Chapter Text
The thing is, "just to rest" did have several major flaws to it as a concept.
First, Stiles will always push at the boundaries of rules to see how far he can stretch them, that's just who he is. Second, Stiles doesn't really know how to stay still for any length of time. Third, it's a plan. And there's one thing that everyone knows: Derek Hale is shit when it comes to plans.
Just like every single one of his failed plans, it seems like it's going well at the start. Stiles is pliable in the best sort of way, in the way he gets when he needs to have a nap, and although he's the one to push Derek down onto the bed, he lets Derek pull him down and gently roll him onto his side.
Stiles makes a desperate, sad sound when Derek moves to get up from the bed. "You're supposed to join me," Stiles says and actually pouts because... yeah, he's eighteen. "For kissing. And maybe more."
"I'm not making out with you dressed like Batman," Derek says and pushes up from the bed.
"Ugh, you're the worst," Stiles mutters. "It's been one of my lifelong dreams to make out with a hot guy dressed as Batman."
"I'm sure," Derek says, managing to sound almost demure, even though he's fighting the urge to smile. The wide kind of smile that Laura used to warn him was incredibly scary. "I'm also sure that last week you said one of your lifelong dreams was to beat Scott's record of eating seventeen Peeps in a row. And not a week later, you said you wanted to streak at a Mets game."
"I have a lot of lifelong dreams. I'm an amazing list-maker. Scott says compulsive instead of amazing, but he's good at saying stupid things sometimes."
Derek pulls out some clothes from his drawers quickly, picking the comfortable option. In another life he'd probably be wanting to impress Stiles, find that round-necked baseball shirt that clung to his abs and the pair of pants that hang low on his hips, but he doesn't think he needs to impress Stiles. "Sometimes?" Derek questions and is rewarded by a breathy chuckle from Stiles which ripples down Derek's back and settles low in his body, a curl of heat that without much more help would become full-blown arousal.
Something which isn't helping: reaching for a pair of underpants and realizing the drawer is still the way he left it earlier. Which means Stiles didn't borrow any. Fuck. Fuck. Derek forces himself to swallow and that stops him from blurting something stupid out loud. But only for a second. "Stiles?" Derek's voice sounds quiet to his ears, almost muted. Maybe it's because he can hear his heart pounding above everything, a distracting sonic wall muffling all else.
"Yeah?"
"Did you—" No, it doesn't matter. "Never mind."
"Did I what?" Stiles asks. "C'mon, dude, just ask. There's no such thing as a stupid question, unless you're Isaac Lahey, in which case all questions are stupid."
Derek makes the mistake of turning around. Stiles is in his bed, lying on top of his comforter, propping his head up on one hand and a bent elbow and looking entirely at home. Like he belongs there. The navy blue sheets and black borrowed clothing only serves to make Stiles' skin look paler. Derek wants to touch it all. To peel down that clothing. See if his skin is pale everywhere. See what that pale skin looks like in contrast to Stiles' full erection, flushed with blood and stark color. See if Stiles has moles everywhere. "Uh, it's just—" Oh, he can't even finish one easy sentence. Goddammit. He's not going to let the thought of Stiles naked completely derail his brain. "You could have borrowed my underwear if you needed to."
"Who says I didn't?" Stiles says, blinking up at him, innocently.
Derek frowns, because he's not got a lot of the staples when it comes to clothing and he thinks he'd remember having more. "You didn't," Derek says, wishing he sounded a little more confident.
"Maybe I did," Stiles says, waggling his eyebrows.
"Prove it," Derek says automatically, without thinking, and apparently his subconscious is a bit of a pervert.
Stiles doesn't even hesitate. He pushes down the sweatpants, just far enough to reveal an expanse of pale skin, unmarred by moles, the hint of a dimple, a suggestion of the curve of his currently bare ass.
"Oh," Derek says, "Um." Some of Stiles' eloquence from earlier has rubbed off on him. Rubbed off, Derek's mind teasingly says, and Derek clutches his change of clothes to himself and gestures at the door. "I'm going to go change," Derek says, turns around and walks straight into the door frame.
Stiles dissolves into giggles and Derek scowls and doesn't look back. Mostly because he won't know how to not leap across the room and see how much of Stiles' skin he could cover with his hands, if he looks back and that skin is still on display.
"Make yourself at home," Derek calls back loudly, aiming for courtesy over coherence, and he shuts himself in the bathroom, breathing like he's had to run a half-marathon in under ten minutes. He sinks back against the door and stares down at his crotch, wondering if he could glare his boner down. People say his glare is totally scary. It could work. Derek unbuttons his jeans and the tip of his dick escapes his briefs even before he's put his hands to the elastic waist of them, swollen and already leaking pre-come.
Shit. He can't do this. He can't climb into his bed, with Stiles right there, and let him leave come morning. He needs to get rid of his erection, change his clothes, and go downstairs, make sure that the pack aren't making a third hole in the loft wall to match the other two. (The first one had come with the place, the second one... Well, the pack told him that the witches had done it, but sometimes Malia eyeballs the hole proudly, the way she does when she comes across other property damage across town that Derek knows she's caused. His cousin has lethal fists; Sheriff Stilinski made noises last fall about her registering them as lethal weapons, when he walked in on her successfully punching a cinder block into submission. And many, many parts.)
Thinking of the pack helps kill his boner. Feeling better, Derek takes a perfunctory shower (cold water, even though his arousal is mostly under control), pulls on a clean pair of briefs, follows it up with sweatpants and a threadbare black t-shirt that informs people that he's not cynical, everything sucks. It's probably one of Stiles' shirts; when Derek finishes pulling the shirt over his head, he catches a glimpse of his reflection in the bathroom mirror.
He's smiling. And it's not his cheesy hey there, pretty person, I need something from you smile orhi law enforcement, I'm not breaking the law. It's genuine. It's real. It's a smile he can feel from his face to his toes and it's been so long. He can't remember the last time he smiled like this.
Maybe two years ago, back when Cora came back into his life. He'd been so careful around, so much on egg shells, but that first night, with her pottering around upstairs while he slept in the main room below, he'd listened to her heartbeat and allowed himself to forget, just for a moment, just for a second, all the tragedy, all the pain. Gone was his dead family and his guilt and the weight of Erica's body in his arms, and in its place, just for a second, was a smile of pure joy. This is your baby sister, Derek. Her name's Corazon. It means heart. She'll have the strongest heart of us all. Say hi to Derek, Cora.
Family had been his sole happiness back then and Stiles isn't family. At least, not by blood. But maybe by heart. And that's always the strongest part.
Derek takes a steadying breath and meets his reflection in the mirror. He doesn't often look at himself. Doesn't often like what he sees. But tonight— Tonight he can see his father's eyes. His mother's cheekbones. The tilt of his aunt's chin. The curve of Laura's hairline. And a strength in among all of it which is him.
Stiles loves him. And Derek can do right by him. He's capable of it. He can rise to this challenge. He's a werewolf in body, but in spirit, he's finally a phoenix. Reborn of the ashes of his past. Not quite whole, but not so broken. Not anymore.
Derek nods to himself and turns around, ready to walk out of the bathroom and into the rest of his life. It feels appropriate he'll be moving forwards with Stiles at his side. And he opens the door with brilliant intentions, to lie down next to Stiles, to soothe the man he loves until Stiles falls asleep, and then he'll leave, to avoid all temptation, because Stiles deserves the best, and—
Derek's thoughts of good intentions and his shaky new plans at a better life aren't all gone, per se, but they're definitely, suddenly and defiantly shoved to the back of his mind.
Because Stiles has taken make yourself at home to a— Well—
A very Stiles level.
Derek can't stop staring. He manages to close the bathroom door behind himself. He falteringly tries to remember if the door is locked. Yes. He locked it. Earlier. When Stiles kissed him. Or did he kiss Stiles? He honestly can't remember. His brain, which he'd so diligently tried to repopulate with a functioning amount of blood, is abruptly denied again as Derek goes hard so fast he's almost dizzy with it.
He hadn't even known he could get hard this fast.
Stiles levels a smirk at him and doesn't stop what he's doing. His movements are obscured by the sweatpants he's wearing, loose enough that Stiles has no problem moving his hand, but it's still unmistakable what he's doing, even before Derek takes a lungful of the air's scent.
When he does, his self-resolve is lost. There's a weird sound in the air and Derek realizes from Stiles' widened smirk that it came from Derek's throat.
"You said," Stiles says, his words broken into breathy little chunks, "to make myself at home."
"Not the definition I was aiming for," Derek manages. He's proud of himself for managing a vaguely coherent statement, because his head is pounding in unison with his dick. Stiles' hand continues to move, a slow rhythm, and Derek can picture it in his head, wants to picture it in real life. Wants to go over there and tug Stiles' sweatpants down, so he can see it for himself.
"It's funny how many times people say one thing and my definition is completely off-base," Stiles says, not even stopping as he lock gazes with Derek.
Fuck. Fuck. Derek has intentions of being a better person but how is anyone supposed to survive something like this? Stiles' hand makes a slick sound, flesh against flesh sliding with the aid of something wet, and considering Derek can't see his lube anywhere on the bed or the sidetable, it's probably pre-come. Stiles is sliding pre-come over the length of his erection, slowly teasing himself with his fingers, with those long pale fingers, and Derek can't see.
"Fuck," Derek breathes and resists the urge to facepalm.
Stiles turns his gaze away from Derek and down to his own crotch, to the movement of cloth obscuring his self-pleasuring. "Well, I'd be up for that, but someone said this had to be just resting."
"You're not resting," Derek says. Three words. It feels like Derek's managed to produce a novel. How is he supposed to survive this? Seriously? It's a tsunami of feelings and without a magical cure-all, Derek can only endure it.
"I find it easier to sleep if I masturbate first," Stiles says. His cheeks are stained red, his chest moving with a quicker rhythm than his hand, slowly teasing up and down. "Releases some of the tension. I didn't think you'd mind."
Oh god. Derek opens his mouth to say something. Anything. His brain's probably trying to focus with the bare blood minimum. Probably only a teaspoon worth.
"That looks painful," Stiles comments and the words don't make sense, until Derek realizes Stiles is looking at him again. Specifically at a certain part of him.
"I'm not a good person," Derek blurts.
Stiles looks up at his face again and just looks amused.
"I mean it," Derek says. "A good person would walk out. Would stop staring. Would—"
"Just get your ass over here and give me a hand."
And oh, Derek's strong, but he's not this strong. He can't not go to Stiles. Still, Derek wants to treat him right. And that means some things are off the cards until they can have a full discussion. See what to expect from each other. See how far they're both willing to go, what they want from this relationship, what they need.
Penetrative sex is firmly off the menu, because that's not something he's willing to risk jumping in with both feet with Stiles. They're going to talk, and talk hard, but neither of them are in any condition to talk in that much depth right now.
"Okay," Derek says, the words feeling too big for his mouth, "okay. But rules. There are rules."
Stiles rolls his eyes but doesn't protest. Of all the pack, he's been more keenly aware than most of Derek's issues with consent. Of course, of all the pack, Stiles is the one who's pushed the most. Give him an inch and he'll find a way to convince you to let him have a mile, yeah, but Stiles also knows when to pull back.
"I can do rules," Stiles says, his eyes tracking across Derek's face, going back and forth rapidly until Derek approaches the bed. Derek throws him a sceptical look and leans against the side of the bed. "I can. With the appropriate motivation." With Derek closer, Stiles' hand stops moving.
"Who said you could stop touching yourself?" Derek asks.
"Uh," Stiles says, "I thought—"
"You thought wrong," Derek says and sits on the bed, swinging his legs up so he's sitting against the headboard. "Scooch up so you're sitting between my legs."
Stiles frowns, but does what Derek says, and oh that's something interesting to explore later. Derek mentally adds it to the list of things to discuss with Stiles, along with other important things. Like where does Stiles see himself, position-wise, if they decide anal penetration is in their future? (Hopefully Stiles is versatile, like Derek, but Derek's kind of okay with whatever Stiles says.) Does Stiles want their relationship to be exclusive? (Derek hopes yes, but he's also realizing he's kind of okay if Stiles wants something else, and it's probably something to do with the epic Stiles blinders he seems to have cultivated over the last few years.)
Stiles is nervous now, Derek can feel it in the unbalanced way that Stiles lets his weight fall back down to the mattress, as he shuffles backwards towards Derek. Apparently Stiles used up all his bravery points in masturbating with an audience. Stiles is always ridiculously brave.
He doesn't want Stiles to be nervous. He wraps an arm loosely around Stiles' body, wrapping his fingers around Stiles' left hand. Stiles is right-handed, apparently for all major things.
Derek leans in, noses at Stiles' cheek until Stiles turns his head far enough to kiss. It's never an ideal angle, but there's something exotic about it anyway. Stiles makes a pleased sound in the back of his throat and Derek pulls away from the kiss, leaving Stiles panting. "Touch yourself again," Derek says, softly, right into Stiles' ear. Stiles shivers. "I want to see you do it from this angle."
Stiles freezes for just a moment, but then his right hand moves to his erection again. Even moving across the bed didn't cause it to flag and from this position, resting his head on Stiles' shoulder, Derek has a front row seat to the pretty flush of Stiles' cock, the touch of fluid that leaks from the head, the way Stiles' fingers slick-slide over the veins. He can't see Stiles' balls from this angle, but he can imagine them, dark and flushed, drawing up closer to Stiles' body the closer he gets to the edge.
Stiles' head lolls back on Derek's chest and he pants, his tongue darting out to wet his slack mouth, as he slides his fist up and down his cock in a rhythm that speeds up in painfully small increments. Stiles' thumb catches the head with every up-movement, smoothing over the top before his hand slides back down, and there's enough pre-come to make the air thick with the sound of Stiles' hand rubbing his hard shaft. Derek's nostrils are full of the smell of him and he groans, letting the sound vibrate into Stiles' skin as he presses kisses into the junction of Stiles' neck. He ducks his head, trailing the line of Stiles' collar bone with his tongue.
"Thought I told you to give me a hand," Stiles says, the sound labored, impeded by a soft panting that Derek's already addicted to. He can imagine Stiles on his back, ankles hooked behind Derek's hips, Derek pushing the thick tip of his penis into the sweet pucker of his asshole, pushing through the protesting ring of muscle, sinking into the hot, tight depths of Stiles' ass, and that panting firmly in his ear, and those small addictive moans that Stiles has no idea he's even making.
"So you did," Derek says and reaches down, because he does have a rule and it's one he's not saying out loud, but it's one he's going to stick to. Until they can hash out the full complexities of this relationship, Derek's not going to touch Stiles' dick. At all. Not with his own hands, anyway.
That still leaves a wonderful spectrum of possibilities, and Derek engages with one of them now, by wrapping his hand around Stiles' hand. The one that's currently wrapped around Stiles' dick. Stiles makes a low and desperate moan that he has to know he made, and Derek starts moving Stiles' hand for him, forcing a new rhythm while not allowing Stiles to loosen his grip.
"That's it," Derek says, "settle into it. Settle into me. Just ride it out."
"Oh god," Stiles breathes, turning his head so Derek can feel some of the air from that addictive panting sound on his cheek. "Derek."
"Yeah," Derek says, his voice catching. "Keep your hand loose. Let me move it for you."
"This," Stiles says, his breathing hitching, "should not be as hot as it is."
Derek looks down and has to agree. Having two hands on Stiles' dick is bad in one way, because Derek can hardly see any of it, and he's already getting the feeling that he's going to want to do a lot of looking when they're in bed in the future. Stiles' dick isn't as long as Derek's, but it's maybe a bit thicker, plump at the head in a way that makes Derek's mouth water a little. Today isn't the day for a blowjob, because there isn't time. Derek needs a day for that where he has Stiles in his bed for several uninterrupted hours, because he wants Stiles to come first, so that when he has that pretty dick in his mouth he can feel the weight of it on his tongue as he suckles it back into full hardness.
Stiles is close to exploding now, just the pressure of their two hands, just the tip of his dick peeking out with every joined thrust. Stiles makes a lower noise that sounds almost strangled and his hips jolt; Derek presses his left arm in tighter to their bodies, and scissors his legs to hold Stiles in place between his legs. He mostly just wants to force Stiles to be still when he comes, but it comes with the added benefit of acquainting Derek's erection with the curve of Stiles' ass.
Stiles didn't fully pull the sweatpants down, just far enough to free his erection, but it's enough to reveal the hint of Stiles' ass, the crack that teases more below. Derek hisses as his erection's trapped more closely against it and he focuses on his task. The faster Stiles comes, the faster Derek can move him and get some relief of his own. Even though it feels pretty good like they are.
Stiles can't move much, but he can undulate his hips a little and he does so, pushing back against Derek's erection like if he pushes back far enough, Derek might accidentally slip in. Derek can feel Stiles' ass muscles even through the sweatpants, and his grip on Stiles' hand involuntarily tightens and Stiles hisses.
Derek re-focuses on Stiles' erection, not the pleasant pressure building up between his thighs, and he quickens the rhythm into a punishing up-and-down, applying more pressure on the upstrokes so that Stiles' thumb catches on the sensitive head. The pressure between his legs buzzes with the friction, making Derek dizzy with emotion. He buries his mouth into Stiles' neck again, kissing and kissing while his hand movement becomes jerkier, faster, and then Stiles is moaning Derek's name, quiet with the trained volume level of a teenager living in a home with paper-thin walls, but moaning Derek's name nevertheless, like he can't help it, and he's coming, thick white strands of come streaking out of Stiles' dick, coating both their hands in the warm sticky fluid.
Stiles' breathing is fast and starts to slow down, even as Derek moves his hand on Stiles', once more, twice more, three times more — a last remnant of come spurts out, running down Derek's fingers. Before he can really think about how Stiles might react, Derek lets go of Stiles' hand to lift his come-streaked hand to his own mouth. He tongues at the fluid, tasting it carefully, letting the salty taste coat his tongue. He swallows the small amount, the bitter after-taste hitting the back of his throat. Stiles twists his head and pulls a face, like he can't believe Derek did it, and Derek laughs and kisses Stiles.
Stiles makes a small sound of protest, but relaxes into the kiss, before shaking his head a little bit and twisting in Derek's grip, until Stiles is kneeling between Derek's legs, holding Derek's face in his hands like he's something precious, and the kiss deepens as Stiles adjusts to the taste of himself on Derek's tongue. Stiles drops a hand between them, moving to trail it over Derek's cloth-trapped erection, and Derek grabs his wrist.
"No touching," Derek says, into Stiles' skin. "Too soon."
Despite his inability to explain fully why it's so important they don't rush into anything, Stiles seems to understand. "Okay," Stiles says, simply. He tilts his head and then smiles, mischievous. "Maybe there's something else that doesn't require hands, then."
And oh, of course Stiles is going to push — but maybe that's what Derek wanted. To find his own limits. Derek's never felt safe enough with anyone before to test how far he's happy to go with any part of this, but with Stiles, he does feel safe. He is safe.
"Okay," Derek says, watching Stiles worriedly. He doesn't know really what he's expecting. Maybe Stiles will try for a blowjob, but he has to know that's too much too. Too intimate. They're already rushing so far, but Derek's keen to hold back. To do some of this properly, even though I love you already came far too soon.
Stiles leans back on his heels, frowns for a second, and then nods as if deciding something before reaching for the waistband of the sweatpants he's wearing and taking them down even more.
"I'm not ready for that," Derek says quickly, reaching out to touch Stiles' hand, to make sure Stiles knows it's not him, it's Derek.
Stiles shakes his head and smiles that soft, fond smile again that is an inch away from becoming a smirk as he wriggles over to the other side of the bed, away from the V of Derek's legs. "That's not what I had in mind, buster. That is something we're both gonna have to work up to. My ass is virgin, and my dick is an ass-virgin, and both firmly deserve to be wooed."
Derek returns the smile. "So what did you have in mind?"
"Well," Stiles says, "I kinda thought if I lie here like this—" He stretches out on the bed, lying on his stomach, resting his head in his hands. "And I squeeze my thighs together nicely for you—"
Oh. Derek's stomach lurches and his erection bobs happily towards his stomach. He gets it. "Oh, my god," Derek says, weakly.
"That's my phrase," Stiles says. His voice sounds a little slurred, sex-happy, and he waves. "Have at it, my man."
They're still both mostly dressed, Derek's hands almost aching with the desire to touch the pale skin on offer, to feel how Stiles' ass would flex under his fingers. The desire is too much and he reaches out as he gently straddles Stiles' legs, not lowering his weight down. As his fingers stroke over the firm curve of Stiles' ass, Stiles lets out a groan.
"Just touching me," Stiles says, "you have no idea how good this feels."
Derek bends down and presses a soft kiss to Stiles' left butt cheek which makes him burst out into giggles.
"Tickles," Stiles murmurs, sounding so happy that Derek laughs too, a short sound.
Derek's sex education, when he turned thirteen and his dad sat him down with a constipated expression (eventually Talia had sailed in and done a better job of it in two minutes than his dad had spent faltering over the words in an hour), had been vaguely odd. His parents weren't so much focused on the mechanics and the consequences as the emotions of the event. Why it was too much for a young man to feel. He blanked out most of the talk as soon as he could, but one bit remained with him: how sex with the right person should be fun. That you shouldn't be afraid of laughing.
When Kate had laughed in bed, it was to mock his inexperience. Jennifer hadn't laughed once, although she'd smiled at the end like she'd won something, and Derek didn't know at the time what that was. There had been people in-between, small pockets of human contact, lonely islands of touch, and they'd been too-brief interludes, barely enough time to climax and catch his breath, no time for laughing. Derek couldn't comprehend why anyone would laugh in bed. Sex was a serious thing, nothing to do with fun.
He couldn't comprehend it then, but now, now he can. There's a ridiculousness to this thing with Stiles that has Derek laughing gently, and Stiles sniggers into his arms, and it's not a horrible sound. It's not designed to put him down. It's not against him.
It's with him.
When he slides his dick into the welcoming heat of Stiles' thighs, the head nosing into the soft skin of Stiles' balls, the warm crease of Stiles' ass pressing in tight, it's like coming home. Derek can't believe he's doing this, can't believe Stiles is letting him, can't believe Stiles is making hungry noises like this is doing something to him too. His hips move almost on autopilot, fucking into the tight, hot gap like his dick is hungry for it, and Derek's fingers are hungry too, hungry for skin. He tugs impatiently at Stiles' t-shirt, rucking it up just so he place his palms on Stiles' back, so he can feel the muscles in Stiles' back underneath his fingers.
"Feels good," Stiles murmurs, shifting in the spot and somehow making everything hotter, tighter. Derek bites down on the moan he wants to make, sure it'll test the limits of the soundproofing of the room. The small gap is slick now, with Derek's pre-come and Stiles' sweat, and Derek can't stop fucking into that space, nudging Stiles' balls, teasing his asshole with every other stroke. He wants to do this forever, so of course it's entirely too soon that he's coming, painting the back of Stiles' thighs with his come, streaks of white looking so good against the pink flush of Stiles' ass cheeks. Stiles flips onto his back while Derek's still holding himself up over him, probably staring, stupefied, and Stiles' grin is smug and self-satisfied as he leans up, pulling up the sweatpants before tugging Derek down, distracting him with kisses until Derek leans his whole weight down on Stiles, which just makes Stiles give this self-satisfied purr.
"You're amazing," Stiles says, pulling back and smiling wide, tired. "We've got to do that again."
"Maybe the other way around," Derek murmurs, kissing him gently before shifting his weight to Stiles' side. Stiles immediately curls his body into Derek's. The scent of them is thick on the air.
"Mm, we need to shower again," Stiles says, lifting a hand up to toy with the hair at the nape of Derek's neck, which is still damp. "We didn't think this through."
"Not at all."
"No regrets, though?" Stiles peers up at Derek. The room's gloomy, half-lit by one light on near the door, but Derek can see him clearly enough to see the worry on his face.
Derek leans in and kisses Stiles firmly. When he says, "No regrets," it's not a question, but a firm statement.
"Wish we could stay like this forever," Stiles says, his voice quiet as his fingers trace patterns across Derek's arms and back. He nestles his forehead into Derek's shoulder, pliant and content. "Do the others—"
Stiles doesn't finish the question. "Do they what?" Derek asks.
"It's okay, it's selfish—"
"What?" Derek presses, tilting Stiles' chin up so he's looking at him.
"I was just thinking back to when Scott started formally dating Kira. The whole pack was in on everything, with opinions, and judgments, and— I want us to have chance to see what happens without them elbowing in." Stiles wrinkles his mouth. "But I don't want you to be a dirty little secret."
Derek considers it. Stiles is right. If the pack knows they're dating, they'll push in. Interfere. He pictures it and does not like what he imagines. He wants Stiles for himself, in a cocoon of their own, safe from the world outside. But if Stiles wants to shout about them from a rooftop, he can picture being okay with that too. "It's up to you," Derek says.
Stiles makes a strangled sound, like he was expecting Derek to order him around.
"If you want to keep us quiet, I won't be a secret," Derek says. "You already told your dad." He leans in, kisses Stiles firmly. Stiles looks dazed by the time he's finished.
Stiles nods. "I'll think about it. No rush decisions." He tilts his head. "Any chance we can nap before going back downstairs, though? Orgasms are so hard work."
"Yeah," Derek repeats. "Definitely hard."
Stiles elbows him in the stomach. "And you said I would be the one making puns in bed?"
Derek shrugs. "Maybe I'll call Deaton. See if he has a Fred Flintstone onesie in his collection that I can borrow."
"Why?"
"So I can make your bed rock."
Stiles groans and burrows his head in the space where Derek's neck and shoulder meet, and he makes no sign that he's going to move any time soon.
Derek's very okay with that.
##
They do wake up after a nap, shower separately, re-dress in clean clothes, and this time Stiles borrows underwear — so Derek has to time coming back downstairs half an hour later, because there are some things a pack should never see, and his erection is definitely one of those things.
At least sweatpants are much easier than spandex on boners. And that's the least interesting thing Derek's learned in the last twenty-four hours.
When he comes back down, the werewolves are still cleaning. Which means they probably stopped for a nap too. Derek can't bring himself to mind about it, which means he's either just as sex-stupid as Stiles, or the mental image of them all in a Batman-wearing puppy pile is amusing enough to wipe any irritation over the state of his loft.
Stiles, predictably, is hanging out with Scott. He's loose-limbed and happy, a smile lingering on his face. So much for their relationship remaining low-key. There's no way anyone can look at Stiles and not know he's in love.
It's endearing enough that Derek doesn't care if they all find out right now. At least then he could kiss Stiles. He thinks he may have a kissing-Stiles addiction now. Hopefully there is no cure.
"Dude," Scott blurts as morning light finally spills through the loft windows on the sluggishly moving werewolves as they scrape kobold guts off all the fixtures, "you gotta spill. Did something happen between you and that Batman guy? Danny says he saw him drag you out of the party."
"He did," Stiles says, shaking himself, but it does nothing to erase his smile. Oh, well. Maybe Stiles will smile for the rest of his life. Derek wouldn't mind seeing that. "We went on a date. That Deucalion interrupted."
"Too bad," Scott sighs.
"And then my dad."
"Ah," Scott says. "And considering the rest of your story, was that when Derek interrupted too?"
Stiles squints at Scott dubiously for a second, but then shrugs and nods. Derek hides a smile, even as Kira passes him a mop to join in with the clean-up. She looks at him, calculating. "Why are you so happy?" Kira hisses.
Derek shrugs and takes the mop, covertly watching Scott and Stiles.
"I'll find out," Kira says, sing-song, passing him a spray bottle of cleaning-fluid.
"Find out what?" Malia says, loudly, coming over and looking between Derek and Kira, and Scott and Stiles.
"Find out who Stiles is dating," Scott says, loudly enough to draw the attention of the whole pack.
"Stiles got a date?" Lydia says, sounding surprised. Stiles flips her the bird. Lydia pretends to catch it and put it in her pocket.
"The guy dressed as Batman last night," Scott says.
"Ohhhhh," Kira says, looking up at Derek. Derek grins sheepishly at her.
"Anyone know his real name?" Scott asks.
Derek glares at Kira. She squints at him, calculating, and then shrugs and nods. If Stiles decides on keeping their relationship quiet for a while, she'll keep the secret.
"Isn't it obvious?" Stiles asks, catching Derek's eye. Derek swallows but holds Stiles' gaze, smiling encouragingly. If Stiles wants to tell everyone, that's fine. Derek can cope with any decision, as long as Stiles is his. "Batman's real name is... Bruce Wayne."
"You fucker," Scott says, fondly annoyed, and he squirts Stiles with the spray bottle he's holding. Which naturally, leads Stiles to fighting back with the wet cloth he has. Which all naturally leads to a mass water fight with the whole pack involved.
Normally Derek would be annoyed, but today... Stiles grins at him across the loft before throwing half a bucket of water into Lydia's shrieking face. Yeah, today Derek can let anything pass. He's in love. That's the hero of the hour. Everything else is where it belongs: out-of-focus, kicked off to one side.