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In the time since Stiles’ best friend became a werewolf, his view of the world has been flipped on its head so often he’s spent most of the past couple years dizzy and reeling from it all. He’d like to think that, by the time senior year rolls around, he’s impervious to basically any major shock the pack can throw at him. Alpha packs, kanima, nogitsune—he’s seen enough that as he inches towards official adulthood he is, at this point, unflappable.
He would, of course, be wrong. Of course he’s wrong. It doesn’t even surprise him, really, that he’s wrong.
What does surprise him is not that his world view has been completely upended (again), but that his world view has been completely upended by a brown paper lunch bag with his name on it.
Not demons, not witches, not faeries. Not even weird werewolf shit. Just—a brown paper sack with ‘STILES’ scrawled across the front. Inside is a sandwich of epic proportions, an apple, a bag of chips, and a can of caffeine-free coke.
Everyone else, he notices, gets a regular coke, and he’d feel offended if he wasn’t so busy being gobsmacked.
He also seems to be the only one at the lunch table whose brain has been tilted on its axis.
“Derek made this.” He really feels he needs to clarify, even though Isaac had said as much when he handed the bag over before tearing into his own.
Isaac nods, mouth full of bread and lunch meat. No one else is paying him any attention, all too consumed by the prospect of food. That part's pretty normal for lunch period, at least, except they all have brown paper bags with their names on them.
It may be the first day of senior year, but summer wasn’t that long. This is very much a New Development, and one Stiles does not trust.
Even Scott doesn’t seem to care, though a large part of that is probably the truce he and Derek formed over the summer. With the whole True Alpha thing Derek had finally given up and given in and shifted responsibility of the pack onto Scott’s shoulders, apparently ready to take a step back.
Or maybe just a step in a different direction.
“OK, so Derek made these. This. The lunch in front of me is from Derek. Derek made all of us, including me, lunch.”
“What happened to all that genius of yours, Stilinski?” Lydia is snuggled up in the curve of Jackson’s arm, apple held daintily in her manicured fingertips. There is nothing dainty about the bite she takes out of it.
If Stiles has learned anything over the past two years, it’s that you should absolutely look a gift horse in the mouth, because the horse probably isn’t a horse at all, or if it is, it’s got fangs or halitosis or secret powers or something else that will fuck up Stiles’ day. He’s also crazy hungry, though, and the sandwich is like…a real sandwich, with two different kinds of meat and cheese and lettuce.
And he should probably be encouraging this, right? Derek…integrating. In his own strange way.
The sandwich is delicious and, even more impressively, not a trap. Stiles texts Derek a thanks and gets no response, which is for the best. Derek making him a sandwich is one thing. Derek responding to Stiles in a timely and appropriate fashion would be grounds for an exorcism.
~
The lunches keep coming and Stiles slowly gets used to trusting the food that is shoved in front of him at noon each weekday. Nobody brings it up at the pack meeting, and Derek is his usual surly self, though he does order pizza for the group. That one’s probably more for his sanity than out of the goodness of his heart—a pack of werewolves and werewolf-adjacent teens tends to devolve into madness and claws when hangry.
Maybe that’s just Derek’s thing now. Feeding people. Stiles can get used to that. Stiles can appreciate that.
Then the notes start popping up.
At first, it’s just Isaac and occasionally Erica and Boyd who get them. They’re all cagey about it, clutching their little pieces of stationery to their chests and refusing to let anyone see what they say. Stiles is curious, but he knows he’ll never be able to brute force anything away from any of them so he doesn’t even bother, just lets it go.
Until the day Stiles gets a note too.
He almost misses it, the little scrap of paper that ended crushed under his pear, which is apparently the fruit of the day. No one pays him any attention when he pulls the note out and smoothes it down.
Good luck on your first physics test
That’s all it says. No signature, no XOXO. Not even a period to end the sentence. Just one little line of good luck.
“What the hell, seriously?! Are these the kinds of notes you guys have been getting?”
Scott, bless him, is the only one who bothers to look up from his lunch. “I got one last week that just said ‘eat more protein’ and he’d swapped my soda for a protein shake. So, I guess, yeah.”
“And you just went with it? Aren’t you the alpha now? You’d think you could eat whatever you wanted.”
Scott shrugs. “I dunno. I mean, he wasn’t wrong, and it’s not like he gave me a ziplock bag full of deer heart or something.”
“Give me a deer heart over a protein shake any day,” Jackson chimes in then after wolfing down his own Derek-made lunch, and then they’re off on a bro-y protein tangent, leaving Stiles alone again with his note and his thoughts.
After reading it twice more, Stiles slips the note in his pocket. It feels wrong to toss it away with the remains of his lunch trash, and a little extra good luck can never go amiss, not with the lives they lead.
~
Stiles knows, logically, that Derek Hale goes to the grocery store. It’s not like the sandwiches Stiles now eats five days a week are filled with foraged leafy forest greens. And he knows snack pack pudding and bags of chips don’t grow on trees anywhere other than his dreams.
But it’s one thing to know it on a sort of fuzzy, inferential level. It’s something else entirely to actually run into Derek in the grocery store.
And Stiles means that very literally, the whole ‘running into’ thing.
It’s a Saturday, so no school for Stiles, but his dad has to work and they were running low on food in the house. In no universe is he going to let that be an excuse for his dad to default to fast food, so he’d snagged his dad’s card (with permission!) and headed out to bring home the not-bacon.
They have a pack meeting at noon, so Stiles had done the responsible thing and woken up early to knock out the shopping. The unfortunate side effect of that is there’s one very groggy Stiles Stilinski pushing a cart around the store. He’s already fumbled half a shelf of rice-a-roni to the ground and knocked a jug of milk out of the hands of one very pissy soccer mom when he rounds the corner of the next aisle and slams his cart into the side of someone else’s.
Someone else’s being, Stiles realizes halfway through his stuttered apology, Derek’s. Stiles’ stuttering stops mid-sentence. They’re in the medicine and first aid aisle, and Derek has two boxes of bandaids in one hand and a bottle of hydrogen peroxide in the other. His cart is about three times fuller than Stiles.
It was also probably at least halfway organized before Stiles plowed into it, but he’d caused a minor avalanche of boxes, some of which have ended up on the floor at their feet.
Derek’s eyebrow twitches, and Stiles is very, very glad they’re in public.
“Derek!” Stiles squeaks, then clears his throat because that sound cannot happen again. “You’re…here.”
Derek’s other eyebrow raises. His face says he is absolutely questioning Stiles’ sanity, though that’s hardly anything new.
“Not that you shouldn’t be here!” Stiles amends quickly, because that had definitely come off rude and while Derek is still an enigma, he’s also an enigma who’s been providing Stiles with lunch for the past month. “I just didn’t know we shopped at the same place. What a small town, huh?”
Derek’s mouth twists a little, and if they were any two other people Stiles would say Derek’s trying not to smile. “I shop wherever has the best coupons for the week.”
And that…that is too much for Stiles’ brain to handle. Derek, with a newspaper and a pair of scissors sitting primly at a table coupon cutting.
Before his mouth can run away on him and get him into real trouble, Stiles drops to one knee and starts gathering up the items he’d accidentally knocked out of Derek’s cart—a bottle of orange hibiscus shampoo, three boxes of scalloped potatoes, and what looks like possibly the store’s entire stock of Annie’s mac and cheese (Isaac’s favorite). He shoves it all back into the cart as neatly as he can manage.
Derek still hasn’t moved anything other than his face, but his eyebrows drop back down and at least he still doesn’t look angry.
“Batman bandaids, huh?” Stiles wedges the last of the macaroni into the overstuffed cart. “Excellent choice. I hear they’re scientifically proven to heal boo-boos faster than other leading superhero brands.”
Derek levels him with an almost weary look. It’s a look Stiles gets from him often these days, but it’s also a look that has mostly muscled out the snarly glare-a-thons, so he’s not exactly complaining.
“Ok, so…great catch-up. I’ll just be, uh, heading that-a-way now. To finish shopping.”
Derek grunts before tossing his handful of medical supplies on top of his precarious pile of groceries before reaching out and snatching some gauze off the shelves, too. “If you’re late for the meeting again, I’m not feeding you.”
Stiles is two aisles over when it finally dawns on his groggy brain. Derek has zero personal need for first aid supplies. He definitely has zero personal need for Batman bandaids.
Derek grocery shopping. Derek not getting mad at Stiles for running into him. Derek buying Isaac mac and cheese. Derek buying (presumably) himself orange hibiscus shampoo.
It’s all just—it’s so domestic. If Derek’s wiggly eyebrow game hadn’t been so on point, Stiles would be worried about a body snatching.
~
Scott may be the alpha now, but he’s still a high school senior with nowhere to house a pack. What had started as weekly meetings at Derek’s loft quickly devolves into Derek’s loft being the official pack flop house.
Predictably, Derek huffs and puffs over the inconvenience of it all. Unlike the Derek of yore, however, who had guarded his space like a dragon guards his gold, now-Derek just sort of moves over to make room for the horde of teenagers that insist on settling in. Isaac is the only one who moves in officially (Stiles has no idea what hoops Derek had to jump through to make that one happen), but all of them start leaving their marks, little things that say ‘this space belongs to us’.
A flat screen TV shows up one day, along with a giant u-shaped sectional couch that takes up a good third of the floor space in the loft. Stiles drags his xbox over not long after that, and Derek starts to acquire a collection of video games and DVDs as everyone’s favorites migrate over from their homes.
It all happens so organically that Stiles hardly notices the changes at all, until the day he realizes he left his lacrosse bag at Derek’s and has to skip lunch to sneak out of school and retrieve it. He unlocks the front door with his shiny new key—Derek had passed them out just a few days ago—and hustles inside.
He’s about to call out and announce his presence (unnecessary, but still polite) when he sees Derek’s head peeking out over the back of the couch. Grey’s Anatomy is playing on the TV and as Stiles gets close enough to see over the edge he spots the laundry basket on the cushion at Derek’s side.
Derek’s head tilts back and to the side so he can properly see Stiles. “You forgot your lacrosse bag.”
Stiles blinks at him, not sure how to handle a Derek who is both glaring and balling up a pair of matched socks. “Yeah. I came to pick it up?”
Bending down, Derek grabs Stiles’ bag and tosses it over his shoulder where it lands with a whump at Stiles’ feet. He’s almost positive that’s not where he left it.
“It smelled rancid. Start leaving it here over the weekends. That’s when I wash Isaac’s shit.” Derek goes back to folding, then, effectively dismissing Stiles without actually saying goodbye.
“You do Isaac’s nasty gym bag laundry?” Stiles asks, but Derek just grunts and Stiles takes the hint, snatching up the bag and heading back out the door.
When he opens his bag later in the locker room, everything in there is clean. Everything. His gear has been wiped down, his shirts and shorts are washed and folded, and neatly on top of the pile sits his jock strap—also clean.
Stiles is mortified.
Next to him, Isaac sniffs at the air. “Got to yours too, huh?”
“I can’t believe Derek does your laundry.”
Isaac wrinkles his nose. “It was my chore at first,” he admits, sheepish. “But I turned three of his henleys and all of his underwear pink.”
Stiles isn’t sure how the old Derek would have handled that, but he doesn’t think taking on laundry duty would have made the list.
“And instead of showing you where you went wrong, he decided it was easier to just do it himself?”
Isaac shrugs. “I think he kind of enjoys it? Like the lunch thing. I think after so long—well. You know.”
Stiles does know, is the thing. Derek had been on the run for so long, living in filthy, ruined hovels. But he didn’t grow up like that. He didn’t choose that life, other than once he was alone it was all he knew anymore.
As subtly as he can, Stiles brings the first t-shirt he grabs up to his nose to give it a sniff. It’s a familiar scent, clean and comforting and homey. It smells like all the shirts Stiles has had to borrow after supernatural (and occasionally just run of the mill normal) mishaps, before Stiles had started stashing an extra set of clothes in the drawer Derek had cleaned out for the puppies.
He’s not as subtle as he thought he’d been. Isaac looks over, amused, and Stiles pulls the shirt over his head before he’s caught blushing, too.
OK, so he might have a teeny tiny (gigantic) crush on Derek, but it’s not like that’s news. He just doesn’t feel like being ribbed for it right now, especially because every time Derek does something like this, the crush gets a little bigger, a little harder to hide.
He can’t believe Derek washed his jock strap.
It wasn’t that nasty, right? Fuck, who is he kidding? The whole bag was due for a scrub down a month ago.
Blessedly for the present, there’s no time to dwell. Scott and Isaac stand on either side of him, sticks in hand and ready to go, and Stiles rises, too. At least with Finstock yelling in his face he’ll have other things to concentrate on.
~
It all comes to a head the week of winter break. Most of the units in the building Derek bought are in need of serious repairs to make them habitable, but one of the smaller, cleaner units has been commandeered as a library and study space. On top of what Derek managed to rescue from the old house, Stiles has been working on his own collection of books—a combination of Deaton and Ebay.
It’s a miniscule one bedroom, one bath with a kitchen that’s missing most of its appliances and all of its cabinets. A gaudy, oversized, fake crystal chandelier hangs from the ceiling of the combined living and dining room, awkward and ugly.
They’ve lined the main living space of the apartment with shelves, though, a cobbled together amalgamation of garage sale finds, side of the road cast-offs, and shoddily hammered construction materials (pack bonding exercise—Stiles’ idea, and not one of his better ones, unfortunately). They aren’t all full, but Stiles likes that there’s room to grow.
They haven’t done anything with the bedroom yet, other than stash extra boxes, so Stiles is a little surprised when he enters The Library the Friday after school lets out for break and sees a very dusty Derek standing in the bedroom doorway. His arms are crossed over his chest and he’s blocking the entrance like he’s embarrassed to show Stiles what’s in the room behind him.
Stiles’ eyes narrow, backpack slipping off his shoulder to the floor as he steps towards Derek. “What are you hiding back there?”
Derek’s eyes narrow, too, at the accusation, but he turns sideways so there’s enough space for Stiles to squeeze by and gestures into the bedroom. Stiles sidles past, suspicious, then stops dead just inside the doorway.
All of the boxes are gone, with the exception of a few stragglers Derek has stashed in the open closet. In their place are a set of new, real shelves that look like they came from a real store.
The really impressive part, though, is the large mahogany desk in the middle of the room.
Stiles is honestly impressed. “You made yourself an office, man. Nice!”
Derek snorts and gives him the ‘you’re an idiot’ face. “I made you an office. Weren’t you complaining about needing a better space to work?”
He had been complaining. To Scott. Several weeks ago.
“Wait, this is—this is for me?”
The embarrassed look is back on Derek’s face. “You do more research than any of us. The door locks, so if the pack gets too rowdy you can lock them out.”
Before he can think too hard on it, Stiles is turning and throwing his arms around Derek. The pack as a whole has gotten pretty touchy-feely over the last few months, something Stiles’ research has taught him is normal for werewolves. Still, Derek tends to keep himself a safe distance from any major cuddle puddle, and he’s stiff in Stiles’ arms.
Stiles steps back before he can give Derek an aneurysm. Derek looks baffled, but he also looks pleased with himself, and Stiles files that look away to analyze later. Part of his ongoing research into the species that is Derek Hale.
There’s a desk chair, too—one of the sleek, professional looking ones, and Stiles drops into it when Derek retreats from the room. He spins in circles a few times until his stomach threatens to revolt and his eyes land on the open closet. Derek had unpacked all the junk in here except for those boxes.
Stiles hops up from his seat and wanders over to the closet, peeking back over his shoulder to make sure Derek hasn’t crept back up on him. He doesn’t know why he’s so paranoid about it. If Derek hadn’t wanted Stiles going through them, he wouldn’t have left them in the office he just finished putting together for Stiles.
The first two boxes are filled with junk that may hold some value to Derek but is mundane enough that Stiles doesn’t bother doing much more than open them and peer inside. The third box, though, is pure treasure.
Photo albums. A little grimy with soot and dirt, a little faded from time, but legitimate Hale family photo albums. Stiles isn’t sure how or why they ended up here instead of the loft, but Derek has to know about them and he knows who he left them with, so Stiles takes that as permission to look his fill.
It’s a lot of pictures of people Stiles doesn’t recognize, and for the most part he can’t even pick little Derek out of the crowd. Then he hits the jackpot. The album is smaller than the rest, and it looks like someone (probably Derek) has taken the time to clean the grime off it. There’s nothing written on the matte blue cover, but the first page inside tells Stiles all he needs to know.
Derek’s First Blue Moon Run
Inside, little Derek appears to be maybe seven or eight. There’s pictures of a big dinner and cupcakes the size of little Derek’s head, and it could easily be mistaken for a child’s birthday party, except for the occasional lens flare eyes when someone’s looking directly at the camera.
It gives Stiles an idea, because if he’s right, the next blue moon is just under a couple weeks away. Their first blue moon as a pack. He packs all the albums back up and makes a mental note to clean the rest of them up for Derek later.
Right now, though, he’s got a party to plan.
~
As far as Stiles’ research skills can tell, there’s nothing overtly special about a blue moon, other than it’s an extra full moon that pops up on the calendar every two years or so. But when you’re a supernatural creature whose mood swings are controlled by said full moon, apparently it’s as good a reason as any to celebrate. A werewolf holiday of sorts, and one Derek has either not noticed coming up on them, or he’s just keeping it close to his chest.
Stiles is pretty sure it’s the second one. He’s also pretty sure Derek is too old and curmudgeonly to be impressed by cupcakes the size of his head anymore, so Stiles is going to have to up the ante.
Operation: Blue Moon Bonfire is a hit with the rest of the pack, especially when he tells them he wants it to be a surprise for Derek. He doesn’t share where the idea came from, mostly because he doesn’t want to be the one who ended up spreading Derek’s baby pictures around, but everyone’s too excited at the prospect of a party to interrogate him.
The day of the blue moon is cold but clear, as perfect a day as they could have hoped for two days before the new year in the Pacific Northwest. Stiles will be freezing his ass off, but the wolfier members of the pack will be in heaven.
Despite it being Stiles’ idea, the girls take over the actual prep duty the day of, and Jackson and Boyd end up on bonfire duty—Jackson because he volunteered, and Boyd because Erica volunteered him to keep an eye on Jackson and the lighter fluid.
Stiles ends up on Derek duty. He tries to pawn it off on Scott, but gets shot down immediately.
“Dude, come on,” Stiles pleads to no avail. “I’ll pick up Allison, you convince Derek. Just use the alpha eyes.”
“Hell no, dude. You know I swore I’d only use the eyes if there was no other choice. I’m pretty sure they only work on Derek like, half the time, anyways.”
“Plus,” Scott adds, a little smug like he’s about to play his trump card. “Derek likes you best.”
Stiles lets out a squawk of protest, because that is so patently not true, but Scott’s attention has already been drawn elsewhere. Jackson and Boyd are arguing about who gets to actually light the fire, and Scott sidesteps his conversation with Stiles to go play mediator, the traitor.
Stiles takes a look around for Derek’s actual favorite, but when he spots Isaac, he’s being commandeered for grocery carrying duty. Stiles sighs, resigned to his fate of Derek wrangling.
He kicks around town for a few hours just killing time, then he heads home and grabs all the blankets he can get away with, because some of them don’t produce werewolf levels of body heat. He’ll have to drop those off at the preserve before he nabs Derek, otherwise there will be questions, and he might also stop at the bakery on his way, having reconsidered the merits of cupcakes the size of Derek’s head.
Finally, after he’s dropped off his supplies and lent his critical eye to the pile of wood Jackson and Boyd have going, the hour to retrieve Derek comes. Stiles pulls up outside Derek’s building and honks his horn. If he can get Derek down here, that’ll be half the battle won.
It doesn’t work. Derek’s window slides open and his head pops out, but when he looks down and sees Stiles’ jeep his head pops right back in and he shuts the window. Stiles’ phone pings with a text twenty seconds later.
Derek: what
So eloquent, even via text.
Stiles: pack emergency. Scott sent me to pick u up
Derek : what kind of emergency
Stiles bangs his head a couple times on the steering wheel. He can’t lie, because the second Derek gets his wolfy ass down here, he’ll know.
Stiles: the immediate kind. Let’s take care of it so you can commence becoming one with the local fauna
He just needs to get Derek in the car. Then he can refuse to answer questions and drive them to the preserve.
“Witches!” Stiles half shouts the second Derek slides into the passenger seat, hair a little mussed like Stiles might have woken him up from a nap.
Derek snorts. “It’s not witches.”
“It could be witches. There might be witches out there,” Stiles mumbles, but it hardly matters what Derek believes because he’s buckling in and Stiles is burning rubber before Derek can reconsider and jump right back out.
Derek doesn’t actually look like he wants to get away. He’s also, worryingly, not pressing Stiles for the real reason.
“Scott says I’m your favorite,” Stiles blurts out when the silence starts to get to him; he gives himself a mental kick in the rear, because they’re almost there, he couldn’t keep his mouth shut for five more minutes?
Derek looks over at him, eyebrows raised, but he neither confirms nor denies. “You’re something, alright.”
Stiles isn’t exactly sure how to take that. Probably not as a compliment, seeing as it came from Derek’s mouth. Speaking of mouths, he manages to keep his own closed for the next five minutes until they make it to the preserve.
It’s another five minutes walk through the woods to get from Stiles’ jeep to the clearing he chose for their shindig, but the second Derek steps out of the vehicle his head perks and he zeroes in on the exact direction they’re about to head in.
“Witches, huh?” Derek snarks, and Stiles shrugs guiltily.
“We’d already established that was a lie.”
It’s clear by the way Derek’s eyes flick around that he’s on at least semi-high alert, but when Stiles starts leading the way down the trail Derek had zeroed in on, Derek follows almost placidly. He stays barely a half step behind Stiles, but he doesn’t push or try and force Stiles to hurry, probably trusting that if something were actually wrong, Stiles’ heartbeat would give him away.
Just before they make it to the clearing, Stiles turns his head to check on Derek. They're within even Stiles’ earshot now and he can hear the pack laughing just over the ridge. He stops short and Derek plows into him. Stiles is pretty sure it was on purpose.
“Ow, asshole!” Stiles rubs at the back of the shoulder Derek banged into. “You already know what you’re walking into, don’t you?”
“Besides you? Yeah. It wasn’t hard to put together the clues.”
Stiles knows his immaturity is showing, but he doesn’t care. His bottom lip pushes out into an epic pout. “It was supposed to be a surprise for you.”
Now Derek does look surprised.
“Seriously,” Stiles pushes. “Why else wouldn’t we tell you?”
“Figured you didn’t want me ruining the fun. I wouldn’t have. My family used to—” It looks like the words get stuck in Derek’s throat.
“I know,” Stiles admits. “I found some of your photo albums in the closet. And I thought—maybe we could do that, too? For you. Since you’re all gung-ho about taking care of us, now.”
“Stiles,” Derek says, then pauses long enough that Stiles thinks that was maybe all he meant to say. “I—”
“Hey!” Scott’s voice echoes over the ridge. “Are you guys just gonna stand there all night, or what?”
Derek, predictably, jumps at the chance to avoid sharing his feelings. “Come on. I’ll act surprised, don’t worry.”
And Derek does act surprised. Just the right amount. Stiles had no idea he could be such a convincing actor, but then again, the bar isn’t set high for who he has to fool.
The party is a huge hit. The whole pack needed an excuse to let loose a little, what with midterms and college applications and the ongoing supernatural insanity that has been Beacon Hills since Derek showed back up. Lydia passes out pizza, drinks, and cupcakes. Boyd and Jackson have a scrap over who gets to play with the matches before Scott steps in and plays the alpha card (not that Stiles thinks Scott is anymore trustworthy around fire). Isaac and Erica roll around tussling on the grass while Allison plays referee.
And Derek—Derek finds a nice patch of grass to sit back and watch it all happen. He doesn’t look mopey or anything, just a bit pensive, and Stiles takes a seat next to him, curling his legs beneath himself.
“You don’t have to just supervise, you know,” Stiles points out. “I’m sure they’d let you in on the wrestling if you promised to take it easy on them.”
Derek leans back on his elbows, head tilting in Stiles’ direction. “Take it easy on them? Never.” He grins, then, directly at Stiles, and it nearly takes his breath away.
It’s loose and happy in a way Stiles doesn’t think he’s ever seen Derek. It’s not the way the Derek Hales of the world look at the Stiles Stilinskis. If Stiles had thought a brown paper bag with his name on it had thrown him off-kilter, it’s got nothing on the smile.
In a companionable silence that Stiles is feeling too chill to break they watch the bonfire burn as the sun sets. They’re just close enough to the fire to keep Stiles’ teeth from chattering, but when he starts to shiver Derek sits up and leans into him, letting Stiles soak up some of his supernatural warmth.
Eventually the moon is high in the sky, and Stiles knows what that means—it’s time for their party to split and the werewolves to get down to their monthly business. Which is why he’s so surprised when Derek comes back over and holds out a hand to help Stiles up.
Stiles takes it and lets Derek haul him to his feet. He almost falls right back down when he realizes his ass and left foot are asleep, but Derek’s grip on his arm is sure and steady and he keeps Stiles standing.
“Let’s go,” Derek says, tugging at Stiles once he’s found his balance.
“Go where?” Stiles asks, even as Derek pulls him towards the tree line.
“To run.”
Stiles almost stops in his tracks, except that’s kind of hard to do when 200 pounds of werewolf has you by the hand. “I’ve never—”
Derek cuts him off. “You should have been, this whole time, if you wanted to. You’re pack.”
“But the fire—” Stiles tries instead; he’s not really sure why he’s arguing.
“Lydia and Allison are watching it. Let’s go.” Derek actually growls there, though Stiles is pretty sure it’s just the moon talking and not a threat.
Stiles peeks back over his shoulder when they reach the tree line. Allison gives him a wave.
“Dude, there’s no way I can keep up with you.”
Derek whines then, and when Stiles looks him in the eyes he can see them tinged with blue. He’s looking a little long in the tooth, too.
With a sigh, Stiles gives in. This is Derek’s party after all, and if he wants to babysit the puny human in the woods, so be it.
Still, Stiles pokes him in the chest with his free hand. Derek still has control over the other. “You better not lose me out there. I don’t want to explain hypothermia to my dad.”
Derek scoffs. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”
“Alright, alright. Let’s run, buddy. How do we start this thing? You go and I follow pathetically after?”
The feral grin is back on Derek’s face, and Stiles is man enough to admit it’s a little terrifying.
“You run,” Derek says. “I chase.”
He finally lets go of Stiles’ hand and Stiles takes a step back. “Woah now, I don’t know about—”
“One,” Derek says, slow and deliberate. “Two.”
Stiles takes another half step back. Derek’s eyes are glowing blue for real now. “Derek. C’mon man, at least tell me what you’re counting to.”
“Three. Four.”
Stiles has not survived this long by standing around and waiting for supernatural baddies to gobble him up. Not that that’s probably Derek’s intent, but he’s looking at Stiles like he’s a juicy steak and those big ol’ fangs are just getting bigger.
“OK!” Stiles edges around Derek so the tree line is at his back. “Point taken. Time to run!”
“Five. Six.”
“Oh, god. Please at least count to twenty.”
Not that he plans on sticking around to find out. He turns towards the trees, hair standing up on the back of his neck as he turns his back on Derek. In the distance, someone howls—Scott, maybe—and Stiles angles his path towards it. Scott will save him, right?
“Seven. You better start running, Stilinski.”
Stiles heeds Derek’s advice. He sprints off and ducks into the forest, and soon he’s far enough in that he can’t tell if Derek is still counting. His heartbeat spikes, eyes darting across the moon dappled forest floor. There’s a layer of frost on the ground and dead leaves crunch under his sneakers.
If he was actually running for his life, he’d be screwed. Then again, if he was running for his life, he’d be running to Derek, not away from him.
A howl sounds behind him, a hell of a lot closer than he’s happy with. This’ll be over before it starts if Derek doesn’t take it easy on him. He picks up his pace, but he doesn’t have wolfy night vision and even with the moon full, he’ll be tripping over a root and eating dirt if he’s not careful.
There’s a rustle in the bushes to his right, and Stiles cuts left. He’s slowing now, breath coming heavy, throat stinging with the cold as he huffs and puffs, but he can’t stop.
When the growl comes, it’s right behind him and he squeaks, loses his footing, the ground coming fast towards his face. Before he hits, he’s grabbed around the middle, tumbling in a strong grip as Derek’s half-tackle takes them both the rest of the way down.
He lands with an oomph on top of Derek, who is only slightly softer than the ground. Then Derek is rolling them and Stiles’ back is pressed to the cold earth, Derek hovering over him, hands pressing down on Stiles’ shoulders, legs bracketing Stiles’ thighs.
It takes a second for Stiles to realize he’d closed his eyes. When he opens them to see Derek looming above him, Derek is beaming.
“Caught you.”
Stiles rolls his eyes. “No shit.”
With a chuckle, Derek rolls off him and springs to his feet. He helps Stiles up then pulls him in close before releasing Stiles’ wrist and leaning in. Stiles’ heartbeat ratchets back up as Derek breathes out right next to his ear. He tries not to shiver and fails miserably.
“One,” Derek whispers, and Stiles groans.
“No.”
“Two.”
“Derek.”
“Three.”
Stiles bolts. It takes Derek even less time to catch him, barely a few minutes of running before the familiar bush rustle, and then he’s being taken down again, again being rolled so it’s Derek who hits the ground first before he flips them over.
This time, Derek is actually laughing, a high, happy sound that’s quickly answered by a series of pleased howls off in the distance. Derek may not be the alpha anymore, but all of them, even Scott, tend to feed off Derek’s moods. Stiles even finds himself mirroring Derek more often than not, and tonight is no exception.
He looks up into Derek’s blue eyes, his big, fuzzy face with its sharp teeth and pleased smile. There’s laugh lines at the corners of his eyes, and Stiles has never noticed those before. Then again, he’s not often this up close and personal with Derek’s face, either.
Stiles laughs with him, blood pounding from the chase, mood high. He shifts between Derek’s thighs and feels—
“Uh, dude. Is this like, foreplay to you?”
He instantly wishes he could take it back, afraid his words are going to wipe the good mood right off Derek’s face. Instead, Derek leans in closer, nosing at the hinge of Stiles’ jaw, using his face to turn Stiles’ head so he can nudge behind his ear.
“What,” Derek stage whispers. “This isn’t doing it for you?”
Stiles thinks it’s probably a joke. The problem is, well, it is doing it for him. He’d just never prepared himself to be in this position with Derek Hale, crush notwithstanding. As if he’d ever imagined something would come of that.
“I think it is.” This time it really is a whisper, like Derek wants to keep it a secret from prying wolfy ears.
Stiles whimpers. Derek growls, a low rumble that migrates from Stiles’ ear down to his neck as Derek moves his face lower.
“Tell me to let you go,” Derek says against Stiles’ skin.
That’s pretty much the opposite of what Stiles wants. He tilts his head to the side, instead, baring his neck, knowing full well what that will mean to Derek.
“Stiles.” Derek’s voice is already wrecked.
“Like you can’t smell it on me,” Stiles jokes, but it comes out nervous and wobbly.
“Always,” Derek admits. “Whenever you’re over I smell it. It lingers for days.”
“So that’s what the office was all about, huh? Didn’t want me stinking up your place with teenage hormones?”
Derek snorts, then pulls back to look Stiles in the eye. He must have taken the time hidden in Stiles’ neck to compose himself, because it’s one hundred percent human-faced Derek staring down at him.
“If teenage hormones bothered me, I’ve made some very poor life choices. The office was a gift.” Derek’s eyes flick away like he doesn’t want to admit what’s coming next. “No one else goes in there.”
Stiles' shoulders are pinned again, but he manages to get a hand up just high enough to pat Derek’s cheek, and Derek actually leans into it, nuzzling into Stiles’ palm. “I know, buddy. You built me a very nice den. I mean, a couch would be nice, but—”
“You want a couch? I can get you a couch.”
He sounds so earnest Stiles has to laugh. “That was a joke. I don’t need a couch.”
“Too bad; now you’re getting one.”
He knows he should stop with the eye rolling—it’s objectively rude. But Derek makes it so hard, sometimes.
“That’s very sweet. I’d prefer to be ravished on the forest floor by light of the full moon though, since you’re taking requests.”
Derek growls again, eyes going dark and half lidded. He leans in and Stiles thinks—this is it; hello first real kiss—but of course Derek can’t just do what Stiles expects, that would be too easy. He bypasses Stiles’ parted lips and detours back to his neck, dragging his lips over the sensitive, chilled skin.
“You really want me to ravish you?” Derek asks before nipping at the spot below his mouth. “Right here? Right where anyone could stumble over us?”
They won’t, Stiles knows. The only ones out here are the pack and they’ll figure out what’s going down long before they stumble onto the actual scene of the crime. They won’t stumble over them, but they’ll know what’s happening.
Stiles likes that, as much as it also embarrasses him. He likes that Derek seems to like it, too, that he’s not worried about keeping this a secret.
“Please,” Stiles whimpers, and then there are lips pressing to his, Derek’s tongue darting out to trace the seam of them, Derek’s hand leaving Stiles’ shoulder to cup his cheek and turn his head.
The ground is cold under his back and there are twigs poking him in the ass, but Derek is hot and solid against his front. Derek cupping his cheek has freed up one of Stiles’ arms, and he pushes his hand under Derek’s jacket, under the fabric of his shirt to get at the smooth, warm skin Derek’s clothes are hiding. Derek’s back flexes under the touch and Stiles can feel the play of thick corded muscle beneath his fingertips.
“When we do this for real,” Derek mutters against Stiles’ lips. “You’ll be in my bed.”
For a brief moment, Stiles thinks that means they won’t be doing anything now, and that sounds so colossally unfair that he wiggles until his legs are free from their Derek trap and wraps them around Derek’s waist. Not that he could actually keep Derek from going anywhere, but he wants it known that the forest floor is just as good as any bed in his book. He just wants, he doesn’t care about the how or the where.
Derek doesn’t push him off. Instead, his hand moves from Stiles’ cheek to his thigh, looping under so he can hitch Stiles up higher. The two pairs of jeans between them do very little to hide Derek’s interest.
“I didn’t say we weren’t doing anything out here,” Derek reassures him when Stiles tightens his legs and offers a growl of his own. “Told you I’d ravish you, didn’t I?”
Stiles doesn’t think he’s ever heard Derek talk this much before. Who knew all it took was a little full moon tag and some adolescent grinding.
Before he can voice any more impatience, Derek is sliding his arms under Stiles’ shoulders and pulling him up onto his lap. Instinctively, Stiles winds his own arms around Derek’s neck and Derek chuckles against his ear.
“You make a cute spider monkey,” Derek admits. “But part of you needs to let go if you want anything to happen.”
Stiles is king of following (most) instructions so long as they’re getting him something he wants. And he really, really wants Derek. He lets his legs drop and they both groan when it grinds them together.
It’s too cold to really take anything off, but Derek shoves Stiles’ hoodie and shirt up as high as they’ll go. He bends down, back bowed, and Stiles loosens his grip just enough for Derek to shove his head between them. His nose traces from just above one nipple to just above the other before he rubs his stubbly face all over Stiles’ sternum. It tickles and itches, but it also lights Stiles’ body up like a firework. Derek is going to leave beard burn all over his sensitive skin, give Stiles something to look at in the mirror later and prove to himself—yes, this really happened.
“Derek,” Stiles whines after the onslaught has gone on for a while; Derek doesn’t seem to want to pull away.
But the later it gets, the colder it gets, and also the more Derek rubs his face into Stiles, the hornier he gets. They can always take their time later, since apparently there will be a later. Stiles is still trying to wrap his mind around there being a now.
“Derek.” When he says it this time, it’s firm enough to actually catch Derek’s attention.
“Hmm.” Derek pulls back with an annoyed sound, but when he glances up he looks out of it, drugged almost—drunk. On Stiles. “Smell good.”
Derek smells good too, though Stiles doesn’t have the kind of nose that would let him get drunk on it. He smells like leather and a hint of hibiscus shampoo; like bonfire; like clean sweat and cold forest and so much like home it almost makes Stiles nostalgic for something he hasn’t even lost.
“You do, too, big guy,” Stiles assures him. He has to unwind his arms from around Derek’s neck and grab him by the face to stop him from diving back in. “But it’s cold, it’s getting late, and my dick is so hard I think it might fall off.”
A sound rumbles out of Derek at the mention of Stiles’ dick, and his hands come up to grab Stiles by the ass cheeks. Stiles manages to get his knees under himself just as Derek starts rocking his hips up, and yeah—oh, yeah .
That’s what he needed, fuck yes.
Well, actually, he was hoping for a little more than this, but Derek had promised a next time, and Stiles is seventeen. Technically, he doesn’t need more than this. He’s already careening towards the edge embarrassingly quickly.
“Derek.”
Derek shushes him. Then, with a voice that tells Stiles Derek isn’t that far off himself, says, “Don’t come yet.”
“Derek,” Stiles whines again, because, again, he’s seventeen. He can’t exactly control when he comes, not when Derek fucking Hale has two handfuls of his ass and is letting Stiles rut against his crotch like a—like a—
Well. Like a teenager.
Apparently, that isn’t a problem though, because Derek doesn’t let him come. He picks Stiles up like he weighs jack shit and lays him back out on the ground, even as Stiles protests and tries to get his legs wrapped back around Derek’s torso, to no avail.
“Weren’t we like, just here?” Stiles complains. “Are we going backwards in time?”
“If you shut up, I’ll put your dick in my mouth.”
“That’s the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
Derek quirks an eyebrow.
“Yeah, that was dumb. Shutting up now!” Stiles even mimes zipping his lips.
He’s ninety percent sure he hears Derek mutter yeah, right, but A) Stiles isn’t an idiot; he’s not going to call him on it, and B) it’s drowned out by the sound of Stiles’ actual zipper on his actual fly. Because Derek Hale is actually going to suck his dick.
“Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod.” Stiles tries to whisper it under his breath, but it’s not like Derek can’t hear it either way.
He probably wasn’t serious about the shutting up thing, right? Because that would just be cruel, to hold a blow job (his first blow job!) over his head with a promise Stiles is incapable of keeping.
“Der—” he starts to say as Derek slides Stiles’ jeans and boxers down to mid-thigh. “I mean. Fuck. Ugh. Nnng.”
Because Derek is a cruel, cruel werewolf, he actually laughs in the face of Stiles’ agony. “You can make noise. I just meant stop talking.”
“OK, OK. I can do that! Just, please, Derek. Please.”
Clearly, Stiles cannot actually comply, but it seems Derek’s threat was empty. In fact, the continuous rumble against Stiles’ skin as Derek trails his lips down Stiles’ still half exposed chest tells him the talking may actually be doing it for Derek, surprise of all surprises.
Derek’s tongue dips into Stiles’ belly button as he travels downwards and it startles a squeaky laugh from Stiles’ throat. It also causes his hips to jump, dick hitting the underside of Derek’s stubble rough jaw. The scrape of Derek’s not quite a beard is the only thing that keeps Stiles from coming on the spot.
“Steady,” Derek murmurs into the soft skin and sparse trail of hair just above Stiles’ groin. He takes Stiles’ dick in hand and squeezes at the base, barely averting Stiles’ ill-timed climax for a second time.
“Derek, Derek, Derek,” Stiles chants, because even though he still can’t shut up, his vocabulary has narrowed itself down to nothing but Derek’s name.
The mouth that descends on Stiles’ dick is warm and wet in a way a fistful of lube could never imitate. If Derek didn’t still have a grip at the base it would be game over immediately, and still nearly is. His mouth sinks down until his lips press against his fist, and he stays there for a moment, still, letting Stiles get a feel for it and try to maintain some modicum of control over his traitorous body.
All Stiles wants is to shove up into that heat, empty his balls straight down Derek’s throat. He shouldn’t do that, he thinks. That would be rude, right? But fuck, it feels so good. He had no idea it could feel this good, and Derek’s barely even doing anything.
“Derek,” he whines again, a broken record.
Derek takes mercy. With his free hand, he holds Stiles’ hips down, which is a relief, because that means Stiles can shove against it as much as he wants without actually going anywhere. The fist around his dick loosens just slightly and Derek bobs his head in earnest a few times, pulling off at the top of a stroke to lap at the precome beading at the slit.
That’s all it takes. Derek doesn’t even get Stiles back in his mouth before he’s coming, shooting all over Derek’s chin and fist and all over his own belly, body shaking with it, hips straining against Derek’s hold as he instinctively tries to rut up, to bury himself back in the hot, wet cavern of Derek’s mouth.
Stiles would be embarrassed if he had any energy left. But after running around like a lunatic (haha, get it?) and his first non-solo orgasm, shame feels like a lot of effort. Plus, if Derek’s dark eyes are anything to go by, he may not even have anything to be embarrassed over in the first place.
Gently, almost reluctantly, Derek releases Stiles’ spent cock. His eyes are trained on the quickly pooling puddle of come in and around Stiles’ belly button, and Derek trails a thumb through the mess. He brings that same thumb up and sucks it into his mouth, and Stiles’ dick valiantly tries to twitch with renewed interest.
“Stay still,” Derek commands, like Stiles had any intention of doing elsewise.
There’s actually a very good chance Stiles’ legs don’t work anymore. Derek is going to have to carry him out of the forest. Maybe Stiles can convince him to carry him straight to Derek’s bed.
Those are thoughts for later, though. Right now, Stiles has a show to watch. Because Derek’s hands are going for his own fly now, unzipping and unbuttoning himself with strong, nimble fingers, shoving his jeans down and fisting his hard, flushed, uncut cock.
The hand not touching himself reaches out and trails again through the pool of come on Stiles’ stomach, tracing patterns, rubbing it in. He fists himself hard and fast, efficient, eyes roaming from Stiles’ face to his chest to his wet, softened dick laying against his bare thigh.
“Fuck, Stiles,” he mutters, voice hoarse and wrecked, hand speeding up.
Stiles can tell by the way his body is tensing that Derek’s close, and he arches his back a little, as if to say, yes yes, come on me. Derek whines, then, a desperate sound as he strips at his cock, finally falling over the edge. He comes with a groan, dick spitting all over Stiles’ stomach, a little hitting his rucked up sweatshirt, some actually making it all the way to his neck.
Mirroring Derek’s earlier actions, Stiles drags a hand through their combined mess and brings it up to his lips for a taste. It’s…well, he’s tasted his own come before, out of curiosity. It’s not like, good. But it’s Derek and it’s him and jesus fuck, that actually just happened.
“Jesus fuck, that actually just happened.”
The look Derek trains on him is not charitable.
“Oops,” Stiles smiles up at him sheepishly. “That was supposed to stay in my head. But I feel like now that we’re done, I’m allowed to talk again.”
“You never actually stopped. I should take that blow job back,” Derek deadpans before he drops the act and his face falls into a content little half smile, one corner of his mouth turning up.
“You should smile more.” In Stiles’ defense, his brain has yet to come back online. “And if all it takes is an orgasm, I see a lot more smiles in your future.”
“You’re an idiot,” Derek says, but the smile doesn’t drop. “We should probably get back. I don’t hear anyone else still running around out here.”
Stiles takes the hand Derek offers once Derek has stood and pulled his pants back up. “Ooh. My first walk of shame.”
Derek just huffs out a laugh. He doesn’t drop Stiles’ hand once they’re both on their feet, even as Stiles struggles to pull his own pants up one handed. Though, that could just be because Stiles has bambi legs and Derek doesn’t want to deal with Stiles’ whining when he falls and breaks his face.
They must have been running in circles earlier, because the walk back is shorter than Stiles expects. This is a boon for his muscles which he’s pretty sure Derek has managed to turn to jelly, but it also means they walk into a host of catcalls. Even Lydia and Allison get in on it, though Stiles doesn’t think they were close enough to the clearing for even them to hear.
Whatever. Stiles isn’t going to be ashamed of finally getting some, and he’s certainly not going to be ashamed of getting some with Derek Hale. He glances up at Derek’s face, a little afraid Derek might not feel the same. He is, by far, the most private member of the pack.
Derek looks back when he feels eyes on him, catching Stiles’ nervous glance. The smile’s been replaced by something more determined, but he doesn’t look embarrassed. He looks…he looks almost proud.
Stiles narrows his eyes when Derek lets go of his hand and slides his arm around Stiles’ shoulder instead, pulling him in closer. “Why do I feel like someone’s territory that just got marked?”
Leaning down, Derek noses the back of Stiles’ ear. His lack of denial is all the confirmation Stiles needs, but it's not like he’s mad about it. Derek could probably sharpie ‘Property of Hale’ all over Stiles’ body and all it would do is get his dick hard.
The bonfire is mostly embers now, but it’s still nice and toasty in the circle of grass around it when Derek leads them over. He pushes and prods at Stiles until he’s got him situated like he wants him, the both of them sitting, facing the fire with Stiles in front of Derek, leaning back against his broad, warm chest. Derek’s arms come up to wrap around Stiles’ middle and pull him in tight.
Who would have guessed—the mighty Derek likes a good cuddle after an orgasm.
“Thank you,” Derek half-whispers against the top of Stiles’ head.
Stiles has to fight back a yawn before he can get a response out. “For which part?”
The arms around Stiles’ waist give an extra tight squeeze. “All of it. The bonfire. The run. The—”
“The other stuff?” Stiles jokes. “The other stuff that is definitely happening again, right?”
Derek ducks his head and nips at Stiles’ earlobe. “Already told you. It’ll be in my bed next time.”
“And the time after that?” Stiles’ voice wobbles a little, afraid of the answer.
“I was thinking your office. Then the kitchen. The couch. We have options.”
“Sounds uh…sounds like you might be keeping me around, then?”
“That was the plan,” Derek admits slowly, but he starts to pull back at the same time. “Unless you don’t—”
Stiles grabs the arms around his middle and squeezes, doing his best to trap Derek. “Dude, of course I do. I just thought, like. I dunno. I’m the annoying human, you know?”
He physically feels Derek relax behind him. “Most packs have human members, Stiles,” Derek points out, which yes, Stiles knew, but it’s still nice to be reassured. “And you are annoying. For some reason, we all like you anyways.”
“Aww,” Stiles coos, confidence returning. “That was even more romantic than the blow job.”
“Ack!” Across the fire, Scott throws his hands over his ears.
Stiles snickers and swears he feels Derek’s smile, too, pressing against the side of his face. Scotty’s just going to have to get used to it. Turnabout is fair play, after all, and Stiles has about two years of Allison-related TMI to pay him back for.
When Derek takes him to bed later, in the wee hours of the morning, they’re too tired to fuck. Instead, they curl up together on the soft sheets and fall asleep to each other’s steady breathing. There’ll be time for that later, here in the home Derek’s been building them.