These Four Walls
bloodwritesThere's a teenager standing in the middle of Derek's loft. James has dyed-pink hair, blue eyes rimmed with smudged black eyeliner, and he smells like grief.
"There's no TV?" His eyes open wide as he stares at Derek like his world has just collapsed around him.
Stiles pulls the kid aside. "I'll bring one in. And I've got an Xbox I don't use anymore, tons of games."
The kid nods, sweeps hot pink bangs out of his eyes. The salt of unshed tears and the sharp scent of fear comes off him in waves. "Thanks." He looks closer at Stiles, eyes fixing on the badge he wears. "Deputy."
It sounds strange to Derek. After all these years, he still thinks of Stiles as an awkward teenager, but he stands taller than Derek now, broad shouldered and capable. Large hands settle on his belt as he debriefs Derek once James has left the room, voice as low as possible as he details the way the boy's parents died.
A couple of weeks later, Stiles turns up with a small girl attached to one hand. "Her name's Anna," he says, after she's settled in front of the TV. "Her dad left her with Deaton and ran. It's getting hairy out there, dude. That's the fifth pack we've heard of, all but wiped out."
"They're safe here." Derek watches as James lets the little girl win the game. She woops, and Derek smiles.
Stiles nods. "I know." He looks around the loft, at teenage clutter—magazines and electronics and clothing. "You need anything?"
"Yeah," Derek says. "Find out who's killing born werewolves." His eyes linger on the man Stiles has become, the bland beige uniform, the gun on his hip. "And then stop them."
"You look like crap, dude," Stiles says as he drops his crayon and crawls up off the floor. He's a little more like the old Stiles on the days he turns up in civilian clothes, bringing games and electronics for James, coloring books and toys for Anna.
Anna sleeps in a small bed under the stairs. She has nightmares, recurring dreams of watching her mother die. Derek is starting to feel the lack of sleep, but he shrugs. "I'm fine."
Stiles studies him for long moments. Then he reaches for his backpack and zips it open, pulls out a bag from the local supermarket. "Kids, kitchen. We're gonna make a mess and eat frosting while Derek takes a nap."
The pink crayon in Anna's hand freezes, half an inch above a partially colored unicorn. "Cupcakes?"
"Dude," James groans, never taking his eyes from the TV screen, fingers moving fast over the game controller as the sound of screeching tires and explosions fill the room. "Lame."
"Did you miss the part where we're gonna eat frosting?" Stiles says, already halfway to the kitchen, Anna close on his heels. "I'll let you write inappropriate acronyms on the cupcakes and post them on Instagram."
Pink streaks across the floor, blurs as Derek swims toward consciousness. Anna bounces onto the bed, something held aloft in her sticky hand. "Made you this," she says, and thrusts it under his nose.
It's slightly burnt around the edges, and the pink frosting heart has melted, but Derek sits up and takes it from her. "Thanks." He smiles, and then takes a bite. "I love it," he says through a mouthful, then almost loses his grip when the little girl flings herself into his arms.
He's more off his game more than he realized. The next thing he sees are Stiles' eyes on him, lips twitching up at the corner. Derek's eyes scan the room, finds James on the couch flicking at the screen of his phone. There are crayons and coloring books spread out over the floor.
James' eyes flick up, then across to Stiles, then down again. He smirks.
Derek frowns. "I'm awake," he says. "You can make noise."
James shrugs and refuses to look up, still smirking. Anna jumps down off the bed and starts coloring furiously.
Stiles stands up and crosses the room, then drops down on the edge of Derek's bed. Up close, Derek can see the fine grains of flour lightening his hair, the crumbs at the corner of his mouth, the pink food coloring on his tongue. "Feel better?" Stiles says. "You slept for a good couple hours, but we can stay out of your hair for a bit longer if you need more."
Derek wonders why Stiles comes every day after work, comes even on his day off. He doesn't have to. These kids, born werewolves with nowhere else to go, are Derek's responsibility. "What's my kitchen look like?" he asks.
Stiles grins. "Nuclear winter." Then he licks the pad of his thumb and leans forward, drags it over the corner of Derek's mouth before sliding it between his own lips. "Frosting."
Derek lifts an eyebrow and tries to ignore the quiet snigger from the couch. His tongue darts out, chasing the sweetness at the corner of his mouth. "You're good with the kids."
"That's 'cause I am one, despite the technically-a-grown-up thing. You're not so bad yourself, which is, I'll admit, totally surprising."
"I grew up surrounded by other kids," Derek says. The sound of small footsteps on the floor, teenage sulks, and having to step over toys in order to avoid a broken neck haven't felt out of place these last few weeks. "I like having them around, and they've got no one else right now." There's a smudge of cupcake batter on Stiles' cheek he missed before, and he grins as he reaches out to scrape it off with a fingernail. "Thanks for your help, I appreciate it."
Stiles shrugs.
Derek shoves Stiles off the edge of the bed as he climbs out from under the covers. "You're helping me clean the kitchen."
Stiles looks back as he leads the way. The angle makes his eyes look dark, and it steals all of Derek's focus. Something twists inside him, something warm that spreads across his skin and makes him shiver.
He wakes the next morning to bright sunlight coming through the window and surprise when he realizes he didn't get up to Anna in the night. He gets out of bed and wanders into the kitchen. James is pouring milk onto her cereal.
"Thanks," Derek says, and and pours himself a cup of coffee.
James shrugs. "I'll be getting up early when school starts. Might as well get used to it."
Derek freezes. Of course he wants to go to school. Neither of the children have left the loft since they arrived, Anna should start kindergarten in the fall, and James is due to start High School. Derek's gut clenches when he thinks about it. Even in Beacon Hills, the killers could be out there. The remnants of the packs they chase keep leading them here, and these kids aren't safe.
But Derek forces a smile, and then hides behind his coffee.
When he leaves the kitchen, he hears James' spoon drop into his bowl, hears the footsteps behind him.
"Stiles can stay, you know," James says. "We don't mind."
Derek frowns into his cup as he turns. "What?"
James shrugs. "You're totally into each other. We can smell it. You don't have to pretend you're not just because we're here. You've been awesome about letting us stay when we've got no where else to go, but it's your home. You shouldn't have to put your life on hold just because you're stuck with a couple of kids you can't leave by themselves."
Derek narrows his eyes, but there's parts of this conversation he's not ready to process just yet. "This is your home, too."
James drops his eyes. His cheeks turn pink, and his lips curl into a smile. "Then make a move already. He's not over here all the time for us."
Stiles is patient as he attempts to explain to Anna that, no, Alice didn't follow the White Rabbit because she wanted to eat him. Derek can smell him from across the room, a subtle, Stiles-specific blend of coffee and curly fries and gun oil. It's different from what it was years ago, when Stiles was an erratic, hyperactive teenager, and all Derek ever got from him was the scent of arousal.
He always blocked it out, ignored it. It became so much a part of Stiles that Derek didn't pay attention to the fact that it was still there.
It's not there now, however. Right now he's surrounded in a cloud of Anna's child-scent, wax crayons and grape flavoring and tears. Beneath that there's the starch of his uniform, a trace of powdered sugar on the collar, the gun he wears during his shift.
The constant scent of teenage arousal is long gone, and Derek never noticed.
Derek drags his eyes away from Stiles' face, glances up at the vast wall of windows. The sun inches toward the horizon, and Derek has to do something about food.
The kitchen is a mess. It always is now. James never stops eating, more so lately with the full moon so close. Derek clears away leftovers, piles dishes into the sink, and pulls steak out of the fridge.
"Need a hand?"
Derek closes his eyes and inhales before he turns. There it is, the scent that fooled him into thinking that was just Stiles, even now.
He leaves the meat sitting there on the counter as he turns, bracing his hands behind him on the edge. Suddenly he's got to hold on tight, the stainless steel letting out tiny, almost inaudible groans under pressure. "There's salad in the fridge," he says. "You should stay."
Stiles blinks and the scent grows exponentially, then fades into the background. "For dinner?"
Derek feels the edge of the counter buckle beneath his fingers as he imagines Stiles staying the night, sleeping in his bed. There are things he wants to do to Stiles, however, things he probably shouldn't do with children in the house. "Yeah," he says, then clears his throat as his voice gets rough. "Stay for dinner."
Stiles' lips quirk up at one corner like he's fighting a grin, and he looks away. "Cool. Dad's doing the graveyard, so I might as well." His eyes are on the sink full of dirty dishes, and he rolls up his sleeves and heads toward it. "You want me to have a word with James about cleaning up after himself?" he asks, as he starts to rinse plates under the tap.
Derek stares at Stiles' profile and shakes his head. "It's fine." His eyes track down the length of Stiles' arm, from strong, broad shoulder, to bare forearms covered in dark hair, linger on large hands with long, strong fingers. There are things he wants Stiles to do to him with those hands.
"James wants to start high school in the fall," he says, his eyes still locked on Stiles' wet fingers as they grip the edge of a plate smeared with peanut butter and jelly. "What are the chances it'll be safe for him to go?"
Stiles purses his lips and shrugs. The tendons in his wrist flex as he scrubs sticky purple from the back of a bread and butter plate. "It's a large pack," he says. "Twenty bitten wolves who have decided born werewolves need to be wiped off the face of the earth. We're no closer to stopping them than we were at the beginning, and the dead werewolves keep piling up." He places the last dish in the dishwasher, turns off the tap and rests his hip against the edge of the counter, close enough to Derek's hand that Derek's knuckles graze Stiles' leather belt. "It's not looking good."
Derek grits his teeth and nods. The disappointment he feels is not only for himself. It's not fair on these kids. They've lost their families, and they're practically imprisoned here. "I wish I could do more."
When Stiles' hand covers his, Derek gasps before he can swallow it back, a sharp inhale that fills his lungs with Stiles' scent.
"You're doing plenty." Stiles lowers his voice. It thickens as his scent changes, sweetens. "Let us worry about the bad guys. These kids need you here. You understand what they're going through, and you can keep them safe."
Stiles smells like affection, and Derek lifts his head, turns, leans a little closer. Stiles' pupils expand when their eyes meet, and his scent changes again, smooth salty notes coming out as his arousal grows. It's stronger this time, and they're so close, Derek would only have to lean a little more to reach Stiles' lips. He wants it, opens his mouth, takes another deep breath and when he lets it out, Stiles' name comes out with it.
The wave of arousal hits Derek like a brick wall, he has to close his eyes as he shivers, swallows back a moan.
Stiles takes his hand away, takes a step back. He drops his eyes, lips curving into a wry smile. "Sorry." He knows what he's doing to Derek, he's been around werewolves for years, knows what they can read from the scent of a person and the sound of their heartbeat.
Derek moves without thinking. His fingers ache as he lets go of the edge of the counter. He takes hold of Stiles' wrist, afraid he's going to move too far away. "Don't be," he says.
Stiles' head snaps up, his eyes go wide in surprise. He doesn't say a word, long moments pass where all they do is stare at each other.
Then he turns his wrist, pulls his hand through Derek's loosened grip till their palms slide together, and their fingers link. He licks his lips, and his eyes flick to the counter behind Derek. "You planning on cooking that steak? Because if you're not, I'm going home."
After dinner, Derek slips out the door with Stiles, pulls it closed behind him. "Can we talk?"
Stiles bites his lower lip, drags his teeth over it as his cheeks pink. "You never noticed before? I figured you were ignoring the way I—"
"I didn't know it was for me." Derek takes a step forward, closes his hand over Stiles' balled fist at his thigh.
The pink on Stiles' cheeks spreads further. "Who else would it be?" He opens his hand, wipes his palm on the leg of his pants then looks down at Derek's hand still covering it. "But this means you're okay with it? How I feel about you?"
"Yeah." Derek inches closer, eyes locked to Stiles' lips as a pink tongue darts out to wet the lower.
Stiles turns his head. He looks at the door, as if he can look right through it. "How does this work?" His head snaps around, and they're so close Derek can feel Stiles' breath on his cheek. "You can't just get a babysitter for the night, and I swear to god—" His heart starts to pound, loud and fast, and his hand shakes when he flips it over and links his fingers into Derek's. "If you kiss me right now, I'm not gonna let you stop, but I think I might die if you don't."
Derek backs him up against the door, takes his other hand, drags his thumbs over the prominent veins in the backs of Stiles' hands, lets heavy breaths out against the corner of Stiles' mouth. "Please," he says, feeling very out of control. "Can I kiss you? Stiles, please."
Lust pours off Stiles in waves. "Yeah, holy fuck." His lips drag over Derek's skin as he speaks, and as his shoulders hit the door, his hips arch away from it. "Goddammit, Derek. Fucking kiss me."
Every second stretches out into an hour, and Derek savors each frantic beat of Stiles' heart, every heavy breath. His skin is damp and hot to touch, heat concentrated in his face and groin. Derek slides a knee between Stiles' thighs, times the first roll of his hips with the first brush of his lips over Stiles' gasping mouth.
Stiles opens up for him as Derek slides his tongue inside. It feels... Inevitable. Like they've been moving toward this for years, like there was no stopping it once the right parameters were met.
When Derek finally pulls away, they're both gasping. Stiles twists his fingers into Derek's shirt, tries to pull him back. "Come on," he says, desperate. "Don't stop now." He presses his hips forward, grinding against Derek's thigh. "You can't stop now."
"I don't want to," Derek says, pushing Stiles back against the door. He presses his nose into Stiles' throat, breathes in all the heat and arousal that Stiles is putting out. "Jesus, Stiles." He slides his hand inside the collar of Stiles' shirt. "I want to touch you everywhere."
"Oh, my god." Stiles searches for Derek's lips, gets his fingers into Derek's hair and pulls him up. "Do that," he says, his lips moving over Derek's mouth. "Do all of that, do everything."
"I want to." Derek pulls back, holds Stiles' face in his hands. "I can't. At least, not right now." He takes a step back, and his eyes track down over Stiles' body, lips swollen and red, clothes askew, the way his chest rises and falls with each heavy breath.
"Yeah." Stiles exhales. "Yeah, you're right." He nods. "Okay. I'm going to go home and jerk off now. See you tomorrow."
When he finally goes back inside, James has earbuds stuffed into his ears, some kind of obnoxious screech pumping from them, and he has his fingers firmly clamped over his nose. He stares up at Derek accusingly. "You're disgusting."
Derek rolls his eyes. "You put me up to this. It'd be fifty times worse if he stayed the night, you didn't think of that?"
"My parents never smelled like that." His face falls, and he swallows, lets out a breath.
"They were together for years. It's different at the beginning, and you are far too young for us to be having this conversation." Derek grabs some clean boxers from the drawer beside his bed and heads in the direction of the bathroom. He needs a little time, and it's about the only place he gets any privacy anymore.
James lets out a huff. "Urgh. Old people shouldn't have sex."
Derek stops short. "Stiles is twenty-six. That's not old."
"But you're thirty-something."
Derek hides his smile with a sigh and keeps walking. "Yeah, I'm ancient," he says. "You set this in motion, kid. Now you're gonna have to deal with the consequences."
James makes barfing noises behind him.
"Don't wake Anna," Derek warns.
Derek closes his eyes as he waits on the stairs. Stiles' feet hit each stair in turn, moving fast, taking two at a time, in a hurry.
He stops, and Derek opens his eyes.
"No," Stiles says, shaking his head. His hands are on his gun belt, an instinctively defensive posture. "Don't you dare do this to me, Derek Hale."
Derek feigns innocence. "What?"
Stiles lifts his chin. "Make me go in there smelling like—" He lifts his hands, waves them in circles in front of himself. "—whatever you plan to do to me on these stairs. Nope."
Derek grins and starts down the stairs. "I just want you to myself for a few minutes."
Stiles drops down a stair, then moves to the other side of the staircase. "Think of the children, Derek."
"I am," Derek says, moving a little closer. "If I wait until you get inside, I'll have to drag you into the bathroom and risk traumatizing James forever."
Stiles' eyes go very wide. "Oh my god." He moves right, but slow, and when Derek is only inches away, he darts to the left, and then bolts up the stairs.
Derek watches him go, chuckling to himself.
"New house rule," James says when he wanders in through the door. "One at a time in the bathroom."
Stiles is under the stairs, sitting on Anna's small bed, with Anna on his lap. She's got a very serious expression on her face, two tiny creases between her eyebrows.
Derek drops into a crouch beside the stairs. "What's wrong?"
"Stiles says you want to kiss him, and I'm not supposed to let you."
"Oh," Derek says. He lifts an eyebrow at Stiles, and Stiles sticks his tongue out at him.
Anna frowns and looks back at Stiles, then squirms off him and onto the floor. She puts her hands on her hips. "But he smells like he wants you to kiss him." She looks up at Derek. "I don't get it."
"I don't get it either, sweetheart," Derek says to Anna, but his eyes are on Stiles.
"We're werewolves," James says, eyes firmly on the screen of the tablet in his hands. "We're accustomed to the many and varied scents of the people around us." He looks up at Stiles, just for a brief moment, then back down again. "Just don't explode like you did last night. Seriously, I'm going to need therapy till I'm thirty." He looks up again. "Which is totally old, for the record." He puts his tablet down and heads for the kitchen. "Hungry, Anna?"
The little girl follows.
"I don't know if I can do this," Stiles says. He stands up, shaking his head and laughing. "I mean, I've been dealing with it for years, I'll have a private thought, and Scott looks at me like he knows exactly what I'm thinking. But that's okay, because he's not always there, you know?"
Derek pulls himself to his feet. "When you grow up in a house full of werewolves, you can't get away from it. It's normal for these kids. And you're not always here, Stiles, but I like it when you are."
Stiles takes a step forward, but hesitates. He looks into Derek's eyes, sucks in a deep breath, and lets it out slow. "I went home last night," he says, voice pitched very low so the sound doesn't travel to the kitchen. "I thought about what you said. I want that. But I want more than that. I've always wanted more than that, with you. So I can wait. Until this is all over if necessary, until the kids aren't prisoners here anymore."
Derek thinks about how he locked himself in the bathroom last night and bit his lip to keep from moaning Stiles' name when he touched himself, and wonders at the fact that Stiles' thoughts were more mature than his own. But he wants more than a hurried encounter, in the bathroom, or on the stairs, he wants Stiles with him always, and when he imagines them together, the kids are still living here. "I need walls," he says, and gives Stiles a wry smile. "James needs his own room, for a start."
Stiles' eyes drift to what used to be a wall and is now just the remnants of one, edged with jagged brick, the opening that leads through to the kitchen. "Wouldn't take much," he says. "We can fix that wall. Get him a bed, some shelves—"
"I want more, too," Derek says.
Stiles blinks, and then almost stumbles the half-step it takes him to get to Derek. He wraps long fingers around Derek's forearms, bites his lip as he leans in.
When the kitchen door opens, Derek immediately knows that the kids have frozen pizza in the oven, the smell of pineapple and ham and cheese hits him, but doesn't quite drown out the scent of Stiles all around him.
"Ewww," Anna says. "Kissing on the lips is gross."
"I'll be here as soon as I can." Stiles smells like cheese and anxiety now, as they discuss how they're going to handle the full moon tomorrow. "My shift ends just before nightfall, so I should be here in plenty of time."
"Good," Derek says. He glances over at the small form sleeping in the bed under the stairs. "She's seen it before in her own pack, she knows what's happening, but you're here for her. I'll be with James."
James lost control his first full moon in the loft. He looks with disdain at the chains and manacles in a pile on the floor in front of him. "I'll be fine," he says. "It won't be as bad as last time, I promise."
He'd sworn he had control before, too, but Derek, knowing that the loss of his family, his pack, all the things that had anchored him, knew it would have an effect and he'd chained him to the wall anyway. It was a good thing he did, and even then, James almost broke free.
Things have changed. James has settled in. But Anna is here now, and while it'll be a few years before she has to deal with the full moon's effects on her own body, Derek has to keep her safe in case James loses control again.
"We had a basement in our house," James says. "My mom always stayed with me."
"I'll be with you," Derek says.
James looks up. There are tears in his eyes, and he blinks them away. "Yeah." He nods."Thanks."
It feels different, tonight. It's the full moon, yeah, and the familiar pull as it rises affects Derek just as much as it does James, but there's something else.
Other things have shifted. The thing with Stiles, the barely spoken agreement between them. Something more than the feeling Derek has, that Stiles wants Derek to pin him to the wall and grind against him till they're both sated, or shove his face into the mattress and fuck him until he screams. The need Derek has for family, for permanence, it's reflected back in Stiles. And despite the fact that there is a pack out there that wants to kill them, that wants to kill these kids who Derek's already begun to think of as his, Derek has this feeling of comfort, of safety. And it's because of Stiles.
He watches Stiles with Anna, in the shadows beneath the stairs, a bare bulb lighting the pages of the book they're reading together. His hair is still damp from the shower he must have taken at the station before he left, he smells like his freshly laundered civilian clothes, and he doesn't look much different to how he looked years ago, when he was just another awkward teenager, not much older than James is now. But he is different.
He's sprawled on Anna's bed now, leaning back, his ass perched on the edge and his shoulders against the brick wall. His legs stretch out in front of him, and the small girl is tucked beneath his arm. Derek can hear their low murmurs, following Alice in her adventures in Wonderland, Stiles pausing his reading to listen patiently as Anna questions everything.
As though he can feel Derek's eyes on him, Stiles looks up. He smiles, then returns his attention to the book.
Derek wants Stiles here. Not just every night after work, not just for the occasional dinner, and not just to give Derek a little help with the kids. He wants Stiles in his bed, wants to wake up with him, wants to eat breakfast with him and bicker over who does the dishes.
Maybe it's the increasing tug of the moon that brings these things out in Derek, because his need for Stiles in ways that won't simply sate his attraction seem so much more visceral than sex.
James' wrists are bound with iron and attached to the floor with heavy chains. His claws are out, and the dark hair on his cheeks are a stark contrast to the dyed pink locks on his head. "What happens to me," he asks. "When they stop the bitten wolves? Where do I go? I can't sleep on your couch for the rest of my life."
Derek drags a lock of pink hair between his fingertips. "We'll get you a bed," he says. "Fix these walls. You can paint them black, if you like. Whatever you want."
The moon is high, and James' eyes have been gold since it inched above the horizon and he brought Derek the chains. "Why would you want to be stuck with someone else's kid?" There's a growl behind his words, anger at the people who want him dead, who killed his pack, who left him all alone in the world.
Derek can recognize that anger, he can identify with it. He knows that it could bring James down, reduce him to barely more than animal, but it can empower him, too. Give him the strength to keep hold of himself. One day. That day isn't today. It isn't this full moon. "When this is over, if you want to go, I won't stop you. But I want you here. Anna wants you here. And I think Stiles wants you here."
James growls around a mouthful of sharp, dangerous fangs. "Stiles doesn't even live here."
Derek lowers his voice. "Would it be okay with you if he did?" He strokes James' hair, notes the way James seems to lean into the touch, despite his shifted appearance and low, rumbling growls.
James looks up. The growls fade away, and he shifts back into something more human, leaving only the golden glow of his eyes to prove he's a werewolf. "Yeah," he says.
"It's quiet in here." Stiles stands at the wall line, framed by curves of broken brick, the moonlight behind him. He might be nothing but a silhouette to a human, but Derek can pick out every feature, the tiny lines at the corners of his eyes, the day old growth of stubble on his cheek. "Anna's asleep."
Derek glances down at the boy on the floor. His eyelids are heavy, but he looks up and smiles before he closes them, drifting toward sleep.
"I'll get some blankets," Stiles says, and disappears.
James is already asleep when Stiles returns, doesn't even twitch as Derek lifts his head to slide a pillow beneath. He's never known another werewolf to do that with anyone who wasn't a trusted, blood related pack member, and he knows then that they'll be okay. James will be okay, and he'll stay.
When they emerge from the hole in the wall, it's to silence lit by silver. Derek can hear the soft slumber of the children, enough to know that they're sleeping deeply and won't wake until morning. His heart starts to beat faster as he watches Stiles, lit by the moon in black and white, simply take in the quiet as he stares out the window.
Derek steps forward, slips his hand onto the back of Stiles' neck and pulls him into a kiss. It's soft, gentle, none of the hurried desperation that came before. "Come to bed," he says, and he doesn't care what happens there, just needs to feel Stiles in his arms when he falls asleep, needs to wake up next to him.
Stiles pulls back, eyes wide, heart suddenly hammering. His gaze flicks from the stairs, back to the hole in the wall, then moves slowly over Derek's face, a question in his expression.
"They won't wake up," Derek says. "If we're quiet."
"Quiet," Stiles repeats.
"Quiet," Derek agrees. He smiles, takes Stiles by the hands, and pulls him toward the bed. "Why, do you snore or something?"
"Uhh, yeah," Stiles says. "But also, I moan, and whimper, and on occasion have been known to scream, so I think I have a right to be concerned. And I have no idea what kind of noises you make in bed—"
Derek kisses him, and Stiles goes silent. "Then I'll keep doing this." He starts to work the buttons of Stiles' shirt as he kisses him, then pushes it off Stiles' shoulders. By the time he's done, Stiles has unbuttoned his own pants and kicked them off.
Before Stiles can get his t-shirt or his briefs off, Derek pulls back the sheets and nudges him toward the bed. He's still happy to just sleep, if that's what happens, and if, by chance, one of the kids does wake up, trying to find their lost garments on the floor could be awkward.
He strips down to his shorts, and slips in under the covers.
Stiles' hands, large, long fingered, slide down over Derek's bare chest. "You'd better kiss me," he says. "I think I'm on the verge of a whimper here."
So Derek does, and he puts his hands over Stiles', exploring every vein and knuckle with his fingertips. "I can't stop thinking about these hands," he whispers against Stiles' lips. "About the things I want them to do to me."
Stiles chokes off a moan. "Oh god." He lowers his voice to a barely audible whisper. "What things?"
Derek pushes Stiles' right hand down, over his stomach. He stops, just above the waistband of his underwear. "I think about you touching me. When I'm touching myself, I imagine it's your hand on me."
Stiles sucks in a harsh, shuddering breath. When Derek, reluctant to give Stiles the impression he expects anything at all, tries to slide Stiles' hand back up to his chest, Stiles resists. "I want to," he says, then tucks his fingers into the top of Derek's briefs, tugs them down enough to let his cock free. "Holy shit," Stiles breathes, when he gets those long, strong fingers around Derek's cock. "Holy shit."
Then he wriggles down under the covers.
Already twitching just from Stiles' hand around him, Derek's cock gives a hard jerk when Stiles' warm mouth closes over him, sucks him right down to the base, then pulls off to explore the head with his tongue. Derek rolls onto his back and lifts the sheet, and by virtue of his birth he can see Stiles, dimly lit, one hand around the base of Derek's cock, lips and tongue working the end of his dick. "We can do this," he says, only able to think about how much he wants Stiles here all the time. "Parents the world over do this, Stiles. We can, too."
Stiles' eyes flick up, wide, surprised. He's stopped what he's doing, lips closed over the end of Derek's cock, foreskin held firmly between them. He pulls off, licks his lips, and his heart is thundering, pounding hard, so loud Derek will be surprised if it doesn't wake both children. His lips move, as if he's about to speak, but he doesn't.
Then he closes his eyes, and licks a long stripe up the underside of Derek's dick before sucking it down into his throat. He slides up onto his knees, and the heel of his left hand rubs against his cock as he works Derek's cock with his mouth.
"Don't come," Derek whispers. Stiles' eyes flick up again, and his heart is still beating hard, and the scent of his arousal is thick enough to make Derek's head spin. "Don't come yet." Derek chokes off a moan as Stiles opens his throat and swallows around the head. "I want you to— Oh god." Sparks of electricity streak up his spine as what he really wants forms in his mind and he comes dangerously close to coming. "I want you to fuck me."
Stiles grunts around Derek's cock, and Derek's spine fuses. His stomach clenches up hard, then he starts to come. One of Stiles' hands grips Derek's thigh, the other lies flat over his stomach as it clenches and relaxes, over and over. Stiles swallows, then licks the last drops from the head as Derek starts to soften.
He appears from beneath the sheet, lips pink and full. His pupils are big and black, almost eclipsing the iris. He stares at Derek, blinking slowly, as if waiting for something.
So Derek pulls him down, slides his tongue into Stiles' mouth, searching out the taste of himself. "Please," he breathes when he pulls back. "I want you."
Stiles' head jerks in a nod and his heart starts to race again. "Hell yeah," he says, and then ducks his head as he drags Derek's briefs down and off.
Derek reaches for the drawer beside the bed, pulls it open silently to find the lube. He hands it over. "I want your fingers," he breathes, low, almost a groan. "Open me up on your fingers."
He'll feel every knuckle, and those long fingers will get so deep inside him. He spreads his legs, pulls his knees up, and Stiles' left hand splayed wide on the back of his thigh makes him shiver.
Stiles circles his exposed hole with slick fingers, pushes inside with one. Derek can't hold back his soft moan when the first knuckle passes his rim, and he shudders and clings to Stiles' shoulders with both hands when the second slides in and goes deep.
"You've got a thing about my hands," Stiles whispers against Derek's lips as he fucks him with one finger. He draws it out, puts another against Derek's hole and starts to slowly push in. "How long have you been thinking about me doing this to you?"
Derek shudders and presses his head back into the pillow as each pair of knuckles stretches him open. "If I'd known how good it would feel, this would have happened a lot sooner."
"Could make you come like this," Stiles whispers, crooking his fingers to find Derek's prostate. His mouth comes down on Derek's lips in time to swallow his moan, but does nothing to hold back the violent writhe as Derek's body seeks more. "I think I should."
"No," Derek grunts, grabbing Stiles' hand by the wrist and pushing it away. He's left with an empty ache, a need to be filled. "Fuck me, please."
"Shh." Stiles strokes Derek's cock with a slick hand, then reaches for the lube again and slicks his own. "I'm gonna, but you have to be quiet." He bites his lip as he lines himself up, one hand behind Derek's knee, the other at the base of his own cock. He pushes forward, and lets out a soft, strangled sound as he breaches Derek's hole.
Derek can't think. Stiles' cock is much thicker than just two of his fingers, and the burning stretch overwhelms him as a tingling, prickling heat spreads over the the surface of his entire body. Slowly, Stiles sinks deeper, and it's not until he's all the way inside, balls deep, and stills, that Derek can even breathe, let alone worry about what noise he might be making.
He reaches up, wraps his hand around the back of Stiles' neck, and pulls him down into a kiss. "Need you," he mumbles against Stiles' lips, barely aware of what he's saying. "Need you so much."
"I'm here," Stiles says, and moves his hips in a slow, rolling thrust.
"No," Derek says. "Not this. Need you here. All the time. I want you here."
Stiles' heart starts to race. "Tell me what you want."
Derek makes a sound, deep in his chest, something partway between a whine and a groan. "Move in," he pants. "I want you here every night. Every morning. Wanna wake up with you."
"Jesus." Stiles kisses Derek, deep, hard. His hips jerk against Derek's ass, then pull back. He slams back inside. "Jesus, Derek."
Derek wraps his arms around Stiles' shoulders, clings to him. "Stiles."
Stiles pulls back, almost all the way out, then thrusts back inside. "Yes."
"Stiles," Derek groans. His cock, rock hard again against his stomach, jerks, sends a jolt of urgency through him. "God, Stiles. Want you to come in me." He throws his head back, wraps his legs around Stiles' waist, holds on with strong thighs and moves up to meet each of Stiles' thrusts.
The sheet falls away, exposing Stiles' long, lean body to the moonlight. It shines, and almost without thinking Derek scans the loft for sounds of wakefulness, but there's nothing. "Come inside me," he says, reaching for his cock. He strokes in time with the movement of Stiles' hips.
Stiles' face scrunches as he grunts, and his fingers dig deep into the flesh of Derek's hips. "Yeah," he says on an exhale, and then Derek can feel it, the jerk of Stiles' cock deep inside him, and he can smell it, the peak of Stiles' arousal on his skin. His hand pumps his cock, and the first spurt streaks up his chest while Stiles is still coming inside him.
They collapse together, slick with sweat and come. Their breathing seems loud now, and Derek is unusually conscious of his own breaths when Stiles searches for his lips, slides his tongue into his mouth.
"You asked me to move in with you," Stiles says, cautiously.
Derek nods. "I meant it."
Stiles is gone when Derek wakes in the morning. Dread grips his heart until he hears low voices in the kitchen, and then all he feels is guilt. He should have woken at the slightest sound, he should be more alert. What if the children were in danger? Would he sleep through if someone broke in?
James appears around the corner. He's munching on a corner of toast. "He left early," he says, talking with his mouth full. "Said he'd text you."
Derek reaches for his phone, jabs the buttons repeatedly to get the screen to light.
"You guys are completely disgusting, by the way," James says, as he heads back to the kitchen.
Survivors at the clinic, the message reads. Back as soon as I can. The answer is still yes.
Something that was still tight and uncertain in Derek's heart releases, and he lets out a breath.
"Stiles is going to move in with us, " he says as he sits down at the breakfast table.
James says nothing. There's a tiny smile at the corner of his mouth, though, and his scent tastes of happiness.
"I like Stiles," Anna says. "Is he your boyfriend now?"
Derek feels himself flush, warmth spreading over his skin. He smiles.
It's close to midday when Derek hears feet on the stairs and the familiar cadence of Stiles' heart. It's quicker than it should be, and Derek shifts Anna from where she's tucked beneath his arm and pulls himself up off the couch.
The door rolls back. Stiles must have showered at the station. His uniform is clean and pressed, but there's a smear of blood on the inside of his bare forearm, and his gun is still on his hip.
What draws Derek's eyes, though, is the basket Stiles carries. Another heartbeat comes from within it, quick and small. "Oh my god," Derek breathes.
James slips off his headphones, puts down his game controller, and takes Anna by the hand. "Let's go get something to eat, kiddo," he says, before leading her away to the kitchen.
Derek can't help but stare into the basket as Stiles lays it down on the bed. The baby inside is sleeping, sucking at a tiny fist. There's more blood smeared on the blanket she's wrapped in, werewolf blood, but not her own.
He looks up.
Stiles' eyes are bloodshot, rimmed with red. "Her mom's dead," he says. "She's got no one else."
"We'll take her," Derek says, without hesitation. Then he registers Stiles' uncertainty. "Do you still want to be here? With all these kids? With a baby?"
Stiles' eyes go wide and his jaw drops. "Yes," he says. "Of course." He looks down at the baby in the basket. "But you're okay with this? She's like, a few weeks old. She's so tiny." He looks up. "I keep bringing you kids. When are you gonna say no more?"
"I'm not," Derek says. "Just tell me you're not going to change your mind about moving in."
The baby starts to wake, tiny fists flailing around her face. "I won't," Stiles says, as he scoops her up and cradles her to his chest. He looks up into Derek's eyes. "Lydia's on her way with supplies. I have to go back out there." He presses a kiss to the baby's forehead. His eyes redden again, and his scent tastes of salt and the sharp sting of fear. "They're coming. They're coming here."
Something tightens in Derek's chest, squeezing his lungs so hard that he can barely breathe.
There's only one reason the pack of killers is coming here, and that's for Derek and these kids. They're the only born werewolves in town.
As night lays it's claim on the city, as darkness spreads across the floor, Derek waits for the klaxon to sound, for the bright flash of red that means he'll have to fight. "If something happens," he whispers, praying that Anna, still restless in her bed, won't hear him. "I'll need you to take the baby, James. Take Anna and the baby, and go out through the roof."
James looks up at him. He's all the way across the room, hands clenched together, elbows on his knees. He's probably more nervous than Derek. He's seen them before, seen what they do to born werewolves. His heart is pounding, pulse so fast that it's hardly surprising when his eyes flicker gold. "I can fight," he says.
"I know." Derek chooses his words carefully. "I know you can. That's why I need you to take the girls. I know you'll protect them."
James swallows hard, and the glow fades from his eyes. He nods, and then drops his head back down to stare at the floor.
Derek's eyes play over the sleeping baby in her basket, wrapped in clean blankets, well-fed and comfortable, and he reminds himself that the building is a veritable fortress. It's the safest place in town.
And Stiles is out there, looking for the killers, perhaps fighting already. Derek doesn't know what he'll do if Stiles doesn't come back.
James falls asleep on the couch. Anna whimpers softly as she dreams. Derek lies on his back on the bed, beside the Moses basket in the center, listening to the quiet sleeping snuffles of the baby. He's too afraid to sleep, couldn't even if he tried. The alarm would wake him, but he can't stop thinking about Stiles out there, fighting.
Stiles has been fighting the bad things that come to Beacon Hills for a decade, even traded up from a baseball bat to a gun, but he's still human. Even with the pack at his side, select members of the Sheriff's Department with him, he's breakable.
Derek's the one who should be out there, risking his life instead of lying on his bed, safe and warm. He should be fighting, using his strength the way he was born to, protecting those vulnerable to the hatred of a few.
The baby's breathing changes, her heart beats just a little faster, enough to herald her waking. Derek swings his legs off the bed, heads to the kitchen to prepare a bottle.
When he comes back and scoops the baby, fists flailing, out of her basket, a brief flash of blue catches his eye. He waits until the bottle is in her mouth before he reaches for his phone.
It's over.
At those two words, Derek lets out a breath he's been holding for months.
Derek's the first to the door when he hears feet on the stairs. He's been awake all night, and he should be exhausted, but adrenaline and excitement keeps him alert. Somehow, he's managed the normal morning routine with the addition of a baby to the chaos, without packing them all up and leaving the loft for the first time in weeks, just to find Stiles and bring him home.
But this isn't Stiles' home, not yet. Some of his things are here, sure, a hoody hung over the back of the couch that he left days ago. Maps and books scattered around the place. A single sock, kicked under the bed the night of the full moon.
His father will want to make sure he's okay. Stiles was at the hospital, and he wouldn't tell Derek exactly why, only that he was walking, and he was okay.
So when the door opens, Derek's hands are on Stiles before he can take everything in. He assures himself that Stiles is in one piece, though there's a bandaged wound on his arm he'll have to look at later on, then he turns his attention to the werewolf standing behind Stiles.
Derek's never seen him before. His scent, carried by the blood from scratches on his face and arms, and from the sweat of a recent fight, seems familiar, but he can't place it at first.
Not until Anna comes from behind him, rushes the door, and throws herself into the arms of the stranger, pushing Stiles out of the way in her hurry to get to her father.
Stiles moves closer to Derek, and something brushes his leg. "I brought some stuff," Stiles says, and drops a bulging gym bag and a pillow onto the floor before he wraps his arms around Derek and just hugs him, so tight it almost hurts.
The loft seems empty now, the space under the stairs barren, and too quiet. Anna named the baby before she left with her father, and Derek keeps finding stray crayons under the furniture, little reminders left behind to go with their promise to visit.
James is very quiet. He might miss Anna more than Derek will, and it'll be a while before the baby does much more than eat and sleep. Still, he grins when she wraps a tiny chubby fist around his finger as he cradles her on the couch.
Stiles winces as Derek pushes his shirt off his shoulders. Derek can smell the bruising on his ribs, and the wound beneath the bandage covering his arm. He wants to see beneath it, but he'll leave it for now, until he has a chance to strip everything away.
"I killed the Alpha," Stiles says, and Derek looks up at him sharply. "Yeah. A bullet between the eyes will stop almost anything. But not before he gave me this." He indicates his bandaged arm.
Derek swallows hard.
"It's not a bite," Stiles says. "But the claws went pretty deep. Deaton says we won't know for sure until the full moon."
It doesn't bear worrying about now, though Derek tries to imagine how he'll feel. Stiles would be stronger, faster. But he's already proven he can handle himself in a fight, and Derek probably should have realized that a long time ago.
If Derek thought mornings were chaos before, it was nothing compared to the noise and mess of a school morning. Memories of his own childhood flick through his mind, siblings flying past, fights over the bathroom, but he was one of them.
Now, he sits comfortably on the couch, baby Alice in his arms, and he watches as James and Stiles bicker over bathroom time, and whose underwear is whose.
Brand new school books fill a brand new backpack for the first day of James' freshman year. Stiles' routine is just that by now, routine. He's been living here three weeks, Alice has been here three weeks, the threat has been gone for three weeks.
And Derek's only left the loft a few times since then. It's hard to get out when there's a baby to consider.
Stiles and James rush for the door. Stiles stops, and comes back to the couch, bends to kiss the baby on the forehead and Derek on the lips. "You guys should come meet me for lunch," he says.
"If she's sleeping, I'm not waking her," Derek says.
"Then I'll come home to eat." Stiles grins, and flies out the door in a blur of beige.
The morning flies past quickly. He's just got Alice to sleep, after an hour walking the floor, and she's settled. He knows he's got at least an hour before she wakes, so he heads for the kitchen to sterilize bottles.
He keeps going even as he hears the door roll back, knowing Stiles will be quiet.
"How long's she been asleep?" Stiles asks as he comes into the kitchen behind Derek.
"Not long." Derek opens the fridge, pulls out things for sandwiches, dumps them on the counter before he reaches out for Stiles and wraps his arms around him. He always wants to make sure everything's there, that he's in one piece when he gets in from work, even though most of the time he's manning a desk. It'll be another week before they know if he's going to turn, and the sheriff is cautious. Derek likes it that way. "She's sleeping solid though."
Stiles tips his chin up and drags his mouth over Derek's. "That's convenient." As he shifts forward and brackets Derek's thigh with his own, Derek can feel that he's already half hard. "Nooner?"
Derek lets out a soft moan. His mind works quickly, trying to think of a place to have sex where they won't be hindered by the need to stay quiet and not wake the baby. There's no shortage of sex in their relationship, but it's always quiet, always muted, neither of them ever really has the chance to let go. "We've never done it in the kitchen before."
Stiles grins and grinds against Derek's thigh. "You're naughty."
"You're ridiculous. Get out of your uniform before I ruin it." Derek tugs at Stiles' belt.
"No time," Stiles says. "Told Dad I'd be back in an hour, and I've still gotta eat." He turns around, leans over the counter, sweeping bread and cheese to the side, and then he shimmies his pants down over his ass.
Derek stares for a moment, then drops to his knees, drags his tongue up the crack of Stiles' ass, inhales the strong, warm scent concentrated there.
"We don't have time for this," Stiles says, but then he moans and pushes back as Derek's tongue teases at his rim. "Oh god. Maybe just a— Oh fuck." He starts to shake as Derek's tongue breaches him. "There's lube in my pocket, get your— Holy crap, Derek." He spreads his legs as wide as he can with his pants around his thighs, bends flat against the counter as Derek's tongue starts to fuck into him with a vengeance. "Get your fingers in me."
"You planned this," Derek says, as he finds the lube and slicks his fingers. He twists two in at once, trying to stretch Stiles fast.
Stiles grunts, and then whimpers. "You bet I did. Get back up here and fuck me."
Derek rises to his feet and unzips his jeans. It's going to be quick, but they get all the slow, loving sex they need after the lights are out and the children are asleep. The thought of being able to fuck Stiles, hard and fast, without having to be concerned about creaking bedsprings and the sounds he might make or wrench from Stiles is freeing. He slides into Stiles' body with one quick thrust, and then stops.
Stiles gasps for air beneath him, the bland beige of his deputy's uniform shirt rucked up to his waist and out of the way. It smells like the cheap upholstery of the patrol car. Stiles' hands are splayed out on the kitchen counter, long, strong fingers spread wide, fingertips pressing against the stainless steel. Patches of condensation spread out where he touches the shining surface, then slowly fade.
Derek covers Stiles' hands with his own and starts to move. He increases his pace by increments, until his hips are slamming against Stiles' ass and the sound of skin slapping against skin rings out, echoes in the enclosed space of the kitchen. Stiles grunts with each thrust, body tightening a little more every time. He starts to smell like his approaching orgasm, and Derek changes his angle, just a bit, hands sliding up Stiles' forearms as he pulls back.
The healing claw marks under Derek's fingers feel warmer than the rest of Stiles' skin. Derek doesn't know what that means, if it's good or bad, if it means Stiles will turn on the full moon or if it's just normal human healing. He doesn't much care for himself, he'll love Stiles just as much either way, but he can't help wondering which will be better for the children.
Perhaps it'll help James to see a parent struggling with the pull of the moon himself, or maybe it won't.
"So...fucking...close," Stiles gasps. Derek grabs him by the hips, and with a few well timed thrusts, pushes him over the edge.
The kitchen fills with the scent of Stiles' come as it hits the cabinet door and drips down. Derek lets out a halting laugh because no matter how well he cleans, James is still going to smell it, and he'll be horrified. Then he picks up the pace of his thrusts, seeking his own orgasm as Stiles collapses, spent, onto the counter, cheek pressed against the cold steel as he gasps for breath.
Derek comes with a harsh cry, filling Stiles with his own scent, knowing it's going to linger for the rest of the day. They're lucky that there are no werewolves on the force in Beacon Hills.
Perhaps they could do with one.
fin