Erica shuts him up with her tongue. Shoves it deep inside his mouth until he can only let out a little gasp to then cease making even the tiniest sound. She is sure, hands touching his neck and his chest, the insides of his elbows, that blemished patch of skin next to his hipbone that's covered by a long slim scar (Scott and him as kids had been as terrible as a hurricane, unstopable motion and a myriad of bad ideas).

After she is done kissing him, she puts a finger on his lips, whispers "shut up and enjoy this, Stilinski. God knows you need it."

Her gentle smile betrays the bite of her words, and he swallows his own.

Isaac uses his hand. Presses it against his parted lips, his chest to Stiles' back, mouth hot and wicked on his neck, sucking bruises all over. He chuckles as Stiles licks his palm in retaliation, makes a big show out of grabbing Stiles' neck with his free hand; applies a little pressure to make him turn his head and look as he takes the hand away and licks it in the very same place Stiles had done it, eager and dirty.

He is left speechless.

Isaac smiles at him, turns him around and brushes their lips together in something more innocent than a kiss.

And then goes back to covering his skin in hickeys.

Derek uses his eyes. Looks at him with this all consuming heat that makes him want to do stupid things, and he goes quiet. No words, no violence, no other means.

He'd feel pathetic, if he didn't like it so much, if it wasn't so incredibly good to close his mouth for a few minutes and give his tongue a well deserved break.

He'd feel stifled, or underappreciated perhaps, if he couldn't see what it is that they all want to achieve. If he couldn't see that by making him stay silent all they want is to help him find some peace. He talks as he thinks, thinks in spoken words. When he allows himself to be quieter, to shut up, his brain slows down. Gives *him* a break.

Derek uses his eyes. It's incredibly effective. But then he uses his whole body to keep him like that; uses rough hands over the sensitive skin of his thighs; uses his mouth to cover Isaac's playful trail of bruises on his neck from yesterday with his own, bigger, and then to smash them against his lips to replace Erica's lingering taste from two days ago with his; Derek uses his legs, to push Stiles' own apart; uses his hips too, to keep Stiles pinned against walls with only their heat.

Stiles remains silent, taking in the sensation of Derek doing this for him, of him letting Erica and Isaac do this for him too when he can't; it's never the same, and it never goes far (Stiles feels like he's cheating, for all that they haven't even decided if they are or not together), but he's seen what it does to Derek, still. It warms him up that Derek values this ('this' being this strange little ritual that stops him from drowning in a well of his own words and thoughts, 'this' being his wellbeing) enough to resist his own possessive instincts.

The eyes come back to him, and he stops thinking even that. Stops even having to bite his lips to drown little gasps, goes completely under.

It's a gift.

Hours later, he's back to talking nonstop. But the noise inside him is subdued, something that he can control, give a shape to, instead of a rush that takes him for a host inside his own head.

Derek doesn't smile, but listens until Stiles is done.

Which, for someone like Derek, might be a gift too.