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Derek gives himself easily. He gives his body to anyone who asks. If they look decent enough, charming enough. Maybe mean enough. He drowns himself into the warmth of the bodies of strangers, the seemingly endless ocean of people wanting him, letting them use him, caress him, bite him, leave him. This works. For him. The pair of hands grabbing his ass while another pair is trailing down his chest, tongue running along his neck while teeth are biting down on his collar bone. He feels the sweat, the heat, the want, the sharp bite and pain that comes with it. His head is blissfully empty, thoughts pushed /hidden/ somewhere between the fingers digging into his hips and the hot body behind him. There is peace in the loud rhythm of the bass, the beat giving pace to his heart, distracting him from the surrounding crowds on the dance floor. He gives but never completely, on the surface full of pure bliss, sweaty skin and feverish eyes but deep down in control - always the one who takes.
This he can do, this is what he needs. This is easy. His looks make him the perfect predator, though he feels like a victim. It's still very easy.
He wants to leave, drag the two men with him, fuck the emptiness away and never come back. He never stays. After. Never calls, never dates. Derek knows his chosen way to unwind is not necessarily wise, but the option - touch-starved and cold - sounds so much worse. He needs the release and the touch, without the risk, without getting emotionally compromised. He’s taken enough, been beaten down enough, fallen for the wrong people. He doesn’t trust himself anymore. But a warm body, disposable, gone with the light of day, Derek thinks it’s something he can live with.
It’s not a secret - how Derek chooses to spend his weekends. It’s just that it’s not talked about. Ever. Cora tried once, so did Erica. It ended on a sour note, endless days of Derek keeping himself away from the pack, harsh words and Derek shutting down completely.
So they let it go. There’s no judgment, never was. Just worry. Because Derek deserves more. Derek deserves love.
Derek is not hiding it. When he gets the urge, he drives to a club two towns over, just wanting to separate this part of his life. He feels the impossible weight of wanting things ebb a little, among strangers. He could be anyone, he’s without expectations and baggage, no history behind him.There is no imaginable way for Derek to explain this to his pack - who all in their own way have found someone to love and survive within their little circle of friends and comfort. This is Derek’s way. Everyone has found someone, and it’s good. Everyone but Derek. Everyone except the boy with the golden eyes.
The pack has seen him date - with teeth grinding results. They don’t even know about Kate, the magnitude of what happened, only vague rumours and closed doors. He’s not going to rip open old wounds, barely scarred, just to explain. He’s too far gone, too damaged, too broken to be loved. To accept love. He gives his body, willingly, his body can heal. He doesn’t trust anyone with his heart anymore. He doesn’t trust himself to choose right.
To be trusted to choose the right person - even if there was one.
/There is./
Derek wouldn’t know anymore, doesn’t want to, narrowing down any contact and closeness to single points of bodies. He has pack for comfort and friendship, for a family - Derek values love of friends above any other. Romantic love is out of his grasp, burned away long ago with time.
This is what he’s forcing himself to believe. If only there wasn’t one certain young man with eyes made of liquid whiskey and fire, words like edges of jagged stones digging deep into his skin while he’s lying on the ground wounded, with hands that take care of him over and over again.
And Stiles is always there. Watching him. Mumbling snarky comments under his breath when he thinks Derek is being a stubborn self-sacrificing martyr, who is going to get himself killed because he thinks everyone else is more worthy of saving. Stiles is there, picking him up, cleaning his wounds, those dark golden eyes seeing him, right through him, tearing at Derek’s hard armour made of fear and self-loathing, pride and a bleeding heart. Stiles, who is the most fragile of them all, and stronger than anyone, using baseball bats and sarcasm to attack and distract. Stiles at the centre of it all, in a pack full of dangerous creatures.
Stiles is human, but Derek can feel the power underneath, the kind of power with sharp teeth and ability to destroy anyone, most of all Derek.
Stiles smells of home and pack and safety. They all do. Derek leans on him for things that matter the most. The other thing, outside of late night puppy piles and lying side by side on the couch, arms barely touching, endless hours of films on TV, that thing he leaves for strangers. Because Derek is scared to death of Stiles the moment he lets his mind wonder, senses slip, air vibrating and reaching for the forbidden kind of closeness. Those are the moments Derek suddenly jerks away, shies away from the comforting touches, withdraws with tight shoulders and a blank look.
/Stiles knows that look./
Derek shies away from the pull that crackles with energy, like fire, because Stiles is fire - the worst kind. And Derek knows fire.
Stiles smells of want and desire, intrigue and wishes.
/Derek knows that feeling./
Stiles looks at him with fondness, with desire pooling deep in those eyes and it doesn’t leave Derek any breathing room. Stiles wants him.
And it would be so easy. To give in. To give himself like he gives himself to all the others. Give himself and be rid of Stiles, rid of the constant tugging want that surrounds them every time they are alone. Because Stiles can lie, Stiles can control himself better than anyone Derek knows. There’s only companionable touches, careful, caring glances, humour, snark and pure love when it’s about them, all of them. It’s dangerous how good Stiles is at deceiving.
The want, the desire, comes later. It comes late at night when everyone is sleeping, Derek pulling blankets over the tangled limbs on his couch, Stiles always the last one up, tidying up with Derek. Maybe it’s because Stiles rarely sleeps well, maybe it’s because he wants these silent moments with Derek. He doesn’t know, he never dares to ask. Sometimes they share a beer, sitting on the balcony, watching the moon, sometimes they talk in silent hushes, smirking along late night talks shows. That’s when Stiles lets his guard down, lets the tiredness, the more serious version of him slip out. With that comes the desire. Because late at night it’s pure Stiles, unfiltered and honest. It surrounds Derek, seeps through his skin, threatening to drown him. It feels so familiar, he can recognise it in himself, letting it just stay there. He never says anything, letting Stiles relax, watch him, talk to him. It’s there and it would be so easy to give himself. He wants to.
There are more important things, more precious things to Derek than sex and heated touches, sweaty skin warming him and hands that push him and keep him close. This is why Derek never gives in, smiling to Stiles, wanting to say /it’s okay, you can touch,/ to Stiles.
He smiles, with friendly touches and careful warmth, so Stiles will not run away, not be ashamed of his want, to stay with Derek. Even if only as friends. As pack. As family. And Stiles stays. Stiles stays so close, always hovering somewhere between too close and just out of reach. It feels like an endless loop of torment and sweetest peace Derek knows. Like standing in the eye of the hurricane, where Stiles keeps him safe, knowing if he takes one step Stiles will rip him apart.
Stiles is more important than what Derek needs, what his wolf wants, what his body desires.
Derek never takes that step.
And Stiles still stays.
Stiles might be good at deceiving, but Derek is the master of lying to himself. Derek hadn’t realised they were already there, on the verge of something /else/. It was there between them those late nights, in the way Stiles looked at him, told him about his troubles sleeping, the way Derek always set his hand on Stiles’ lower back when passing him. And Derek let it slip further, tentatively, soothing him.
He was playing with fire, and Derek didn’t even want to lie to himself that he didn’t like it.
Stiles never asked, merely spoke about random matters, slowly and carefully venturing into more personal areas, tentatively brushing them during their sleepless nights. And Derek opened up. Slowly. Stiles might’ve said at a glacial pace - if this were the sort of thing he would ever joke about.
It’s when the deepest basic needs claw their way to the surface,
/Derek tries so hard to push them down/,
that it sends him spiralling into ‘one of his moods’. And for a reason Derek is afraid to study more carefully, Stiles is always there. But he knows it’s not about just Stiles wanting Derek - there’s so much more lingering between them than controlled desire.
Derek hates the feeling, the wanting of something other than innocent trust and love of the pack. He feels powerless and weak, wanting love, the feel of home and sex from one person. He wants to tear it from his skin and set it on fire - Stiles is fire. After Kate it took him a year to even touch himself, to try to find the pleasure again. The memory of the fumbling, desperate hesitation, the hours it took to actually give himself the permission to enjoy the feeling of what his own hands could give him - the shame of the memory still makes his neck blush, heat blistering like guilt under his skin.
That opened the floodgates, Derek finding the pleasure and release the sweetest way to push the doubt, the memories, away. And it was so good. Derek built himself into something else. Shedding the young naive boy, leaving him on the floor of his burnt down family home, among the ashes, becoming something more durable and harder.
He built himself into something else, again, after leaving New York - running in the woods, howling under the stars and shivering from emptiness in his burnt family home where he had returned, like a tide coming in. After Kate, it was the worst time of his life, and somehow it turned out to be the best thing to happen to him. Surrounding himself with a new pack, making room in the wolf’s heart for others, for a family he thought he’d never have. Finding Cora. He learned to separate love and family from sex,
/when had they ever been the same thing anyway/.
Derek felt he’d built himself over and over, becoming a slightly different variation of himself, again and again. Bending with the times, giving and receiving - until he wasn’t sure who he was anymore. But most importantly, he wasn’t the boy anymore, the one looking for love, easily fooled, easily controlled.
Until Stiles made him want more. Want something other than dispensable partners, the ones you could admire, use, take, enjoy and drop. Stiles made him want something permanent. The late night talks turned to confessions, until one night, after watching the moon climb into the sky while the pack slept downstairs, Stiles simply took his hand and walked them to Derek’s bed.
It became their thing, something they did without even talking about it. Sleeping. Together, without touches other than soothing strokes along the spine, an arm curling around the waist, a slight breath on Derek’s neck.
Derek hadn’t slept well in years, the healing hands of a good night’s sleep evading him, never relaxing, never venturing deep - not until the unfiltered exhaustion pulled him in. The bed with Stiles in it became his sanctuary, something to anticipate. Where bed had once been an endless battleground of sweaty linens and broken memories, it was now the most peaceful place he knew. Because of Stiles.
It was as close to a perfect relationship Derek could dream of. And Stiles never pushed, never asked, never touched the wrong way. The desire was there, but so was the constant that was Stiles’ love and careful warmth that promised never to ask for anything Derek didn’t want to give. It could be labelled as friendship, made more precious by the idea that it didn’t rely on physical pleasure.
It made it worse. The unconditional, selfless way Stiles cared. Derek wanted.
But he knew, without any doubt, he would tear Stiles apart. He would hurt Stiles, rip his heart out, leave him forever changed while Derek once again ran, because of self-hatred and poison that made him /him/ running through his hesitant body, making him leave without looking back. This would happen. It had happened before.
Or worse.
The other thing could happen.The moment he’d give in, there would be something inside Stiles, something opening, monstrous, abusive, manipulative. It had also happened before.
But he wants. He wants to lose himself in Stiles. Hide himself. Bury himself.
He wants to give in.
He’s pulled in by the alluring idea of destruction. Final blow.
Like the fucked up creature that he thinks he is, he wants to burn. To punish himself. Carefully rip apart everything good in his life so he doesn’t have to look at the alternative. That everything would turn out alright. That he could have Stiles. And keep him. Forever.
In the end, after months spending nights with Stiles curled around him, he doesn’t even choose. He gives in, half asleep, turning around in Stiles’ arms and waits for Stiles to wake up. The deep kisses turn into silent moans, gentle bites along Stiles’ neck and heated hands running along flushed bodies. Derek gives in, letting Stiles take control, letting Stiles sink his fingers inside him carefully, teeth biting into his curved back, hands caressing soothingly along Derek’s spine. And it’s so good. It’s perfect heat and fire, the one Derek fears, but it burns in the sweetest way. And there’s nothing to fear, nothing to regret because Derek is finally home. Because it’s Stiles. And Stiles is perfect.