Four Kisses that Never Happened (And one that did)
The first time Derek kissed Stiles was meant to shut him up. The boy had been pestering him, nagging on and on about how they hadn't meant to incriminate him, but they needed to say something. Scott had been smart enough not to come around and most of the time Derek was able to ignore whatever it was that people were demanding of him next and just move on, but there was something on this kid that made him particularly nervous.
Particularly vicious, too.
It had been easy – too easy – to bang him against a tree close to his house; but there apart from a small gasp, Stiles kept on talking non-stop and Derek did the only thing he could come up with.
He kissed him – not a caress and certainly not like a romance, but like a punishment (it was meant to be a punishment after all). He plundered into the boys open mouth as if it were something he could conquer easily.
Derek had never expected Stiles to do anything other than gasp or push (as if he could be able to move him); he didn't expect the boy to kiss him back. He certainly didn't expect Stiles to try and fight him through it either, moving meeting Derek's tongue with his own, pushing and pulling, biting his lower lip.
Maybe it was the surprise, or maybe it was something else, but it made Derek push his body against Stiles', aligning himself with the boy and kissing deeper, pulling his head, allowing his hands to move from where he had gripped his chest to his shoulders, scratching his neck in a fluid motion of want, because, really, it had been too long.
Stiles, too, moved his hands, pulling Derek's hips closer, and there it was – the lean hardness of teenage lust, and the small moan that escaped Stiles' lips set something primal free in Derek's body, something that he had always been able to control before, his fingers becoming longer, his nails becoming claws around the boy's neck, and he couldn't stop himself from moving against the boy, his whole body responding to it eagerly as he rolled his hips in a thrust as if he was indeed a dog smelling a bitch on the heat.
It didn't take long – just two or three trusts before Stiles was yelping, his mouth opening in a long, strangled moan as he came into his pants – such a teenager and Derek felt disgusted with himself for a moment before letting him go and moving towards his house.
Stiles didn't follow.
At least, that part had worked.
hr
The second time was something else entirely – some teasing, some payback for everything else that the boy had put him through in the last few hours. Derek had seen too well how Stiles had reacted to being banged against the door, the way he had moved his head up as if he was expecting a kiss – as if he was hoping it was some other lover's meeting even if they were never close to being lovers.
It might even have made him laugh if it hadn't been so pathetic.
Now, the whole incident with the other boy, calling him Miguel and making him parade topless in the room had been just his terrible idea of how he should punish Derek for giving him false hope or something (and honestly, he had never hinted at anything, so, what was the boy's matter?), and it deserved some credit.
So Derek gave it, pushing him against the wall and almost kissing him again before they left the house, not giving Stiles time to act and letting him go and sprawl himself on the ground.
He didn't even try to hide his smirk, then.
hr/hr
He absolutely didn't come to check on Stiles later that night, to see if he was alright after the whole incident in the hospital. He obviously didn't kiss his him, or even looked at him. Derek didn't care at all.
hr/hr
Derek also absolutely didn't picture Stiles as Kate licked her way down his belly. He didn't kiss him either. He didn't hallucinate about it, and certainly didn't imagine it. He didn't.
(But he did find it funny how Kate had no idea that she had no power over him anymore, how she couldn't even tease him anymore, how other ideas, smells and tastes felt better now.)
hr/hr
He didn't kiss Stiles on the crazy night in which he killed his uncle – mercilessly, easily, swiftly. He looked good in formal clothes, clothes that would be better if they were torn and trashed, falling upon leaves while Derek touched every bit of skin, every single sign, every small bit of his body, marking it, mangling it, staining it.
He did wish that he had kissed him, but that's the full moon and the crazy torrent of desire and bloodlust that always seemed ready to wash over him, and even more now he was an alpha.
He controlled it and let them leave.
hr/hr
There were no kisses – no mentions or recognition of that one shared moment. It had meant nothing – nothing at all. He never considered doing it again, he never felt like it. He never wanted it in the first place, and it was all absolutely stupid to even think that it would ever be so – Derek was a lone, sour wolf even with a pack; Stilles had been in love with Lydia for a decade. Nothing had happened, nothing would ever happen.
(And if it killed him slowly, if it made him long, if it made him feel, well, no one would ever know.)