Work Text:
Stiles doesn’t see him, standing between two trees across the street. It’d been a close one today, the Pack caught in the crossfire between hunters and that Pack from Arizona. Scott had talked some of the tension down, but it’d still been a bloodbath, with Isaac bleeding on the ground, Allison sporting a few new bruises, and Derek taking two bullets as he pushed Stiles out of the way. The third bullet had grazed Stiles’ arm, leaving a deep gash they’d patched up in the back of the Camaro as they rushed away from the scene. Stiles had been on the phone with the sheriff, explaining what really happened while Allison cleaned his wound and Isaac bled on the upholstery in the front seat.
That’s how close it had been.
Now, Stiles is out on the roof, just outside his room, arms wrapped around his legs. Derek breathes and focuses on the heartbeat, the quick staccato, the melody of Stiles. He’s scared, the effects of the adrenaline leaving him shaking and raw.
Derek makes a move to go to him when Stiles reaches beside him and places something between his lips. Derek stops in his tracks, watches as Stiles flicks the lighter with graceful fingers, the small orange flame casting his face in a momentary soft glow. Derek inhales with him, the tip burning bright against the dark night. Then Stiles exhales and rubs a hand across his forehead. Derek can see the cigarette shaking in his long fingers, doesn’t miss the way his hand obsessively scratches against his neck.
Derek watches for way too long, until way after the cigarette has burned to nothing, the ashes fallen onto the roof beside him. Stiles stays on the roof, and Derek slips into the night.
*
Derek rides silently beside Stiles in the Jeep. He’s not even sure where they’re going, had just showed up at Stiles’ out of habit or boredom or something else he didn’t want to admit, and Stiles suggested a drive.
They go to a lake in the preserve, and Stiles backs up to the edge and parks the Jeep before getting out. He opens the back of the Jeep and sits down, Derek beside him.
Derek doesn’t ask if Stiles is okay, knows that he’s been more anxious lately. The gunshot wound is still healing, and the Pack goes back to college in a few weeks. Derek doesn’t think about that. He doesn’t want to think about another semester away from them, away from Stiles.
Stiles pulls a cigarette from a pack sitting beside him. Derek gives him a look, and Stiles glares.
“Don’t start.”
Derek remains silent as he watches Stiles’ fingers flick the lighter and cup around the tip as he lights it. The filter is stuck between his lips, and Stiles’ mouth makes an obscene circle around the tip. Derek finds his mind drifting to better uses for those perfect lips, better things for them to wrap around.
“It helps, takes a bit of the edge off,” Stiles explains even though Derek doesn’t ask. “I don’t do it much. It’s just been a rough few days, okay?”
Derek just watches him, watches how Stiles pulls his bottom lip between his teeth and worries the flesh until it’s darker, pink verging on red. Stiles’ hands flutter over his hair, the Jeep floor, his shoes; the cigarette dangles between his fingers, almost forgotten as Stiles nervously bounces it and causes ash to fall to his pants leg. Derek reaches forward and brushes the fallen ash from Stiles’ thigh.
“Don’t tell my dad,” Stiles says as he takes another drag. “Or Scott.” Derek just nods, stares out at the water, eventually runs a hand over the back of Stiles’ head when the nervous bouncing gets to be too much.
*
Stiles is outside Jungle, leaning against the wall and chatting up some guy. Derek smells him before he sees him, zeros in on Stiles easily. Stiles’ back is towards him, and he’s wearing snug-fitting maroon jeans that hug his ass perfectly, and a plain white t-shirt that shows off the lean muscles in his back. Derek just stares at the elegant slant of his body, the projected ease that Derek sees through instantly. Stiles is wound just as tight as ever. It’s in the way he holds his hand, the way he tilts his head, the way his foot jiggles erratically as he talks. Stiles is nervous, unsure, anxious as always.
The guy talking to Stiles is even easier to read. He’s watching Stiles like he’s the next notch on his bedpost, like he wants to wear Stiles like a cheap suit, like he wants to devour him.
Derek’s eyes flash red. It’s not like Stiles is a virgin, it’s not like they’re together, but it’s still Stiles and Derek still wants him, and the way this guy is staring at Stiles like he’s prey to be conquered makes Derek’s hackles rise.
“Stiles?” Derek asks, feigning surprise. The guy turns to him first, gives him the once over and determines he’s a threat. Derek knows that look, knows it’s true. He’d made picking up people in bars an art back in New York, knows just how to move and smile and tilt his head. The tight jeans and shirt don’t hurt either.
“What in the hell are you doing here?” Stiles asks, surprised, but not unhappy to see him. Derek’s eyes drift to Stiles’ hand, hidden before, which holds a cigarette.
“I think I should be offended,” Derek replies. But he smirks at Stiles, a small upturn of his lips, and Stiles looks back at him with a grin that shoots directly to his core every time. They guy beside him is immediately forgotten because Stiles is only focused on him now, and Derek turns to sneer at the man. He looks like he wants to say something, but hesitates and then leaves.
“It’s just that Jungle doesn’t seem to be your MO.” Stiles brings the cigarette to his lips, and Derek stares at how the filter rests on the middle of Stiles’ bottom lip, white against dark pink. Stiles presses his lips together as he inhales, the inane action curling down Derek’s spine as seductively as the blue-grey smoke curling over Stiles’ head. Stiles pulls the cigarette from his mouth, his pink tongue darting out between his lips and wetting the spot the filter had rested. It glistens in the overhead light.
Inside, Derek finds Stiles came with Danny, so he speaks briefly before going to the bar and buying a drink. He watches Stiles dance, his body moving with total abandon, and Derek’s still thinking about those lips, about how Stiles’ body would move beneath him. He also thinks about the anxiety emanating from Stiles, less than the last few weeks, but not completely gone. Derek gets approached by five guys, but he ignores them in favor of watching, waiting.
Stiles walks towards the exit, catches Derek’s eyes and motions for him to follow. Derek leaves the guy talking to him mid-sentence and follows Stiles outside. He finds him around the corner of the building, body glowing green from the Jungle sign above his head. A burning orange light glows beside his lifted foot resting against the wall.
“Most people come to places like this to meet people,” Stiles says, and then takes a long drag from the cigarette. Derek stares at the way his lips circle it, wants to see other things between those lips. “You’ve been ignoring people all night.”
“Nothing interesting,” Derek replies, distractedly. Stiles has his thumb nail between his teeth now, chewing absently, lips around his thumb before he takes another puff. Derek imagines Stiles stretched out on his bed as he does everything in his power to relax him, his body trembling from Derek’s mouth instead of anxiety. Derek imagines those lips swollen, from kissing, from biting, from being fucked.
“Really?” Derek tears his eyes from Stiles’ mouth, from the image of Stiles on his knees, Derek’s hands gripping his hair as he fucks his mouth, Stiles taking it all between those perfect lips. Stiles is watching him, smirk curling his mouth now. The lips quirk up on the side, the dip in the middle smoothing out. Derek’s fingers itch to trace it, to trace the curves of his mouth, the feel them beneath his tongue.
Derek raises an eyebrow, and Stiles deliberately raises the cigarette to his lips and molests it with his mouth as he takes a long, measured inhale. His eyes are trained on Derek, never wavering as he exhales, his mouth puckering into a soft “oh” as he blows smoke between his lips. Then, Stiles swipes his tongue along the upper lip, then across the bottom.
Derek swallows.
“Nothing interesting?” Stiles asks, dropping the cigarette to the ground and stomping it out with his foot. “Nothing at all?” Stiles steps forward, closing the gulf between them, and trails fingers lightly across where Derek’s shirt is pulled tightly across his chest. His fingers trace the dip between Derek’s pecs, and then brush lightly over a nipple.
Derek grabs Stiles by the head and crushes their mouths together. Stiles moans into his mouth as Derek’s tongue delves into it, and he tastes of whiskey and ash and Stiles. Derek kisses him hard for awhile, tasting and touching those lips as much as he can before he starts nibbling at the bottom lip, pulling the plump flesh between his teeth. When Derek pulls away, Stiles’ eyes are bright, his cheeks flush, his lips swollen and damp.
Well, Derek thinks, it’s a start.