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Derek’s always had an anchor. No matter how shitty his life has gotten at times, it’s something he’s always had: first his pack, then Laura, then revenge, now Cora.
Or, well, it was Cora until two weeks ago, because two weeks ago Cora decided that she couldn’t stand Beacon Hills anymore and left for Argentina.
Derek thought about going with her, but if coming back to Beacon Hills has made him realize anything, it’s that this is his home. No matter how much this place takes from him, he can’t quite bring himself to abandon it. He has people here, too, now. Scott and Erica and Boyd and Isaac.
Stiles.
They’re all back for the summer, a whole year of college behind them. It’s comforting having them back – having a pack again, even if it’s cobbled together with bad memories and desperate measures. Sure, during the school year he has Parrish and the Sheriff. Braeden crashes at his place when she’s in town, and Noshiko and Ken have invited him over for dinner a few times.
But it’s not the same.
So he’s hoping that tonight, his first full moon without an anchor, he’ll find someone in his ramshackle pack – or maybe his whole pack – to take as a new anchor.
The night starts out relatively smoothly, amazingly enough. Scott takes the pack out for a run through the preserve, and Derek takes it in stride, blood singing through his veins as the cool night air ruffles his fur. He doesn’t normally bother with his full shift, but tonight it feels right, natural.
He finds shifting back a little more difficult than usual, without Cora by his side, but he manages. His wolf is restless, though, whining and pacing in the back of his mind, and he doesn’t feel entirely settled as the pack splits up and goes their separate ways for the rest of the night.
Derek finds himself falling into bed, hopeful that sleep will overtake him and he won’t have to deal with the pull of the moon in his unconsciousness. His wolf isn’t tired, but Derek’s no stranger with forcing the animal to do what his human side wants. It takes longer without an anchor, without anything to persuade his wolf to listen to his human, but eventually he slips into a fitful sleep.
—
His dreams are vivid that night – or at least more vivid than usual. They’re not unfamiliar, though.
He presses his mouth against salty skin, tastes the sweet tang of sweat as he traces the thrum of blood through delicate human veins. He bites down hard, fangs a little too long as they scrape against mole-dotted skin, and he hears his partner’s breath hitch with tiny, desperate sobs.
His wolf is pleased with this development, but still restless, and Derek finds himself biting down on his partner’s neck again, making dark bruises bloom across their pale skin.
His wolf wants more, though. Wants to rut and fuck and claim, and for once, in this dream, Derek lets the last of his human side slip away.
The rest is a hazy blur, like most of his dreams are. Vaguely, he registers a steady background noise of, “please,” and “fuck,” and “more,” but with his wolf in control, the physical sensations are more vivid – fingers tugging sharply at his hair and a tight heat clenching around his cock.
He has a few more vaguely lucid moments, dreams of pressing bruises into his partner’s hips as he ruts into them sharply, over and over, just the way his wolf is begging for. But then his wolf takes over, pushes him out of the way, and his mind goes blank.
—
Groaning, Derek comes to slowly. He feels strangely sore and wrung out, yet his wolf, for once, is settled in the back of his mind, sated and content. Derek can’t remember the last time his wolf was this calm.
Derek pulls back the covers and gets out of bed, heading to the bathroom. He discards his boxers and steps into the shower, but as he moves to stand under the warm flow of water, he frowns and looks down at his stomach and soft cock.
Despite not remembering much of the previous night, he’s fairly certain he had a sex dream. It was fairly vivid for him, even, but he sees no evidence of it on his body – no residual morning wood or half-dried come still sticking to his stomach. Then again, maybe the dream wasn’t enough to send him over the edge or maintain his hard on.
There’s also the fact that he’s always been a sleepwalker. It was more of a problem when he was a kid – before the fire – but he remembers Laura waking him up once in New York, because he was trying to cook scrambled eggs, while still fast asleep. So it’s not unthinkable that he would have cleaned himself up last night.
He pushes his concerns to the back of his mind and focuses back on his shower.
He’s making himself breakfast when he hears a key turn in the lock of his loft door. It only takes him a moment, though, to identify the rabbit-quick sound of Stiles’ heartbeat.
“Hey,” Stiles says as he saunters on into the kitchen, sounding strangely breathless.
“What are you doing here?” Derek asks, barely sparing Stiles a glance as he flips a blueberry pancake.
“There’s a, ah, pack meeting at noon, right? Post-full-moon check in?” Stiles replies, tongue darting out to lick over his bottom lip. Derek frowns and glances over at the clock, surprised to find that it’s already eleven. It’s rare for him to sleep in so late. Trying to maintain control without an anchor must have tired him out more than he thought.
“You still have an hour,” Derek grunts, tipping the pancake out onto a plate and pouring batter for the next one.
“Thought I’d see what you’re up to,” Stiles says, and it sounds almost expectant somehow, but Derek has no idea what he’s trying to hint at. “Maybe we could kill some time together.”
“Your dad still refuses to pay for Netflix?” Derek snorts, flipping the next pancake.
“Uh, yeah,” Stiles replies, sounding strangely disappointed. “Just here to steal your Netflix.”
“As long as you wash the dishes,” Derek says, placing the next pancake on a separate plate and pushing it towards Stiles. Stiles blinks at it for a moment, looking surprised, but then a grin spreads over his face and he opens one of the nearby drawers to retrieve forks for them.
Which is how Derek finds himself trying to ignore Stiles running stream of commentary as the first episode of How to Get Away With Murder plays on the large TV he’d claimed he’d bought for himself. (It’s actually for the pack – not that he’ll ever admit it. He barely watches TV as it is.) Stiles is pressed up against him, and Derek would think it’d downright bizarre if he didn’t like it so much. However, it’s probably just because Stiles has been away from the pack for months. He can be surprisingly clingy for someone who claims to not trust anyone.
“Oooh, How to Get Away With Murder?” Erica asks as she, Boyd, Isaac, and Scott make their way into the loft, about half an hour later. “You know, I’ve been trying to convince Derek to – ”
She stops mid-sentence and stares at Stiles, eyes locked onto his neck.
“Dude, what mauled your neck?” Scott asks, filling in for Erica.
Derek blinks, and looks over at Stiles, surprised to see that the collar of his hoodie his slipped down slightly to reveal a frankly massive hickey. Strangely, for once his wolf doesn’t seem to have any opinion on the matter, except for a vague kind of smugness. Normally the annoying animal goes ballistic over the thought of anyone marking Stiles.
“Uh – ” Stiles stutters, his cheeks going red. For some reason, he turns to look over at Derek with wide panicked eyes, as if Derek will have an excuse for him. Derek quirks an eyebrow, but doesn’t otherwise respond. “I, uh, dropped my laptop? On my neck?”
Everyone looks less than convinced.
“Fine, don’t tell us who it’s from,” Erica snorts, plopping herself down on the couch next to Stiles. “We’ll find out eventually.”
Scott gives Stiles a look which Derek roughly interprets as, “Dude, we are so talking about this later.”
The pack meeting goes pretty much as Derek expects it to. As in, everyone piles on top of each other in a giant “puppy puddle,” as Stiles has dubbed it, and proceeds to decimate whatever food Derek has in his kitchen. Not that he minds, really.
The only difference in today’s meeting is that occasionally he catches Stiles giving him strange looks. Whenever they make eye contact, though, Stiles looks away quickly, strangely subdued. Derek wonders if it’s something he said, but he can’t think of anything specific. And when the pack “meeting” is called to an end by Melissa texting Scott to pick up groceries, Stiles is the first one out the door.
Derek tells himself he’s just mad because it means he has to clean up the kitchen by himself.
—
Three days later, Derek has another vivid dream. Still anchorless, it’s difficult for Derek to control his wolf and it’s become increasingly restless with each passing day. Derek tries running, but that only helps so much, and by the time he collapses into bed on Tuesday night, he’s utterly exhausted. Keeping his wolf in check without a new anchor is like learning control all over again.
When he falls asleep this time, his dream progresses very similarly as it did the night of the full moon. The wolf is at the forefront of his mind, but it still allows him snippets of sensation.
He dreams of a lithe frame against his, back pressed to his chest as they move together, his partner pushing back as he pushes forward. Dreams of hands scrabbling for purchase against a wooden headboard, and of a rich, spicy scent flooding his nose and mouth, so vivid it almost feels real. A familiar-but-not voice echoes in his head, “Derek, Derek, Derek,” and his wolf rumbles in contentment, at the thought of having claimed someone so thoroughly.
A figment of his sleep-drugged imagination, but someone.
In the dream, Derek sinks sharp teeth into his partner’s neck again – because it’s the same imaginary partner from three days ago, Derek thinks – and the person under him comes with a sharp gasp, shuddering around him.
Derek’s wolf preens and laps at the mark.
—
When Derek wakes the next morning, his wolf is settled again. It’s strange that all it seems to take is a particularly good wet dream, but Derek will take what he can get.
—
Derek’s restocking his shampoo supply when he runs into Stiles at Walgreen’s, that afternoon. However, his casual, “Hello,” gets caught in his throat as he sees Stiles pick up a box of Trojans from the display in front of him, biting his lower lip as he reads the label.
Stiles puts it back and then picks up another box labelled “ULTRA THIN!” before making a frustrated noise and shoving it back onto the shelf. A moment later, though, he picks up the same box again, tentative and indecisive.
“You’re seeing someone?” Derek blurts out, making Stiles squawk and drop the condom box.
“Derek!” Stiles squeaks, grabbing the gray-blue box up off the floor and shoving it back on the shelf. “Wasn’t expecting to see you here.”
“Clearly,” Derek snorts. “You’re avoiding the question.”
“What?” Stiles asks, frowning. “No! Why would you think that I’m – unless you mean – ?”
“Are you planning on seeing anyone, then?” Derek replies, giving the condom display a significant look. Stiles’ face goes a little red.
“I mean – I just thought – like, I get that werewolves can’t carry diseases or anything, but the clean up’s kind of a hassle without, and I thought maybe – ” Stiles blabbers, but Derek finds himself hardly able to focus on what Stiles is saying, because what? Since when is Stiles involved with a wolf? Derek certainly hasn’t smelled anyone new on him.
“Look, this is getting too awkward, so I’m just gonna – ” Stiles says, motioning towards the store exit. “ – and, I mean, you clearly don’t think I need them, so – ”
“Wait,” Derek blurts out, grabbing the box of condoms Stiles had been eyeing and shoving them into his hands. “I’ve never heard of a werewolf giving a human anything, but you should be safe. And comfortable.”
“Oh,” Stiles says, looking a little dumbfounded as he clutches the condom box. “Thanks.”
Derek nods awkwardly and heads over to the shampoo isle, trying not to think too hard about how he just convinced Stiles to buy condoms he’s going to use with some other wolf.
Fuck his life.
—
Derek has another dream that very night. It’s different from the other two, less desperate and rough, maybe because his wolf hasn’t had a chance to work itself up to restlessness yet.
The dream is still just as hot and sharp as the previous ones, but Derek finds himself on his back, his wolf for once accepting of Derek exposing his belly and spreading his legs. Long, dexterous fingers – fingers like Stiles, he can’t help but groggily think – open him up carefully, sloppy with lube. Liquid heat pools in Derek’s gut as his dream-partner slides into him, knocking a gasp out of him with the first thrust.
Derek grabs at the person’s hair and rolls his hips, his wolf eager, encouraging him to take more, more, take from our mate, and his fantasy lover responds just as hungrily. They groan as Derek tugs on their hair, demanding, and increase their pace from fast to brutal.
The wolf inside him writhes, and Derek rakes his fingers down his dream fantasy’s back completely losing himself again to his wolf.
—
Derek wakes up to a dull throbbing in his ass. He winces as he makes his way to the bathroom, finds himself reaching back with probing fingers to test his hole. It’s unusual for him to wake up with any pain, to say the least – not unless he wants to be reminded of it. And right now, he feels like he’s gotten fucked, long and hard.
Briefly, he wonders if he’s progressed from sleep walking to sleep-sticking-things-up-his-ass. He sincerely hopes not, because werewolf or not, that could get pretty dangerous pretty quickly.
Still, as he looks around his apartment, he doesn’t see anything amiss – no evidence of him trying to, well. Sleep-stick-things-up-his-butt. He frowns and wonders if maybe he should try seeing someone about his sleep habits. Then again, he suspects it’s at least partially his wolf’s fault, and there’s no way he can explain that to a doctor.
Derek sighs and decides it’s about time to get some work done.
He’s halfway through translating the closed captions, Spanish to English, for a small-time sitcom when he hears a knock at the door. He frowns, stopping his typing, because there honestly aren’t any people who come visit him at his loft who don’t already have a key.
(And it can’t be his landlord because he is the landlord. Ha.)
However, as he makes his way to the door, his hearing focuses in on a familiar, rabbit-quick heartbeat.
“Stiles?” he grunts, frowning as he opens the door to find Stiles standing there, stinking of nerves.
“Heeey, Derek,” Stiles says, lips quirking up into a small smile. “How it going?”
“Fine,” Derek replies, eyeing Stiles warily.
“Great!” Stiles says, rocking back and forth on his heels. “Great, that’s – hey, so do you wanna get lunch now? With me?”
“Lunch,” Derek repeats, feeling a little lost.
“Yeah, you know, it’s a thing where people eat food, typically around noon,” Stiles snarks, the tension in his shoulders dissipating slightly. “Do people eat it on your planet?”
“I have work,” Derek replies reluctantly, thinking of the half-done closed captions sitting open on his computer.
“Oh,” Stiles says, deflating a little. “Right. I just thought maybe you could take a break or something…?”
“I have a deadline,” Derek admits, and he’d love to eat lunch with Stiles, really he would, but he’s been slacking too much lately, caught up in strange dreams and Stiles buying condoms.
“Rain check then,” Stiles replies, running a hand through his hair and making it even messier than it already is. “That’s – cool. I guess I’ll leave you to it then. Have fun with your work, or whatever.”
He’s halfway down the hall before Derek can even get out a simple, “Bye.”
—
It’s another five days before Derek dreams again.
It’s just as rough as the first one this time, and nothing like the last one, all the vulnerability gone. His imaginary partner grasps at his shoulders – not clawing, though, more clinging. Desperate, like they think Derek’s going to disappear at any moment. In response, Derek presses closer, thrusts deeper, presses his teeth against his partner’s neck.
He feels and hears his partner’s breath hitch, but for some reason it sounds different from the previous times. The scent of salt hits him, but it doesn’t have the same tang as sweat, not quite.
Derek slows his thrusts and nuzzles against his partner’s face, finds an unfamiliar wetness on their cheeks.
“Sorry, sorry,” his dream partner hiccups and Derek’s wolf whines, upset at their mate’s distress. His mind is still too hazy, his wolf too in control for Derek to say anything, but he follows his wolf’s urging and pulls out, finds himself licking the tear tracks from his partner’s cheeks.
He pulls his partner close – but this is a dream, what does it matter? – and wraps them tightly in his arms, lets them bury their face in his neck until their sobs slowly subside.
The darkness comes over him slower this time, and Derek doesn’t fight it.
—
Derek wakes up in his own bed, but he can’t quite shake the sense of wrongnesslingering in the back of his mind. His wolf isn’t restless – not like it should be after five days without any sexually satisfying wet dreams – but it’s subdued in a way Derek’s unfamiliar with.
He showers, dresses, and stares into the depths of his refrigerator before closing it and just standing there in the center of his kitchen for a moment. After a moment of indecision, he grabs his keys off the kitchen table and heads out to his Camaro.
Maybe it’s time he took Stiles up on that offer of a meal together. He needs something to make things feel right again.
However, when he knocks on the door of the Stilinski household, the Stiles who opens the door is the last thing he’s expecting.
“Derek,” Stiles says, clearly surprised. Derek can’t reply for a moment, too focused on Stiles’ puffy, red eyes and bedraggled appearance. He looks like he’s been crying for hours, and Derek mentally checks the date, but no, it’s not the anniversary of his mother’s death.
“Stiles,” Derek finally replies. “Are you – ”
“I’m sorry, I can’t do this,” Stiles blurts out, and Derek could almost swear he sees Stiles’ lower lip tremble slightly. “I though maybe – but I can’t take you fucking me and then pretending like I don’t even exist the next day – ”
“What?” Derek blurts out, thoroughly confused.
“You – ” Stiles hisses, his face flushing with anger. “You – fuck you. Don’t fucking pretend that you don’t know – that you don’t – ”
His lower lip definitely trembles that time and Derek finds himself panicking, because he’s horrible at comforting crying people. Or people in general, really.
“So I’m not going to have sex with you again, and if you’re here for a booty call you can just – ” Stiles falters for a second. “ – you can just fuck off and – ”
“Stiles I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Derek says, wedging himself in the doorway before Stiles can slam it shut and lock him out. “I’ve never had sex with you, and I think I’d remember something like that.”
“Bullshit,” Stiles hisses, or attempts to hiss, because it comes out a little too watery for that. “You were here last night, you – and then I started fucking crying and then you were gone and – ”
“Stiles, I don’t remember,” Derek insists, feeling panic well up in his chest, because he really, really doesn’t. “I don’t remember having sex with you and I don’t remember you crying and – ”
He falters, thinks back on his strange dream.
“You’re telling the truth,” Stiles finally says, expression going a little horrified. “You really don’t remember.”
“No, I don’t,” Derek confirms. “But I had this dream, and it was – it was like that. I used to sleep walk when I was younger, and I just thought…”
“But how – ?” Stiles asks, eyes wide.
Derek pauses, considers it. His chest goes ice cold as realization dawns on him.
“Since Cora left for Argentina, I haven’t had an anchor,” he admits, eyes fixed on the ground. “I thought I was keeping my wolf under control, but my mother sometimes said that we’re more… susceptible to our primal sides when we’re asleep.”
“Fuck, Derek,” Stiles breathes. “Fuck, I’m so sorry, I – I thought that – but I took advantage of you and I – ”
“No, Stiles,” Derek blurts out, reaching forward to grab at Stiles’ arm before he can back away any further. “I’m sorry. If I’d kept my wolf under control – ”
“But I liked it,” Stiles replies, his cheeks flushing as he realizes what he just said. “And you – you couldn’t consent, and I – ”
“They were like dreams to me,” Derek interrupts. “Like wet dreams. If I was too horrified by them, I could have woken up.”
“But you don’t – it was just your wolf,” Stiles mutters, averting his eyes. “Your wolf likes me, but you – ”
“My mother always said I should listen to my wolf more often,” Derek admits, softens his grip on Stiles’ wrist. “She thought we were too separate. And my wolf always hated Kate, so maybe it’s time for me to start listening to it, for once.”
“Are you sure?” Stiles asks dubiously, expression wary. “Because – ”
“Maybe no sex for a while,” Derek concedes, and Stiles relaxes slightly. “Not until I learn how to manage my wolf, but maybe I could take you out for brunch, because we missed out on lunch last week.”
“Alright,” Stiles says, lips turning up in the smallest of smiles. “And if it happens again, I’ll wake you up, I promise.”
“Thanks,” Derek replies, and twines their fingers together.