   “Scott has them, dad.”

   “Oh, yeah.”

   They enter the sanctuary, the pews already filled with friends and family. Stiles follows his dad to the pulpit, the minister waiting for them with a warm smile.

   Soon the organist starts up, everyone stands, and Scott leads his mom down the isle, beaming in his black tux.

   “Love you dad. I’m so happy for you.”

   “Stop it you’re gonna make me cry in front of my bride,” the sheriff mumbles out the side of his mouth. Stiles grins and gives him a quick sidelong hug. The sheriff grabs hold of his hand. “Love you too, son.”

   All goes quiet. A warmth spreads from the two crescent-shaped scars on Stiles’ nape, down his spine and around to his chest. It’s an awareness of safety, of belonging, of being loved. He turns around to find his mate, his love, his partner in crime staring at him from the front row with clear eyes and a slow smile. Stiles winks at him and Derek grins, so goddamn handsome Stiles wants to jump him right there and then.

   Mine, always Derek mouths.  

The end.