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Stiles is sitting on the couch with a box full of cereal (a mouth full of cereal) when the doorbell rings. The fact that someone has chosen to ring the bell is of itself strange enough, because his father is not home so he is not expecting anyone official – and Scott always just opens the door like it’s his own house and Derek uses Stiles’ bedroom window.
He hugs the box of cereal to his chest with one hand and is pushing more chocolate puffs into his mouth as he shuffles to the door and opens it without regard of who may be on the other side. Stiles thinks, as he is in mid-action, that he probably should have contemplated that choice a little more because other than a t-shirt, he is in his boxer shorts, which shows off his bony knees and skinny calves none too brilliantly and he is still wearing his socks; they don’t match.
All thought flees from his brain however when he sees that it is Derek standing in front of him, hands in the pockets of his soft leather jacket, waiting for Stiles in the morning sunlight.
Stiles’ mouth slackens slightly, despite the fact that it is housing an obnoxious amount of half-eaten sugary cereal bits.
“Oh.” he says, because apparently that’s the most intelligent greeting that Stiles can muster at 11:37 in the morning.
Derek’s eyebrows lift in that half-amused-half-unimpressed way of his.
“Oh?” he echoes.
Stiles crunches the rest of his cereal, tries to push it down his throat and goes for something slightly less insulting.
“Hi.”
The corner of Derek’s mouth twitches and Stiles knows that he’s repressing a smile – or at least a pull of a smile.
“You’re, uhm-"
Stiles blinks at Derek again, and then he looks back over his shoulder and at the staircase leading up to his room, as if Derek might have actually wandered from his bedroom and decided to walk out the front door and use the doorbell, which is probably the most absurd thought that Stiles has ever conjured up in his head.
When he turns back to Derek, the man seems to have read Stiles’ mind and decided the same thing.
“You’re alright?” Stiles asks. He makes a twisting motion with his hand towards Derek, “Not hurt or dying or… something.”
Derek shakes his head, as if it is perfectly normal for him to be standing at Stiles’ doorstep, like he always comes to visit Stiles by using the front door and not the bedroom window.
“What-“
“I’m going to be out of town for a while,” Derek tells him.
Stiles closes his mouth at this because Derek leaving always quiets Stiles, as used to it as he is. Stiles is not unaccustomed to Derek taking trips out of town, making the announcements known abruptly and without notice and Stiles is always forced to accept the situation as rationally as he can, without fidgeting and hovering behind Derek all the way up to the moment Derek leaves.
“Oh.” Stiles nods. His mouth feels dry and the taste in his mouth from the chocolate condemned to stale paste, like an old cupcake left out too long on the counter. “Right now?”
Derek actually looks perturbed by this and sighs through his nose.
“No, not now.” He replies, in a tone that suggests that he has never just gotten up and left before. “Tomorrow. I wanted to let you know.”
Stiles nods again, because he kind of wishes that Derek would have told him over the phone, or texted him, or at least waited until Stiles had gone over to the Hale house and was not standing in the doorway in his boxers and dirty socks with the hole in his left heel.
Stiles is used to Derek needing to leave town, whether it be with Chris to talk with other hunters or patrol the outskirts when another pack roams too close to town. Stiles is used to Derek taking Boyd with him, having someone with him, but that someone is never Stiles and Stiles hates having to wait at home for however long Derek is gone – days, weeks – waiting with his phone in his hand as he does his best to fend off any oncoming panic attacks at the silence or lack of contact. It’s not Derek leaving town that is so terrible but that Stiles is too far, that if something were to happen to Derek that Stiles would not be able to get to him in time.
Stiles knows that Derek does not owe him anything, even though they’ve gone from Derek the Alpha and Stiles the Human Friend of Scott’s, to Derek and Stiles for a few months now. But now that they are, well, whatever label of “official” that this is, Stiles feels like Derek is his, and that Stiles should be there, should be able to be there.
He realizes suddenly that Derek is still standing in front of him, as if he is aware that Stiles has lost himself in his own mind and rambling thoughts and is waiting with surprising patience for him to return back to the present.
Stiles clears his throat and tries to make for casual conversation.
“Right, so, this trip,” he comments, nodding. “You ah – going to be gone for a while?”
Derek shrugs.
“Possibly a week.”
Stiles nods again, digesting this.
“So you’re… taking Boyd, or Isaac with you? Or-“
“You.” Derek says, pointedly.
Stiles falters. He doesn’t drop the box of cereal to the ground which is good, that’s very good.
“Me?” Stiles does not think that he is scoring any points for intelligent conversation this morning.
But Derek does not look irked or even uncomfortable by the sudden invite.
“Do you have any other plans for the week?”
Stiles shakes his head. “Spring break.”
Derek gives a subtle tilt of his chin.
“Do you want to come then?”
Stiles thinks that Derek looks unusually calm about this. Not that Derek ever looks awkward or out of place, but sometimes when he is asking Stiles questions that might be teetering into “we’re a couple” territory he becomes a bit more agitated than usual and a lot more scowls and huffs of indignation are involved.
Instead Derek looks like he’s already spent a considerable amount of time thinking about this and has come to a decision of how this request will end, that Stiles saying No is not an option.
And that makes Stiles bizarrely happy.
His mouth pulls into a rather goofy smile and then he’s grinning, full of teeth and maybe chocolate cereal and there’s a strong possibility of a milk stain by his collar but Stiles really cannot be bothered to care.
“A whole week trip alone with you, eh?” Stiles beams, pulling back his head and tucking in his chin. He always looks ridiculous like that, like he’s trying to see how many chins he can sport at once but Derek’s mouth twitches at the corner in a way that Stiles knows is the suppression of a smile. “You’re not taking this slow, are you.”
“Is that a yes?”
Stiles puffs out his chest and shoves another handful of dry cereal into his mouth.
“Yup.”
They taste delicious.
--
Derek refuses to tell Stiles where they are going, which is probably the most infuriating thing that Stiles has had to deal with all week. He’s trying to gather clothes together for the trip, and Derek is stretched out on his bed reading a magazine as if he is not at all bothered by Stiles’ insistent bitching.
“For fuck’s sake, can you at least tell me if it is north or south? Should I be bringing hoodies? Or more t-shirts. Am I gonna regret not bringing shorts?”
Derek lifts an inquiring brow at that.
“You wear shorts? Other than…” he nods pointedly at Stiles’ embarrassing skinny knees.
“Oh, fuck you,” Stiles says, begrudgingly yanking a pair of jeans up his legs.
“North.” says Derek, eyes back on the magazine. “And just wear what you normally would, Stiles. There’s not going to be a drastic climate change. You’ll be fine.”
“What are you bringing?” Stiles asks, because he’s apparently five-years-old and does not know how to prepare a duffle bag for a one-week road trip.
Derek shakes his head. “What I always wear. Have you actually ever been out of Beacon Hills before?”
Stiles delivers a glare at Derek’s face. But Derek isn’t paying him any mind, so instead Stiles glares at the musician on the front page.
“Fine, whatever. Dude, you’re on my pants, get off.”
He is standing over Derek now, his fingers curled at the bottom edge of a pair of maroon jeans, which are still thoroughly buried beneath Derek’s legs and hip. Derek doesn’t make any indication that he’ll be obliging Stiles’ request.
So Stiles huffs and turns away to retrieve something else when he feels a sudden pull at the hem of his shirt, yanking him back. He lets out a squawk (that does not at all sound like a pelican being murdered) and lands in a sprawled heap of tangled limbs on Derek’s chest.
Derek’s hand curls around the back of Stiles’ neck, steadying him, and Stiles makes some kind of muffled noise into Derek’s throat. It’s all very heady, Derek’s scent filling his nose, musky and slightly spicy and rich like damp Earth – and Derek’s slim hips fit so nicely between Stiles’ thighs, making him acutely aware of how easy it is to tease his arousal into evidence.
“Dude,” Stiles says into Derek’s neck, then pushes his hand against Derek’s shoulder to right himself, so he can peer down into Derek’s self-satisfied expression. “If you had wanted to grope me, all you had to do was ask.”
“Hm,” Derek replies in agreement, and tugs Stiles down a little too roughly, mouth open and warm as it fastens upon Stiles’ neck.
Stiles makes a choked noise in the back of his throat, fingers digging into Derek’s arm as his body twitches.
“That-ah-“
Derek’s teeth scrape against his skin and Stiles really cannot help the way his hips jerk against Derek’s thigh, the way he grinds into him, desperately seeking the hot friction that runs up his spine. But the growl Derek makes in return is totally worth it and Stiles tilts his head back, urging Derek on.
Not that he needs it. Derek’s breath is hot against Stiles’ skin and then there are teeth involved, all hard edged and blunt, bruising Stiles’ skin with shivery wet suction. Stiles’ brain fractures a little, tiny sparks of white filtering through his vision and oh god that is really not doing anything to dissuade his growing erection, not when Derek’s teeth are breaking into the surface of his skin, raw-edged and teasing along the lines of possibly savage, just the way Stiles likes it.
He hisses, his neck straining beneath the onslaught of teeth and tongue and Derek’s mouth which is much too hot against his skin.
“Derek, fuck, I already have a bruise under my jaw – what are you trying to make me come across as?”
“Mine.” Derek growls, harshly into Stiles’ throat, mouthing at the bruise and not at all trying to keep his teeth from tugging at the swollen flesh.
Stiles moans, because he clearly walked into that one.
“No fair-“ he pants, grappling at Derek’s shirt, twisting the fabric as he tries to push closer into Derek, which is physically impossible at this point; Derek’s hands are on him but there is no contact against his skin and Stiles feels like he might go crazy if Derek doesn’t get his hands on him. “Fuck, Derek, touch me-“
Derek makes a dark noise in the back of his throat, which rumbles against Stiles’ overly sensitive skin and Stiles whimpers and squirms against him.
“You’re impossible,” Derek growls, his hands shoving under the hem of Stiles’ shirt, nails raking up his spine, the ladder of his ribs, dragging over each bump and impress.
“It’s not fair,” Stiles says again, trying to finish his previous sentence. “You get to mark me as much as you want but nothing I leave on you stays. No one knows that you’re mine.”
“Oh, I don’t think you need to worry about that,” says Derek, he pushes his thumb into Stiles’ mouth, pressing down on his bottom lip to open him up further and that’s just obscene really, the way Stiles rolls his tongue over the invading digit. Stiles moans and whispers fuck again and then Derek’s mouth is covering his own. It’s all open heat and wet slide of tongues and Stiles can’t seem to keep up with Derek’s ruthless assault against his lips, biting and sucking and applying glorious pressure in all the right places.
“Everyone can tell I’m yours,” he pants into Stiles’ mouth, voice rough. “You’re all over me all the time. Draping yourself over me like it’s that easy not to drag you into a room and fuck you.”
“Then what are you waiting for?” Stiles taunts him, his voice thin. He digs his fingers into Derek’s hip, beneath the waist band of his jeans and Derek lets out a snarl and flips him.
He’s breathing hard above Stiles, face so close that Stiles can taste the flavor of his breath, slightly minty but tinged with undertones of coffee. Or maybe it’s not even him tasting it now, maybe it’s already settled into the crevices of his mouth, engrained upon his tongue.
He jerks his head forward and nips at Derek’s jaw and Derek presses him harder into the mattress, gives him more of his weight.
And fuck, Derek is so hard against him. Stiles’ brain scrambles at the thought of it, of Derek straining against the restricting fabric and oh fuck, if Derek doesn’t jerk them both off now Stiles is going to completely lose it in his pants.
Derek’s eyes are tinged red and he looks like he might just do that, fuck Stiles into the mattress if Stiles asks him again but he’s willing himself still, body a taut line above him.
Stiles sighs.
“You’re not going to, are you.” he says dully, because Derek had made it very clear that he was not going to have sex with Stiles. “You’re really going to wait until I’m eighteen? That’s absurd, you know that. I hope you know that I am not going to last that long. I swear, I’ll do everything in my means to seduce you-“
“Stiles.”
“And I can be very persuasive, I’ll have you know. You’d be greatly amiss if you doubted the powers of my impressive manly means of seduction, and ok yeah, that whole Lydia thing can be seen a bit as a failure but I choose to think of it more as a –“
“Stiles,” Derek gives a warning growl and Stiles sees a hint of pointed teeth below his upper lip.
Stiles sighs, again, an exaggerated huff that heaves through his whole body and he mutters, “Yeah, yeah, got it, fine. Killjoy.”
He lets his fingers tangle at the soft ends of Derek’s hair, at the nape of his neck and Derek breathes out slowly, the tension easing from his body.
“C’mon, Derek,” Stiles whispers against his ear, “Let me jerk you off then. Let me feel your cock on my tongue.”
Derek groans low in his throat, head dipping forward to rest in the crook of Stiles’ neck. He can feel Derek giving in, begrudgingly, but his cock twitches against the curled palm of Stiles’ hand behind his jeans and Stiles grins.
Because he loves when Derek allows himself to give in.
--
It takes an unprecedented degree of finessing and a small bit of lying on Stiles’ part to convince his father to allow him a week’s road trip with Derek. Although his father is aware of Derek’s “situation” and has been aware for a few months now, Stiles still has to persuade his father that 1. They are off to a friendly meeting with a group of hunters who have the well-being of Beacon Hills in mind, 2. Stiles is in no danger whatsoever, 3. Isaac will be coming along and 4. Stiles is included in the meeting for research purposes only.
Stiles stresses several times that Isaac will be joining them and that Stiles will be sharing a room with Isaac, a completely innocent and harmless arrangement, and that Derek will be having his own room. There will be no Derek-and-Stiles-sleeping-alone-in-the-same-vicinity whatsoever.
Isaac does a very good job of appearing sincere and truthful in supporting Stiles’ dubious lie(s) when questioned by the Sheriff.
Derek does not grace the meeting with his presence and Stiles is forced to do his best at convincing his father that Derek has very pressing matters to attend to.
All in all, the meeting goes impressively well, even when Stiles’ father points out in a very firm parental way that Stiles is underage and that as Sheriff of Beacon Hills he has no problem in locking up Derek Hale for statutory rape if anything illegal happens on this trip. Isaac turns a very intriguing shade of red and a few hues of some other mysteriously blotchy color and Stiles nods his head emphatically.
Everything about this trip will be staying purely legal.
Stiles wonders silently what his chances are of convincing Derek to turn into a criminal for him.
--
Derek arrives at Stiles’ house precisely at 7:30 the next morning. Stiles’ father has already left for work and Stiles barrels down the stairs when Derek rings, breathlessly swinging the door open. Derek regards him passively as Stiles hangs onto the doorframe, panting like an idiot.
“You’re here.” Stiles says.
“You expected otherwise?”
Stiles shakes his head, trying to conjure up enough saliva in his mouth in order to swallow.
“No, I just – you still want to do this.”
Derek’s eyes pass over Stiles’ face, his white-knuckled grip on the doorframe and the way Stiles’ chest can’t stop heaving up and down, up and down, as if he’s been struggling to breathe for much longer than when Derek rang the door.
He uncurls Stiles’ death grip on the wood with gentle hands.
“You think I’d changed my mind?” he says softly, helping Stiles stand upright and Stiles is acutely aware of Derek’s warm breath against his cheek.
“You smell like mint,” Stiles murmurs, turning his face into Derek’s, lips trying to touch, gain some form of purchase with Derek’s skin although Stiles feels slightly drugged or perhaps too heady because Derek is here, hands on his elbows, guiding Stiles closer against him.
Derek didn’t leave.