Derek doesn't remember what they were fighting about, just that it was stupid and had nothing to do with the rogue omega that was passing through Beacon Hills. He doesn't remember the music that was playing on Stiles' stereo or what sport was playing on the downstairs television. He's forgotten the day of the week and the reason he'd even gone over to Stiles' house that night. And he couldn't tell you the brand of condom he pulled from the box on the headboard, or even what Stiles was wearing because he wasn't wearing it very long.
What he does remember is pouncing on Stiles, shoving him up against the wall hard and crushing their lips together while they both moaned. What he still feels is the thrill that set his blood afire when he first saw Stiles' naked body, the lightning that cracked through his spine when Stiles first touched him. Derek memorized the shiver in his bones when he reminded Stiles that his father was downstairs and he whispered back "Don't care," and the feeling of pressing his slicked finger in, gentle because it was Stiles' first time. And he will never forget the noises Stiles made while Derek fucked him, even muffled as they were by Derek's hand.
Derek left out the window the next morning as the sun was rising, stealing a glance back to the sleeping figure on the bed. His eyes lingered on the cheek bones and lips that were highlighted in a way that constricted Derek's throat and chest. He tried to convince himself that they could just go back to the way things had always been, this meant nothing, this wouldn't happen again.
Nearly a year later, Derek figures one out of three ain't bad.
Stiles throws a punch and Derek catches it and smashes their lips together. Clothes disappear in a trail to the bedroom; the sex is loud, rough - and definitely top five, in Derek's opinion. Stiles thinks so, too, if the noises he makes are any indication. After, they roll over and Derek spreads his hand out on Stiles' chest, flicking over his obnoxiously hard nipple with his thumb and mouthing at his neck.
"You know our conversation isn't over just 'cuz you fucked me," Stiles announces suddenly, turning to look back at Derek. His words break through the afterglow that Derek is not yet done with.
The alpha rolls his eyes, arms tightening around Stiles. "Mmm, yes it is."
"No!" Stiles twists in Derek's arms. "You still owe me an explanation, at the very fucking least."
Derek huffs, nostrils flaring as he disentangles himself from Stiles and sits on the edge of the bed, reaching for his underwear. "I don't know what you want me to say." His head falls into his hand and he rubs the heel of his palm against his eye.
"What I-?" Stiles cuts himself off and there's bouncing and rustling on the bed behind Derek as the teen finds his boxers and pulls them on. They'd learned early on that trying to argue naked was even less productive than arguing clothed. "What I want is for you to give me an actual reason why this is such a problem for you," Stiles explains, climbing off and walking around the bed.
Derek looks up and shrugs. "Why what is such a problem?" he asks, standing and walking past Stiles to the doorway to retrieve his sweatpants.
Stiles follows after him. "Well for starters, your complete inability to admit when you're wrong."
Derek whirls on him, sweatpants gripped in his hands. "What does that have to do with anything?"
The second time was a week after the first. He was leaning against the skylight on the roof, watching the city and tuning out the television Isaac was watching below. That's probably why he didn't notice the creaking of the stairs until a chestnut-haired head poked up next to his right leg.
They fought about it- of course they did, they fought about everything. But then personal space evaporated, and Derek was tearing at Stiles' clothes and bit down on his neck. The teen pulled Derek's hair and ground his hips against Derek's thigh. Soon they were both bare and gasping for air, Stiles shivering against Derek as they lowered to the cool glass of the skylight.
The arrogant little shit brought lube, of course he did, and Derek's brain was too shot to come up with any of the several good reasons why they should stop. Derek vaguely heard the sound of the front door opening while he fingered Stiles open as quickly as he could, which seemed to be working for him if the breathless moans and the scratches he was leaving along Derek's shoulder blades were any indication.
Derek fucked him against the angled glass until Stiles came twice and then found his own release between those gorgeous, bitten-red lips. They bickered through their afterglow, stumbled down the spiral stairs to the shower and then Derek's bed, where they fought over who got to be big spoon before settling into a mess of limbs and haphazardly thrown covers.
Derek ducks out of the way of the water bottle Stiles lobbed at his head, growling when it explodes against the wall, the liquid splashing all down his back.
"Dammit, Stiles!" he yells across the apartment to where the teen is huffing in anger, glaring daggers at him.
"I am so fucking sick of your woe-is-me bullshit! You can't for one second accept that someone might give a fuck." His voice is already hoarse from shouting and Derek will never admit that he prefers it that way, that he lives to hear that raspy voice whisper dirty things into his ear.
Derek doesn't know where the argument started, too furious to remember whether it was pack issues, family issues or dinner plans. It doesn't matter. It never matters, because this is where they always end up, without fail.
Crossing the room, Derek stabs his finger towards Stiles "No, you just can't see that not everyone has to think like you."
"Think like me? Derek, you don't have to think like me to act like an actual human being every once in a while," Stiles rebuts, flicking his jaw to highlight his words. They stand at the front and back of the couch, Derek's blunt fingernails digging into the top where he grips it.
"News flash, Stiles, I'm not human!" he retorts.
"Oh, fuck you and the horse you rode in on," Stiles spits back bitterly. "Being a werewolf doesn't exempt you from feeling basic emotion, no matter how much you try to pretend it does."
"I never- that's not-" Derek stops himself a growl that was entirely human leaking into his voice. "You know, you always do this. Every single time and I never learn."
The first time Stiles topped was awkward and uncoordinated, partly because, well, Stiles, but mostly because Derek kept trying to intervene.
The second time, however, was magnificent. It was a night to remember- and definitely not the last. Stiles took full control and also took his time, long, elegant fingers opening Derek with maddeningly slow repetition until Derek had come and was hard again. He would never acknowledge the little groans, moans and whimpers that escaped from his chest, but he knew Stiles wouldn't forget them. When Stiles finally pushed in, slowly with hands braced on Derek's chest, Derek let out a sob of relief, hands wrapping around Stiles' forearms and legs wrapping around his waist.
Stiles bent down to kiss Derek through his second orgasm- and his third. Derek wasn't sure how Stiles did it because he definitely never held out that long before - or ever again. When he was finally about to come, his fingers curled on Derek's pecs, his head dropped down and his lips parted just enough to let out several soft, heavy moans in Derek's ear as his movements quickened then slowed. Then he was biting down hard on Derek's neck and they both shouted through his climax.
Pursing his lips, Derek turns around to face Stiles, nodding his head. "That's it, I'm done. This, this is over."
Stiles rolls his eyes. "'Just one last night, Stiles. One more time and I'm gone,'" he mocks and then deadpans. "Like I haven't heard it all before? You've been looking for an excuse to leave since the day we started this, Derek, so don't you dare pretend this is some grand revelation."
Derek shakes his head. "No, I mean it, Stiles. I'm ending this," Derek tells him, resolve ringing in his voice. "For good."
Stiles gives him a doubtful look, eyebrows high. "For whose fucking good? It's sure as hell not yours or mine."
"That's not what I meant- Fuck, stop twisting my words!" Derek snarls, fisting his hands tightly at his sides.
Stiles crosses his arms, smirking. "So, not good?"
Derek sighs heavily. "This doesn't work." He steps forward, invading Stiles' space, trying to get his point across. "And we're too fucked up to even see what normal is anymore."
"Normal? Derek, neither of us is normal! You're an emotionally constipated werewolf, I'm a hyperactive teenager, and the one thing we have in common is our own special brand of self-loathing." Stiles held his arms out, as if to encompass everything they were. "Fucked up is in our nature. You are shit out of luck if you want normal."
This is about the time in the argument when Stiles or Derek normally snaps and grabs at the other, shoving his tongue down his throat, effectively ending the conversation for the time being. And fuck if Derek's palms aren't itching to do just that. Stiles' lips are still plump and red, and his hair is a mess, cheeks flushed in anger. He just looks so infuriatingly gorgeous, amber eyes shining almost as bright as a beta's, and Derek's hand twitches toward him.
Not again, Derek thinks. Not this time.
Taking a deep breath through his nose, Derek clenches his fists and tilts his chin down for maximum eye contact. "It's over. That," he declares, pointing to the bedroom. "That was the last time."
They were bickering about nothing as they drove through Beacon Hills in Stiles' Jeep, coming back from checking out an abandoned cabin on the east side of the Preserve earlier that night. Bickering turned into fighting about their relationship and Derek finally had too much. He couldn't handle the constant battle that was being with Stiles, he wouldn't put up with it any longer. He demanded Stiles stop the car, which would have worked when they first met, but three months since they'd started screwing each other, it just made Stiles go faster.
When they pulled into the driveway of the human's house, Stiles had the car off and was reaching for Derek before he could even open the door, pulling at his jacket and catching Derek's lips with his own. Derek told him no, even as his hands were reaching to pull Stiles into his lap, said it again as he mouthed along Stiles neck and slid his jeans down over his ass. Stiles reached a hand into the console next to them without breaking the kiss, retrieving the tube of lube he kept stashed there and pressing it against Derek's chest.
"One last time and then I'm gone," he breathed out against Stiles' ear as he worked him open and Stiles pulled both their shirts off. "One last time."
Stiles didn't respond, just opened Derek's jeans and pulled him out, moaning as the alpha squeezed his cheeks. When he lowered down onto Derek, Stiles gripped his shoulders and held his gaze, eyes bright and intense, and the heat that sent rushing through him made Derek feel like he was going to explode. He set the pace, hard and just shy of fast enough for Stiles. It wasn't until Stiles was gasping for air and begging, clawing at Derek's chest, that he finally sped up and began to work Stiles with his hand until he came all over both their chests, Derek following shortly after.
Stiles bent down, staring at Derek as he licked a stripe from his abs to his nipple and then shoved his tongue into Derek's mouth - and he could stay, Derek thought. One more night couldn't hurt.
Derek can see the exact second when Stiles realizes just how serious he is, when the words finally click. When he understands that this isn't just another one of their fights. His eyebrows rise up slightly and he swallows, falling back on his heels. He bites at his lips a moment, nodding. "Well, okay then."
"I'm just doing what I think is best. Because this?" Derek points between them. "It's toxic. For both of us."
Stiles is nodding, backing away. "No, yeah, you're totally right." Derek can hear the broken sarcasm in his voice, but he doesn't let it get to him. Doesn't let it break his resolve. "Because you've totally got a record for making phenomenal life choices." He starts looking around, bending to grab a sock on the floor and Derek forces himself to keep his eyes away from Stiles' ass.
Derek follows after him as he collects his clothes. "All we do is fight, Stiles! We deserve better than this."
Stiles spins around, hoodie sleeves swinging through the air. "Oh, so now I'm not good enough for you?" His voice pitched high and his heart rate shot up.
Fuck, Derek thought. "No, Stiles. I didn't say that. But don't you think we both deserve to be with people we don't want to strangle every second of every day?"
Stiles pulls on his jeans. "No, actually, that sounds boring as fuck." He shrugs.
Derek sighs heavily, ignoring the heat that races through his blood when Stiles' tongue suddenly pops to wet his lips. He ignores the fondness that tugs on his heart at the sight of what he calls Stiles' 'snarky little eyebrow twitch.'
"I think we'll both be happier if we put a stop to this," Derek explains softly as Stiles pulls on his other sock.
After looking around a moment, Stiles meets his eyes, fully clothed but for his t-shirt, lavender hoodie hanging from his fist. "Well, I'm sorry I don't make you happy, Derek."
"That's not-"
"Have you seen my shirt?" Stiles asks, cutting off his protest. His heart is beating rapidly and he smells overwhelmingly of anger, but Derek can scent the hurt there as well, the pain.
Derek scrunches his eyebrows in confusion at the change in subject. "What? No, I-"
"You know what? Fine. You want me to go, consider me gone. For good," Stiles mocks. "You can go off and look for some nice, normal, happy relationship. See how much I care."
He goes into the bedroom a moment and Derek starts to follow, stopping when Stiles comes back out, still carrying his hoodie in his hand.
"Stiles, I-" Derek starts.
"Where the fuck is my shirt?" Stiles asks, looking around again.
"I don't know, I just-" Derek starts to reach a hand toward him, stopping himself at the last moment.
"Whatever, fuck it." Stiles shakes his head and sighs angrily, shoving his arms through the sleeves of his hoodie. He storms toward the door, pulling it open. "Fuck the shirt, fuck this relationship, and fuck you!"
The rafters shake when Stiles slams the door with a loud bang.
Derek recognized the too-fast heart beat before he was even at the front door and sighed, considering taking off out the window. He didn't, but when Stiles came into his room, he didn't look up, just continued staring at the novel he was no longer reading. Stiles paced, not speaking, and that put Derek on edge – a quiet Stiles meant trouble. He'd expected anger and bluster, given that Derek had left the morning before after a pretty vicious fight that had ended in wall sex- and by vicious, he meant that none of Stiles' clothes were repairable.
Stiles walked over, stopping in front of Derek and pulling the book from his hands, setting it on the table. Derek finally looked up to meet Stiles' piercing golden eyes, and held his gaze as Stiles lowered down between Derek's legs, placing his broad hands on Derek's knees. He was lost for words, unwilling to break the moment. It didn't matter that he'd told Stiles this wouldn't happen again, it didn't matter that they were wrong for each other. The alpha swallowed thickly as Stiles' palms slid up his thighs slowly, his jeans growing ever-tighter and his own heart racing.
Then Stiles was plucking at the button of Derek's jeans and he stuttered breathlessly "St-stop," and Stiles did. The human paused, looking up underneath long lashes and his tongue pushed out, wetting his lips with aching slowness from one corner to the other. Derek couldn't pull his eyes from that little dip in the center of Stiles' top lip, knowing that it pressed oh-so-slightly more on just the right place along his cock. His heart was pounding as if to break free from his chest and he cursed, then fumbled to open his jeans and released himself.
Grinning, Stiles licked him from root to tip and Derek's hands clenched over Stiles' where they rested on his tense thighs, gritting his teeth against the moan in his throat. Stiles had Derek gasping for air and pulling at his soft, chestnut hair within a minute, but he stopped whenever Derek got close, repeating this several times until the werewolf was growling. Finally when Derek was just about to snap, Stiles pulled away completely, standing and stripping, and, after a moment's hesitation, Derek followed suit.
When he awoke hours later to the rising sun, Derek sat at the edge of the mattress, his back to Stiles. His face fell into his hands and he tried to swallow back the guilt of another mistake made.
Derek leans against the table, fingertips leaving dents in the wood as he tries to control his breathing, tries to make sense of the lump growing in his chest, pressing against all his organs and leaving him feeling somehow hollow.
He's finally done it, finally ended this, finally found his control. That's been the problem this whole relationship, Derek's utter lack of self-control. He should be glad. He should feel proud, relieved to finally have this weight lifted.
He doesn't. There is no pride, relief. No happiness. Derek closes his eyes, taking slow breaths as he thinks about what he just did. His lungs fill with the scent of Stiles, the tang of his anger, the bitter odor of his pain. It's all around him and it's suffocating him.
Derek strides to the staircase, goes up to the roof, looking for fresh air. He finds it, but then memories are pressing in, flashes of sights and smells and sensations, but most of all sounds. He remembers the chill of that first night out here, the way Stiles felt pressed against him, the smell of his arousal, still accompanied by nervousness; he thinks of the heat in Stiles' bright gaze, how gorgeous he looked up against the glass. And he hears him, each moan, gasp, whimper and whine.
Overwhelmed, he rushes back downstairs, but there's nowhere he can go to escape. Stiles has marked every inch of the loft with his scent and his memory and Derek drops to a seat at the bottom of the stairs, running his hand through his hair.
Shit.
He spots a flash of orange out of the corner of his eye and snaps his head toward it. Lying against the wall next to the stairs is a bundle of orange and blue stripes, worn and fading - Stiles' t-shirt. Derek reaches for it and pulls it to his nose without thinking, breathing in the concentrated scent of Stiles, heavily laced with the anger and arousal he was feeling before it was pulled off and thrown.
Derek closes his eyes and drops his arms, the t-shirt dangling between his knees. The lump in his chest only seems to be growing bigger, heavier, and yet still more empty.
Pathetic. That's what he is. He can't even handle ten minutes without the kid, it's like co-dependency on crack. It doesn't make sense because he's left before; he's told Stiles they were over a hundred times. But it never felt like this, like a crushing void consuming his entire being. This time is different. This time Stiles walked out. This time it feels final.
Before he even has the conscious thought, Derek is up and grabbing for a shirt, shoving his keys into the pocket of his sweats. Stiles' shirt is still gripped in his hand as he opens the door and bounds down the stairs. He tosses it in the passenger seat as he races towards the Sheriff's house.
Stiles finally just told him to shut up, they didn't have time to be fighting about automobile upkeep when they still didn't know how to find the witches that were trying to drive the pack out of Beacon Hills; they needed to figure this out. He ignored Derek's annoyed huffs and turned his attention back to the large, ancient text in his lap, occasionally lifting a document from the pile of papers around him on the bed. Derek sat in the chair next to the bed, clicking through the Hale archives on his laptop.
A rustle of papers, followed by a quick intake of air, caught Derek's attention and he looked up. Stiles' eyes were flicking back and forth between the book and a sheet of paper he was clutching in long, gentle fingers. He put the paper down and ran his index finger back and forth across the yellowed page, eyes wide as he read. The sun was setting and the pale orange highlighted Stiles' more prominent features- the line of his cheekbones, the shadows of his lashes, the curve of his nose, the protrusion of his parted lips.
The teen reached up to scratch at his jaw line and the breath flew from Derek's lungs, heart tightening in a way that was piercing but not unpleasant. He stared as Stiles worried at his bottom lip and Derek's eyes got lost for an innumerable time watching Stiles' hands as they turned pages and tracked the words. His shoulders were hunched forward, disguising the perfect way his back could arch up off the bed when the right pressure was applied to just the right places – places Derek had memorized.
Stiles didn't notice when Derek closed the laptop and stood. He did notice when Derek swept an arm across the bed, sending all of the papers to the ground. He looked up to Derek with wide, questioning eyes and barely got out a huff of annoyed surprise before his book had joined the papers and Derek was capturing his lips with his own. The alpha kneed his way onto the bed and crawled up Stiles' body as the human laid back, already moaning into Derek's mouth and cupping his cheek. Capturing his hands, Derek pinned them to the bed above his head and began to run his free hand over Stiles' face, chest and stomach, tracking once along the side of his thigh to hitch his knee up over Derek's hip.
Derek ground his hips down against Stiles' and slid his arm around Stiles' back to find each of his favorite pressure points. He reveled in the feeling of Stiles arching his torso up into him, the tug of Stiles' arms as he ached to touch Derek back. There was nothing in the world but the two of them, nothing but this moment, this intimacy.
He doesn't have a plan, doesn't know what he's going to say. Derek walks up to the house, listening to make sure the Sheriff isn't home. He can hear Stiles' heart beat inside, muffled slightly and he pushes open the window to his bedroom to find it empty.
Crawling into the room, Derek recognizes the sound of the shower down the hall and a heat runs through his blood. He tosses Stiles' shirt on his bed and toes off his shoes. Approaching the bathroom door, Derek turns the knob as quietly as he can, stepping inside and closing the door with the same caution. Stiles doesn't notice him as he strips, standing under the water, the smell of body wash barely masking the bitter emotions leaking from the teen. He digs into Stiles' cubby in the cabinet for the lube he keeps there for just this type of occasion.
Without warning, Derek pushes back the curtain and steps into the shower. Stiles startles, jumping and spinning around, barely catching himself against tiled wall when he slips. Derek doesn't give him a chance to start talking – words have done enough today – and pulls him closer by his hip and neck, biting his way hungrily into Stiles' mouth. Stiles is frozen for just half a second before his hands are wrapping around Derek's biceps and he's pulling their bodies together, doing more to get Derek wet than the splashing water from the shower head.
Stiles' hands move upwards, fingers tangling in Derek's hair and he wraps his leg around the back of Derek's. Their movements are slippery and uncoordinated and it's perfect. The kiss is desperate, passionate, leaving them both growling and shoving their way into the others' mouth, biting and sucking at warm lips.
Suddenly Derek drops his hands to Stiles' hips and flips him around, sliding a hand up Stiles' stomach and pulling him back against his own chest. Stepping forward into the hot stream, Derek sucks at the back of Stiles' shoulder, constricting his arms around Stiles as the teen's long arm comes to wrap around Derek's neck, the other digging fingernails into Derek's thigh. Derek thrusts forward, rubbing his cock against Stiles' ass, causing him to throw his head back against Derek's shoulder and moan, loud and low.
"So does this-" Stiles starts to breathe out, but then Derek's hand is there. He shoves two fingers between the human's lips, effectively silencing him as Stiles sucks on them, working his tongue between the gap and wrapping it around Derek's knuckles. Derek nips at his neck, then pulls his fingers out and presses them between Stiles' ass cheeks, squeezing his arm around Stiles' ribcage as he pushes both fingers in Stiles' hole.
Stiles gasps and arches into Derek's arm, tightening his hold around Derek's neck and clenching his hand on Derek's thigh. A soft hum vibrates from Derek's chest at the ease of the penetration, knowing Stiles' is still open from before. Turning his head, Stiles kisses Derek frantically, grinding back against his fingers.
Derek breaks the kiss and pulls his fingers out, pressing soft kisses against the side of Stiles' neck as the water pours over them. He runs his hands down Stiles' sides to rest on his hips, and Stiles braces his hands on the tiled wall in front of him.
Then Derek pushes in, slow, feeling Stiles' tightness along each centimeter. Holding his breath, Stiles tilts his head back into the water, letting it run over his face and shoulders. When Derek is all the way in, Stiles drops his head and lets out a hollow sob, fingertips curling on the tile. Derek doesn't move at first, rubbing his nose up and down Stiles' neck, cherishing the feeling of Stiles, of his body, the soft skin, tight muscles, the way his ribcage expands with each breath.
Moments pass and then Stiles is tugging against Derek's grip on his hips, futilely seeking friction. Laying a kiss at the edge of his jaw, Derek draws his hips back slowly, and then thrusts in. Again and again, as the water pours over them, as their hearts beat faster and faster, as they lose themselves in each other, Derek pounds into Stiles. When he's getting close, Stiles reaches for himself, but Derek catches his hand and presses it back up against the wall, intertwining their fingers. His other hand wraps around Stiles' waist, pressing their bodies even closer together.
When Stiles comes, he cries out, legs trembling, unable to hold him. He turns his head and Derek catches his lips, shoving his tongue into Stiles' mouth, running it across the ridges along the roof. Derek's pace increases, his rhythm falters, growing erratic and he climaxes, pulsing into Stiles as the teen moans into his mouth.
They don't move for the longest time, don't say a word, just kissing soft and slow as the water begins to turn cold. Derek pulls out of Stiles, causing the teen to give a small whine, and disentangles his hand, reaching to turn off the water. Grabbing Stiles' hand, he pushes back the curtain and steps out, dragging the human with him. He grabs the towel hanging on the hook and places a finger against Stiles' lips when he opens his mouth to speak. Stiles looks at him from underneath dripping lashes, eyes bright and hot, as Derek drapes the towel around Stiles' shoulders and back, rubs it over his tangled hair.
After drying off, Derek and Stiles head to the bedroom, crawling into the bed together. Derek wraps himself around Stiles, throwing a leg over his, pulling him in close with an arm around his chest. Stiles uses his other arm as a pillow, reaching up to thread his fingers through Derek's, and wiggling his way back against Derek's body as much as he can.
"I'm sorry," Derek whispers against his ear.
Stiles doesn't give any indication that he hears Derek, doesn't say anything for a long time. Derek waits, knowing by his heartbeat and breathing that he's still awake.
Then he squeezes Derek's hand and tilts his head back enough to look Derek in the eye. "Me, too," he says, planting a kiss on Derek's lips. "Does this mean you're staying the night?"
Derek noses at the base of Stiles' ear, humming a moment. "I think it means I'm staying."