disclaimer: disclaimed.
dedication: to Torie because she's the ONLY ONE WHO UNDERSTANDS.
notes1: sorry not sorry that i essentially ignore basically all canon post S2 because Erica Reyes is the light of my life and will never die and also fuck werewolf jesus so there
notes2: i should feel sorry for this but Derek was originally supposed to be nineteen and im still fucking laughing about it so
notes3: suck my dick, Mori

title: psychobabble murderguts (kids in love)
summary: "My bed is not a free-for-all bleed out death orgy palace, oh my god!" — Derek/Stiles, the pack.

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"I literally could not fucking hate you more than I do right now, know that?"

"Shut up, Stiles. Just finish this."

"Jesus shit, d'you wanna man the fuck up and do this yourself? I did not sign up for this shit, I am not here for this, are you even fucking—"

"I'm not the one with the magic, remember?"

"Says the fucking werewolf," Stiles grumbled, rolling his eyes, and went back to trying to will fire into existence. Isaac's breathing was sucking and wet to his left, bubbles of thick black tar-like blood popping at the corners of his mouth. He was shaking, eyes vacant, curls stuck to his forehead with sweat.

"He's got a fever. Can't you do something?" Stiles snapped. "Any weird werewolf voodoo that I don't know about all up in there?"

Derek just folded his arms over his chest, lips pulled back over his teeth.

"So fucking helpful, thanks," Stiles muttered. But with another minute of swearing obscenely under his breath, the room suddenly flooded with light. Fist shining with what looked like white-hot fire—Derek flinched back—he turned to Isaac, still shaking and sucking down choking breaths of air like he was drowning.

"Issac, buddy, this is gonna hurt," Stiles said gently. "So please don't claw me? Squishy human here, remember. I'm tryna help, kay?"

Derek held his beta down without being asked, arms like iron bands across the kid's chest. "Just do it," he gritted out.

And so Stiles did.

Another flash of light, and then—

(The smell of burning flesh was sickening, and Stiles wouldn't be able to get it out of his nose for days. He didn't even want to think about how Derek was dealing with it. Fire was such a lovely thing, except when it was burning your whole family alive.)

Isaac howled like a scream, but Stiles pushed down and down and down, until there was nothing left.

So, faeries.

Turned out, actually a thing!

Also turned out, actually about as nice as a knife between the ribs! None of that happy-go-lucky hippie-dippy Disney shit, nope, because this was Beacon Hills and they weren't allowed to have nice things. Nope, turned out faeries had really sharp teeth, an even worse attitude, and did could do colossal damage to an unprepared pack of werewolves like no one's fucking business.

Turned out, Stiles really fucking hated faeries, okay.

And like, seriously, he wasn't even that surprised, alright. There'd been some weird shit living in the woods for a long time; he'd always known that. Hadn't stopped him wandering as a kid (or as a teenager, for that matter—he knew that this whole mess was technically his fault, but whatever, they'd all be dead without him, so), but still.

Still.

Watching his friends (and they were his friends, somehow, these frickin' wrecks of people. Werewolves. Whatever, they could barely take care of themselves, much less each other, so people it was), like this, when they spent the night bleeding out on his bed?

Was not okay.

And yeah, Isaac was breathing better, now, shivering less wrapped up in Stiles' comforter the way he was. He'd stopped spitting up black gross shit, definitely A+, go you, Isaac, you didn't die, and oh, by the way, thanks for bleeding all over the place! One less problem to deal with, and one less reason to go to Deaton.

Stiles trusted that dude about as far as he could throw him, which was not very far.

"Wher'm I…?" the question came out slurred, terror thickening an already thick tongue. Issac was blinking awake, and Stiles dove at him to get his hands on the other kid's face before he flipped his shit at waking up in an unfamiliar room.

(Isaac was still strange, sometimes, still flinched at loud noises and breaking plates. Sometimes, he still had nightmares. And the only reason that Stiles knew that at all was because he'd had to wake Isaac up during one of them, when they'd been piled on the floor at Scott's. He could still feel Isaac's rigid shoulders, the way his eyes flashed black-gold with horror. They didn't sleep the rest of that night.)

"Thtileth?" Issac got the words out though teeth too big for his mouth, half wolfed-out beneath Stiles' hands.

"Right here, dude," Stiles pressed his palm to Isaac's thundering pulse. Hearing his name mangled through werewolf teeth never got any less amusing, and he was pretty sure the grin would calm the kid even further. "Just in my bedroom. You got beat pretty good, y'know?"

Stiles watched as Isaac visibly relax. His eyebrows came back. That was always a good sign—but the teeth weren't quite gone, and when Isaac spoke, it still came out a little like he couldn't control his tongue. "Ith everyone okay?"

"Everyone's cool," Stile said. "You got hit the worst."

"Even Jackson?" Isaac smirked.

"If you weren't already hurting, I'd punch you. Unfortunately, yes, even Jackson," Stiles sighed melodramatically. He might not have had magic werewolf voodoo, but Isaac's pulse was slowing and the fear was draining out of him.

Stiles decided that was probably enough physical reassurance, and sat back on his haunches.

Isaac looked at him with great big sad moon eyes.

"How does that even translate into words? How do I know exactly what you want?" Stiles asked, but it was more of a rhetorical question. The entire pack was a touchy-feely puddle of feelings when they were sick, but usually not in Stiles' bed.

"Please?" Isaac asked.

"God damn it, I hate it when you ask for things because they're always things you shouldn't have to ask for—" Stiles grumbled, and then climbed beneath the covers, which was precisely what Isaac wanted. He promptly octopused around Stiles like this was a totally normal occurrence. Like this was not definitely one of the top five weirdest things Stiles had dealt with in the last month.

(Okay, maybe the last week. The ents had been pretty fucking weird. Isaac cuddling, on the other hand, was almost comically normal in comparison.)

"Your Alpha's gonna be pissed that I didn't let him know you're awake," Stiles told Isaac idly.

"Erica's at the window," Isaac said instead of actually answering, pressing his face into the side of Stiles' neck. "Make 'er go 'way."

"Oh yes," Stiles muttered, as he wiggled out of Isaac's death grip to go unlock the window, "make the squishy human go deal with the crazy she-wolf, of course."

"I heard that," Erica said as she pushed past Stiles. There were leaves in her hair, mud on her hands, and blood on her mouth. "I'll hurt you."

"You look like you just stepped out of the Dark Ages," Stiles said mildly.

But her limbs were trembling slightly, a strange kind of manic hovering just beneath her skin, and so Stiles didn't say anything when she got dirt everywhere. She needed to check Isaac over herself—her fingers bit into his shoulders, curled around his face as she let a tiny high-pitched whine escape the back of her throat. He answered it with a whine of his own, and then they were pressing their foreheads together, just breathing.

They looked like siblings who'd just lost everything in a fire.

(Stiles didn't wonder if that was what Laura had looked like whenever Derek got hurt, before. That way lay guilt and black spitting anger, a rage at Kate Argent so intense that he wasn't sure he'd come out of it if he let it consume him.)

Erica took one more deep breath of Isaac, and then she, too, turned great big sad moon eyes at Stiles.

"Go get the leaves out of your hair. You know where the bathroom is," he sighed. Easier not to put up a fight.

She smiled at him so brightly it lit up her entire face, and there was nothing mean in it. She was out the door before Stiles could say another word.

Isaac made grabby hands.

"You know this bed was made for, like, one person. Right? You know that, right?"

"Don't care," Isaac said, just kept making grabby hands in his direction until Stiles slid back into bed.

"My dad's going to kill me," Stiles moaned.

"Only if he catches us," Erica laughed softly into his ear.

He didn't even yelp in surprise, which Stiles totally counted as a win. The Terror Twins wrapped themselves around him—seriously, puppies, they were actual puppies, except, you know, frighteningly good-looking—radiating heat. Isaac seemed better than he had before, with Erica there; it probably had something to do with pack, but who the fuck knew anymore.

"I hate you," Stiles muttered.

"Love you, too, mom," Erica laughed again, nipped affectionately at his ear. "Be here when we wake up?"

Stiles just rolled his eyes. "Sure," he said, and closed his eyes.

"Your betas are in my bed," Stiles told Derek boredly.

"Wait, what," Derek said, and the crackle of the static on the other end had Stiles grinning, gleeful as a six-year-old in a 7-11 with ten bucks.

"Your betas. One Erica Reyes and Isaac Lahey? In my bed. Right now. It's happening. Oh yeah."

"Tell them we're waiting for them. We have things to do."

"They look like they haven't slept in a week, dickhead," Stiles told him. "You're running 'em ragged, and you're gonna get bit in the ass for it. Shouldn't you know better? Don't adults know better? How old even are you?!"

There was a long silence, and then:

"Nineteen," Derek said and well.

Well that.

That just.

"That explains so much," Stiles breathed.

"Stiles—"

"Nope, nada, I gotta go, I'm holding this against you forever, bye!"

Stiles cackled, and turned off his phone.

He was probably going to get his ass kicked for it later but.

Whatever.

Derek was nineteen. He was nineteen, barely three years older than Stiles, and he was just as much a train wreck as any of them—ooh, he had just lost literally all rights to being the Big Bad Alpha, because Derek was fucking nineteen, and it was fucking phenomenal.

Stiles was going to hold this against him forever.

On the long list of things Stiles should have known was a bad idea, letting Erica and Isaac say the night was right at the top. Really, he should have known that letting them stay was just a lead-in to other bad things happening but no, he had to go and be soft-hearted like a chump.

Because Erica and Isaac staying the night?

Opened some weird sort of floodgates.

Suddenly, there were puppies everywhere, all the time. Erica most often, which Stiles would have thought strange except for the fact that, while one of the most terrifying people he knew, she was an unapologetic geek and completely unrepentant about it.

"I can like whatever I want, and I happen to like Thor," she'd said, tossing blonde curls over her shoulder, leaning into Stiles' side on the couch while unashamedly stealing his popcorn.

(They watched a lot of superhero movies. It was pretty great, okay.)

Because when they weren't nearly getting killed by the monster-of-the-week, the pack was hanging out in his kitchen, playing his video games and eating all his food. It wasn't just Erica and Isaac, either—it was Lydia, arm around Allison's waist and daring anyone to say a word while Allison shrunk into herself until Stiles offered her a grin that didn't set her teeth on edge. It was Danny, flopped down on the couch and muttering wildly about how bad Stiles' internet was and kicking at Jackson whenever Jackson said something smarmy. It was Boyd, carrying a pile of pizza boxes three feet high on the nights when Stiles' dad wasn't home.

It was Scott, grinning up at him from the floor, and Stiles had to kick him to keep from turning into an emotional three year old and vomit tears and snot everywhere.

Derek stayed away. And Peter was undead, and Stiles didn't want that shit in his house. Creepy undead people needed to stay dead. And dumbass Alphas with superiority complexes… well, they could stay away, too.

But this was his life now.

It wasn't that bad a life, actually.

Except, you know, when there were people dying in the back of his Jeep.

And that happened way more often than Stiles liked to think about.

"C'mon, Scotty, don't do this to me, bro, c'mon, breathe, fuck, breathe, I'm gonna fuckin' kill you when you wake up, someone's gotta knock some sense into you," Stiles rambled to keep the panic at the back of his throat in check.

Because seriously, faeries. Again.

"Could you drive any slower?!" Stiles asked over his shoulder, gore up to his elbow as he tried to keep Scott's insides on his inside. Derek was the shittiest driver in the city, usually via the fact that he never drove the speed limit in a flashy-ass car, so what the fuck was this?

"How would this look if we got caught, Stiles?" Derek snarled.

"How are you gonna feel if Scott dies?!" Stiles demanded, and very desperately did not let his voice crack.

"He's not going to die," Derek said, but that was it, that was all, and that was not okay.

"I can't—I don't have the—he's dying, asshole, how can you say he's not?! We have to get him to Deaton, like, yesterday!"

"We're not letting him die," Derek replied, and pressed down just a little harder on the gas. The rumble of the Jeep as it groaned through shifting gears was the sweetest sound Stiles had ever heard.

Better than nothing, Stiles thought, and held on as Derek took a corner way too fast. The streetlamps blurred past, and so did time, dripping dense and deliberate down Stiles' back. He was too aware of it, too aware of the way the colour drained out of Scott's skin, left him chalky beneath his tan.

"Do you have any fucking idea how bad this is?!"

"No, Stiles," Derek grit out through his teeth, "no idea at all."

Derek snarling and Stiles putting people back together was getting to be a theme in his life. This was happening way too often to be real life. Because puppies are not, keeping your best friend alive with your bare hands?

Definitely not all it was cracked up to be.

"I had a nightmare," Erica's voice was soft in the dark of Stiles' room.

"Cause of Scott?"

"No," she said. Her eyes were the only source of light, wide and gold, lamps in the night. "But is he okay?"

Stiles let out a breath. "You'd know better than I would, but Deaton says he'll be alright."

"I don't trust Deaton," Erica said, and her eyes went dark and human again. "I don't trust anyone outside the pack."

Stiles didn't ask if she trusted him—she wouldn't be here if she didn't. "Are you wearing my old pajamas? And where's Boyd?"

"Shut up, Stilinski," she said, affection in her voice. "They were the only ones that didn't smell like jizz. Boyd's at home, trying to keep Isaac from losing his shit."

"Ridiculous, my pajamas do not smell like jizz," Stiles declared.

"Um, yeah, they do. Like, all the time."

"Ridiculous, he said again, and he dropped down beside her in the crush of sheets and warmth. "Catwoman, what is wrong with these people?"

"Who knows," she said.

"Werewolf shenanigans?"

"Shut up, moron."

For a long time, they were quiet, breathing side by side and not talking because that was easier than thinking about the fact that there was a real possibility that they were all already dead. Dead people walking didn't have much to cheer about.

(Except Peter, but Stiles was pretty sure Lydia was planning his death as they spoke.)

"What did you dream about?"

"Gerard," Erica whispered. "Always Gerard. Like what… what even are we doing, Stiles? Like, what the hell is this? Derek said that we'd be stronger, and we are, but…"

"But we have like ten million other problems to deal with," Stiles snickered, but it wasn't funny.

It wasn't funny at all.

"I love Boyd," she murmured, as she wrapped her arms around his waist. "I haven't told him that yet. I mean, we're sixteen, right? Sixteen year olds don't know what love it. But I think… It feels right. Really right. We came back together and I—I only came back because he wanted to. I was so scared, Stiles, I thought—I thought—"

Stiles nodded into her shoulder. "I was pretty scared, too."

"Friends?" she asked, a tiny tremor in her voice.

"Always, Catwoman," Stiles said.

She pressed her face into the line of his jaw, and for a second they were just two kids

"Hey," she said, pushing upwards. When she grinned, it was all teeth. "I have an idea."

"No, I don't like that smile, what is that smile, you should stop that smile right now," Stiles said. Erica grinned down at him, and despite the lack of make-up and bare lips, she didn't look any less predatory than usual. This was going to go down well for no one, Stiles knew how these things worked—

"Let's go raid Derek's closet."

"That is a huge invasion of privacy," Stiles said, but the corners of his mouth were curling up.

"What's your point?"

"Why haven't we done this before?"

Erica laughed like he'd never heard her do, not the sharp harsh wild thing that usually escaped, but something light and free and easy as she scrambled for the window.

"You coming or what?"

"Human, remember?"

She rolled flashing golden eyes. "God, you humans. So breakable. I'll meet you down there."

And then she was out the window like some kind of magical moon princess (and yeah, they'd totally watched three seasons of Sailor Moon because why the fuck not), and Stiles was left to scramble downstairs and out the door after her.

Erica Reyes and Stiles Stilinski: a decidedly decent team, if only accidentally.

"Aren't you supposed to be good at this?!"

Derek snarled.

"Can you not? That shit is getting really tired, man," Stiles snapped in reply, hands fluttering to put pressure on the gory wound on Boyd's shoulder that just would not heal. "Seriously, can't you come up with something a little more original than Big Bad Wolf?"

The fact that Boyd managed to get a chuckle out told Stiles that he would be alright, eventually.

"Is your dad home," Derek asked, but it wasn't really a question.

"No, I—oh no, nope, no way, turn this car around right now, mister, I do not need werewolf blood all over my sheets again—"

Derek, quite predictably, did not pay him a single iota of attention.

Stiles vowed to spike his breakfast cereal with wolfsbane. Not a lot! Just to, you know, poison the shit out of him. Or something.

"You're doing the fucking laundry," Stiles said, and stuck his nose in the air.

Boyd snickered, this time, then made a sound hollow with pain.

Stiles' hands were dark and shining, slickly warm and wet. He valiantly fought not to throw up—one of these days someone was going to make him bleed and he was just going to look at it like oh look, blood. Stupid werewolves. His mouth settled into a grim line.

"Hey Sourwolf?"

"What."

"You might wanna step on it. My dead grandmother drives faster than you do, and Boyd over here is, y'know, still bleeding."

"I hate you," Derek said fervently.

Stiles felt a grim flash of satisfaction. "So an old dog can learn new tricks!"

Boyd choked on his laughter at the look Derek shot the pair of them. Stiles snapped his mouth shut and grinned innocently, because really, what else could he do?

Not hold onto the door, obviously, because Derek continued to drive like an old man.

"Dude. Boyd. Bleeding. Let's get a move on, here, grandpa."

"Stiles," Derek said, strained.

"I will quote Mean Girls at you, Derek. I will quote Mean Girls at you for a week." Stiles said ominously.

Derek hit the gas.

"Seriously, fuck you guys and the gallons of blood you leave all over the place. My bedroom smells like a morgue."

"Nah, smells safe," Scott said, voice concentrated as he split his attention between doing one-armed pull-ups and squinting desperately at their Chemistry homework. "Like home."

"Because everyone's bled all over my pillows," Stiles said, flat.

"Yup," Scott said, and dropped to the floor with a muffled thump. He sprawled out there, a gangly puppy that hadn't quite grown into his paws yet, and a rush of affection hit Stiles like a fist to the gut.

Scott was why Stiles was still here.

Moron.

"I'm pretty sure bleeding all over the place was not part of the social contract when we decided this friendship was gonna be a thing," Stiles said.

"We were six, and you sat down next to me and stole my pudding cup."

"You gave that up willingly!" Stiles half-shouted, scandalized and flapping his arms like some oversized bird-bat.

"You keep telling yourself that," Scott dropped back to the ground, stretched and scratched at his head lazily. "Get back to me when you actually believe it."

"Worst," Stiles sighed. "Actual worst."

Scott looped a sweaty arm over Stiles' shoulder—"gross, how old are you, again?"—and shoved him down so that Stiles' face smushed neatly against one of his pillows.

"Ow," Stiles said.

Scott laughed so hard he nearly choked.

"How is this my life," Stiles asked no one in particular. "Werewolves are douchebags, seriously."

It just made Scott laugh harder.

(This is why no one takes you seriously, Lydia's voice said in the back of his head with a sniff. Stiles didn't question why he had a Lydia in his head. Lydia did and went where and what she wanted, and if that meant the inside of his head, then that was what it meant.

The sad part was, she was probably right.)

"Seriously, now you're bleeding out on my bed? My bed is not a free-for-all bleed out death orgy palace, oh my god!" Stiles flailed at the man lying on his bed.

Derek's only verbal response was a pained groan.

Stiles had to restrain himself from throwing a textbook at Derek's head.

(No textbook deserved that.)

"C'mon, asshole, we gotta get you cleaned up before you get infected with some weird werewolf disease. Oh, wait," Stiles paused to sneer, "you already have that."

"Stiles," Derek said, warningly and through beginning-to-wolf-out teeth.

Stiles sighed loudly through his nose, and hoisted Derek up. He staggered for a minute beneath two hundred pounds of solid muscle, and then managed to hook his arm around said solid muscle's waist, and propped him upright. "What the fuck do you eat? Rocks? Children?"

"Mouthy teenagers," Derek got out through bloody lips.

Stiles had another over-powering urge to throw something at his head. Or drop him. Either would work.

But he wasn't that cruel, and Derek was beginning to look really fucking pale, and that was probably not okay.

"Shut the fuck up, you nineteen-year-old disaster, you're not any better than me. And didn't anyone ever teach you manners? Cannibalism is wrong, Derek. Were you raised by wolves?" he asked instead.

And then there was sudden wall-slamming.

(Why was there always wall-slamming?)

"Get offa me," Stiles grunted at him, voice low and dark and furious. Derek had his wrists up above his head, head bent just enough so that they were eye-to-glowing-red-eye.

"No," Derek said, just as low and just as dark, and then.

Well.

Things happened.

Things like Stiles got a boner happened.

"Derek," Stiles said. "Get off."

There was a silence and then Derek actually smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. "Aren't you about to, Stiles?"

(Okay, so, it wasn't like he hadn't maybe had this exact fantasy before, in that slow half-awake and dreaming place just before sleep took over. Usually there was biting involved and Derek was like, mostly naked. All the way naked. Oh god, Stiles thought, rather hysterically, this was not a dream. Why wasn't this a dream?)

"Nope," Stiles said. "Nope, absolutely not, no way, nuh-uh, shoo, I'm not having this conversation now—or ever—nope, nope, not happening—"

Derek was off him faster than a burn.

"Wait, shit, no, I meant—get back here, you asshole, you don't get to—" Stiles grabbed at Derek's ruined, blood-soaked shirt and tugged him forwards until they were pressed together again, chest-to-chest, hip-to-hip.

"Ow," Derek said, deadpan.

"I'm going to kill you," Stiles told him vehemently.

"Go ahead and try it," Derek growled.

And then they were smooching, and Stiles brain kind of shut off, for a while.

"Derek, Stiles? Really?" Lydia was doing her nails, and she was very clearly unimpressed. "I thought you loved me. Didn't you have a ten-year plan?"

"You love and are dating Jackson, of all people, so you don't get to judge my choice of—whatever this is," said Stiles, and really, that was more than enough explanation for the both of them. "Also, I do have a ten-year plan. It, just, y'know. Might have changed. A little."

"To include Derek's penis?" Lydia said, squinting down at her nails.

Stiles had the grace to cover his face with a pillow. "Yes."

"Well," she heaved a great sigh. "I supposed it is about time. Drat. I owe Erica money. I hate owing Erica money."

"You guys had a bet?!" Stiles yelped. "Lydia!"

"Of course we had a bet, Stiles," she said, rolling her perfect green eyes in her perfect eye sockets, exasperation thick on her tongue. Really, he shouldn't have been surprised—Lydia was a murder-witch and Erica was a pissed off she-wolf. Of course they would get along.

"That's so unfair," Stiles muttered. "Erica and I are bros!"

"Darling," Lydia said unsympathetically, "never underestimate the power of female friendship. It's like mermaids, except with less drowning sailors and more gleeful destruction of everyone else."

"Well, that's frightening."

Lydia patted his cheek, smiling with all her teeth, before losing interest in anything he might have had to say and went to back grooming her nails to pin-point deadly perfection. For a moment she sat back, content to examine the way the shone in the lamp-light. The darkness of her witchery curled around her—he could see the way the horrorterror shadows clung to her; she was their lovely mistress playing with life like it was nothing.

Her bells hung on the wall, death in shiny solid silver. They caught the light from the fairy lights overhead that Allison had hung, glinting merrily.

Stiles remembered how Lydia had shrieked COVER YOUR EARS.

Stiles remembered how the bodies of the rogue hunters had fallen, one by one, until there was nothing but silence and the crouched forms of his friends, all hunkered down and shaking. The way that Lydia had held the bell in her hand, tears streaming down her cheeks, choked and thick.

Abhorsen, she'd said, and said it like a prayer. Abhorsen.

Stiles remembered.

(And pretended valiantly that he wasn't terrified of her. Which didn't work, of course, because this was Lydia and Lydia was frightening even on her best days. Stiles had always known that she was perfect—yeah, more like perfectly terrifying.)

Something gentled in her face, suddenly, mouth gone soft as the corners of her lips curled up sweetly.

"You're over-thinking things again, moron," she told him, and reached over to pat his face. "This isn't a big deal."

"How is Derek's dick not a big deal?!"

She scrunched her nose up, strawberry curls falling around her face. "Is it a big deal? Like, literally that big?"

"Oh my god!" Stiles made a squeaky high-pitched noise, and flailed so hard he fell off the bed.

Lydia laughed so hard she snorted, but she still reached down to help him up, and that was pretty okay, too.

Allison tried to give him The Talk.

The Talk about Derek.

The Talk about Derek's Dick in Your Ass and You!

"Can you please stop calling it that?!"

She shrugged shamelessly, shook her new short hair out. They'd all changed, after Gerard, and Allison the most—she was still sunshine and dimples and Scott's One True Love, but she'd cut her hair, and her eyes were a little haunted, these days. She still wouldn't look Erica or Boyd in the face, and Stiles knew that it took all the courage that she had to even talk to him.

(Sometimes, he thought it took all his courage just to let her. But it wasn't her fault, had never been her fault, and if anyone understood dead mothers, it was Stiles.)

"His dick is in your ass, though, right?"

Stiles sputtered.

The look on her face was one of smug satisfaction and nothing else. It was a pain that Allison was so nice, it was hard to hate her (even when she went on a probably-murder-spree because her family was nutso).

"I hate you," Stiles said petulantly.

She shrunk into herself for a moment, and Stiles had a moment of intense panic because he thought—he thought—

But then she kind of grinned weakly out of the corner of her mouth, and managed "Whatever, Spark-boy."

If Stiles wasn't already in feelings with—well, Derek—and Allison wasn't in feelings with—well, Scott—he would probably have fallen in love with her right then and there. Only Allison would come back from something like that with a comeback that terrible.

(Scott must have been rubbing off on her.)

Stiles threw a careless arm over her shoulder, and for a second, they were sixteen again, and they'd only just met, and she and Scott had only just started dating, and werewolves were still—unfortunately—a thing.

But hey! Teenagers, who mostly didn't have blood under their fingernails and who hadn't ever killed a person.

Neither Stiles nor Allison could say they hadn't, anymore.

Which? Sucky.

They stayed like that for a while, Allison with her head dropped onto his shoulder and Stiles stuck to her like some kind of limpet, before they both breathed out exhaustion in unison. Somewhere along the line they'd become—something. Not friends. Deeper and darker and stickier.

"Let's get out of here," Allison said.

"Coffee?" Stiles asked, sad and hopeful.

She snickered, tugged on his hair, and said "Sure. Just make sure to wear a condom, okay?"

"Allison, oh my god, it's like you don't even know me!"

Three days later, Derek turned up on his doorstep with coffee and with no blood on his hands, which was kind of the only reason that Stiles let him into the house.

Well, that, and the fact that he had coffee.

Because coffee.

(Also the lack of blood and the fact that he'd come to the door at all and—shut up, Stiles.)

Still, Stiles gave him a wary once-or-twice over until he put the coffee cup to his mouth, and then he stopped thinking about Derek entirely.

The coffee was sweet. The coffee was unholy sweet, sweet all the way up to his eyeballs, the kind of sweet that made his teeth ache. It was hellishly sweet, awful sweet, perfect sweet.

Stiles moaned in appreciation.

"Oh my god, you know my coffee order, that is so romantic. Wait, did Allison tell you? Because if Allison told you, that's cheating, and I'm going to tell Erica on you."

Derek pinched the bridge of his nose. "Your coffee order is sugar, Stiles, it's not that hard to figure out. Just sugar. and—you can't use my own beta against me."

"With a shot of caffeine. And I can too!"

"Just sugar, and no, you can't," Derek said, but the corners of his lips curled up and then he was—

He was smiling.

Stiles sat in slack-jawed awe for a moment, unable to do anything except stare at the way the Big Bad Alpha's jaw loosened and he looked, for a single moment, exactly like the messed-up teenager that he was. And wow, okay, Derek was normally a twelve on a scale of one to ten, but that smile shot him up to the level of Lydia. Almost. Maybe. Really close, regardless.

(Lydia was so right, though. Stiles did have a type. It was just that that type was completely, totally, impossibly out of his league.)

"What are you looking at," Derek said flatly.

"You're so pretty," Stiles said, and that was—probably the wrong thing to say, he was definitely going to die—

But the tips of Derek's ears were going red, and in that moment, Stiles had a profound realization.

Derek cared what he thought.

Which meant that the sex they seemed to keep having? Wasn't just sex. It was relationship sex, which was totally different and Jesus Christ, Stiles was so stupid, how had he not seen this coming—?

He wasn't sure quite how he managed to scramble over the Camaro's stick-shift without spilling his coffee everywhere and ruining the moment, but he managed it (winning forever), and then he was in Derek's lap, knees on either side of his hips. Stiles settled there, shifted until he was comfortable, and then looked down at the wide-eyed man sitting beneath him.

"You know how I like my coffee," Stiles said again, wonderingly. "You like me."

Derek grumbled loudly.

"That's not a denial," Stiles sang at him.

Derek's hands came up to curl around the sharp jut of Stiles' hips. "And what if I do?"

"Do what?"

"Like you, Stiles."

Stiles swore. "I am going to date you so hard, that's what, you magnificent disaster."

"That doesn't make sen—"

Stiles cut him off with a hand down his pants and a mouth against the wild pulse in Derek's throat.

"No more talking, Sourwolf," Stiles ordered, and bit down, hard.

And that was pretty much that.

.

.

.

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fin.

notes4: Erica is my favourite.
notes5L SUCK MY DICK, MORI.