The morning after, once the snow melts enough that they can exit Derek’s building, the entire pack is back on the witches trail. It takes them until lunchtime to find out that she’s left town, and the magical snowstorm gave her a damn good head start.

For once, the supernatural fuckery ran away, and all they have to do now is clean up the mess.

Stiles spends an hour reassuring his father that he’s fine, then gets handed a shovel before the sheriff heads back to the station. Out on the driveway, Stiles waves at Mr. Richardson as he shovels snow across the street. The man hasn’t shaved in a couple days, still looks a little stunned. It’s the kind of reaction they’re seeing all over town, because anomalous weather can’t just be explained away as an animal attack.

Sad little drifts of snow still line the streets when Stiles heads back to the loft. There’s a guy on a corner in the middle of town, a sign held between his gloved hands reading ‘THE END IS NIGH’ as runoff washes through the gutters around him.

Cora comes out of the building as Stiles pulls up. “So not sticking around for this,” she calls out, before she heads off on foot. She’s changed her clothes since the morning, and Cora in a skirt is something Stiles is never going to get used to.

“Take care out there,” Stiles says. “The sky is falling.”

Cora looks up at at the cloudless, darkening sky. “Let it fall.”

Derek’s leaning in the open door frame, looking disgustingly casual and relaxed and unshaven. Stiles reaches for the back of his neck, scratches at the place where Derek’s face rubbed against him the night before. When he realizes what he’s doing, he jerks his thumb over his shoulder. “Cora left in a hurry.”

“Apocalypse party in a warehouse downtown. Apparently it’s the end of the world.” A lazy smile spreads across Derek’s face. “I’m surprised you didn’t hear.”

Stiles fumbles for his phone, because he hasn’t looked at it since he turned on the TV after he cleared the driveway. It was too easy to get distracted by the bewilderment of the weather reporters. There’s a text from Scott about the party. Stiles looks up. “You’re not going?”

Derek shakes his head. “Are you?”

Stiles scratches at the back of his neck again, abruptly stops, shoves his hands deep into his pockets. He shrugs. “That kiss. I was kinda hoping we could do a little more testing?” He grins.

Derek steps back, out of the doorway, a clear invitation. Stiles follows.

“You’re sure about this?” Derek says. “Won’t Isaac be there?”

Stiles waves his hand dismissively. “I decided to let you go first.” He lifts an eyebrow. “Don’t you have your own testing to do? That kiss with Danny, man. That was pretty hot.”

Derek turns around, grinning. “You thought so?”

Stiles nods. “Uh, yeah. Ten out of ten, would watch again.”

Derek’s eyebrow jerks up, and then he moves, crowding up into Stiles’ space, holding him there with one hand on the back of his neck. “I’ve decided to let you go first,” he echoes, and then bends his head.

And oh, yeah, stubble is definitely a thing, the rough scrape across Stiles’ jaw that sends tingles spreading outward across his skin as Derek drags his lips over Stiles’ mouth. That’s the edge that takes Derek’s kisses just that little bit higher on the scale than Isaac’s. And maybe there’s something in Derek’s aggressiveness and his penchant for shoving Stiles into walls that fueled Stiles’ crush from the very beginning.

The initial roughness, the tight, possessive hold Derek has on Stiles sends a jolt of electricity straight to his groin, but then eases, becomes something softer, melts into the slow slide of Derek’s tongue against his own and a quiet rumble of pleasure that vibrates out from Derek’s chest.

When Derek pulls back, thumb slowly stroking the side of Stiles’ neck as he stares into his eyes, all Stiles can do is stare back, mouth hanging open as he pants for breath.

Derek’s eyebrow twitches up.

“Uh,” Stiles says, searching for words as his mind, wiped clean, struggles to process everything and catch up. “Uh. You win.”

“It’s working for you?”

“In the way that all my higher brain functions have shut down, yeah, yeah I’d say it’s working.”

“Yeah, but is it me, or this?” Derek touches his own jaw, fingernails scritching through his beard as his mouth twists into a smirk.

Stiles frowns, because he’s not sure he’s ready to divulge the pre-scratchy-kisses crush, or the arousal caused by being thrown into walls and threatened with bodily harm. “Both?”

Derek presses his lips together and hums. “Sounds to me like you need more testing.”

“Yes.” Stiles speaks without thinking, no hesitation. “Yes. More. More is good. Perhaps more advanced testing, even.”

Derek stares at him for a beat. “Huh.” He steps back, his hands on Stiles’ shoulders, holds him at arms length and looks him up and down. Then he grabs the collar of Stiles’ open shirt and drags it off his shoulders.

“Oh my god,” Stiles breathes, and then flails a bit to shake the shirt off his hands. “We’re removing clothes? Okay. Yep. Yes. Good.”

Derek lifts his eyes, a faint smile on his lips. “I just need a little more skin.” He links his hands behind Stiles’ neck, slides his thumbs down either side of Stiles’ throat and into the neckline of his t-shirt. He tips Stiles’ head to the side to expose his throat.

A shiver that has nothing to do with the cold spreads through Stiles’ body as Derek’s lips touch right beneath his ear, soft, soft lips, a kiss so gentle Stiles might be fooled into thinking that it’s not Derek giving it at all, except for the rasp of scruff against his skin. The contrast between rough and dry, soft and just slightly damp, fuses Stiles’ brain as he tries to process it all at once.

He lets out a low moan as he wraps his arms around Derek’s shoulders, spreads his feet apart as he moves forward, bracketing one of Derek’s thighs with his own. “Definitely both,” he says, his voice gone rough and breathless. “You. Scruff. Lips. You win at all the things.”

A sound comes from Derek, vibrates against the taut flesh of Stiles’ throat, that might, maybe, be a low growl, but which isn’t threatening at all. There’s a note of possession there, of victory, and then Derek’s mouth slides down to the curve where Stiles’ neck meets his shoulder. He wraps one arm around Stiles’ waist, almost lifts him off the floor as he walks him backward, and his tongue slides back up Stiles’ throat, soft and wet and warm followed by the scratch of stubble.

Something hits the back of Stiles’ calves, and okay, bed, wow, and it’s not like he wasn’t in bed with Derek just this morning, but Derek’s bed. “Yeah,” Stiles moans, even though his brain hasn’t had time to shift from simply wanting to climb Derek like a tree yet.

“Sit,” Derek says.

Stiles sits, and Derek drops down to his knees. He holds Stiles’ face in his hands and presses his lips to Stiles’ mouth. This time there’s not even a hint of scratch, forcing Stiles to go looking for it. “More,” he mumbles.

“More?”

“Like yesterday,” Stiles says, hands on the back of Derek’s neck, trying to pull him in. He wants rough and raw, teeth and tongue and no hesitation. He wants to wear the proof of Derek’s kiss on his skin for days.

Derek stares, eyes intense. Then, again, he moves slow, dragging his lips over Stiles’ mouth, far too gentle.

It doesn’t stay that way. As Stiles relaxes, closes his eyes, leans into the almost chaste kiss, Derek takes it deeper, licks into Stiles’ mouth, drags on Stiles’ lower lip with his teeth.

Stiles moans at the rasp of beard on his face, goes with it when Derek pushes him down onto his back, crawls up over him. He wraps himself around Derek, holds on tight as he surrenders to what feels like being devoured.

He loses track of time. It might be hours later, maybe only minutes, when Derek lifts his head. “Ungh,” Stiles says, as he drags his palm over his jaw, dry and burning, damp with spit. He turns his head, arches his neck, and catches sight of the window.

Outside, in the dark, snow swirls thick in the air. “It’s snowing again,” he murmurs. “We might be stuck.”

Derek lifts his head to look. “Okay,” he says, and then he kisses Stiles again.

fin