I want to love you, I want to pass it on (I wanna give and give 'til it's all gone)
Objectively, Stiles knew that summer romances were a thing that happened. But in, like, movies, and tv, and those dumb romance novels Lydia pretended she didn’t read (even though she so totally did). It didn’t actually happen to real people. But the months pass by and somehow Derek still hasn’t gotten sick of him, and Stiles starts to realize this is the first summer he’ll actually be in one.
Normally he spends summer mostly alone. Sure, there was always Scott and Lydia, but there were still always those hours he spent sprawled out on the floor of his unairconditioned bedroom by himself, just thinking, waiting. But now there was Derek, and even if they weren’t doing anything, even if Stiles was still just lying on the floor overthinking about something, he didn’t have to do it alone anymore.
And that was nice.
“You should come out here and lay next to me.”
Stiles jerks, startled out of his thoughts, and the book he’d been lazily thumbing through for the past hour falls into the grass in a flutter of pages at his side. “Don’t do that,” he hisses, blinking the sun out of his eyes, looking up to see Derek hovering over him. “Can’t you just try to make some amount of noise when you walk? Some of us have fragile, human hearts you know.”
Derek looks too good like this, all shirtless and even more sun-bronzed than usual since they’ve been spending their afternoons lazing around the preserve now that sports (and school) were nearly over for the year. “Someone’s grumpy today,” Derek says, grinning with a truly impressive show of teeth.
“I’m not grumpy,” Stiles says, even though he kind of is, “I’m hot.” It’s true. It’s not even June yet, and somehow it’s been over ninety degrees every day this week. And if Derek’s one of those people that thrive in the heat (which is ridiculous since he’s the one who runs hot enough as it is, so explain that, Stiles thinks), Stiles is the opposite. Derek might be able to pull off that sexy-when-glistening-with-sweat thing, but Stiles most decidedly cannot.
“Yes, you are,” Derek says, giving him one of those adorably cocky grins as he drops down to straddle Stiles’s hips, pressing a kiss that actually seems pretty sympathetic to his forehead.
“Don’t patronize me, wolf,” Stiles sniffs, but it’s hard to even pretend to be mad when Derek’s doing that nuzzling thing that still manages to make Stiles shiver despite it being eight thousand degrees outside. “You’re a million degrees,” he whines against Derek’s mouth, “and I’m practically wilting here.”
“Poor baby,” Derek murmurs, and then suddenly the world goes inverted, and Stiles is suddenly on his back in the cool grass, blinking up at the blue sky, his face shaded by Derek, who’s looming over him and looking far too pleased with himself. “Now I’m your shade. Happy?”
“You’re an idiot,” Stiles says, but it’s hard not to smile when Derek says shit like that to him. It’s corny and stupid but also incredibly sweet.
“Yeah, but you love me.” Derek hums happily, rubbing his stubble all over Stiles’s chin, making him squirm because it’s so prickly. Eventually he claims his prize, and Stiles finds himself thoroughly kissed, Derek’s tongue swiping eagerly across his bottom lip, begging for entry.
“That’s true,” Stiles gasps against Derek’s mouth.
“Good,” Derek murmurs, “because you’re going to do something for me.” The wolf grins, pulls away, and Stiles whines needily, because somehow he always ends up being the needy one. Which isn’t fair, at all, but he can’t help it, okay?
“I thought we went over the whole asking questions thing,” Stiles says. “Question marks, Derek. Question marks.”
“Ha ha,” Derek says, nosing into Stiles’s cheek. “Don’t worry, it’s not a hard thing. And you’ll even like it, I promise.”
“Is it a sex thing?” Stiles asks, “because it’s starting to sound like a sex thing.”
And then he’s biting back a hiss because Derek’s nipping at his mouth admonishingly. “It’s like the opposite of a sex thing,” he says, laughing. “I want you to have dinner with my family this weekend. It’s a pack thing, and I want you to meet everyone.”
Stiles isn’t sure what he was expecting, but he knows it wasn’t that. For a minute, he just blinks at Derek, admittedly a little shocked. Maybe he shouldn’t be, because they’ve been together now for almost six months. Derek’s had dinner at his house loads of times. Hell, his dad even kind of likes Derek now. Well, tolerates him. He doesn’t clean his guns around Derek anymore, which Stiles will definitely count as a win. “You -- you really want me to meet your family?”
“Of course, baby,” Derek says, like he can’t believe Stiles would have thought otherwise. “I love you. Why wouldn’t I want you to meet them?”
“I don’t know,” Stiles says, shrugging sheepishly “I just thought it was like a no-humans-allowed sort of thing. Werewolf secrets, or something.” Then he’s grimacing, because it sounds even stupider said out loud than it did in his head.
Derek snickers. “Werewolf secrets? You know not everyone in my family is a werewolf, right?”
Um, no, Stiles thinks, he absolutely didn’t know that. “What? They’re not? What about all that, ‘ of course born wolves are different, Stiles, jeez!’ crap?" Stiles asks haughtily.
“My father’s human,” Derek answers, still chuckling. “And so are one of the twins, and my baby brother.”
“Well, how does that work?” Stiles asks, brow furrowed. Obviously werewolf genetics were a thing, which only makes him have like a thousand more questions, and…
“Would you like me to draw you a Punnett Square?”
"Do your jock buddies know that you're actually a big nerd?" Stiles asks huffily.
"No," Derek says, baring his teeth in that almost-smile again. "Just you."
"Lucky me," Stiles says, rolling his eyes. Still, he's smiling too when he adds softly, "and of course I'll go."
Derek lets out one of those rumbling growls he always denies is a purr, but Stiles knows that’s exactly what it is. “Good,” he murmurs, and then Stiles isn’t really sure what he says next, because he’s mumbling the words against the skin of Stiles’s belly, and then lower, lower, lower until all talking ceases to matter, at least for a little while.
“You know we actually have to leave the car to meet my family, right?”
Stiles is keenly aware of this fact. Has been for the last twenty minutes while he’s been sitting in the front seat of the Camaro basically having a panic attack. Because he’s about to meet his boyfriend’s family for the first time ever. And he’s freaking out , okay ? And that’s totally normal. He’s normal. “Yeah, I’m aware, just give me a minute --"
Derek’s hand is a welcome weight on his back, rubbing soothing circles between his shoulder blades. “We don’t have to -- I can always tell them you got sick, Stiles.” Ugh, and of course Derek’s being so supportive and amazing even though Stiles can tell he’s a little hurt by the thought. “I know you don’t exactly have the best experience with most werewolves, but they won’t hurt you--”
“Of course they won’t,” Stiles says, turning to glare at Derek with an incredulous look on his face. “I’m not worried about that, you loon.”
Derek arches an eyebrow, but looks relieved (albeit, confused). “Then what --”
Stiles sighs. “What -- what if they don’t like me?”
Derek is quiet for an excruciatingly long minute. Before he busts out laughing, that is.
“Thank you so much, Derek,” Stiles says, exasperated. “I feel so much better now.”
“No, no, I’m sorry, baby,” Derek says, wiping his eyes and trying his hardest not to smile (but failing, obviously), “It’s just -- you’re a human about to walk into a house full of werewolves--”
“Mostly full of werewolves,” Stiles corrects.
Derek rolls his eyes, but continues, “Mostly full, fine. And the only thing you’re worried about is they won’t like you? You’re amazing, you know that?”
“Try to remember that if it turns out your whole family hates me,” Stiles grumbles, letting his forehead fall forward to rest against the glovebox.
“They won’t,” Derek says, running his fingers over Stiles’s scalp in a way that really shouldn’t feel as good as it does right now. Stiles definitely, definitely should not be thinking about that. Especially when he knows pretty much everyone in that house is going to be able to smell it on him if he does.
“How do you know?”
“Because I love you, stupid, so obviously they will, too.”
Derek had insisted on picking him up and driving him here, which Stiles hadn’t really understood because he’s perfectly capable of driving himself places, okay. But the closer they get to the front door, the more he feels like bolting, so maybe Derek kind of had a point. Thankfully the hand on his back stays, guiding him carefully toward the porch, and it’s so much easier to just let himself be led.
“Your house is nice,” Stiles says, looking up to survey the place as they reach the stairs. It really is, Stiles thinks. It’s huge, which makes sense, considering Derek has a million siblings (okay, five, but that’s a lot, especially to an only child like himself). And he likes that it looks a little bit wild, just like Derek, shaded by enormous oak trees, creeper vines and ivy running up the side of the house. Flowers and ferns sprouting haphazardly around the steps. It already feels homey, inviting, warm the same way Derek’s skin always did. It's oddly comforting.
At least his heart doesn’t feel quite like it’s going to burst out of his chest in what would be a truly horrific Alien imitation that would probably not impress Derek’s parents in the slightest. He’s feeling pretty good about it all, actually, by the time they reach the top step. Which is when he trips and nearly brains himself on the railing, or would have, if Derek wasn’t there to catch him.
“Are you sure you don’t need me to carry you across the threshold?” Derek asks, grinning as he sets Stiles carefully upright, nuzzling sweetly into his throat.
“Oh, you’re funny. Hilarious,” Stiles sniffs, “I told you I’m perfectly capable of -- ” But Derek’s not listening, not to him at least. Stiles watches, bemused, as Derek cocks his head, clearly hearing something that Stiles’s puny, little human ears can’t. He’s about to open his mouth and ask, but Stiles doesn’t get the chance, because the front door bursts open with a bang and Stiles watches, open-mouthed in shock, as some fast-moving blur knocks Derek right off the stairs and straight onto his back.
“Damnit, Emma, I told you not to do this today," Derek growls, glaring up and flashing blue eyes at what Stiles now sees is actually a small child. A little girl, definitely a werewolf, judging from the miniature claws and fangs (which, Stiles thinks, are weirdly kind of adorable?).
The girl, Emma, she just sits back on Derek’s chest and cackles before flashing her golden eyes mischievously. Then she turns toward the door and yells, “Claire, he’s down! Get him.”
There’s a thundering sound, and then Stiles is still struck dumb and helpless, watching as a much smaller blur shoots down the stairs, followed by a girl who’s running, too -- fast, but at a distinctly human speed. They all jump on Derek, who lets out another growl, and an oof, when the rest of the kids converge on top of him.
“Hey -- no tickling -- god, get off -- " Derek groans, attempting to cover his face with his hands, though that appears difficult because they’re currently being held down in the grass by two little girls who are definitely identical twins, and a toddler. A toddler, Stiles realizes, with the tiniest, cutest pair of fangs he’s ever seen poking out of his lip. “Okay, okay, you win, now get the hell off me, you savages.” There’s a chorus of giggling that sounds more like twittering birds than small children, or wolves, but nobody moves.
“Do the thing!”
“Yeah, do it!”
“Make it scary!”
Derek grimaces, but apparently resigns himself to whatever they’re asking for. With an annoyed grunt, he turns his face to the side, and Stiles isn’t exactly sure what he’s doing. Until two seconds later when Derek lets out the loudest roar Stiles has certainly ever heard him make, baring his fangs in what is admittedly kind of a scary hiss. It’s pretty impressive, actually.
This must’ve been satisfactory, because the three kids turn and run back into the house, shrieking and laughing hysterically.
“That might be the cutest thing that’s ever happened to me,” Stiles says, trying his absolute hardest not to also laugh at Derek, who flops dramatically back into the grass with a sigh.
“I’m so glad you’re enjoying this,” Derek says, rolling his eyes. “Laura was supposed to be watching them, but apparently that’s not happening. Huge surprise.”
Stiles kneels down and pats Derek’s head sympathetically before offering him a hand up, which Derek takes and doesn’t let go of, leading him up the stairs. They actually make it through the doorway this time, although once again, Derk stills, cocks his head, and then lets out yet another burdened exhale.
Stiles is only aware he’s being moved as it happens, Derek grabbing him by the shoulders and shoving him away from the bottom of the stairs where they’d stopped. “Hey, what are you -- ” Stiles starts to say, although he’s interrupted by another clearly-childlike whoop.
Then Stiles watches as another blur vaults its way over the banister and right on top of Derek, who admittedly moves much faster this time, catching it in midair and pinning it to the ground under his knee. It’s another girl, Stiles sees, once she stops squirming, who looks much like the others, although slightly older. Eight or nine maybe.
“I almost got you that time!” the girl says, baring her teeth in an eerie recreation of that same predatory grin that Derek gives him all the time.
“You absolutely did not,” Derek says airily, helping the little girl to her feet and ruffling her hair. “Where is she, Cora?”
Cora sticks her tongue out and shrugs, turning her immediate attention instead to Stiles, “Who are you?”
“Um, I’m Stiles,” he says, waving tentatively. “Derek’s boyfriend.”
Cora arches her eyebrow, and wow, Stiles thinks, it really must run in the family. “Boyfriend? Don’t you mean ma -- ”
Derek hastily slaps a hand over Cora’s mouth, which Stiles would probably find more suspicious, but he still isn’t quite sure what’s happening, and at this point, there doesn’t seem to be a reason not to just go with it. “Where’s Laura?” Derek asks, frowning. “She was supposed to be in charge of you guys so you didn't do exactly this…”
“Calm down, loser, I’m right here,” a voice calls, and Stiles looks up to see a girl who looks a few years older than Derek descending the staircase. She looks the most like Derek out of any of them, Stiles thinks, with those same startling green eyes and dark hair, although hers is long, cascading straight down the middle of her back. This was obviously Laura.
Derek rolls his eyes, “Yeah, now. How exactly is that helpful?”
Laura chooses to ignore this, and just like before, her gaze goes right to Stiles. It’s funny, he thinks, that she’s got that same aggressive beauty and haughty expression that he thought Lydia practically had patented. It feels a lot like being put under a microscope, how carefully she’s looking at him, but she must approve, because her face breaks out into one of those wide grins that’s all gleaming white teeth. “Derek was telling the truth. You are a cutie.”
Stiles face flames hot, and he does his absolute best to hide behind Derek as stealthily as he can. Because he's simply not used to this level of attention.
Honestly, he thought Derek was bad.
Derek huffs and Laura laughs. “Must you be such a harpy?”
“I don’t know. Must you be such a wet blanket?”
“I don’t even get an apology? That’s nice,” Derek says, crossing his arms.
“Okay,” Laura says sweetly, fluttering her lashes, (and Stiles can tell she’s absolutely not planning on being sweet. Classic Lydia power move), “sorry you were born.”
Derek snarls and flashes his eyes, and Laura’s turn that same bright gold as the other little girls’, and Stiles thinks for a moment he might actually get to see a real werewolf fight up close.
“Do I need to separate you two?” It’s another voice, male this time, a tall blond who looks similar in age to Laura. He’s holding a squirming toddler in one hand, both twins trailing behind him and yanking on his t-shirt, chattering excitedly about something. Probably Stiles, from the way they’re both whispering and pointing not very subtly in his direction. When the guy gets to the bottom of the stairs, he holds out the kid who reaches for Laura with urgent grabby hands. When she dutifully takes him, he squeals in delight and loops his arms around her, apparently now content.
“No, babe, Derek’s just being a jerk again,” Laura says, smiling up at him.
Derek sputters, obviously offended, and the guy just shakes his head and sighs, leaning over to nuzzle at Laura’s cheek, pressing a kiss there.
Laura hums happily, and Stiles can see she’s suddenly got that same moon-brained look on her face that Derek gets whenever Stiles looks at him. Or touches him, or kisses him. It’s pretty clear they’re together. Like together, together.
“Isaac, can’t you do anything to control Queen Bitch over here?” Derek grouses.
Laura’s the one growling this time, and Isaac only chuckles, saying, “I assure you, I absolutely cannot.”
“Mom, Derek said a bad word!”
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry about all of this,” Derek says, turning to hide his face in Stiles’s throat like he needs to in order to calm himself down. It’s probably not far from the truth.
“It’s okay, Derek,” Stiles says, trying his hardest just like before not to laugh. “I’m having fun already, I promise.” And he is, really. He’s never had siblings, so he’s finding it both incredibly interesting, as well as entertaining, watching Derek interact with his.
“I wasn’t intending to take you to dinner at the loony bin,” Derek says into Stiles’s shoulder.
“It’s fine, really,” Stiles says, threading his fingers in Derek’s hair, tugging on it teasingly. “Stop worrying.”
Derek snorts. “You know, there’s some irony in you telling me that.”
“Oh, I’m aware,” Stiles says, laughing, “are you aware you’re using the word 'irony' incorrectly?”
Stiles can hear the others laughing behind him, and Derek is too, so maybe he doesn’t have to worry. He might not completely suck at this.
“Well, well, well, nephew, look at that. You finally picked a smart one.”
Stiles doesn’t even need to look at Derek’s face to know he’s rolling his eyes. "Is this Peter?” he asks Derek, who’s apparently managed to extricate himself from Stiles’s throat, though judging from the expression on his face, it’s rather unwillingly. Derek grunts a noise he thinks is supposed to mean yes.
“Ah, so you’ve heard of me,” Peter says, “I assure you it’s all lies. Unless it’s good things,” he adds, flashing his teeth.
“It wasn’t,” Derek says, huffing irritably.
Peter gives Stiles a wink that makes him blush automatically. “Oh, he’s pretty, too, Derek. Good job.”
Derek growls and everybody laughs.
“Such a charmer,” Laura interjects from the stairs, giggling when Derek gives her the finger.
“Don’t let my sister see you do that, or she might break it,” Peter says, “and relax, nephew, as you know I’m happily spoken for.”
“Jeez, how many people are in your family, Derek?” Stiles can’t help blurting when yet another person appears seemingly out of nowhere. A woman this time, with cinnamon hair and skin almost as pale as Stiles’s, who slips in under Peter’s arm and rubs her cheek possessively against his chest.
“Too many,” Derek grumbles, “why do you think I spend so much time at your house?”
“Oh, I’m sure that you being sick of us is the only reason, right?” Isaac says.
“Does anyone know when dinner is? I’m starving,” the woman asks.
“Martha, my dear,” Peter says, smirking and pressing a kiss to the top of her forehead, “you’re always hungry.”
“And whose fault is that?” Martha retorts. “You’re the one who did this to me,” she says, and it takes Stiles another few seconds to realize what she means. The woman is heavily pregnant, her huge, protruding belly an almost comical contrast to her diminutive size.
“That I did,” Peter says proudly, rubbing her stomach with the same possessiveness she’d demonstrated earlier with him. “And that’s a question for Talia, not me.”
Both Laura and Derek lock gazes and make the same face, one which Stiles absolutely doesn’t understand. “Mom’s in the kitchen? Like, around the food? Like...cooking it?” Derek asks suspiciously.
“That’s not good,” Laura says, grimacing.
“You know, I heard that.”
This time Stiles actually jumps. “Jesus christ, do you guys come out of the walls or something?”
Of course, once he realizes just who he’s looking at, he kind of wishes he hadn’t said anything at all. And also, that the floor would open up and swallow him whole.
Because that’s forever going to be the first thing Talia Hale ever heard him say. Derek can obviously hear (as can the rest of the family, Stiles realizes in horror) how fast his heart is beating, because he’s squeezing Stiles’s hand reassuringly. At least she’s smiling, Stiles thinks. She also, he realizes, might be the most beautiful person he’s ever seen, which is saying a lot because Derek’s whole freaking family, even the human ones, look straight out of a freaking J.Crew catalogue.
“Don’t worry, your heart will get used to it,” another voice says, this one loud, booming and rich. Derek’s father, because just one look at him makes that obvious. Because Derek’s father looks pretty much exactly like Derek, big and broad, with the same thick eyebrows and dark hair, the same bronze coloring. He looks older than Talia, Stiles thinks, noting the salt and pepper flecks in his hair and his beard, the laugh lines and crow's feet on his face. Human, Stiles reminds himself, so that makes sense. “The adrenaline keeps things interesting.”
“The whole fangs and claws thing doesn’t already do that?” Stiles blurts out automatically.
“Isn’t he cute?” Laura says gleefully.
Derek is clearly trying to hold himself together, but Stiles can hear the laugh he’s attempting and failing to swallow. “Mom, Dad, this is Stiles. Stiles, these are my parents.”
For whatever reason, Derek’s parents (Talia and Eric, as he’s learned) apparently find his complete lack of social skills as endearing as Derek does. Which is as much of a relief as it is confusing. That fact alone makes it slightly less terrifying when Talia insists that Stiles sit outside with her and the kids while everybody else (including Derek. This is made very clear when Derek balks at leaving Stiles alone, and Talia flashes her alpha eyes at him) helps in the kitchen.
Even Stiles can admit, it’s nice out on the porch. Derek’s house is surrounded by trees, so there’s actual shade and he doesn’t feel quite like melting or dying. Well, the dying maybe still. Just a little bit, because he’d sort of been banking on the fact that he could have Derek close in case he freaked out (like he knows he's going to). Not this weird divide and conquer situation.
Talia also hasn’t said anything yet. She’s just looking at him with this knowing glint in her eyes, smiling as they both watch Jamie run around in the grass with his sisters.
Finally the silence becomes too unbearable. “I’m sorry in advance if I talk to much,” Stiles says hurriedly, “but sometimes if I stop talking when I’m nervous, I stop breathing, and sometimes I even pass out, which is terrible as a general rule, but even more so I think if I do it in front of my boyfriend’s mother. So, again, sorry.”
Talia blinks, and then she’s throwing her head back and laughing, that same sweet, musical laugh that Derek has. “Well, my son wasn’t lying when he said you talk more than him.”
“Mutes talk more than Derek.”
“He also said you were funny,” Talia says fondly.
“Oh?” Stiles asks. It hadn’t really dawned on him until now, that Derek would have told any of his family about him.
“This surprises you?”
“No - I mean, I guess I am hilarious --” Stiles says, smirking and fiddling with a hole in the knee of his jeans to keep from clenching his hands too hard, “I just didn’t think you’d know anything about me.”
“You think my son was keeping you a secret from me?”
There’s that Hale eyebrow arch. Man, genetics were wild, Stiles thinks. He shrugs. “I guess I didn’t think he would want you to know, you know, that I knew. Oh god, does that make sense?” He doesn’t think so. “I mean, werewolf secrets, I guess?”
And honestly, if Derek’s family keeps laughing at him, he’s going to get a complex. “He was right. You are funny. No secrets, Stiles. Not from people we care about. And my son, he clearly cares about you very much.”
“I -- I care about him too,” Stiles feels that familiar blush heating his face again. “But how can you just trust me? You aren’t worried I’ll tell someone? You don’t have some kind of loyalty test you want to give me or something? Don’t I have to like, prove myself?”
“Do you plan on doing something that would expose my son? Hurt him in any way?”
“No!” Stiles sputters, “Never -- I would never do that. I...I love him,” he finishes shyly, staring at his feet.
“Congratulations,” Talia says, beaming. “You passed. And you can come out now, Derek,” she calls out without actually looking behind her. Stiles glances up and sees Derek emerge onto the porch, the screen door clattering loudly behind him. Stiles waves and Derek waves back, his expression sheepish.
“Dad says dinner in half an hour. And you’re not allowed to --”
“-- allowed to touch anything,” Talia says, “believe me, I’m painfully aware of this fact by now.” And then she just gets up, pats Stiles on the shoulder, and kisses Derek on the forehead (which makes the wolf blush harder than Stiles has ever seen) before going inside.
“I -- I have no idea what just happened,” Stiles says dazedly, letting Derek pull him into his arms.
“She likes you,” Derek says, pressing his lips to Stiles’s, though he’s smiling so widely that it’s mostly teeth brushing his mouth.
“Oh,” Stiles says dumbly. “How did that happen?”
“You’re an idiot,” Derek says, shaking his head. “Come inside. I’m going to give you a tour.”
Derek’s house might be big, but it doesn’t have that sterile, don’t-touch-anything, lifeless sort of feeling like Lydia’s house, or Jackson’s. There’s a seemingly endless number of rooms, and they’re all filled with stuff -- not in a hoarder-y kind of way, though. It’s cluttered, sure, but it’s also bright and clean. And really, freaking cool. There’s a whole room entirely of plants, for example, many of which Stiles has never, ever seen before, and what looks like an actual art studio, filled with half-finished paintings and sculptures in varying stages of completion. And...there was, apparently, a library.
“I’m sorry, you have a library?” Stiles says, wide-eyed when Derek stops them in front of a pair of closed double doors. “Like -- in your house?”
“I mean, it’s where all the books are,” Derek says, shrugging. “My dad also uses it as an office.”
“Can we -- go in?” Stiles asks.
“You really wanna see the books, don’t you?” Derek says, eyebrow arched, mouth curved in a knowing smile.
“Yes, yes I do,” Stiles says earnestly. “I really, really do.”
“Such a nerd,” Derek says, but it’s said sweetly, whispered against his ear with just a flash of tongue that sends a shiver shooting deliciously down his spine.
It doesn’t disappoint. There are books literally lining the walls, floor to ceiling, and most of them look pretty old. Some of them weren’t in English. Hell, some of them weren’t even in a language he recognized.
At the back of the room, there’s a huge desk, which isn’t that interesting. What's interesting is what’s all over it, which appears to be about a hundred different sketches of various parts of the human body, floating heads with different parts of the brain labeled, various internal organs and bones, all exquisitely detailed.
“Gross,” Stiles says, but he doesn’t sound disgusted, because he isn’t, not really. More like incredibly fascinated.
“Oh, yeah, sorry about those,” Derek says, cringing, peering over the loose-leaf pages fluttering off the edge of the desk. “My dad’s an illustrator. Those are for some medical textbook he’s working on. At least they’re all on his desk for once. He was leaving them everywhere for a while, and let me tell you, there's nothing worse than going to sit on the couch and finding a disembodied eyeball staring up at you.”
“Your life is weird, and not in the ways I thought it would be,” Stiles says, shaking his head thoughtfully.
Derek laughs, “You know, I figured you’d be a lot more interested in seeing my bedroom.”
“Excuse me, wolf, but am I to understand that you were planning on seducing me at the end of this tour?” Stiles asks, fluttering his lashes.
“Oh, I’d hoped for it,” Derek answers, grinning back at him, “but I should have accounted for the books.”
Then Stiles finds himself in a familiar (and not unpleasant) position, with Derek crowding him until Stiles’s back hits one of the shelves and Derek’s leg is pressed between both of his. God, Derek should know he doesn’t ever have to hope for it -- he can basically count on it. It’s not fair what Derek’s smile does to him. He shouldn’t find that cockiness hot, but somehow, because it’s Derek, it really fucking is. “Your family is here,” Stiles whines when Derek starts to map kisses up the curve of his throat to that place behind his ear he loves to dote on, “and Jesus, they can hear us, can’t they?”
“Hear you, you mean?” Derek whispers, pressing his wolfish grin against Stiles’s collarbone. “Since you’re the loud one.”
“False,” Stiles gasps (it’s not), “but --”
“Stiles,” Derek says, pressing his lips briefly against his, “I doubt they’re listening. With half an hour before dinner, I’m guessing most of them are doing the exact same thing.”
“Ha ha,” Stiles says, scoffing. But when he looks at Derek’s expression, it doesn’t appear teasing. “Oh my god, you’re serious. Really? Even your parents?” He doesn’t mean to sound so scandalized by the idea, but most of his friends’ parents didn’t even seem to like each other that much, or they were divorced, or single, widowed. But when he considers the fact that everyone in Derek’s family seemed to have permanent goo-goo eyes for their respective partners, it makes sense.
“Humans are so weird about sex,” Derek says. “Full moon’s tomorrow, so everyone’s feeling restless. Gotta burn off the energy somehow,” he says, shrugging. “Besides, we Hales are known to be very attentive to our mates.”
There’s that word again. The one Derek hadn’t wanted Cora to say. Derek doesn’t seem to realize he’s said it, though, perhaps too distracted in his detailed examination of Stiles’s pulse point, which he was currently sucking determinately on.
Stiles is Stiles, so of course, he’s desperate to ask at least one of the fifty thousand questions he has rattling around in his brain, but before he gets the chance to even try, there’s that thundering again, a stampede of footsteps that sound like they belong to relatively tiny feet.
Derek sighs, growls in frustration into Stiles’s shoulder. “I think they found us.”
“Raincheck?” Stiles asks softly, standing up on his toes to press his lips sweetly to Derek’s jaw. There will be a time to ask, Stiles thinks. Now probably isn’t that time.
Derek grabs his hand and squeezes it, doesn’t even let go after they sit down at the dining room table.
Stiles is so used to eating alone, or with his dad, who wasn’t exactly the most verbose of dinner companions. And mostly it was Stiles who did the talking, talked just for the sake of it, or to fill the silence. Maybe it started as a defense mechanism after his mom died -- like if he kept talking, neither he or his dad would be able to think long enough to remember they were sad.
It’s not like that with Derek’s family. For once, he lets himself blend into the background a little bit, more than happy to sit back and watch the various conversations, squabbles, and banter unfold between them. It’s nice, Derek next to him, whispering jokes and stories in his ear, in between insults he hurls at his sister, Laura, that is. This seems to be a regular meal time activity.
After dinner, he and Derek help Laura and Isaac do the dishes, and Stiles gets to witness a fairly impressive soap bubble fight between Derek and his sister that ends with their mother flashing her eyes at them, which somehow does nothing but reduce everyone to giggles, Talia included.
It’s the most fun Stiles can remember having in a long time.
“I probably should have let your uncle win that chess match,” Stiles murmurs sleepily. He’s curled up into the front seat of the Camaro, Derek’s warm hand splayed over his knee. He knows it’s late, but he hasn’t bothered to check the time. He’d dozed off, his head in Derek’s lap, sprawled out on Derek’s living room floor watching The Princess Bride (Laura’s choice. According to Derek, it was almost always her choice, and the family had given up trying to fight her a long time ago). Derek had practically had to carry him to the car, which probably should have been embarrassing, but honestly, he was feeling too content to care. And so was Derek, that was obvious -- Stiles didn’t even have to be a werewolf to be able to tell that. “You know,” he yawns, “to curry favor.”
“No way, baby,” Derek says, chuckling. “You curried way more favor kicking his ass, I promise.”
“Oh,” Stiles says, smiling through another yawn, his eyes drifting closed. “So I did good? I made you happy?”
He doesn’t see Derek’s face, but he feels the soft, tender way Derek runs his fingers through his hair. “You always make me happy. But yes, you did very well. You were good.”
Stiles doesn’t technically need to hear him say it, but hearing it feels so strangely satisfying. “Good,” he hums, pleased, laying his palm over Derek’s, squeezing his fingers. “That’s good.”
Stiles wakes up in his bed alone, which isn’t surprising, but it is somewhat disappointing. He rarely sees Derek on full moon days, because he spends it with his family, obviously, but Stiles knows that’s not the only reason. The closer it gets, the more careful Derek is with him, which Stiles tries his hardest not to get annoyed about, but he hates feeling like he’s being handled with kid gloves.
And somehow, when he’s lying in bed on those nights, that yearning ache he always feels when Derek isn’t next to him (there were definitely some advantages to having a boyfriend who could easily jump onto the roof), it’s worse. Hurts in a way that Stiles’s human instincts don’t understand, but that part of him that runs with wolves kind of does. He wonders if Derek feels the same.
Is he selfish if he hopes so?
When he’d gone to bed, it’d been so hot in his bedroom, he hadn’t even bothered with sheets, or even closing the window, hoping to tempt at least the smallest amount of breeze to make its way inside. He sleeps fitfully, from the heat, sure, but also from the dreams. It’s a good dream though, because Derek’s in it, and even though it’s not real, the way his hands slide over Stiles’s skin feels like it is. But it doesn’t help that needy feeling in his gut go away. Not in the slightest.
When he wakes up, it’s still dark outside, and he’s hard and sweaty and annoyed.
“What were you dreaming about?”
It takes him a second, because that’s Derek’s voice. Stiles is still half-asleep, so he doesn’t even jump at the sound. Mostly he’s just confused. Because Derek is standing there in his bedroom, hovering over the bed, his eyes that luminescent blue, shining in the lingering darkness of the early morning.
“I thought we were done with the whole pinching yourself thing.”
Stiles shivers, because Derek’s voice is rough, all wolf, sliding over his skin. It sounds as good as it feels, so much better than anything has a right to, he thinks. “Just checking. I was dreaming about you,” he whispers, “I was worried I was still asleep.”
“Why would that worry you?” Derek asks softly. He’s closer now, but not close enough, Stiles thinks petulantly.
“Because you wouldn’t be real, and if you’re not real, you can’t actually touch me the way I want,” Stiles breathes.
“Stiles,” Derek says, and Stiles’s skin erupts in goosebumps, because how can Derek sound so wrecked when they haven’t even done anything yet? The wolf moves so fast, Stiles blinks and misses it, a blur of movement, and then the familiar weight of the older boy is pressed against him, over him. “Do you know how hard it’s been to stay away from you on nights like this?”
Derek’s fangs must be out, because Stiles can feel the tips of them just barely pressed against his skin. It makes his heart pound, but it’s not out of fear. “Who asked you to?”
There’s a rumbling laugh he can feel in Derek’s chest, pressed against his. “Don’t you even have the slightest amount of self-preservation?”
Stiles digs his hands in Derek’s hair. “From you? Never.” And it’s not like Stiles can’t tell, can’t see it, either, the energy still buzzing under Derek’s skin, the scent of wildness still lingering on him, dirt and blood and pine and moonlight. Stiles can’t explain it, but he can feel it. He just can. Besides, how is he supposed to resist, with all of that, and Derek in all his half-naked glory? In his bed. On top of him.
Derek lets out a shuddering breath, but nuzzles deeper into Stiles’s shoulder, licking away the sweat pooled in Stiles’s collarbones. Which maybe should be gross, but it just feels good.
“How do you expect me not to want you to fuck me,” Stiles gasps, “when you do things like that?”
Derek growls, but he doesn’t stop, leaving wet kisses all the way up the slate of Stiles’s jaw, nosing at the skin there. “You don’t make anything easy, do you, baby?”
“The easiest thing,” Stiles whines, bucking his hips or trying to at least. Derek’s weight keeps him pinned, which is as thrilling as it is frustrating, “would be to just fuck your mate like he’s asking you to.” Maybe he meant to say it, maybe it just came out, regardless, the end result is Derek pulling back with this look in his eyes Stiles can’t quite read. “No - no, I didn’t want you to stop, please -- “
“So you heard Cora say that, huh?” Derek asks. The way he’s ducking his head, avoiding Stiles’s gaze, it’s almost like... he’s embarrassed?
“She wasn’t subtle, and neither were you,” Stiles mumbles. Derek’s slid off him now, and Stiles hates how quickly that feeling of emptiness returns. Well, he’s not letting Derek get away this time, so with a resolute noise of effort, he crawls into Derek’s lap, taking the wolf’s face in his hands and forcing him to look at him. “It’s important, that word, isn’t it? Means something? Something big?”
The blue bleeds out of Derek’s eyes until all that’s left is glimmering green. “Yes, ” he says softly. “I didn’t want to scare you. You’re a human, I don’t expect you to know what it means. You don’t have to --”
“Can you have more than one? I mean -- “ Stiles starts, hesitates because he’s not asking out of jealousy, just curiosity, because like always, he just wants to understand…"Paige, was she?" It would make sense. Derek told him about her, what happened, what he’d had to do, how it had nearly broken him -- Stiles never wants that to happen to him again. Never, ever wants Derek to have to be that sad, ever. And certainly not because of him.
“I used to think maybe, but I was never sure. There was always something --” Derek murmurs, shutting his eyes. “Then I smelled you that day, saw you, god, touched you. And I knew.”
That familiar fire in Stiles’s belly roars to life. “I, I may not be a wolf,” Stiles murmurs, leaning up to nuzzle into Derek’s cheek, “but when you say it, it sounds right to me.”
Derek sighs, rests his forehead against Stiles’s. “Who even are you? How did I get so lucky?”
“It’s a valid question. I am pretty awesome,” Stiles says, giggling softly against Derek’s chest. “And everything you’re saying, it’s not exactly dissuading me from begging you to fuck me.”
There’s that rumbling growl again that makes Stiles’s heart leap in his chest. “I don’t think I can be -- I don’t know if I can be --”
“Gentle?” Stiles asks. Derek nods, and Stiles just lets his teeth scrape pointedly across Derek’s mouth. “I don’t remember asking you to.”
The way Derek kisses him, it’s all teeth and tongue, like he’s trying to swallow Stiles whole. He hardly pulls away to breathe, not until Stiles is gasping against his lips and digging his fingers into the wolf’s scalp. That hungry mouth, he drags it all over Stiles’s body, sucking and licking every bit of skin he can reach. All Stiles feels like he can do is hold on, dragging his hands desperately down Derek’s back.
Every inch of Stiles’s skin burns under Derek’s touch, and it has nothing, absolutely nothing to do with the sweltering heat outside. “I need,” Stiles whines, when all Derek seems to be doing, for what feels like an eternity, is grinding against him. “Please?”
When Derek pulls back this time, his eyes are cerulean again, glowing lamps in the dark, and he looks as desperate as Stiles feels. “I can’t -- you’re going to have to stretch yourself, I can’t --" and Stiles doesn’t quite understand what he means or why he’s saying it until Derek finds his hand on the mattress, entwines their fingers, and Stiles feels the sharp points of the wolf’s claws digging into his palm. “I can’t get them to go away.”
“I can do that, I can,” Stiles says, fervently nodding his head, spreading his legs eagerly. Derek lets out another harsh exhale, and sits back on his heels. Stiles keeps his eyes closed for a long moment until he feels that small bottle being pressed into his hand.
When he opens them again, Derek is looking at him so intently, Stiles can’t stop himself from blushing already. And he hasn’t even done anything yet. It’s a little awkward, but he’s so needy for it that he doesn’t care about embarrassing himself in front of Derek. Not anymore. The lube is shockingly cold on his fingers, and maybe he uses too much, but he guesses he doesn’t actually think that’s really possible for a first time.
He’s just circling his hole, his hand trembling, when he jolts, feeling Derek’s clawed hand curling around his wrist. “Wait,” Derek says hoarsely, “I want to taste you.”
Jesus. And all Stiles can do is nod again, keeping his eyes shut because he’s pretty sure he’ll come right here and now if he watches Derek do that. God, Derek’s tongue, it’s warm and wet, and Stiles doesn’t think it was possible to spread his legs any wider for the wolf than he already has, but apparently, he was wrong. The cries get torn out of his throat, seemingly unbidden, when he feels Derek’s tongue fucking sloppily into him. His dick is throbbing almost to the point of pain by the time Derek pulls away, seemingly satisfied.
“Go ahead,” Derek whispers, his eyes flashing again.
It’s hard to focus for so many reasons. Derek’s watching him like he’s the most captivating thing he’s ever seen, and when Stiles finally breaches himself with one finger, he lets out a sound that Stiles isn’t sure he’s heard the wolf make before. A snarling, gasping moan that sends goosebumps prickling up the back of Stiles’s neck.
Derek has done this to Stiles so many times now, the intrusion isn’t that uncomfortable. But Stiles’s fingers are smaller, thinner, and he just can’t hit that spot that Derek does that always makes stars pop behind his eyes. So he’s whining in frustration and need by the time he’s two fingers deep, scissoring and stretching himself open. “Please, Derek, please?”
He can’t wait anymore, he just can’t.
Derek curses, and Stiles watches, open-mouthed, as the wolf fists at his own cock, slicks it up with what was left of the bottle Stiles had thrown back onto the bed at some point. He didn’t think it was possible either, but Derek might be shaking even harder than he is.
“Are you -- are you okay?” Stiles asks, swiping a thumb over Derek’s cheek when the wolf moves to crawl over him.
“Just want you so much,” Derek murmurs, pressing warm lips to Stiles’s forehead. “I can have you now, can’t I?”
Stiles whimpers. “You already do. I’m already yours. Now I just need you. Inside.”
He’s expecting Derek to want him on his stomach, but when he tries to flip himself over, Derek holds him down by his hips. “No,” he growls against Stiles’s throat, “I want to see you. I need to see you.”
Like Stiles is going to disagree.
When Derek finally starts pressing in, it’s agonizingly slow. He’s muttering such sweet little praises already, hot against Stiles’s ear, and that, coupled with every inch thrust inside of him, somehow it’s already too much. It hurts at first. Because Derek’s big, and Stiles isn’t exactly the most experienced, but by the time Derek’s fully seated inside him, it’s already starting to feel so, so good. So right. Perfect.
“Oh,” Stiles moans, “oh, it’s --” and he can’t even find the words to explain how right it feels to have Derek like this, to be so connected. So fucking full. Complete.
“Fuck, you’re so beautiful,” Derek hisses, “so fucking tight.” He’s trembling above Stiles, his arms anchored on either side, his thrusts so slow, measured and controlled. It’s so good, but it’s not enough.
Stiles isn’t sure he’s even capable of talking anymore, but he hopes the feverish, urgent way he’s trying to rock his hips is telling enough. Because he wants more, needs more, doesn’t want Derek to hold back. Has never, ever wanted him to have to.
Derek is growling again, licking intently at Stiles’s collarbones, rubbing his stubble all over Stiles’s chest, pale but flushed pink from all that blood rushing to the surface. Finally, Stiles manages to buck upward enough to force Derek's cock deeper inside, and they both cry out in shock.
"Yes, yes, yes," Stiles chants, his fingernails hooked into Derek's shoulders like he's worried he might try and pull away. "More, more, more."
The low, constant growling becomes something else. "Should've known you'd be a needy, little brat when I finally fucked you," Derek snarls. This is apparently enough to make the wolf give in, because Derek snaps his hips, throws one of Stiles’s legs over his shoulder, and starts to pound into him.
Everything gets hazy after that.
It’s so good, fast, hard, rough, every stroke of Derek’s cock hitting just right, knocking these broken-sounded moans and shrieks out of his mouth.
“Stiles, you have to -- I can't -- touch yourself, please,” Derek grits, and Stiles’s vision is clear enough to see his face, and the only word that comes to mind is feral , with his blazing eyes, the glint of his fangs peeking out of his mouth. He’s close, and Stiles is too. Everything, it’s exactly what Stiles wants, exactly what he needs. Well, that voice inside Stiles’s head is just coherent enough for him to hear, almost everything .
“I want you to bite me,” Stiles whines, and god, he doesn’t even recognize the sound of his own voice. That’s how gone he is.
“I can’t,” Derek groans.“You don’t know what it means, you can’t --”
This time Stiles is the one growling, because when is Derek going to realize telling him what he can’t do never, ever works. “I know. I want it.” He does, he really does, so he tugs on Derek’s chin until he can catch his mouth in a fierce kiss before falling back against the pillows and baring his throat.
“S’not fair,” Derek slurs, but ducks down to swirl his tongue over Stiles’s shoulder. Stiles knows he’s won because he can feel the needle-like tips grazing his skin. And then, Derek roars, bites down, and the sound Stiles lets out is one he can’t remember ever making.
“Oh god, oh god,” Stiles hisses, and then he thinks there are more words, but everything sounds like nonsense. He could be speaking in tongues for all he knows. He’s only vaguely aware of coming because Derek’s teeth are in his throat. And it hurts, yeah, but it also is somehow the best fucking thing he’s ever felt.
Derek’s hips stutter, and then he’s fucking into Stiles so deep that Stiles is pretty sure he hears the bed creak ominously underneath them. And then he’s coming, too, spilling inside him with another savage growl.
Everything kind of whites out after that.
“Are you dead?”
Derek’s still on top of him, but Stiles is actually disappointed when he realizes his cock’s no longer inside him (and neither, he thinks, are his teeth). He doesn’t open his eyes right away, still relishing the feeling of Derek’s weight, the sting of the bite, the way his body already feels a little bruised, a little sore. In a good way. All of it is good. Still, he laughs.
“You’re laughing?” Derek asks incredulously.
“I’m just experiencing some deja vu,” Stiles says, smirking as he lets his eyelids flutter open to see Derek looking right at him, his brow already adorably furrowed in (entirely unnecessary) concern. “Before you ask,” he murmurs, “I’m fine,” turning his head to let his lips skim over Derek’s arm. Then something falls out of his hair and onto his face. It tickles, and he wrinkles his nose automatically. “Is that -- is that a feather?”
Derek blushes. “I accidentally killed some of your pillows, I think.”
Stiles snorts, huffing the offending thing away. “They died for a good cause.”
Derek’s no longer looking at him, Stiles realizes. Instead, the wolf’s eyes are practically glued to the still-throbbing imprint of his teeth. Stiles finds he’s strangely satisfied by this. “You’re nuts, you know. And I’m pretty sure we have to tell your dad about me because I don’t think you’re going to be able to hide this,” he says, letting his thumb ghost over Stiles’s neck in a way that he can only describe as possessive. “He just stopped cleaning his shotgun in front of me like a month ago.”
Probably not, Stiles thinks, but he finds he isn’t entirely bothered by the thought. He might just be too fucked out right now to care. “He likes you. He’ll get over it.”
“He’s gonna shoot me,” Derek pouts, tugging on Stiles’s earlobe with his teeth.
“No, he won’t. And if he tries,” Stiles says, his breath hitching when he feels Derek’s tongue teasing him again, “I’ll protect you.”
It’s part of his job description now, anyway, right?
Derek laughs, leaning down to lay an almost achingly tender kiss to Stiles’s sternum. It feels exactly like I love you, which makes Stiles’s heart jump into his throat. “Promise?”
“Promise,” Stiles whispers, his fingers buried in Derek’s hair. “Honestly, I don’t know what you’d do without me.”
“Me neither,” Derek hums, busying himself with sucking more hickeys into Stiles’s belly.
And Stiles vows right in that moment that he’ll do everything he can to make sure Derek never has to find out.