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Stiles blinks at Derek when he jumps through his window. It's a pretty standard response, now-- he moved on from shrieking and flailing and generally freaking out months ago. "What's up with you, dude?" he says curiously.
Derek breathes deliberately in and out through his nose, then says, "Peter."
"Ah." Stiles nods wisely and tries to mask a grin. "Still decorating?"
Derek makes an aborted, violent move and sits down on Stiles' bed instead. "He's putting in mullioned windows."
Stiles blinks again. "What are mullioned windows?"
"I don't want to talk about it," says Derek.
Stiles bites down hard on his lip. "Okay," he says. "Are you-- shouldn't you say something to Peter, maybe? If it's pissing you off this much? I mean, I assume it has to be, if you're resorting to me as a preferable option to being there."
Derek gives him a sharp, unreadable look, then raises one shoulder in a shrug and says, "If he'd rather be decorating than murdering people, I'm not going to stop him."
"Point," says Stiles. He trails thoughtfully into silence.
"What are you doing here anyway?" says Derek. "Aren't you usually with Scott on Wednesdays?"
"It's creepy that you know that, just so we're clear," says Stiles. "And what are you doing here if you thought I wasn't going to be here?"
"Stop deflecting," says Derek.
"You stop deflecting," says Stiles.
Derek stares at him. Stiles stares back.
"Oh my God," says Stiles, eventually, rolling his eyes. "Scott's with Isaac, okay."
"I thought Isaac went out," says Derek blankly.
"He did," says Stiles. "With Scott."
Derek doesn't say anything.
"You do know they're dating now, right?" says Stiles.
"I know they're-- something," says Derek, shrugging.
"You have so many issues," says Stiles wonderingly, turning back to his computer. "It's amazing."
"Thanks," says Derek dryly.
Stiles grins at the screen. He gives up on his homework for the night-- he doesn't think he could concentrate with Derek sitting on his bed behind him-- and clicks out of his history essay. He's pretty sure that somewhere in there he's managed to lay the blame for the Jonas Brothers largely on JFK, in a complicated series of tenuous links and drawn-out conclusions, but whatever, his teacher can deal.
"Don't worry," he says. "I'm not gonna make you talk about it. Wanna play X-Box?" He spins around in his chair.
Derek blinks at him. "Okay," he says slowly.
The next time Derek vaults into his room is on Saturday morning. Stiles is still in bed; he blinks sleepily and struggles upright when Derek growls, "He's trying to put in a chandelier."
"A chandelier?" says Stiles throatily, giggling. "Dude, I think he's just fucking with you now."
"I know," says Derek.
"Did you throw him into the staircase?" says Stiles.
"No," says Derek, folding his arms.
"Hey, that's good!" says Stiles. "Progress!"
Derek frowns.
"No frowning, it's the weekend," says Stiles. "You had breakfast?"
"No," says Derek.
"Sweet," says Stiles. "Dad's on duty. Come downstairs."
He stumbles out of bed, flushing a little when he remembers he's not wearing a shirt, and scrambles one on hastily before he leads Derek down into the kitchen.
"If you eat all your wheaties we can play X-Box," he calls, snickering to himself.
Derek throws a handful of napkins at the back of his head.
"This game is stupid," says Derek, stabbing at the controls and killing a stray bystander with a lot more vicious glee than is probably warranted. Stiles blinks. He didn't know you could get that much blood out of the characters in the game.
"Blasphemy," says Stiles, shaking his head.
Derek rolls his eyes. He's got a bowl of cereal balanced between his knees, ignored for the moment as he focuses on the game, and he's taken off his leather jacket, just his t-shirt clinging all model-perfect to his stupid muscles. Stiles is having trouble focusing on the screen with all that beside him-- aside from the hotness, it's just so incongruous. Derek looks-- well, he looks like Stiles. Not in, obviously not in like, physical attributes or anything, but overall, he just-- he looks like Scott and Stiles do when they're playing videogames together, he looks like any other kid his age, relaxed and kind of rumpled and stupid and not worried about anything more important than kicking Stiles' ass at Assassin's Creed. Stiles has never seen him like this, and it's kind of distracting. Also kind of stupidly gorgeous, and well-- he just wants Derek to look like this more often, okay. God knows he needs it. He feels a bit helplessly awed that Derek has let down his guard this much around him, that he's letting Stiles in on this.
He wonders whether Derek ever looks like this by himself, or around other people.
"Stiles," says Derek, throwing his control at Stiles.
"Huh?" says Stiles. "What?"
"You died, moron," says Derek.
"Oh," says Stiles. "It's my regime, you know, I get all the dying done in a totally virtual sense so I can go out and kick ass and, you know, not die in real life. It's going really well."
Derek gives him a weird look and starts finishing up his cereal.
"Was that your 'you're an idiot, Stiles' look?" says Stiles.
"All my looks are that look," says Derek flatly.
"Ha ha." Stiles rolls his eyes.
Derek scoops the last mouthful of cereal into his mouth, which he somehow manages to make look impossibly suave and attractive, the asshole, and dumps the empty bowl onto Stiles' lap.
"I have to go," he says, standing with his jacket in hand.
"Training up the cubs?" says Stiles.
Derek doesn't answer, but his mouth twitches.
"Hey," Stiles calls after him as he heads out, through the front door this time, "If you're going to make a habit of eating my cereal, next time you can start doing the dishes too!"
"Shut up, Stiles," Derek calls from outside.
Stiles grins manically.
Stiles is trying to scout a table for lunch, tray in hand (Scott is still piling the food onto his, of course), when he hears Erica say thoughtfully, "I think something's wrong with Derek."
He makes up his mind and makes a beeline for their table, shoving himself onto the bench between Erica and Boyd.
Erica scowls at him; Boyd keeps chewing calmly on his food.
"Why is something wrong with Derek?" says Isaac, eyes wide.
"Didn't you notice how weird he was on Saturday?"
"He seemed pretty happy, actually," says Boyd.
"Exactly," says Erica. "Do you think he's up to something we don't know about?"
"What's it to you?" says Stiles, frowning.
"He's our Alpha," says Erica.
"He's still allowed a personal life," says Stiles. "I think you're just nosy. Stop using the werewolf thing as an excuse."
Erica leans into him and extends her claws threateningly.
"Oh my God, okay, okay," says Stiles. "I'm just trying to help. Maybe he's been cursed by pixies or something."
"Who's been cursed by pixies?" says Scott curiously, sitting down next to Isaac. They grin goofily at each other for a moment before turning back to Stiles.
"Derek," says Stiles, rolling his eyes at them.
"No one's been cursed by pixies," says Boyd evenly. "Maybe he had a good morning. It's none of our business."
He goes back to chewing methodically on his food. Erica shrugs.
Stiles thinks about Derek on his couch Saturday morning, drenched in early morning sunlight, stabbing at the controls on Stiles' X-Box and eating Stiles' cereal.
He wonders how much it says to the group of werewolves he's surrounded by, the way his heart speeds up at the stupid image, the idea that it might have made Derek happy.
"Wow," says Stiles, craning his neck to take in the entire vista of the staircase in the Hale place. "He wasn't just fucking around about the chandelier."
Derek appears at the top of the stairs, looking more long-suffering than Stiles has possibly ever seen him, which is saying something. Many somethings. "What are you doing here, Stiles?"
"I've come to rescue you," says Stiles, gesturing heroically.
Derek raises his eyebrows.
"Shut up," says Stiles. "Scott's with Isaac again. I'm bored and I thought you might want to get away from your lifelong episode of Creepy Eye for the Werewolf Guy. Wanna play X-Box?"
Derek thinks about it. "Do you have food?" he says eventually.
"Oh my God, you caveman, yes, I have food." Stiles throws up his hands. "It's so nice to know you appreciate my banter and companionship."
Derek just looks at him.
Stiles looks back. "You don't have to come," he says, shrugging, the confidence he'd carried here seeping out of him a bit, "I mean, if-- "
"Shut up, Stiles," says Derek, shoving him bodily towards the door.
"Yeah, okay," says Stiles, biting down on a grin. Confidence totally warranted. Sort of. He hopes.
"I really hate this game," says Derek, frowning at the screen.
"And yet you keep coming back here to play it," says Stiles.
"You made me come back here this time," Derek points out.
Stiles snorts. "Yeah, right, because you're exactly the type of Alpha freaking werewolf who can be made to do anything. Poor defence, dude."
Derek's eyebrows do something complicated and he stabs his character's sword viciously at Stiles' in answer.
"Hey!" says Stiles. "Don't take it out on the kids."
Derek pauses the game and throws his controller onto the couch beside him. "You said there was food," he says.
"Have you always been this demanding?" says Stiles, and before Derek can answer, "No, wait, of course you have. It's just that you used to demand things like 'Stiles, cut my arm off,' instead of 'Stiles, get me food.' We've come so far, man." He sighs mock-wistfully.
Derek cuffs him around the back of the head.
"And yet, not that far." Stiles smirks and groans to his feet. "Okay, haute cuisine de Stilinski coming up."
Stiles is in bed at eight on Saturday morning, which is a totally acceptable time to still be asleep on a weekend, when Derek calls. Or well, he thinks it's Derek-- his eyes are a bit blurry. "Wassit?" he mumbles into the phone, rolling onto his back. "Do I need to get the Jeep?"
"No," says Derek. "Get your X-Box. Bring it over."
"Huh?" says Stiles stupidly, sitting up.
"Your X-Box," says Derek irritably, like that's a totally normal thing to say to Stiles at eight on a Saturday morning. "Bring it here."
"'Here' would be your place, right?" says Stiles.
"Throat," says Derek. "Teeth."
"Oh my God," says Stiles. "Shut up, for all I know you could be up a tree somewhere."
"Why would I need an X-Box if I was up a tree?" says Derek, like Stiles is the moron.
"I feel like this conversation is going in an unproductive direction," says Stiles.
"I think that's the smartest thing you've ever said," says Derek dryly.
"Funny." Stiles rolls his eyes. "Okay. Why am I bringing my X-Box to your place?"
"I'll explain later," says Derek. "Just do it."
Stiles giggles. It's a fucking X-Box, but of course Derek is making it sound like they're in the middle of Mission Impossible. Or something. Derek is much more attractive than Tom Cruise.
"Do you even have a TV?" says Stiles, climbing out of bed.
"I do now," says Derek darkly. "Just get over here."
It turns out that Derek's in the middle of some kind of siege with Peter.
"Dude," says Stiles as he sets up the console on Derek's brand new, super sweet-looking plasma, "Why is having me over to play X-Box more likely to stop him decorating your room than you being your scary Alpha self?"
Derek shrugs. "Just trust me," he says. "I need to stay in here. He already put in the TV while I was out for a run."
"You guys are nuts, you know that, right?" says Stiles cheerfully, settling back on the floor at the foot of Derek's bed.
"Just play," says Derek, snatching one of the controllers from Stiles' hands.
Stiles isn't a hundred per cent clear on why-- not even ten per cent, if he's being honest-- but Peter doesn't try to run them out with his weird interior decorating obsession.
They play for something stupid like three hours straight, and then Stiles says, from where he's moved back to sprawl across Derek's bed (which is a weird thought in and of itself, holy shit, when did he get comfortable enough around the dude to take up space on his bed like he does it all the time, and when did Derek get comfortable enough to let him), "I know you've got your freaky lycanthropic stamina, but dude, I need food or I'm going to pass out."
Derek's sitting upright at the foot of the bed. He pauses the game and turns to look at Stiles. There's something almost surprised about his expression, like he hadn't realised Stiles was there. Stiles meets his eyes challengingly and sprawls his legs a little wider for emphasis.
"I don't have any food," says Derek, brows furrowed. His eyes move lighting-fast to take in the spread of Stiles' limbs across his sheets-- so fast Stiles isn't completely sure he didn't imagine it.
"So get takeout," says Stiles. He blinks at Derek. "Is this weird? Should I move? Are your sheets going to smell like me now? I can-- "
"No," says Derek, standing up. Stiles closes his mouth. "I'll order something. Don't let Peter come in here."
"Right, like I could stop him." Stiles rolls his eyes as Derek leaves the room, wondering a little dumbly what the hell just happened there.
The thing is, Stiles thinks a bit despairingly as he heads home sometime in the afternoon, the thing is, he likes Derek. Somewhere between being mortally terrified of the dude and saving his life/having his life saved on a bi-weekly basis and the whole Scott not wanting to be part of his pack thing yet somehow still starting to date Isaac, who is part of the pack-- somewhere between that and, well, everything else, they've sort of become friends.
He totally gets how it works for him-- Derek's not actually a bad guy to be around, once you get past the admittedly overwhelming I don't like people vibe, and Stiles has always objectively known he's got this too-big-for-his-own-good heart, or at least sense of duty, although Stiles is totally of the opinion that it's tipping from duty into the realm of actively caring. It also turns out he's kind of deadpan hilarious and does actually have the ability to smile as well as engage with Stiles for real.
There's the way he'll call Stiles on his bullshit and not pull his punches-- hell, actively dish out the punches when other people just ignore him-- and argue with him over stupid things that even Scott refuses to lower himself to, sometimes just for the sake of it, sometimes because he genuinely has an opinion. It's just-- it's not like any of the friends Stiles has ever had, and besides that Stiles feels occasionally like there's this undercurrent of solidarity, this unsaid but still there sense of I get you, whether it's when Stiles looks at the way Derek's face closes up at any mention of his family and thinks yeah, that's something he knows, or whether it's when their eyes meet over Scott's head anytime he's being a dumbass and it takes everything he has to not burst out laughing and piss Scott the fuck off.
It's a bit weird, because of the whole Scott and Derek thing, and he has to be careful, because Scott is and always will be his best friend, but well, Scott is dating Isaac, and that's working out pretty well for them, so Stiles doesn't think he's doing anything wrong.
It's just-- just-- fuck, just that sometimes he wants, more palpably and immediately than when it's lying dormant the rest of the time, especially because they're spending so much more time together now, and he doesn't know where Derek stands on that at all.
He doesn't even know where Derek stands on them being friends, really, whether it's deliberate on his part or just circumstantial, and he wants to ask, so bad, but he also doesn't want whatever it is they have now to stop.
Seriously. It's tough being Stiles sometimes. Even when he's not trying to keep from getting killed by stupid supernatural entities that by all rights shouldn't exist, there's always something.
He doesn't realise he's fallen asleep at his computer until something hits him in the head.
"The fuck," he slurs, flailing into awareness and knocking his lamp off the desk.
Derek's watching him with an amused quirk to his eyebrows, of course. Asshole. Except not really.
"What is it," says Stiles, picking up the thing that Derek threw at him, which-- huh. It's a videogame. "NHL 12?" he says blankly.
"I told you, I hate Assassin's Creed," says Derek. He shrugs. "I like hockey."
"Huh," says Stiles slowly.
"What?" says Derek, folding his arms.
"Nothing." Stiles lifts one shoulder. "Just-- that may be the first non-essential personal fact you've offered me in-- well, ever."
Derek rolls his eyes. "Peter's working on the staircase," he says. "I can't get upstairs."
Stiles just stares at him. "Dude," he says. "You just came in through my window."
Derek waves a hand, all semantics. Stiles feels weirdly warm somewhere in the pit of his stomach.
"This is a stupid game," Stiles grits out, stabbing haphazardly at the control and still ending up with his player face-down on the ice.
"No," says Derek evenly, slotting the puck past Stiles' goalie, "You just suck at it."
"I was thinking," says Stiles, forcibly regrouping (although not before sticking his tongue out at Derek like a six year-old), "You know, maybe this was a present, in the kind of way where you don't say it's a present, but you might have been grateful I saved your ass and your bedroom from being overrun the other day, but I take that thought back completely."
"What, you think I knew you'd suck at this?" says Derek.
Stiles points a finger at him. "J'accuse," he says dramatically.
Derek gives him his patented why am I surrounded by complete morons face. "Well," he says. "I have seen you play lacrosse."
"You schemer," says Stiles, grinning.
"Educated guess," says Derek, shrugging.
"I'm going to get so good at this," says Stiles. "Then we'll see who's laughing."
"I'm not laughing," says Derek blankly.
"You're the worst," says Stiles, throwing a pillow at him.
Stiles' dad is on duty that night, and Derek lingers in that way where it gets to the point it's completely obvious he's lingering, and Stiles says, watching Derek's players work in perfect formation on the screen, "Do you really hate it that much there?"
Derek glances at him sharply, but doesn't say anything.
"I mean." Stiles shrugs. "I guess we're kind of friends now? And it's cool, you know, turns out it's pretty great, if this is what being friends with you is actually like, but I guess I also have no frame of reference for that, and I know you're avoiding Peter and everything, so. I thought it might be just-- " He trails off.
Derek's mouth quirks. "Are you trying to make me choose between talking about feelings and talking about feelings?" he says.
"Ugh," says Stiles. "Okay, what about this-- are you actually planning on living at the house once Peter's done?"
Derek shrugs and says, "It's good for the pack. Lots of room, isolated."
"Is it good for you?" says Stiles, narrowing his eyes.
Derek shrugs again. "I'm the Alpha," he says.
"What's that even supposed to mean?" says Stiles.
"It means I do whatever's best for the pack," says Derek.
"That's stupid," says Stiles. "You still have-- you still need-- I mean, you know Isaac and Erica and Boyd won't care where you go. If you want to leave."
Derek doesn't answer.
"I mean," says Stiles. "If that's what you want."
Because seriously, even if it's all rebuilt and redecorated and actually looking super nice now, it's still the house Derek's entire family died in, and Stiles can't imagine it being easy for Derek to be there, let alone live there. He can't imagine him stuck in that huge, haunted place for the rest of his life. It makes something in his throat tighten up inexplicably, his fists clench without his permission. Derek just doesn't seem to realise it could be so much better for him. Like, he thinks-- he thinks this is just how his life is always going to be, always running and scrambling to survive, just generally shitty, and it's not. Not if Stiles has anything to do with it.
He doesn't really know when he got so invested in Derek's life, outside of how it affects him and his friends, but once he's in Stiles isn't one to do things by halves.
"I want-- " Derek blinks at the wall, like it's something he genuinely hasn't thought about. Or taken seriously enough to think about. "It doesn't matter what I want."
"It really does, you moron," says Stiles vehemently.
Derek raises an eyebrow at him.
"I mean, this self-sacrificing thing is cute, very manly and heroic, but it's getting kind of old." Stiles shrugs. "Did you ever think that doing what you want could be good for other people too?"
Derek's mouth tightens. "Doing what I want gets people killed."
Stiles wants to punch something. He might try, if he wasn't ninety per cent sure he'd break his hand. "How is moving house going to get people killed?"
Derek shrugs. "I thought the same thing about dating Kate Argent," he says.
Stiles blinks dumbly. Just, fuck. That's not something Derek's ever told him before. Knowing Derek, it's probably not something he's ever told anyone. Which, Jesus. Stiles had suspected, sort of, maybe, for half a second when he'd been trying to fit everything together, way back at the start of this, but he never-- he'd never dwelled on it. Never seriously thought about it.
They've broken some kind of record in the Derek-revealing-personal-things-he-doesn't-have-to field. It's kind of a huge leap, though, from finding out he likes hockey to finding out-- finding out that. "Derek," he says.
Derek shakes his head and stands up.
"Don't go," says Stiles without thinking.
Derek stills and looks back over his shoulder.
"I won't talk about it," says Stiles. "I won't get all feely or anything. You wanna play some more X-Box?"
Derek stares at him for a long, long time-- Stiles counts the heartbeats, thirty too-quick pulses in his chest-- before Derek says, quietly, "Okay."
The key to not making things weird, in Stiles' experience, is to act like nothing ever happened. Not in the I'm completely insensitive to all the shitty things you've been through way, but more in the hey, I'm totally here for you and I totally want to make things better even though I have no idea how to do that or why you seem to think I can do that, but we can still hang out and play X-Box and give each other shit like we always have kind of sense. You know, in completely universally-applicable, non-specific terms.
He does have to go over to Derek's place with his X-Box, but he was kind of expecting that. Derek wouldn't know a normal emotional reaction if it gave him a naked lap dance.
"One thing you have to learn about being friends with me," says Stiles, walking boldly into Derek's room and dumping the console on his bed, "Is that you can't avoid Stiles."
"I wasn't avoiding you," says Derek immediately, which means he totally was.
Stiles rolls his eyes. "Okay, sour wolf," he says. "You know, if you're ever looking for topics to bond over with Scott, this could totally be one of them."
"I don't want to bond with Scott," says Derek.
"You two are morons," says Stiles. "I'm so glad he's Isaac's problem now."
"He's always going to be your problem," says Derek, which is weirdly emotionally astute, for him.
"I know." Stiles sighs, but not unhappily. He kind of loves that dumbass.
"What are you doing here, Stiles?" says Derek. "Peter's out."
"Oh my God, seriously?" says Stiles. "I mean, I know I asked, the other day, but then I thought about it some more and in the end I figure if we weren't really friends there are a lot of other ways you could avoid him that don't involve me in any way. Also, did I not just give you a whole spiel about being friends with Stiles?"
"Stop referring to yourself in third person, it's weird," says Derek.
"Stop deflecting," says Stiles.
"You stop deflecting," says Derek, which doesn't even make sense. Man, Stiles kind of loves how childish he can get Derek to be. It feels like a bit of a privilege, in a weird way.
"I was going to put on NHL," says Stiles with his best offended sniff, "But I think I'll just go for Assassin's Creed instead."
Derek picks up the console threateningly.
"Or we can play NHL, I'm cool with that," says Stiles hastily. "Put my baby down."
Derek sets his controller down, about an hour and a half in, and when Stiles glances over questioningly, he's watching Stiles with this weird thoughtful expression.
"What?" says Stiles.
"I want-- " Derek stops.
"To move out of the Hale place and find somewhere new to live with your pack?" says Stiles hopefully.
Derek raises an eyebrow.
"Okay, sorry, too presumptuous? Did you just want a glass of water?" Stiles grins.
"What about somewhere in the middle?" says Derek.
Stiles gets out, "Wha-- " before he's cut off by Derek leaning in and kissing him.
Stiles, because he's Stiles, drops the controller and flails his arms until they settle on Derek's shoulders.
Derek kisses when he kisses, holy shit, like he knows exactly what he wants from Stiles and that's everything. He opens Stiles up in this bruising, completely overwhelming way, biting down on Stiles' bottom lip to get access to his mouth and then licking inside, pressing and pressing until it feels like he could just climb under Stiles' skin and tangle up with his veins. He's got one huge, hot hand cupped over the slope of Stiles' jaw, fingertips scratching at the back of his skull.
Then, because he's Derek and he's a complete weirdo slash asshole, he pulls away entirely and just stares at Stiles all intense or whatever.
"What-- come back," says Stiles immediately.
Derek's stupid intense expression doesn't change and he says, almost like he thinks it's a bad thing, like kissing Stiles is somehow going to bring about the apocalypse, "That's something I want."
Stiles opens and closes his mouth stupidly. He's caught somewhere between complete shock that Derek wants him, of all things, of all people, and needing to beat into his stupid thick werewolfy skull that it's okay to want Stiles, even if Stiles doesn't entirely get it, get why, when Derek could have anything he wants. "Well, good," he says in the end. "Awesome. Come back here then, man, let's do this."
"Stiles-- " starts Derek.
"No, okay," says Stiles loudly. "Listen, you moron. First, if you think every decision you ever make that doesn't involve putting everything else in the world before what you want is going to bring about nothing but doom and gloom, you seriously need to read-up on the laws of like, physics. Or the universe, whatever. Freaking-- just growing up. I'm pretty sure you're done with that crap. And second, if you think I'm a bad decision, I'm so offended, dude. Not like-- not because I don't think you couldn't do better, but because you should know me by now, okay, and I may be weird and awkward and a pain in the ass, but I'm also super smart and I've got your back now just like I had it when I didn't even like you, and I'm not an evil werewolf-hating psychopath, and I'm not going anywhere."
Derek says, "I know you won't-- "
"That wasn't an invitation for you to argue with me," says Stiles.
Derek frowns, and just stares at him for a long time-- Stiles finds himself counting the heartbeats again, holding his breath-- but then something seems to snap into place and he kind of visibly loosens, the tension not gone but palpably lessened, and he crowds in to kiss Stiles again.
"Fucking right," mumbles Stiles into his mouth, clutching at Derek's hair and trying to haul him on top of Stiles.
Derek obliges, pushing Stiles properly onto his back and straddling his hips, which he somehow manages to do without letting up kissing Stiles for a second.
He's heavy, but not in a bad way-- all that weight and solid muscle and heat feels fucking awesome, and it's doing things to Stiles' dick, which was already interested in the proceedings. Derek must be able to feel it, because Stiles isn't exactly being subtle about it, grinding up into the ridiculously hard friction of Derek's abs.
Derek pulls back to grin this kind of feral grin and says, "You're not messing around."
"I'm really not," says Stiles seriously, and Derek makes a noise and bites at his mouth, stubble scraping against Stiles' skin, which is going to leave a massive burn and he doesn't care.
"You know, Derek," says Peter from outside the door. Stiles jumps about a foot. Derek just pulls back and rolls his eyes, which means he knew Peter was there and didn't say anything, the complete weirdo. "You'd be enjoying yourself so much more if you'd let me put in those sheets."
"Go away," growls Derek.
"Wait, what sheets?" says Stiles.
"Egyptian cotton," says Peter wistfully. "Navy, to go with the walls, I was going to paint them-- "
"Go. Away," Derek growls again, even more threateningly.
Stiles giggles against the underside of his jaw. "Aw," he says. "I could've been having sex on thousand-count Egyptian cotton sheets."
Derek pulls back to glare at him.
"I'm not taking his side, jeez," says Stiles, leaning in to kiss away the glare.
"I'm disappointed, Stiles," says Peter from outside. And then, "Yes, Derek, I'm going."
Stiles lets his head fall back helplessly. "How am I going to explain my in-laws to my dad?" he says to the ceiling. "Actually, how am I going to explain you to my dad?"
"I think your dad will agree with me," says Derek, scraping his teeth along the tendons in Stiles' neck. It feels stupidly amazing.
"About what?" says Stiles. "His son having sex with a werewolf? I'm not so sure."
"That I'm making a good choice," says Derek, and Stiles-- kind of doesn't know what to say.
"I," he says eventually, stupidly, because Derek's still got his mouth on Stiles' throat, "Yeah, I mean, totally, my dad and I, complete mutual respect, but he might not think I'm making a good choice. Not that I'm not, I really am, but just, you know-- last time he saw you, you were being arrested for murder."
Derek shrugs. "We could have sex before you worry about that," he says. "If you want."
Stiles glares at him. "Asshole," he says. "Of course I want."
Derek grins and kisses him at the same time as pressing the heel of his hand against Stiles' dick. Stiles gasps ridiculously and tries to remember how words work.
"This is a good choice," he says eventually against Derek's mouth. "Like, it probably seems super dumb, because who wants to make out with Stiles, right? But it's awesome, it's not going to get anyone killed, and-- "
"Except maybe me," says Derek, pressing in harder and silencing him.
"Only if you mean with sex," says Stiles. "I can totally kill you with sex."
"Stiles," says Derek, biting down on his bottom lip, "Shut up."