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By the time Stiles gets home from what feels like the longest day of school he's had in awhile, all he wants to do is to strip off his sweaty gross clothes and hop into the shower. Harris kept him after school in detention again.
This time it was because he jiggled his leg too hard and made his table shake and the delicate Chemistry experiment that had been almost done had knocked over and burned a hole through the floor. Not all the way to the main floor, and it didn’t even phase Sayid the janitor. Still, Stiles had missed most of lacrosse practice again, and showed up with just enough time left for Coach to make him run suicides.
He's fantasizing about the water pressure of his shower, thinking about his empty bathroom and the fact that his dad's still at work for a few hours. He's tentatively thinking about what fantasy he's going to line up and play while he showers.
Should he think about Lydia kissing him, looking up at him with those lovely green eyes? It's one of his favorite fantasies. Her hair probably smells like strawberries. It's soft, nice to thread his fingers through while he kisses her. She would stand up on her tiptoes a little. Stiles briefly pictures Lydia popping her foot up like the heroine in The Notebook, but then discards that as silly and un-Lydia-like. He's comfortably into the fantasy as he pulls into the driveway, parks the jeep and bounds up the stairs, two at a time. Fantasy Lydia has shed her sweater and the kissing is getting more intense. He has a possessive grip on her butt, scrunching up her skirt in his hands a bit.
He shuffles through his bedroom door, shedding his plaid shirt and thermal as he goes. Fantasy Lydia is down to her lacy black bra and panties.
It's a hell of a shock when he sees Derek sitting at his computer desk. Stiles already has his shirt off and has one leg of his pants off, is in the process of shimmying out of the remaining one. His boner is at half-mast and in that moment, he hopes it’s not obvious.
Stiles squeaks, and crosses his arms over his bare chest. He has enough trouble changing in the locker room at school, for lacrosse practice, let alone being under the predatory gaze of Beacon Hills' sexiest werewolf.
Derek's never looked more wolfish than in this very moment.
"Jesus, Derek," Stiles says, startled. "I didn't see you there."
"Didn't want you to," says Derek, creepily.
By this point, Stiles is blushing all the way down his neck to his chest.
Derek can feel his warmth. Can feel it from across the room.
Why is Stiles so embarrassed, he wonders.
Because, of course getting semi-naked is no big deal for Derek, who has learned a long time ago to take off his clothes first before transforming. He only needed to lose his favorite pair of jeans twice before he just gave up and got naked first.
“Can I use your computer?” Derek asks.
“Didn’t know you knew how to ask politely,” says Stiles.
He cringes a little at the way Derek’s brows scrunch in and his face goes all murderous.
“Ok, yes, here, I’ll log on. There you go,” he says, hastily.
“Thank you,” says Derek, and if Stiles isn’t mistaken, he’s being slightly sarcastic about it.
“Why do you need to use my computer, anyway?” Stiles asks.
He peers over Derek’s shoulder as he types in a search string. Local boy missing. High school student.
“The librarian said I was scaring away children with my face, and suggested I stay away for awhile.” Derek replies.
Stiles momentarily drifts off into a vision of Derek applying for a library card, listing his address on the form. Where would he list, actually, the abandoned train station? His burnt out shell of a family home? Can you even cite a condemned house as your residence?
Wait a minute. Derek just made a joke. This is unprecedented.
“Did you just make a joke?” Stiles asks.
Derek does not dignify this with a proper response, though his lips twitch a little, like he’s trying to bite down a smile.
“Mrs. Perkins is a big fan of those danishes from the La Brea diner,” Stiles says. “You know, the ones with the clotted cream. You should bring her some next time you go there. She might even let you stay, with your super scary face.”
“It’s a fifty-fifty chance.” Derek says, distracted.
“So who’s missing, and what do you suspect did it?” asks Stiles, reading over Derek’s shoulder.
“I don’t know,” says Derek, “that’s the problem.”
“Then how do you know something’s wrong?” Stiles asks.
“I smelled something wrong near the high school last night. Something not human. But I don’t know what.” says Derek.
“Any blood?” says Stiles. It’s times like these he is surprised at himself for how casually he asks these sorts of questions.
“No, it was strange. I smelled clay. And anger.” says Derek.
“You can smell anger?” Stiles asks, honestly surprised.
“When it’s that strong, yes.” Derek answers, closing the tab and moving toward the door.
He closes it on his way out, no more conversation or explanation or anything.
Stiles is left with a lot of questions, gaping open mouthed for a few long seconds before he remembers he was going to shower before he came home to Derek sitting in his bedroom. He really hates running suicides so much.
His shower jerk-off fantasy is focused on Derek instead of Lydia. He’s thinking about stubble and Derek’s corded muscles and hairy forearms instead of strawberry scented hair and freckles in hidden places. He tells himself that it’s due to their recent conversation, but it’s hard to lie to himself. He knows all his tricks.
***
Later, when he’s thinking about it, lying in bed waiting for sleep to claim him, Derek thinks there was something different about Stiles’ scent that he can’t quite figure out. He smelled less like fear than usual, sharp teenage hormones masking something sweeter that Derek can’t quite place. He got a nice long look at Stiles’ chest and stomach and arms, which looked surprisingly developed. More than he would have expected. Stiles manages to look skinnier with his clothes on.
He falls asleep then, trying to think about nice things, and dreams about chasing a rabbit through the forest on his property. He catches it, but it falls apart into smoke in his mouth. In the morning he feels unsettled.
***
Wyoming is wide and open plains, yellow and green fields. Smells of bison and smoke. Derek got to a point where smoke does not bother him as much as it once did. It still does, but now he does some deep breathing exercise he may have read in a Lucky magazine in a hospital years ago until his heart isn’t thumping out of his chest.
Next to Stiles and Scott he feels too old. He’s forgotten how to make friends, and feels too old to be spending this much time with teenagers. They’re so frustrating, and so full of feelings and otherwise unfamiliar things bubbling up out of every pore.
If he were a different sort of man, he would accept Erica’s kisses. She’s a beautiful girl, funny and brave. But he doesn’t, can’t let himself be like that with her.
He shouldn’t sniff at Stiles either, he knows. But he can’t help it when he smells so good.
***
The next morning, Stiles is hitching a ride to school with his dad, one of those rare occasions that they are in the same place in the morning. Stiles is still drowsy and sipping coffee like it’s going out of style. Sheriff Stilinski is drinking decaf, under duress. Normally he has a real coffee, but that’s at work, out of view of his disapproving son.
Stiles is still kind of aching from all the running he had to do in the last fifteen minutes of practice, and hesitant to tell his dad that he got in trouble with Harris again.
He’s pretty sure Harris hates him, irrationally and for no good reason. The concept bears repeating.
Still, with all the secrecy and lying he’s been having to do lately, he doesn’t know if his dad will support him against Harris, if he’ll just say that Stiles should pay more attention. He couldn’t handle yet more disappointment from his dad.
“Did I hear voices in your room last night?” his dad asks.
“What voices? Is our house haunted?” Stiles is not caffeinated enough for this conversation.
“The simplest answer is no, that you had a late night visitor, son.” The Sheriff says, carefully.
Both voices had sounded male. Stiles is an unusual kid in many ways, and the Sheriff is used to taking Stiles’ ideas and moods in stride. He wouldn’t say that he never wished for an easier kid, especially during the early teen years. There had been a lot of door slamming and miscommunication. He wonders if Stiles is ready to have this conversation, if he needs a repeat of the sex talk he had when Stiles was twelve. As he’s thinking of the best way to phrase the question of sexuality, and the fluidity of it, the radio crackles to life.
“Another teenager missing for more than a day, Aiden Fisher is believed to have gone missing late yesterday evening. Please be advised of his appearance and keep an eye out.” The dispatcher rattles off the clothes he was last seen wearing, a red tee and blue jeans. He was last seen leaving school in the late afternoon after track practice.
Stiles and the Sheriff both know that means more overtime, likely a lot more.
“That’s the third one in as many months, Dad.” says Stiles.
He feels a little guilty for the relief he feels at derailing what was gearing up to be an awkward conversation.
The Sheriff seems glad to bypass that conversation too, though.
“It’s official police business, Stiles” he says, back on more familiar ground.
“Yeah, I know Dad.” Stiles says, opening his door and hopping out onto the pavement. He catches sight of Scott and makes a quick right to catch up with him.
“Hey dude” Stiles says. “Something weird happened last night. Something Derek-related.”
No point in beating around the bush.
“He showed up in your room again?” Scott asked.
The fact that it’s a common occurrence is another sign of how weird his life has become.
“Yeah, and that’s not the weirdest part.” says Stiles.
“Did he kiss you?” Scott asks.
“What - he - kissed,” splutters Stiles. “Why would he kiss me? He doesn’t even like me.”
“Yeah he does, dude.” Scott says, like it’s obvious.
“How do you know, did he tell you he likes me?” Stiles asks.
In an odd way he’s curious if it’s true, trying to suss out the qualities that make him attractive instead of just a bother.
“No but he, like, stares at you sometimes.” Scott says, “That means he likes you.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Stiles says. “Have you seen him? He looks like he’s made out of marble. Why would he like me?”
“You’re pretty cute, you know.” Scott says, “Don’t put yourself down.”
“Yeah, ok, let’s pretend that Derek actually likes me likes me, the weird thing I was gonna tell you about is that he apparently knows how to use a computer.” Says Stiles.
“What would Derek need a computer for?” asks Scott “He’s way off the grid.”
“I don’t know, but when I came home he was camped out in my room, and then used my computer to look up recently missing people.” says Stiles.
“Is there a rogue werewolf in the area again?” Says Scott.
“God, I hope not,” Stiles says. “I still haven’t recovered from the last time.”
That time, a lone beta was passing through the woods on her way up to Canada and set off Derek’s territorial instincts. She looked and smelled like a wild creature, hair matted and clothes torn. All Derek said after he chased her off his property and toward Washington state was that she’d spent too much time as a wolf, and her humanity was slowly fading.
Stiles looked her up online later. She traveled from Columbus, an orphan by age 13 who got into a lot of fights with the girls in the youth home. No wonder she’d run away.
“No, there’s a missing guy from school, Aiden Fisher.” Stiles says. “I have History with him, and Pre-Calc.”
“Yeah, I know him, we have the same AP English class. Maybe he ran away?” Scott suggests.
“No, I don’t think so, but we can ask around” Stiles says. “Anything to get Derek off my back about using my computer.”
Scott’s eyes sparkle at him as if he wants to say something dirty then.
“Oh, shut up Scott,” he says. “You know what I meant.”
Scott only laughs, and then catches sight of Allison and jogs a little to give her a hug from behind. Stiles does not picture what Scott was implying. Much.
***
Derek runs and runs, the wide open emptiness of Wyoming’s rolling hills and dipping valleys burning up under his feet. Laura’s right beside him, pacing his stride even though she can run faster.
They find a cabin in the woods that’s half overgrown, the traces of humans are stale. Clearly no one has been here in a long time. There’s still some cans left in the cabinets, the labels old and likely from the seventies. Laura takes the bigger room, and Derek sleeps on the ratty couch in the living room. For the first three months, they take turns swimming in the creek to bathe.
Laura gets a job at the Waffle House down the road. The tips are great, she says. By month four, it’s getting bitterly cold, and it’s all Derek can do some days to stop himself from curling into a ball, tucked in like a real wolf almost, head to tail. Bathing becomes an issue. Laura gets a book from the library on plumbing, and they fix the shower and the toilet. Those months feel like hibernation, and sometimes he still wakes up and thinks for a minute he’s in that small house still. Starts psyching himself up to take a dip into the icy creek before he remembers.
It is unfortunate that Derek doesn’t trust his pack all that much, because if he did he would be having a lot of very similar conversations with different members of his pack about the inappropriate thoughts he’s been having about Stiles. The thing is, Stiles talks a lot, it’s his defense mechanism. There are times when Derek finds it best to just let Stiles talk until he can tune back into the conversation and Stiles is back to something useful about mapping the land around the house, or proper monitoring of the perimeter. It just can take him awhile to get there, verbally.
If Derek were the type to share easily, he would find out, one bright cold day, that Erica also tends to tune out Stiles and focus on his lips when he really gets going on a subject he likes.
Stiles has a very expressive face, and Derek finds it hard to focus on what he’s saying sometimes.
Relationships, as far as they’ve went, have come easy to Derek. He knows what he looks like, can fake charm fairly well. He’s had a string of three to four month relationships with guys, and a few girls. The four month mark is when things start getting too serious for Derek, when he runs out of steam and can’t keep up a conversation and stops talking, and then they generally break up with him. Werewolf reflexes are great for dodging thrown pots and notepads and sharp objects.
***
The second time Stiles comes home to Derek sitting in his computer chair he’s less surprised. He’s also, thank god, not thinking about anything sexy this time.
He makes himself a grilled cheese sandwich because practice ran long again and he needs the protein. He looks at the bag of sliced bread and makes one for Derek too. He doesn’t put the good cheese in it though.
Derek scarfs down his sandwich and drinks his milk slowly, looking wistfully at the crumbs on his empty plate.
Stiles sighs. “Do you want another sandwich?” he asks.
“No thanks,” says Derek, clearly lying.
“‘Cause I thought I could eat two but I can’t,” Stiles says, bringing out the last one from its hiding place, behind a stack of books.
Derek’s eyes brighten for one small moment before he gets a handle on his face and goes back to his usual expression. He eats the second sandwich.
“So why are you here again, man?” Stiles asks. “Not for my sandwiches, I hope.”
Derek’s been living out of a duffel bag and eating terribly since he came back to Beacon Hills, but pride prevents him from admitting this to Stiles. Somehow, he thinks Stiles has already guessed. He presses forward with most of his dignity intact.
“I drove by the art gallery and smelled that smell again, clay and anger.” Derek says.
“You wanna go check it out?” Stiles asks.
“Yeah,” says Derek. “Can you come with me?”
“Why do you need me there?” Stiles asks. Derek can likely flirt his way into the museum and into whatever information he needs.
“Normally I’d ask Erica, but I can’t reach her,” Derek says. In his mind, going into unfamiliar territory alone is a foolish move that he shouldn’t let himself make. Plus, he was thinking about getting Stiles some curly fries afterwards, to thank him.
Why is he Derek’s second choice after Erica Stiles thinks. Does this make the museum reconnaissance a date?
“Are you asking me out on a date?” Stiles asks, slowly, disbelieving. There’s only one possible answer to this, and Stiles is just asking the first thing that floats through his mind when he tries to picture Derek and him at the local museum.
“Do you want this to be a date?” Derek asks.
That is not what Stiles was expecting, at all. He does want this to be a date.
“Um,” Stiles says, eloquently “Yes.”
“Okay then,” Derek says, like it’s easy, like he hasn’t been creeping in Stiles’ room for the past hour, trailing fingers over his piles of clothes, his books, really getting familiar with the scents of Stiles' room.
They drive down to the art gallery but it turns out that the trail has gone cold. Stiles grabs a brochure on their way out and makes a mental note to go to the sculpture exhibit soon. The statues are very lifelike. Kind of creepy, but he likes them.
He assumes Derek will drive him home and drop him off, but instead he turns off at a diner and asks faux-casually if Stiles is hungry.
“I’m always hungry,” Stiles says. “Why, do you have a wolfish appetite?”
Derek grimaces, and says “We should get some fries, you like those right?”
Stiles cannot believe that Derek knows this about him. What else is he keeping safe in that brain vault of his?
“Yeah, they’re my favorite” Stiles says. “But I don’t get to eat them much because of my Dad’s low calorie, low sodium diet.”
“It’s nice how much you care about him,” says Derek “I used to try to get my Dad to eat healthier too.”
“Is coronary heart disease really a concern for you guys?” Stiles asks.
“No, but I didn’t realize that then.” Derek says.
Derek looks so wistful for cardiac issues in that moment that Stiles starts to regret blurting that comment about his dad.
“It’s still possible to get heartburn though,” says Derek. “Rabbits and possums eat the grossest things, sometimes, and then you eat them too.”
Stiles watches him from the side, takes in his twitching lips and thinks ‘this is Derek making a joke. this is the second time Derek’s made a joke in my company.’
“Well hopefully you don’t eat badly anymore,” Stiles says. Does that sound dopey? Ugh, he probably clearly doesn’t flirt that much, definitely not enough to keep up in this conversation.
“Only grilled cheese sandwiches,” Derek says, and then they’re back at Stiles’ and Derek parks the Camaro and turns to Stiles.
“Thanks for coming with me,” he says.
He’s thinking of kissing Stiles then, eyes drawn like a magnet to Stiles' full lips. Then he hears the Sheriff’s cruiser coming up the street, and tears his eyes away from Stiles’ lips and urges him out and home. At Stiles’ slightly hurt look, he says “Your dad’s almost home.”
With that, Stiles scrambles out of the Camaro, and hustles into his house.
His jerk-off fantasies are Derek-related and he falls asleep thinking about the face Derek made when he talked about his dad.
***
In order to gather some intel on the missing student, Aiden, Stiles tracks down his girlfriend at lunch. She seems to know what he’s going to ask before he’s able to get a word out. Stiles gets the feeling that she’s just humoring him by letting him talk to her about their art class.
He doesn’t actually know that much about her, since Lydia is also in their class, and a lot of his attention is tied up in subtly looking at her. Mostly what he knows about Amy is that she makes very life-like sculptures of sad looking people.
“Have you heard anything from Aiden?” Stiles asks, when he’s run out of art-related topics.
“No, I never want to hear from him again!” she says, her dreads seeming to quiver with emotion.
“Ah,” Stiles says, eloquently “He wasn’t a nice guy, huh?”
“You can say that,” she says “Cheated on me four times. Ugh, I was so mad at him.”
“So you have no idea where he went?” Stiles prods.
“I don’t know and I don’t care.” she says. “If I never see him again it’ll be too soon.”
Well. Detectives Stabler and Benson had done more with less, on TV.
***
On Fourth of July, he drives out to Derek’s house. They hike a ways up to a small mountain where they can see three different counties’ fireworks. Stiles brings a blanket. Derek packs sandwiches and iced tea. Stiles tries not to be too shocked, but it shows.
“Hey, can you smell surprise?” he asks.
“No,” Derek says, dryly. “But I can see it on your face.”
In the end, Stiles kisses him first, tentatively asking with his eyes, leaning in slowly, like he’s afraid Derek might spook and run away.
Stiles has been sending signals for a long time, it feels like. So long that he’s put his five-year plan to win Lydia’s heart on the back burner a few months ago and then forgotten all about it completely. Derek is a good kisser.
He pulls away to look in Derek’s eyes and doesn’t quite know how to parse his expression.
Then his eyes go dark with regret.
“I shouldn’t have let you kiss me.” Derek says.
“Oh,” says Stiles, his face rearranging into what he hopes is a blank expression.
“It’s just...I’m too old for you.” Derek says, like it pains him to say it.
“How old are you exactly?” asks Stiles.
“Twenty six.” Derek says.
“Can’t we make out a little anyway?” Stiles says, hopefully.
Derek sways toward him a little like he’s going to let it happen, then pulls back and says, visibly shaken, says “I’ll take you home.”
Stiles jerks off the moment he gets into his room with the door shut.
An hour later, he’s still thinking about it, that he offered himself to Derek and was rebuffed. He half wants to call Scott and talk it out and half wants to keep it to himself and lick his wounds in peace. He’s deep in thought when he hears something scrabbling across the roof, then the window is lifted up and Derek tumbles in.
He looks up to meet Stiles’ eyes and his nostrils flare as he takes in the scent of jizz and lotion. Derek looks a little shaken and it’s gratifying, it really is.
Of all the things Stiles is expecting Derek to say it is not anything about mythical creatures.
“I think I figured out what that weird clay smell was about” Derek says. “Grab your weapon and let’s go.”
“What weapon?” Stiles says.
Derek looks around, says “Bring your crosse, it’ll be good enough.”
“Oh you’re not gonna threaten to rip my throat out?” Stiles snarks.
“Not unless you're really annoying” Derek replies.
***
This time when they get to the art gallery, even Stiles can tell that there’s something wrong. The door is slightly open and there are sounds of heavy furniture being moved coming from inside.
They tiptoe inside, following the sounds to the display of freakily lifelike sculptures. There’s a girl standing there, trying to move one the statues, a boy her age who looks scared, like he's forever set in stone.
She must hear them coming because she turns around and says, “Stiles?”
“Amy?” he says, taking in for the first time her disheveled appearance, her wild hair. Her wild, moving hair. Her hair is moving of its own volition.
Holy crap, her hair is made of snakes, and they are writhing atop her head like some nightmare come to life.
“What are you doing here?” Stiles says.
“I should ask you the same thing,” she sneers. Her hair hisses at him.
“Whoa, calm down” Stiles says, putting his hands up like he’s being detained by some policeman, not an angry girl with snakes for hair.
“You seem to be taking this well,” she says, pointing to her head.
“This town has a lot of beasties,” he says, wryly. It’s all he can do not to look back at Derek as he says this.
In a particularly poetic moment, the soft moonlight falls on the statue and all of a sudden Stiles recognizes him. It’s Aiden. He’s the statue.
“Oh my god” he says. “All the statues are real people.”
“Not all of them,” Amy says.
“But some of them, right?” Stiles asks.
“Just the ones who made me mad,” she says, her voice cold as ice.
“They’re innocent people who don’t deserve this,” Stiles says.
She doesn’t seem to agree, eyes going flinty and dangerous. All her snakes point themselves at him and he can feel his feet growing heavy, hears a growl from behind him as Derek rushes the gorgon girl. She turns from Stiles to him, concentrating on turning him to stone but it doesn’t seem to be working.
At the last possible moment, Derek lunges at her, claws coming out, sideburns sprouting, and the two go down in a scuffle. She somersaults and takes him with her, snakes biting his shoulders and face and neck. One bites his ass, somehow. Derek slashes her throat. There’s a terrible wailing sound and then silence, Derek’s heavy breathing in the quiet room. He is covered in her green slimy blood from neck to knees. Stiles’ ankle can barely support him, he must have twisted it when Derek pushed him back. The statue of AIden looks on with terrified eyes.
“Oh my god,” shouts Stiles. He may be in shock, still.
“Why are we the supernatural locus?” Derek groans, levering himself up off the ground.
They briefly consider leaving the rapidly cooling body there, but Stiles vetoes this. His dad doesn’t need to put in more overtime investigating strange crimes in this town.
In the end, they pile Amy’s body into the jeep and dump her into the old quarry.
***
By the time Stiles gets home from the art gallery, he’s using his crosse as a crutch just to get himself across the threshold. His dad is working nights all week so thankfully, the house is empty when he drags himself in. Derek is following slowly behind. He probably thinks he’s being protective of Stiles by watching his back but the truth is that he’s healing too, albeit faster.
He does not know how he drove home, must have gotten there on autopilot and sheer good luck.
Derek’s shirt is in tatters, ruined beyond repair, and he bats it off, scratches at the drying patches of green slime on his chest and torso. He looks up to see Stiles staring shamelessly at him, gives him a questioning look and then looks down.
“So do you wanna talk about this?” asks Stiles. Smooth, real smooth.
“Not really,” Derek shrugs. “Maybe tomorrow we can figure out if we can reverse the statue back to the way he was.”
"It's not like he's going anywhere soon," Stiles says, smiling. He's feeling a little loopy now that the adrenaline is mostly worn off.
Derek is looking at him, considering.
He stalks over to Stiles, peels his shirt off. He should really put his clothes in the dryer. He can tell Derek is not thinking about washing clothes right now. He meets Derek’s eyes, and they’re still open as Derek leans in slowly to kiss him, palming his hips possessively.
When he came home to find Derek lounging in his room this was not at all where he expected to end up. Scared yet excited about Derek’s half naked lean body. The erection he’s had for the past half hour won’t go away, no matter how much he thinks about his elderly neighbor.
“It’s okay” Stiles says, “Scott’s mom taught our class how to put a condom on a cucumber in sixth grade.”
“Are you trying to kill this moment?” Derek asks, half exasperated, half fond.
“Just kiss me, god.” Stiles says.
“Who says we’re going to need condoms anyway?” Derek says, his eyes twinkling in that way that means he’s joking.
Stiles can’t think of a mature answer to this, so he tweaks Derek’s nipple instead of answering.
Derek moans like he loves it, of course.
Screw being mature.
Derek’s not being super mature about staying away from Stiles anyway, seems to be leaning toward Stiles like a neglected houseplant towards a sunny window.
He leans in and kisses Stiles. It’s chaste and sweet at first, and he’s cataloguing this experience like he’s a National Geographic reporter who might have to talk about this later. He opens his mouth in the instinct to breathe after a few seconds and Derek takes this as a hint to slip his tongue into Stiles’ mouth. Kissing Derek is really amazing. How do people get anything done in life if they could be kissing instead?
He doesn’t know where to put his hands, first placing them on Derek’s solid pecs. Seriously, Stiles has seen him working out on seventeen different occasions and his body is still astounding. Finally he slides his hand up to Derek’s jaw, which he seems to like, judging by the rumble he lets out.
He still has green Medusa blood in his hair and all over his favorite Batman shirt, and he doesn’t care. He’s kissing Derek and he doesn’t care.
Then a thought occurs to him. What if Derek thinks this is a one time thing? What if he’s a kissing slut and thinks Stiles is too? He pulls away from Derek and waits a second for him to open his eyes and focus. Derek has a faraway look in his eye that Stiles cannot begin to interpret.
“Hey man,” Stiles says. “Is this just a one-time thing?”
“Do you want it to be a one time thing?” Derek asks.
“Hell no,” Stiles answers.
“Me neither” Derek says. “I want to kiss you a lot.”
His eyes sparkle then, and Stiles really feels for that poor Sheriff’s deputy. Who could resist Derek when he’s being flirty like this?
Clearly not Stiles as he leans back in and slips in some tongue of his own. Derek seems to like this too, sighing in pleasure and crowding Stiles against his closed bedroom door.
***
(415) 631-5446: scott, guess what?
(415) 631-0941: ??
(415) 631-5446: something else strange happened.
(415) 631-0941: i thogt you killed medusa
(415) 631-5446: nah, we did.
(415) 631-5446: derek kissed me!
(415) 631-0941: oh god
(415) 631-5446: i knowwwww.
(415) 631-5446: he's a really good kisser
(415) 631-0941: arggh. just don’t get werewolf preg
(415) 631-5446: is that even poss?
(415) 631-0941: noo dunt tell derek i said that
(415) 631-5446: but it’s not possible, right?
(415) 631-5446: scott?
(415) 631-5446: ugh you are the worst at phones, seriously.
(415) 631-5446: see u at school tomorrow.
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