Archive of Our Own

When Stiles crawled, literally crawled, into bed that night, he blamed it all on Jackson. To be fair, it wasn't really Jackson's fault. Was he ultimately the biggest, douchest, douche-bag to ever douche? Yes. Absolutely. Without a doubt. But when Stiles thought of the metric-fuck-ton of Daddy and Mommy issues that the guy had lying around, coupled with being rejected from werewolf-dom by a pack that let Erica and Isaac into the fray—well, Stiles was inclined to give Jackson a little room to wiggle.

Or you know, be a physical vehicle for a revenge-hunting lizard.

Whatever. He was cured by the power of Lydia's love (Stiles was still sort of smarting about that, to be honest but it was hard to deny the way they fit together there on the cold floor and the bravery that led Lydia there, completely in the dark, to save Jackson) and was all werewolfy now. Great, because being a werewolf always mellowed out someone's character flaws of douche. They knew that by example! Jesus.

But Stiles wasn't even going to touch that. He needed to go back, further, before getting kidnapped and the shit kicked out of him and back to the rave.

The point was, if it wasn't for Jackson then Stiles wouldn't have been at the rave and the rave was the sole reason why Stiles was there, speaking to Derek about breaking the circle of ash and totally jacking up their plans to catch whomever was fucking up Jackson's mind. Stiles was sure that life-times of therapy wouldn't be enough to get Jackson to some sort of normal state now. The kid was a goner and as much as Stiles was trying not to remember all the horrible times he had been bullied by that fucking brat of a kid, he felt bad for Danny. No one deserved to see their best friend just sort of fall apart into nothingness, only to rise again like some sort of asshole-pheonix, whose only purpose was to squash every chance Stiles had with Lydia and reign King D-Bag of Beacon Hills High. Danny was pretty awesome, okay? Sure, he was a little dry and possibly a little mean (mostly Jackson's fault, again); he was also really fucking hot.

Lydia could handle it. Stiles wasn’t sure when he started thinking of Lydia as someone who couldn’t handle the truth, even if the truth was werewolf shaped and freaky, because Lydia was Lydia. It was entirely possible that Stiles had lost sight of that somewhere along the way and needed to re-evaluate the constant thrum of Lydia Martin in his brain. It was funny how things changed when he was too busy paying attention to the constant life and death situation of his life.

Since Stiles' introduction to Derek Hale, he had seen way too many attractive people get killed. It was sort of depressing. He kept thinking that he was going to kick the fucking bucket any minute because in the movies, the attractive people hardly ever died this much and if hot people didn't have a chance at survival, then Stiles was doomed.

That was neither here nor there.

See, Jackson's situation put Scott in trouble, because he was totally boning Allison behind serial killers’ backs—in Stiles' book, he sort of got what he deserved—but the fact that Derek heard his howl...

It got Stiles thinking.

And he really couldn't stop.

"So, let me get this straight," Stiles had said, driving a woozy looking Scott home after the rave. "You joined Derek's pack."

"Just for Jackson, man. Just this time."

"Right, well I'm of firm belief that Derek Hale is in the category of crystal meth, okay? Not even once," but Scott hadn't been listening to him. Not really a surprise, especially since Stiles obviously wasn’t even taking his own advice. Scott had been staring off into space and getting that look on his face that clearly said, "Why, Yes, I am A Teenage Boy Who Thinks Primarily Of Pussy And Lets It Navigate My Poor Decision Making!"

Stiles hated that look.

After Stiles had dumped Scott off and went home, he couldn't stop thinking about it—not just this but something else that had been lurking in his mind earlier from back when they thought Lydia might be the Kanima—if Scott was already fulfilling their pack roll as Alpha (which Stiles was skeptical about because Scott was his best friend, but he was also simple and what he lacked extensively in common sense, he made up for in Call of Duty insults) then what would that mean if Scott decided to join Derek's pack?

Also, if there was some sort of ceremony for joining the pack, Stiles was upset he didn't see it. The image of Scott submitting to anyone but Allison was hard to really compile and Stiles had more than enough imagination for both of them.

But if Scott joined Derek's pack, then surely... surely that meant that Stiles was being dragged along with him. Right?

But Stiles wasn’t allowed to dwell on it because life rolled on, one day after the other and brought more terrifying and life-threatening situations to his door-step. With the lacrosse game, impending doom from Gerard the geriatric, trigger happy serial killer and Jackson’s scaly problem—Stiles didn’t have much time to exam what it meant to be pack. In hindsight, maybe having some sort of understanding would have kept him on his feet and not let Gerard bench him so utterly. Stiles was probably never going to feel anything but shame and bone-deep weariness. He remembered vividly what it felt like to lie on his bed, knowing that Scott was in the thick of it, that he was risking his life and Allison’s and fuck, Derek’s but that as much as Stiles wanted to be there, he would just be another thing for them to worry about. How could they save themselves when they were too busy having to save Stiles?

Thank fuck Lydia was hellbent or Stiles might have missed everything and ended up with way too many dead friends and nothing to show for it.

But now things were slowing down a bit and Stiles had plenty of time to think about what the hell did it mean after that colossal cluster fuck where humans and their feelings saved the day and Scott actually had a plan? Now Scott was taking his membership back from the Hale pack. What the hell.

"I should probably find out what that means," Stiles said, staring blankly at his computer before thinking, fuck it, grabbing his car keys and heading out the door.

Like a normal human being.

Because second floor windows weren't entrances or exists.

He was going to make some signs.

It was three really long days after their little tango with way too many supernatural beings. No one had seen Grandpa Psycho and everyone had spent most of their time sleeping (Stiles’ face still smarted like a sonofabitch, as did the rest of his body), talking it out (man, Stiles had walked in on like five awkward conversations in like a span of twenty minutes) or generally ignoring the world. It was hard to tell if Derek and his wolfy friends were ignoring the world or just, you know, being their anti-social selves.

"I've clearly missed something," Stiles said, looking at the room before him. There was a large mattress sitting on the floor of what used to be the Hale's dinning room. Now, it was a den of hedonistic something, as there were werewolves stripped down to their underwear, canoodling like sleepy kittens or cold bunnies or—Stiles was hurting for descriptors because he was freaking out.

Was that Jackson?

"What the fu—" Hands that definitely had claws attached to them yanked him out of the room with a growl and a nasty hiss.

"Shut up, Stiles. You'll wake them."

Stiles pretended he didn't yelp and tried to work on processing the werewolf orgy or possibly the post-werewolf orgy going on just feet from him. When Derek finally set him back down, they were practically under the stairs and Stiles was rubbing the back of his neck. He really hated it when Derek grabbed him by the back of his neck. It inspired some sort of primal shame inside of him, like he was the puppy no one wanted and was being dragged down the river for a drowning.

Or something.

His head was a fucking mess right now.

"What are you doing here."

Stiles rolled his eyes because a) really, that's what he was going with? And b) punctuate your sentence currently for fuck's sake. It really is not that difficult.

"What am I doing here? I waltz in on the aftermath of a serious werewolf orgy and you ask me what I'm doing? Did you even wear protection because Jackson has been everywhere and Erica, man, she's not exactly known for making good decisions—didn't she like mouth violate you once? Is this a pack thing?" Then the horror slammed into Stiles. "Did they even want to? Oh my god. Please tell me being an Alpha doesn't mean consent is up for grabs—as well as, oh god, holes."

Stiles' back met the wall with force and shit, he was still a mess of black and blue bruises all over his body from the rough and tumble into and really all around the Argent's basement floor (and their stairs).

"I'm not a rapist," Derek growled out, teeth showing and okay, well, Stiles was just checking wasn't he? Always good to check.

"Fine! Fine," Stiles muttered. "It's not like you can blame me; it's not like you all have loose morals or anything, damn."

Derek's teeth weren't back in his face and Stiles was trying very hard not to stare at them because for some reason, their presence gave him this really insane urge to lick them like a popsicle and that just wasn't right. But he couldn't very well look up to Derek's eyes because Stiles found them attractive—and being shoved up against the wall didn't really give him room to hide the erection that always accompanied Derek's interrogation techniques.

Hey, he hadn't really had the time to do much self examination as of late. He was too busy having an emotional breakdown for being the weakest fucking link. He wasn't exactly over it and he didn't need his dick doing anymore thinking for him.

Not that Derek couldn’t smell his emotions (or dick-emotions as were the case) but Stiles had decided from day one that he was just going to pretend that freaky werewolf senses couldn't do that.

Because that was colossally embarrassing. Also, Scott.

"Stiles," Derek growled and then he was helpfully reminded that there was a question in all that. Somewhere.

"I had a question."

Blank, vaguely angry, fangy face stared back at him.

"Um, well, right," Stiles started then stopped and wiggled. Derek was still pressing him up against the wall and it was getting harder and harder not to ride his thigh, which would be weird because sexy thoughts and Derek should be separate, let alone sexy actions. What? Hormones were shit. Also, it was really difficult to compartmentalize all these weird, irrational feelings he got in his gut when he was confronted by Derek and his entire, insane, absolutely mind-fucking being.

Moving on.

"Well, obviously Scott joined your pack and then de-joined it," Stiles said. "Which I'm not really sure how I feel about, because yo, until I understand this whole Alpha business, I'm not going to stop having nightmares about you becoming a complete and total psycho like Peter, who is back beeteedubs. Why didn't anyone tell me about that? Rising from the dead definitely merits a text. Does that mean you two are sharing Alpha? Because he wasn't in there and I think sex with teenagers is probably right up his creeper alley. Not that you—well, obviously you do—but, seriously, stop me anytime here."

That was not what he was going to say.

"I'm not like Peter," Derek growled but he stopped and Stiles was pretty much sure that he was going to be eaten or at least bodily slammed across the room to make an exit. Now would be a great time for Scott to just like accidentally show up because he felt like a stroll up to Hale house.

"Laura was kind."

Stiles felt his jaw drop and judging by the look of Derek's face, open and a little soft and completely and totally surprised... they both were saying some things that they hadn't originally intended.

"I'm... okay, uh." Way to go Stiles.

Derek shook his head. "I'm not going to become Peter," Derek said, low but not intimidating, despite still holding Stiles up against the wall with his feet barely brushing the floor.

"Right, well. I was just coming around to ask how I figured into all this switching packs business."

Derek did that thing with his mouth; it was like a pout and a frown had a baby and this baby was super sexy and really emotionally unstable but still managed to make Stiles dizzy with want and maybe something else. But not that simile ran away with him because he sounded like a pedophile. Could he be a pedophile if he wasn't 18 yet? Man. He really shouldn't have taken that extra Adderall.

"What."

Again with the misuse of periods.

Stiles smacked Derek's shoulder. "You said that Scott already had a pack, and I assume since I spend most of my time trying to figure out how to make sure that Scott doesn't end up dead—from you or the Argents or Coach—I think that includes me and if it doesn't then rude. I am totally in best friend status and that means I'm pack. I feel like it's pertinent to say that if I had taken your creepy-ass uncle's bite then I would totally be the Alpha of Scott's pack. I am the brains of this operation, although, Scott is gaining points by using his resources. I feel like our history teachers are really going to appreciate his papers now that he actually has sources, ya know?"

This close and without pesky shadows in the way, Stiles had the ability to read a lot more into Derek's expression other than menacing. Not that he didn't work menacing but Stiles had seen Derek smile before and holy shit, Stiles couldn't understand why anyone wouldn't want to strive to put that look on Derek's face.

He had really nice teeth. Nice fangs too, Stiles had noticed, but he really preferred the teeth.

"Peter offered you the bite?"

There was anger there, which Stiles thought maybe had to do with a possession thing or possibly a 'My Uncle Was—Just Kidding—Is a Psycho' thing as well. But there was curiosity too and something that Stiles had rarely seen on Derek's face—the same look that showed up when Stiles had first found himself in the same position with Derek and telling him that if Stiles was going to harbor his fugitive (and very plump) ass then they were going to play by Stiles' rules.

Impressed.

Stiles had a feeling that it was rare that Derek felt impressed by humans now a days, considering he spent most of his interactions with humans came from teenagers or hunters. Not the cream of the crop.

"Yeah, but not lately. And that's not what this conversation is about," Stiles said.

"Stiles—"

No. He will not have another conversation hijacked by werewolf weirdness. "Will you just answer my question?"

"I couldn't find a question between all those run-on sentences."

Stiles narrowed his eyes. "What happens when packs join?"

"If the packs are rivals and the Alpha doesn't think it's worth it, then the Alpha usually kills them or makes them scatter."

"Nothing like thinly veiled death threats after a post-coital nap," Stiles snarked but Derek's lip was pulling and holy fuck, was that a hint of a smile? "So if killing us all isn't on the radar—"

"That's cute," Derek said and yep, that was definitely a smile.

And there was that weird fluttery feeling that Stiles usually associated with Lydia and that was just not right because why, oh God, seriously?

"Can we get back on track here?" He was blushing and squirming because now was not the time to be having mini-sexual revelations. And it's mini because Stiles wasn't completely disconnected with himself—it's less of a I'M BISEXUAL freak out and more of a I'VE GOT IT BAD FOR A MURDERING WEREWOLF sort of freak out.

Does he have it bad?

Fucking focus, Stiles.

Derek is in front of him, eyebrows up and making a face that says, 'I'm ambivalent about your existence', which is better than 'Murder and Pillage' but still annoying.

"Humans aren't part of the transaction," Derek finally said but he looked as if he was lying. Stiles might not possess super-sonic hearing to detect heart beats or whatever makes them all wolfy-lie-detectors but Derek looked down-right shifty when he lied this close: eyes flickering down before making contact again and Stiles swore one of Derek's ears twitched.

"Give me a real answer."

"Why should I?"

Stiles hit him again, open palmed and not really hard enough but just to make a point. "Because I drove all the way out here to ask, breaking out of house arrest from my emotionally-carnaged father and because my last Alpha doesn't know shit because you're all a mysterious bunch of ass-munchers. Lydia has been in the know for approximately three days and she already knows way more than I do. Also, because I'm asking you."

Derek made that frowny face, which mean, hello-ding-ding-ding feelings. Stiles totally understood that Stilinski's were uncommonly good at getting in touch with their feelings but this was just pathetic. Now he was trying to step away because he and his dad had spent the last three days staring at each other and occasionally having to speak more than made Stiles comfortable. (His dad had asked him if he was 'acting out because of his sexual awakening' and yeah, those words out of his father's gruff, sheriff mouth, all twisted and trying was seriously scarring.)

Avoiding k-napped induced conversations on his father? Sure. Derek trying to run away from him now? Get the fuck out.

"No, no, no," he said, grasping at Derek's soft black v-neck and pulling him back against him. It was... well, it was really hot and where the hell Stiles had found the courage to be this forward when he hadn't even realized there was anything beyond lust brewing between them, he didn't even know. "You lie better when you're not in my face."

So much frowning.

"What—"

Stiles shook him a little. "Will you just answer the damn question?"

"Humans get to choose," Derek finally growled out. "Where werewolves would automatically submit to the Alpha, humans always have a choice."

There was something about the low tone of his voice, like he was spilling secrets and fuck, what did this man do to Stiles? Seriously. He was like kryptonite! Just when Stiles was ready to let him bleed out or get eaten by the next magical fuck-up to come to Beacon Hills, Derek managed to turn from sour-wolf to something completely terrifying in a different way.

Still terrifying but the last three days must have warped his mind.

"Did you have humans in your pack," Stiles asked, going for broke. "Before, when your family was still alive?"

Stiles hadn't noticed before, but even now, Derek's shoulders sag just a little and even more tension leaks out of him. Stiles tried not to cuddle up because Derek was still doing the looming thing—well, it used to be a looming and intimidation thing but now it just seemed like they were standing incredibly close up against a wall, having some intimate conversations about feelings.

"Yeah," Derek said, not taking his eyes away from Stiles'. "Balance is important, especially in large packs, to remind everyone that we're not just instincts. That we are humans too."

"I bet it helped keep you all from going all Royal Family too," Stiles joked. And okay, so it was a defense mechanism but Derek was staring and it was soft. But Derek didn't crack a smile, just looked sort of confused—that blank stare that Stiles was so used to seeing because hello, Scott was his best friend and Stiles rarely spoke in complete sentences.

"Because the Royal Family is inbred? And bringing in humans means new genes in the wolfy-gene pool," Stiles said. "Right? I mean, I hate to break this to you, because I don't know how long you've been out of commission but when one wolfy loves another wolfy or a human, who has zero self-preservation, then they get married and have some hanky-panky—wait, do werewolves use condoms? Fuck, do condoms even work on werewolf sperm? Because holy fuck, I can not handle a pregnant Allison right now. Wow. That's a buzzkill."

"Stiles."

"Right, shutting up."

Derek shook his head, as if he was physically dislodging all of Stiles' verbal diarrhea. Stiles silently took offense. They stood in silence. Derek was still pressed up against him, warm and solid—delightfully so. How had Stiles never really come away from one of these encounters wanting to roll over and have Derek nuzzle his belly because wow. This was really doing it for him and holy shit, Stiles' teenage hormones were obviously slow to get going for the first time ever because Stiles had never been more ashamed of being a late bloomer in his life.

Stiles blinked.

Derek was still there, still—apparently—doing his thing of casually molesting people with his body and Stiles was just over here drowning in the emotional suck-zone of teenage angst, the included his dick standing up and screaming, 'I told you so" so loudly that it was making his ears rattle.

Also, Derek's completely human eyes were really distracting. Were his eyelashes always that long? And delicate—and oh my god, was Stiles in his own personal homo-Twilight?

"So—"

"And here I thought we were enjoying the silence," Derek said, barely moving his mouth.

Stiles plowed on. If he stayed silent any longer, he might do something unsexy, like have a panic attack, or rash, like get all up on Derek's face.

"Does that mean you're asking me to be in your pack?"

Derek's face twisted and he looked away. Stiles was treated to the solid line of his chiseled jawline, which was unfair because Stiles was starting to think everyone but him got a stunning jawline. Which was bullshit.

"It's complicated."

"Not really, dude." But Derek didn't turn and yeah, so much rejection in so little time, Stiles. Nice. That felt really fucking awful. He should have just stayed home and watched Back to the Future with his dad.

"Oh," he said, pulling his hands back and desperately trying to find a place to put them that wasn't on Derek. "No, I totally get it. That Alpha pack is around somewhere, total stranger danger and Scott's ditched you for summer school—which, you can't really blame him for making Jackson your problem. It's not like we got along with him before and now that he has roid-rage on top of werewolf angst, he's got to be a rage-monster. So yeah, you've got a lot on your hands—paws? Claws? You know what I mean."

Trying to move away from someone who was pressing you up against a wall was really difficult. Stiles just felt like he was squirming around, which was fine since such solid I don't have time for you, human rejection was enough to make him have super-limp-dick but it still stung.

Dammit. And now he split his lip again. That wound was never going to heal if Stiles didn't stop reopening it. Oral fixations were annoying.

"Stay where you are."

Stiles kicked out against Derek. He was done. "No, stop—just let me."

"I didn't mean it like that," Derek growled.

Stiles flinched.

"They're healing," was what Derek said. Stiles didn't even say what; he just kicked Derek's shoe and glared. Derek huffed, if he wasn't boxing Stiles into the wall, there was a large chance that he would be trying to shove his hands into his pockets.

"It's not an orgy. Boyd and Erica came back wounded as a statement and Alpha wounds take longer to heal, so we're healing."

"It looks like half-naked cuddling."

Derek's gaze slid over to him then back away to the wall. "It's healing."

"Right," Stiles said. "Fine. Um, can I go now?"

He was met with silence. That muscle in Derek's jaw twitched under all that stubble—well, it wasn't really stubble anymore. It was definitely encroaching on beard territory.

"Your face."

Stiles balked. "Insults? Really. Well, your face, you emotionally fuckwad—"

"Stiles," and yeah, that was definitely a controlled yell.

But this time when Stiles flinched it was because Derek was touching his face. Fingers, surprisingly soft but considering they constantly regrew tissue after being transformed... well, it made more sense if he thought about it—soft fingers touched his face, tracing the braised edge of Stiles' cheek and settled there, thumb reaching out to poke delicately at Stiles' reopened lip.

"Um."

"Do you ever stop talking?"

Derek wasn't really looking Stiles in the eye now, just staring at the side of Stiles' face. And yeah, Stiles' boner was back with a vengeance, rejection from the pack or no.

"Not really," Stiles said honestly, shrugging but not hard enough to displace Derek's hand. "It's my trademark."

"You should heal," Derek said. Stiles watched as his Adam's apple bobbed, like he was swallowing something too large and it was barely scrapping down his throat. "You should heal. With us."

Stiles blinked. Derek's eyes stayed pinned to the side of his face and Stiles mentally back tracked the conversation.

"You want me to cuddle—"

Derek's eyes flashed red. "Heal."

"—with you? Like, on the big bed or am I gonna be delegated to the bed where Erica and Boyd are. It looked... cold down there."

Derek's face twisted into a scowl. "They chose to leave."

"But you accepted them back for the time being."

"I wouldn't leave them to die," Derek spat out, like Stiles was accusing him of something unthinkable. It was hard to remember sometimes the strength of the pack-bond for Derek. It clearly wasn't enough for Boyd or Erica, but for Derek and what he had seen of Isaac, it was something to behold.

"Is that why Peter's still around?"

"I don't want to talk about my uncle." This time, his gaze did shift, finding Stiles' for a few seconds before refocusing on his fingers. They were still stroking Stiles' face and causing strange sensations in Stiles' stomach—like too much curly fries and Red Bull.

"Right. Complicated."

Derek scowled. Stiles promised himself he wouldn't say 'right' again.

Silence happened—quiet enough that Stiles could hear Isaac's soft little snuffles in the next room and damn, wasn't that obscenely cute? That was like kittens and baby deers cute.

He could also feel Derek's breath across his cheek because yeah, still creepily stroking Stiles' wounds.

"Sooooo." No scowling, just blank face and that little twitch by his eye that said he was listening and possibly amused. "Are you gonna ask me then?"

"I already said—" There was that exasperated and aggro-face Stiles was finding more and more appealing. It was like poking the bear, knowing that even if there was growling and some minimal mauling, there would also be cookies in the end.

"Ask me nicely," Stiles said, boldly flying blind and taking a hold of Derek's wrist. "Ask me to cuddle in your wolf-pile so that you can use my super power of human awesomeness to heal your pack. Do it. Say please."

Stiles honestly didn't know what was teasing and what was seriousness. Either way, Derek's mouth set in that stubborn line of disapproval and Stiles smiled, lips pulling at his slit skin. Derek seemed to focus in, his attention drawn away from Stiles' cheek to the corner of his mouth. Stiles could taste the blood, slicker than spit and metallic on his tongue. He had about three seconds to process the 'oh shit' before Derek was leaning in and licking at the wound, licking with the flat of his tongue and dipping into the slit and just saying slit made Stiles think of his dick and Derek's tongue.

The embarrassing choking sound that escaped his throat was the only reason Stiles knew he opened his mouth.

Derek must have taken it for permission, or fuck, smelled Stiles' permission because after a few laves he was sucking Stiles' bottom lip into his mouth so fucking gently that Stiles actually thought he might cry. Which was weird. But whatever because his mind was completely over-loaded with sensation and strange, knee-weakening feelings because Derek was sucking on his lip and running his tongue over the cut of his lip.

When Derek pulled his mouth away, Stiles couldn't control it because he was his own fabulous cockblocker and he was legitimately dizzy with trauma—induced by Derek Hale's special brand of affection, laced with violence and confusing facial expressions.

"Is this a pack thing too?"

But Derek's eyebrows don't draw together into really angry caterpillars of endless expression. Nope. Derek just nuzzles his nose, like they're Eskimos. Or nine years old and exchanging daisy chains during recess. (Cards on the table? Scott makes shit daisy chains and he didn't deserve the ones Stiles made for Lydia.)

And Stiles’ mouth no longer stung.

He reached up to touch the sore spot on his lip, only to find it healed over. Still tender to the touch but the thin layer of skin felt new and pinky raw but not the swollen and red, likely to bleed when messed with, thing that Stiles had seen in the mirror for the last few days.

"How?"

Derek's smile was bright, still sharp and predator-like, but human and an actual smile. Stiles didn't need super ears to hear his heart try and fist-bump his dick inside his chest.

"Come lay with us," Derek whispered, quiet and vulnerable. It was a sound that Stiles had never heard before—not even when Derek was contemplating cutting off his arm. This was wholly new and floating between them and wow, when did Stiles wrap his fingers around Derek's ears like they were handles? He was so embarrassing. He had a flashing sign on his forehead that said, 'Why yes indeed, I am a Virgin with a capital Vee so I have no idea where to put my hands during sexy-times'.

Then again, Derek was so socially dysfunctional that maybe it all made sense.

"Fine," Stiles said. "I won't even make you say 'please' you sourwolf with hidden depths."

By the time Stiles was rambling about being able to see Derek's hidden depths by the shine of his teeth and man, this was getting seriously little red riding hood up in this bitch, Derek had marched him into the dinning-room-cum-blanket-fort.

Jackson was splayed on his stomach like the selfish bed-hog, douchey star-fish Stiles always knew he would be. (Pft. He wasn't even going to deny thinking about it.) At his feet, the exile bed of Boyd and Erica were pressed up against his ankles, clearly as close as they dared. Boyd and Erica were so twisted up in each other, smooth pale skin contrasting with dark, endless limbs and wow, they were really, really pretty. Stiles totally liked them more when they were sleeping. Also, Erica was totally drooling. Stiles had a little bit of a crushing feeling, suddenly missing Scott more than he thought he could so fiercely and sneakily.

Stiles was pulled away from marveling at how adorable Isaac looked, face smashed into Jackson's side, body curled in the fetal position by Derek tugging at his clothes.

"What?" Stiles hissed, trying to whisper but not really paying attention because Isaac was snuffling and his feet were twitching. Dammit. Why did these pains-in-the-ass look so cute and harmless in their sleep? Stiles knew for a fact that most of the time, they were all leather-wearing jerks with attitude problems and self-esteem issues only partially concealed by the wolf-bite.

"Stop staring at Isaac like he's a pup," Derek whisper-growled and Stiles threw up his hands, only to have Derek take advantage of his raised arms to tug Stiles out of his v-neck.

"Look, I know he's pretty vicious during the waking hours." Stiles stopped and turned to face Derek who had a terrible look on his face, staring down at the landmine of bruises and welts all over Stiles' torso.

It was the face of someone who had so much fucking guilt and anger and fury and lust—all wrestling around like Honey Badgers.

"Don't," Stiles said, firm and definitely not a whisper. But the look on Derek's face reminded him vividly and horribly of lying on his bed after getting back from being Gerard's punching bag. He felt helpless, just someone to be rescued—only someone to be worried about, in the way and weak—no one's hero and standing there, watching his mother be lowered in the ground.

For the first time in a long time, whatever was going on in Stiles' head stayed there or maybe it didn't but he didn't have to say anything before Derek was nodding. His face didn't stop being conflicted because that was sort of Derek's default setting. (Part of his rugged, feeling-filled charm. Seriously. Fathers wanted to shoot him with shot-guns but you bet your sweet cheeks that mothers around Beacon Hills wanted to bake Derek cookies and stroke his tortured, lonely soul. Not that Stiles would know anything about that feeling.) But he peeled Stiles out of his shirt and looked him in the eye, mouth relaxed, even if his hands were already wandering to pet the purple bruises, too deep to have faded but only flared brighter.

"Lay down."

Stiles shook his head. "Kiss me again and I will," he said because perhaps he had lost his mind somewhere in the emotionally roller coaster of their conversation. Or he had like smoke-inhalation or mold issues from being pressed up against that rotten wall for so long.

Derek definitely rolled his eyes but his lips were there, warm and wet as they moved chastely across Stiles'. It wasn't the gut-clenching, bond-crazy kiss that Stiles had fantasized about but it was definitely better in a way that made him want to crawl up Derek's stupidly muscled body and just, hang on him like a monkey and never, ever let go.

Stiles will take Irrational & Embarrassing Teenage Feelings for eight-hundred, please.

Unfortunately, by the time Stiles was done redeeming his kiss, he was also sans jeans. His boxers were a little threadbare for a sleepover but they would have to do.

"Lay down," Derek whisper-growled and Stiles went, sitting on the edge of the mattress and piles of blankets. He spared a glance at Isaac but he slept on and Stiles went back to watching Derek Hale, Alpha screw up and beardly, taking off his clothes.

It was really as deliciously scandalous as it sounded.

Stiles pushed at his dick, willing it to behave, as Derek's unbelievable abs were revealed. His sense of danger—erections around werewolves meant that running would be less effective for survival—was trumped by Derek, looking down-right coy, the bastard, and smirking.

The smirking was even more devastating when sunglasses weren't obscuring Derek's stupidly pretty eyes.

Derek made him feel like a pre-teen in the midst of a sexual awakening. Awkward.

Derek managed to look incredibly graceful when he crawled onto the mattress, black (of course) briefs making it pretty clear that his erection had no such qualms. Stiles whimpered and then glared at his own dick.

"Stop it," he said, then pointed a finger at Derek, who (surprise, surprise) looked smug. "You're a pervert."

The shrug of Derek's shoulders, all indestructible bone and sleek muscles, was really fucking distracting because before he knew what was happening, he was lying on the mattress.

Fucking little spoon bullshit.

"Why do you get to be the big spoon?" He grumbled, words low because Isaac was right there, and because Derek was trying to strangle them both with a blanket.

When Derek was settled, his really long, really hard body—wow, he was so freaking warm—he licked at Stiles' ear.

Stiles yelped.

"You need to be closer to my pack," Derek said, voice honey-warm. "It'll take the pain away."

Great. So now Stiles was being rescued, only like three days late and it still felt sort of like shit.

"I'd heal on my own. I can."

He could feel the shake of Derek's head on his neck, how every single movement fitted them closer together and Stiles was going to have to look up how one cuddled with hairy men and didn't collapse in a fit of giggles all the time because, dude, Derek's hair was tickling him.

"Heal here," was what Derek said.

"Why." Take that Derek! Stiles could abuse punctuation and the defy the laws of cuddling and still be sullen in the werewolf den of spooning.

Derek stilled and Stiles listened to the silence: he could heard the noises of all the other werewolves sleeping around him, but Derek was so still that even if Stiles hadn't been breathing a little fast (erection was still there because his dick was a traitor that hadn't followed instructions since realizing it was off the bench), Stiles couldn't hear Derek's breath. He could feel it, pressed solidly against his back but only the minuet shift of his chest.

When Stiles closed his eyes, it wasn't the feel of Derek's breath that gave him away but the pounding of his heart. For a few seconds, Stiles listened to his own beats, which were fast and skipped a bit every third cycle, but that was probably from the Adderall. Derek's were slow and steady, because he was like one of those grey hounds that Scott helped run the local adoption for: even when they were off the track, they still beat slow in anticipation of the race they might run.

Stiles exhaled long and slow, listening to his own heart beat twist and even out. It wasn't as slow as Derek's was, Stiles pretty much thought that would be impossible, but when he listened again, it was possible that Derek's heart had sped up.

This definitely didn't feel like a pack thing anymore.

"Oh."

There was a fleeting pressed of Derek's smile, all human teeth, to the back of Stiles' neck before a long line was licked, from the curve of his shoulder to the base of his neck. Then Derek buried his face there—really, there was all sorts of nuzzling—and took a huge breath, exhaling with shaky puffs of air on Stiles' warming skin.

And then another.

"Do I smell?" Stiles asked.

"Yes."

Stiles fidgeted with the quilt on top of them. "Sorry, man. Scott always said it was a bit pungent."

But Derek was still inhaling, nose rubbing against the back of Stiles' neck and wow—that was both comfortable and irritating, like that old blanket on the back of the couch that smelled so good but was a little scratchy because it was made like a hundred years ago.

"You smell strong," Derek said. "Good."

Stiles refused to blush and instead focused on Isaac in front of him, watching his back rise and fall where the blanket had fallen off his shoulders.

"Yeah?"

Another long inhale and the hot breath of an exhale on his neck. "Strong, like I'd always be able to find you."

Yeah, it was a little stalkerish but it was also strangely honest—in the sureness of Derek's voice and the tight way his fingers gripped at Stiles' hip, while their hearts strived to beat in time with one another. It was clearly unnatural but the point was, they were trying. That was important right? When Stiles' mom had died, the grief councilor had said, "You don't have to forget her, Stiles. You just have to try and keep living. She would want you to try." At the time, Stiles had frowned and cried and generally not believed a single word the woman had said because his mom was dead. But looking back at his entire year, maybe that's what this was about—trying. Sure, survival was iffy for them all and if they couldn't stop fighting or leaving each other than they were all going to die horrific deaths by the hand of Alphas or Peter, whenever he dropped his sass and turned into the bloodlusting psycho they all remembered.

But they could try right? That was what counted the most in the end—that Stiles could have this, Derek and him trying and it just being for them? Giving up was fine, morally inconvenient but fine, as long as they got back up and yeah, tried it again. This felt like trying. Even if it looked like Stiles was in the middle of some sort of half-naked werewolf ritual involving questionably aged werewolves, virginity and moth eaten blankets in a burnt out house.

Maybe that was why Derek stayed here sometimes, to remember what it was like to fall so far from home and know how to get back up and try again.

They laid there, Derek inhaling and nuzzling Stiles' neck and just... breathing. Maybe it was just some sort of weird cuddle-induced endorphin rush but Stiles wasn't feeling the weight of his bruises as much as he did when he first got there. He may not understand why his lip was healed—if it was a pack thing or a Derek thing or hell, a Derek and Stiles thing—but the closeness was helping. He could see it in the relaxed sag of Isaac's shoulders and the way his legs jerked, clearly dreaming.

Stiles hoped that it was a good dream.

He was starting to relax, when Derek's hand moved from tightly gripping his waist to rubbing slow, palm warm circles over his stomach. Did it feel good? Well obviously. Derek had wide hands and the werewolf heat made Stiles shiver back into Derek's arms—probably part of his master plan. Unfortunately, even as he melted into the mattress, his dick perked up.

"Stiles," Derek said it like he was dreaming, no intent behind it at all.

Then, seriously, not two seconds later, Derek had his hand squeezing Stiles' boxer-clad dick.

"What are you doing?" Stiles hissed but Derek just rocked into his ass, pushing him closer to Isaac and making it damn clear that despite all this 'healing' bullshit, Derek was hard too.

"I thought you said this isn't a sex thing," Stiles hissed, trying to struggle as minimally as possible. He didn't want to wake the pile of half-naked werewolves. He knew for a fact that waking Jackson up before he got his full eight hours wasn't advisable.

"It isn't."

Stiles smacked Derek's hand, which was cupping Stiles' hard cock in his hands but Derek didn't move.

"Derek."

He could feel Derek's smirk curling hot and unapologetic against his neck. "It isn't for them," Derek growled, human teeth nipping at the back of Stiles' neck like a brand.

"You sonofabitch."

The rumble against Stiles' back said that Derek was laughing and man, Stiles really wished that he could stay pissed off but that felt so good and he was already awarding himself so many gold stars for getting Derek to laugh. He was a total goner and he really wished he could pay attention to how pathetic he was for Derek but at the moment, he was too concerned about his raging boner while he was in a bed of crazy, overgrown puppies.

And the massive dick poking him in the lower back.

"Stiles."

"Punctuation," Stiles cursed out.

"Go to sleep."

"Sleep? Are you joking right now? You're all up in my business right now with your ginormous hand on my junk—seriously, you are even cupping my balls into like a pretzel with my penis right now—and your little Derek is—"

Stiles flailed, accidentally hitting Isaac in the back. He froze, watching as Isaac shifted with a snuffle, his legs stretching back, resettling his face into Jackson's side and suddenly Stiles had really cold toes making out with his shins.

"Go to sleep," Derek growled but it was amazingly intimate and soft and pretty much all thoughts fled his mind when the firm but wet presence of Derek's mouth stifled any lasting protests.

Because of course Derek couldn't just fall asleep like a normal snuggle-whore, he had to slip into slumber like the absolute predator he was—mouth open, human teeth bared and the back of Stiles' neck slotted between them.

In the morning, Stiles would wake up in the middle of an orgasm, Derek’s hand wrapped tightly around his cock and milking him as he soaked the inside of his boxers. He would turn around, already opening his mouth to bitch because seriously, what the fuck? But Derek’s mouth would be there, twisted in a genuine smile, and all Stiles would be able to think about was hope and fuck, they would be kissing. Stiles would pull away, completely ready to devirginize his hand by pulling Derek off right there under the quilt, but was interrupted by Jackson.

Fucking Jackson.

Who was awake, stretching and looking for all the world like he would give up being part of the pack if he never had to see Stiles’ nipples ever again. Stiles would jerk the blanket up, Derek would growl and Jackson would honestly look like he was flattening his ears in submission while simultaneously flipping them off and rolling his eyes, before rolling over and going back to sleep, Isaac’s face smashing up into his sharp, douchey shoulder.

Stiles would complain about losing his virginity in front of the world’s judgiest audience, but he was already being rearranged and force-cuddled into asleep.