Chapter Text
Stiles didn’t ask for much in his life, he really didn’t. In fact, his list of necessary components in order to live his very Stilesy life went as followed:
- Curly fries must be consumed at least 5 days out of the week. His father was to consume them 0 days of the week, always.
- The Mets had to win at least 5 games in a season. (That one was a little optimistic, but necessary for his soul, and dignity.)
- He and his Jeep, Roscoe, had to have a happily ever after together.
- Coffee was a must have every morning, unless there was an indefinite need for a grump Stiles. Which, turns out, there never was.
- And, finally, when going to retrieve his essential, caffeinated beverage, he had better be allowed at least a full minute to gaze upon the cute new Starbucks barista.
With such a short list, and even shorter standards for his own life, it’s really not hard to sympathize for Stiles when his day does not go as followed.
Today was one of those days.
So, there he was, bright, fresh, and miserably early standing inside the Starbucks a couple blocks from Beacon Hills High, waiting for his turn to order his coffee. The cute new barista was working hard behind the counter, mixing and blending in a miraculous way even Stiles couldn’t explain. It was just hot, the same way it’s hot when you watch an incredibly fit guy work out at the gym while you proceed to eat your fries and drink your soda and admire from afar. It should be disgusting, because in some ways it really was.
There hair is always drenched—and not like the sexy ‘just got out of the shower’ kind of drenched—but, like, drenched in ill smelling sweat kind of drenched. And sticky beads of evaporation are running down their legs, gliding down their neck like a waterfall and presumably collecting at the base of whatever named brand sports apparel they’ve chose for the day. So, admittedly, maybe it was kind of weird that Stiles thought that watching the barista shove fruit into a blender was magical, but Stiles had also thought the same thing that time that Scott had accidentally clogged Derek’s toilet and Derek had to take a plunger to the thing for 30 minutes.
Speaking of Derek, Stiles was edging closer and closer to the front of the line, literally minutes away at having a chance to speak to the barista who he’s been making heart eyes at for the last week, when suddenly a strong hand is gripping his arm rather ferociously. At first, Stiles was taken aback; wondering apprehensively if one of the guys from his work-out anecdote had become real and come to take him away.
But then he turned around, all he saw was Derek.
He exhaled sharply, eliminating the jitters he’d just felt.
While he and Derek weren’t inseparable BFFs, or anything remotely close that could insinuate such a thing, they were on speaking terms. Their relationship had went through leaps and bounds since last year, and now they could at least sustain being in the same room as one another for at least five minutes without bickering about lycanthropy.
Unfortunately, Stiles wasn’t given much time to ponder on the evolution of the Stiles and Derek friendship, seeing as Derek began to literally drag Stiles away from the line.
It was all so mortifying that Stiles couldn’t even squawk out a protest, just stare at Derek with curious eyes as he tugged now on the hem of Stiles jacket and pulled him further into the back of the Starbucks. It was a wonder no one had called the police for kidnapping, possibly even rape. Then again, Stiles wasn’t saying anything, his emotions at bay inside.
As Derek jerked upon the door to the mens room, pulling Stile in a bit too aggressively, he winced as the door shut. No coffee, no cute barista, and two things removed from his list of primary needs, all before 8 a.m. It was preposterous.
But it didn’t stop there, Derek now had both of his firm hands clutching at the fabric of Stiles jacket right where they parted below his neck. Derek’s eyes caught Stiles and they were so intensely glowing, though not in the werewolf sense, that Stiles had to look away as he was shoved into the bigger of the three bathroom stalls where Derek proceeded to let go of Stiles for merely a moment to lock the doors.
“I’ve got school in 30 minutes, Derek. So whatever kind of pack shit is going on can be discussed—”
“Shut up.” Derek tells him softly, his face now unbelievably close to Stiles’. When Derek exhaled shakily, Stiles could nearly taste his minty breath, feel the warmth of the moisture leaving his mouth. Even though Stiles was 100% pissed, he had the good kind of goosebumps. After all, Derek was a primary suspect of his work out fantasy, and also the actual character with whom he’d watched belligerently unclog the toilet.
“This is important.” He assures Stiles, his voice smoldering with appeal Stiles felt all the way down in his boxers, which said, hello.
And then Derek’s face is teetering away from Stiles’ face but not away from his body as he sinks closer and closer to the hollow outline of bones at the center of Stiles’ neck.
It’s all down hill from that point.
Derek’s lips are surprisingly soft as they delicately glide across Stiles’ neck, causing him to suck in a deep breath; out of shock or pleasure he’s not to sure of. He thought maybe if he stayed stilled for a few seconds that Derek would come to terms with what he was doing, unhinge himself from the center of Stiles’ neck, and proceed to flee elsewhere. This was not the case.
Instead, he continued to lap at Stiles’ neck, at first carefully in a way that Stiles felt was too romantic given the occasion, and then more rough which felt more like a Derek kind of thing to do, except that of course none of what was happening made a bit of sense.
He was just starting to feel two separate burns beginning to settle in, one being the area Derek had been taunting for a good minute now with a collection of antics from his tongue, lips, and even his teeth. The latter came from Derek’s stubble that relentlessly scratched the hell out of Stiles’ lower neck. He thinks his neck has seen enough action to last him a year in this last minute and a half.
And while to the twitching of his lower area everything seemed fine and dandy, curiosity had its way with Stiles, forcing him to grip Derek’s shoulders firmly and pull Derek away.
His eyes must’ve looked half bizarre he decides after acknowledging that they were glassy with bliss but filled with confusion muddled with a now stirring anger. His eyes do not change when he demands, “What the fuck was that?”
Hurt, among many other things, crosses over Derek’s features for a moment, but then he’s cooly releasing his fingers from clenched fist and munching on his bottom lip as though he were nervous. Stiles had never seen Derek nervous, unless there was an impending death on its way.
“I’m trying to protect you.” He finally settles for, the words come out slow. For a moment, Derek looks just as frazzled as Stiles feels. But that doesn’t make any sense, Derek had just been the one who sucked the life out of Stiles through his neck. Stiles thinks Derek should recognize that.
“By sucking the life out of me through my neck?” Stiles seethes through gritted teeth, his hand now coming to scratch at the place where Derek’s lips had just been. It was still wet from Derek’s saliva, Stiles couldn’t decide if that was gross or just something he could live with. It also burned. He looked down, and sure enough the skin was marked solid red now, soon to be a stark, completely noticeable purple against his pale skin later.
“You don’t understand.” Derek says accusingly, his eyebrows hauling themselves toward the creases in his forehead.
“Clearly.” Stiles scoffs, motioning toward his neck, waiting for an explanation.
“Look, Stiles,” Derek sighs, running a hand through his nearly perfect hair. “Things are going to continually be drawn here because of the sacrifices you, Scott, and Allison made at the nematon, and I just—”
He sniffles a bit, his eyes tightening to fight back what is already emerging through the corners of his clenched eyes, tears.
“I just can’t have anything happen to you again, I can’t have another nogitsune threatening to kill you, Stiles.”
“Or the rest of the pack.” He later adds.
“Okaaaay, while I admire your thoughtfulness to my well being,” Derek swiftly wipes away a trace of a tear. ‘What does that have to do with you murdering my neck?"
That gets a laugh out of Derek, who shakes his head in amusement, “I wasn’t murdering your neck.” He clarifies first, “And it’s something my mother used to practice with her pack. Not her kids, Stiles—don’t give me that look—but it marks the pack to their alpha. I have to do it to everyone.”
Stiles nearly snickers to himself at the thought of Derek pulling the same deed on Scott, but then Derek is looking like a kicked puppy again and his eyes are swelling with red.
“I just don’t want you hurt again.” He reiterates, now gazing at Stiles with all the sympathy in the world.
Stiles returns it, “Hey, buddy. I’m okay now, alright?” This doesn’t seem to help as tears literally accumulate in Derek’s eyes, yet he still manages to keep them tucked in.
“A hug?” Stiles offers, and without a word, Derek complies.
His arms are draped around Stiles skinny torso in a matter of seconds, his face buried into Stiles shoulders. Stiles sighs in a breath of Derek’s scent, musty yet clean, a very manly odor that Stiles decides he likes. He also decides he and Derek are friends now. He’s not just bro hugging it out with Derek, Derek was bear hugging him tightly for all he was worth, as though he were never going to see Stiles again. At that thought, Stiles realizes Derek may have felt this way previously, while Stiles was induced under the wraths of an evil spirit, that he was never going to see Stiles again, and apparently it made him inconsolable.
When Derek finally releases Stiles, his eyes now tear free, Stiles checks the time with his phone, He has ten minutes to get to school with a ten minute ride to get there.
“Shit, now I have no time for coffee.” He grumbles to himself, kind of hoping Derek catches it and feels bad for causing Stiles to not be able to indulge himself in his favorite pleasure of life.
“Oh.” Derek says in response before he pulls a small coffee out of the inside of his coat and hands it off to Stiles.
Stiles stares at it for a moment before taking it, examining, and then smiling in utter shock that it’s exactly what he would have ordered if he had bought it himself.
“Um, thanks. I’ve gotta go to, you know, that place where they shove education down our throats. Ha ha, kind of like you, yeah, never mind. See ya, Derek.”
And then Stiles is unlocking the stall door and swallowing down a lump in his throat and proceeding to navigate through Starbucks with a blindingly new hickey visible on skin not hidden by his jacket.
He’s just about made it out of there unscathed when he spots a familiar face, Greenberg.
He’s got a coffee in hand, ready to retreat to the same place Stiles is headed, when he squints at Stiles, “Nice love bite, Stiles.” He probs.
“Shut it, asshat. You’re just jealous cause you’ll never know the pleasures of being marked.”
When he settles in his Jeep, Stiles zips his jacket all the way up to his neck. A touch of red still glaringly makes its appearance known.
__________
“Okay,” Scott says as he continues pacing the length of Derek’s living room. Derek’s sitting on the edge of a leather recliner, his hands running through his hair in distress. A pouting Isaac sits in the floor, he complains periodically about loosing feeling in his ‘buttocks’, and Erica and Boyd are cuddled together on the couch.
“Tell me everything once more... with feeling.”
Derek scowls at Scott.
“Just kidding! I’d rather not hear the details of, you know.” Scott shrugs, but smiles sheepishly like he always does when he’s on the verge of inevitable embarrassment.
“I’ve already told you everything that happened, twice. Now, I’m waiting for feedback from my pack.” Derek snickers, his eyes making a point to not look at Erica and Boyd, who look so fond of another that Derek could throw up.
“Right. So,” A pause, “You said he hugged you?”
“Yes.” Derek says insistently, with the kind of tone that suggests he’d rather stop going over the damn details. “Right after I told him I didn’t want to see him get hurt anymore.”
Scott nods, his index finger taping at the base of his chin as though he’d been induced in deep thought.
From a vantage point a bit lower, Isaac rolls his eyes. “Why can’t you just ask him out like, you know, any sane person would do?”
“I guess for the same reasons you can’t admit that you’re behind that Scott McCall fan group online.”
That shut Isaac up, and then drew back the eyes of Scott, who, for God’s sake had finally stopped pacing.
“Dude,” Scott says pointedly at Isaac, “I thought for weeks that that was my mom.”
Isaac only shrugs, shrinking back into a bashful state nearly behind the couch.
“Anyway,” Scott continues, this time just standing straight legged in the center of the room, “I’m not sure what any of it means, Derek. The last person I knew Stiles had a serious crush on was Lydia. And even then he wasn’t given much opportunities to interact with her.”
Derek sighs and shakes his head, leans back in the recliner. His eyes settle on Boyd and Erica.
“I wish it was as easy for me as it was for you two.” He admits in a dreamlike state.
Boyd and Erica both turn to look at him in unison, as though their bodies were synchronized. A wave of want rushes through Derek’s body, his chest suddenly feeling heavy.
“You think it was easy? I had to nearly die at the hands of an alpha pack in a secluded, run down bank to get Erica to actually date me.”
Beside Boyd, Erica smirks, “And even that isn’t as bad as lying and neck kissing your crush in desolate places for an untrue cause.”
“Scott,” Derek whines, “I’m kicking Boyd and Erica out of the pack.”
Everyone laughs but Derek.
__________
The second time Stiles gets mauled and marked by Derek is a week between the last occurrence.
The first couple of days had been intolerable, with him having to dig through the scariest of crevices in his closet in search of apparel that would cover his bruise.
The one day he decided to not attempt at horrifically hiding his hickey, it just so happened to be the same day his dad was waiting outside of school in his cruiser with a bag of curly fries for Stiles. And while he was happy to get his well deserved curly fries, it wasn’t quite worth the interrogation, followed by humiliation he felt at telling his dad what had happened. He hadn’t even told Scott yet, and his dad was first and for most his dad, and having those kind of conversations with your dad, the sheriff, were at most unbearable. But his dad was also new to the supernatural aspects of Stiles’ life and therefore had trouble understanding why howling for a pack was necessary, much less for marking, that even Stiles himself knew little about.
So, in the end, it turned out to be as expected: another horrific chapter of Stiles’ life.
He’d just practically ran out of his pre-calc class, his brain feeling like mush at the thought of numbers, when a hand reached out of once closed door and dragged him inside.
Like any normal person, Stiles panicked, his heart jarring repeatedly in its nestled place inside his chest. And then a familiar manly smell betook his nostrils and he was squinting in the darkness, searching for a clearer picture.
“It’s me, Stiles.” A seemingly amused voice says. Derek.
Stiles rolls his eyes so far back into his skull he’s sure he can not only see inside his head but maybe even the parts below his brain and so on.
“This again?” He seethes, “Really?”
“Do you want to die, Stiles?” Derek asks, the indication of his now closeness obtainable by the temperate breath that lands on Stiles cheek. He feels hands draw at either side of his waist and he can’t help but laugh at how truly ridiculous it all is.
“I highly doubt this little session were about to have would keep me from dying.” Still Derek presses forward, the darkness swallowing both of them whole. Stiles literally could not see a thing, which meant neither could Derek, and suddenly this became even more evident when Derek’s lips found not a spot on Stiles’ neck, but on Stiles’ lips.
Stiles is too taken aback to enjoy anything, he nearly has a heart attack the moment Derek’s lips touch his ever so gently in the dark. Luckily, Derek pulls back seconds afterward.
“Oops,” He says quietly, “Wrong place.” Stiles thinks he detects a bit of humor in Derek’s tone, but he was in a dark supply closet with Derek at his school—still confused as to how he always seems to be admitted without even a flash of regard.
“No, duh.” Stiles groans. It’s not that he is disdainful toward the acts Derek is forcing upon him, but rather he was annoyed by their cause. More than likely Derek had already went through this whole thing with Scott already today, or he would as soon as he was finished with Stiles. Something about that made Stiles’ stomach churn.
And then Derek is pressing Stiles to the door of the supply closet, his hands digging into Stiles’ hips as he marks Stiles’ neck. This time a place lower, near the end of his throat. For a moment Stiles imagines this isn’t for some stupid pack cause, that it’s all real and meant as a satisfactory gesture, but he dismisses the thought as soon as it comes, trying to hang on to the fleeing seconds of Derek’s lips on his skin.
__________
“Why isn’t there a hickey on your neck?” Stiles asks Scott one evening as they both vigorously maneuver their thumbs over a Playstation controller.
The level of importance of the question is so prominent that Stiles even pauses the game, awaiting Scott’s answer.
At first Scott is a fumbling mess, his fingers dancing on the muted controller and then through his hair which is already tousled messily due to laziness that corresponded with the weekend. Derek had told Scott a lie that would suffice, and while it was on the tip of his tongue he just couldn’t seem to draw it to the conscious of his memory.
Scott considered texting Derek and asking, but that would look too suspicious, as well as the time it took Derek either to reply or not reply would also be counted for as sketchy by a very perceptive Stiles. Scott was all but ready to come clean to Stiles about Derek’s failed attempts to get closer to him, seemingly not caring about the threats Derek had dangled over his head previously, when the alibi drifts back into his eager mind.
“I’m a werewolf, I heal.” He counters quickly, trying to make it sound obvious even though its been at least 2 minutes since Stiles has asked the question.
Stiles narrows his eyes at Scott, setting his controller down on the side of the couch. In other words, not a good sign.
“How does that work then? I thought the whole point was to mark the pack to warn others that there’s more than one of us.”
At this point Scott was with Isaac, why not just come clean and tell Stiles? What was Derek afraid of? After all, it was just skinny, defenseless Stiles.
“Well, yah, but Derek also leaves his scent on us when he does that. His scent doesn’t fade, even if the mark does.” Scott explains, mentally high fiving himself on that one, which he thought of in an acceptable time frame for conversation.
“Well,” Stiles starts accusingly, “Did Derek accidentally kiss you in a dark supply closet at school?”
Scott has to literally bite his tongue until it hurts to stop from laughing. He didn’t know whether Derek was a genius or a fool. He supposes both.
“No.” Scott answers simply, still hiding the chuckle he’ll undoubtably release when he’s out of ear shot from Stiles, and again when he recounts this tale of all tales to Derek.
“Then let me win this damn game.” Stiles insists while unpausing the game.
And thus, another day passes where oblivious Stiles Stilinski believes the hideous lies of Derek Hale and his pack, forged only to allow their alpha one chance at romance.
__________
The final time Stiles encounters Derek’s lips on his neck in some rather odd predicament he’s at Walmart—of all places. Then again, he was a high school student. Walmart was among one of the nicer, and cleaner, places on the list of acceptable scenery for a make out session.
He’s carelessly grazing over an aisle, looking for a new flashlight—his last one had seen its last day in a puddle out in the woods—when he just senses he’s coming.
Stiles turns around and finds Derek marching down the aisle purposefully, just as he’d suspected. Stiles had pretty good intuition on things that occurred more than once in a similar fashion, this was the third time.
“Back so soon?” Stiles calls to him across the way, amusement dancing through his teeth. If this was going to become a long lasting thing he might as well do as he does with all tragic things in his life, compose an entirety of relentless jokes to stiffen the blow.
“Back so soon.” Derek confirms with a nod, already prowling on Stiles’ open neck.
Stiles takes a few steps back, his hands jutting out from his sides to hold Derek back.
“Woah, woah, woah.” Stiles warns, “Out here in the open Derek, really? Show some respect to the good people of Walmart.”
Derek lets out a chortle, “Stiles, you’re in the hunting section, no ones coming down this aisle any time soon.”
Stiles shrugs, “Fair enough."
And then he’s being greeted by Derek’s lips on one of the tenderer parts of Stiles’ neck, just below his jaw. And worst of all, he lets himself enjoy it. Even consents to runnings hands through Derek’s hair, just daring himself to ruin the perfect formation of it even if just for a moment. He’s worried Derek might stop, might scowl at him disapprovingly. Instead, the exact opposite happens.
Derek moans, he moans frustratedly with what Stiles takes to be a form of hunger. And just like that there goes the sensation in his boxers awaking to a heated situation that should not be heated. But Stiles is too tired of trying to push the feeling away so he simply just tilts his head back and enjoys it, until even this becomes a problem.
As soon as Stiles head lands on a object he jerks back ferociously, realizing he’s just poked himself on the end of an arrow.
Derek laughs and smiles at him crookedly while Stiles rubs the dull ache in the back of his head from the arrow.
The arrow. The arrow. The arrow?
Allison.
Scott used to have hickeys for days from Allison, which in turn means that Scott was lying, which as a result of the domino effect also meant that Derek was lying.
“Scott lied to me.” Stiles says as he stands a few inches away from Derek, again as a reminder, in an aisle at Walmart.
Derek’s eyes fill with horror.
“So did you.”
Stiles looks at Derek pointedly for a while, Derek of course does not look back.
Stiles takes a step closer to Derek, “Why’d you do this, Derek?” And while Stiles firmly stands on the grounds of wanting to know the truth, he can’t help the hint of a tease that laces within his tone of voice.
“When you weren’t yourself,” Derek nearly chokes out with a level of difficulty so profound that Stiles feels an urge to take Derek’s hand and to sit him down on the floor, so he does. And Stiles sits down on the dirty Walmart floor right beside Derek.
“I realized some things.”
“Like?” Stiles presses, knowing he’d come this far and there was no way he was leaving with questions unanswered.
“That I had these feelings for you, but you weren’t yourself, so of course I couldn’t tell you that. And I spent all this time searching for you when the nogitsune practically hijacked your body, and it just happened, Stiles. I couldn’t stop thinking about you. And then I thought I was too late, that you were already gone and I’d never get to speak to charismatic, intelligent, yet annoying as hell Stiles—”
“Hey! I reject that!” Stiles wails, even though his voice is fond and his face is beaming with a wide smile.
“May I continue?”
“You may.”
Derek nods, continuing, “Then Scott saved you, as I knew he would, I just worried myself sick about it anyway, and I wanted to tell you. I did, but everything held me back. You’d just come out of one of the most traumatizing experience of your life, and I hadn’t been sane for weeks, and I had no idea how you felt about me. You realize we hardly even talk, don’t you?”
Stiles nods with agreement, but then smiles again, “We can always change that.” And then Stiles sighs and tries to keep himself composed as he asks, “Is that it?”
“Yeah, that’s it, other than having the pack lie about this whole thing for me. They’re surprisingly good people.”
Stiles snickers, “Yah right, S’ like saying you’re not a creepy stalker, which you totally are.”
Derek winces, “Sorry about that.”
“Don’t be.” Stiles smiles a crooked smile that has Derek already surging for Stiles’ neck, but before his lips can even skim the shape of his neck, Stiles has got his index finger over Derek’s lips.
“My turn.”
__________
“So glad you two are finally together so Derek can stop brooding and listening to Adele on replay.” Erica smirks as she shifts in Boyd’s lap on the sofa, Isaac scooting closer to the edge to distance himself as best he can. Scott’s on the floor this time, and Derek and Stiles are sharing the recliner.
“That was one time, Erica!” Derek interjects, glaring at her across the way, even though he knows it brings her more pleasure than despair.
“It still happened. Now, truth or dare, Stiles?”
Stiles taps his index finger to his chin a few times before leaning his head back to look into Derek’s eyes.
“What do you think?” He asks.
“Either way it’ll be pretty terrifying, I’m sorry you got stuck with Erica picking your truth or dare fate.”
Stiles lets out an exasperated sigh at Derek’s sympathy knowing that possibly the next five minutes of his life could be the worst five minutes of his life.
“Dare.” Stiles settles for, deciding he’d rather eat stale chips or something than recount for the entire pack the story of how he’d lost his virginity. Out of everyone here, Erica would be the one to force Stiles to recall such a thing.
It takes Erica all but a span of a few seconds to decide Stiles’ fate, “Kiss Scott.” She says simply as though it’s not the worst possible idea in the world, as though his boyfriend isn’t sitting right beside him. Like Scott isn’t Stiles’ best friend.
“No way!” Stiles protests, and out of the corner of his eye he watches Scott fake being hurt by clutching at his heart. He rolls his eyes, Derek laughs. Betrayer.
“Scott’s been my best friend since I was four!” Stiles yells out again in another mock protest he hopes pans out to eliminate this mortifying fate that has bestowed itself upon him.
“He’s right, Erica. That’d be like incest or something.” Isaac pipes in and Stiles nods at him gratefully.
“Says the one who has a Scott McCall fan page.” Erica counters.
“How is that even remotely similar to this conversation?” Isaac asks with furrowed eyebrows.
“You didn’t deny it.” Erica accuses, leaning into Boyd and smiling a smile only the most smug, evil kind of people can produce.
“Fuck you all.”
That night, Stiles does not in fact kiss Scott, but he does kiss Derek many times, and many times thereafter that day.