Works Cited: Davis, Jeff, prod. Teen Wolf. MTV, Television.

A/N: Written for hc_bingo square, poisoning (liberal interpretation perhaps), and also in response to SpaghettiTacos' review for In a Heartbeat:"Dammit Derek you kiss that boy proper." Except, well, yeah...you'll have to read; and hopefully this is an okay kiss SpaghettiTacos. Thanks go to csi_sanders1129 for reading, supporting and helping out with the tweaking. Characters are over the age of consent in this story (Stiles is 18, Derek 23).

Stiles rubs at his eyes with the palm of his hand, hoping that the words in his textbook will stop trying to jump off the page or rearrange themselves so that he can finish his schoolwork and get some sleep. It's well after midnight, and, if his phone is to be trusted, it's actually nearing two in the morning.

His eyes feel like they'd been peppered with sand, and his eyelids just do not want to stay open no matter what he does to them. He's seriously contemplating trudging downstairs and rummaging around in the catchall drawer next to the sink to find some toothpicks when a noise startles him, and his eyes pop open wide of their own accord.

His heart makes a mad dash for a quick exit from his chest, and Stiles isn't even sure that the noise he heard was real. In his current state of sleep-deprivation, it could seriously have been some auditory hallucination. That thought does nothing to quell his fear, if anything it makes him start to doubt his sanity, and question the reality of his existence, because he can't really do anything by halves, if he's going to freak out, he's going to go through a whole mental breakdown in the process.

"Stiles."

The unexpected voice, coming from right behind his left ear – and Stiles can actually feel the exhale as the word is spoken, it tickles the tiny hairs on the back of his neck and does seriously strange things to his stomach, tying it in knots and making it drop, both at the same time – does more than just startle him, it very nearly kills him.

Stiles thinks that perhaps his heart has finally managed to escape from his chest, because, either it's beating so fast that he can no longer feel it, or it's simply not there. He jumps about a foot in the air, which, given that he's sitting on his computer chair, at his desk, is not only impressive, but also painful when his knee slams into the underside of the desk, causing him to see stars and to curse beneath his breath.

When his heart finally condescends to return to him, Stiles, careful of his now throbbing knee, spins around in his chair to face Derek who is watching him with one of those unfathomable looks that only serve to make Stiles angry and flustered and unsure of himself. All at the same time.

"You just gave me a heart attack." He punctuates each word with a finger jab to Derek's chest, realizing that it could very well cost him his life, because, while Derek might seem like he's on their side, he is still dark and brooding and way too mysterious for anyone's good. Including his own.

"Your heart seems to be beating just fine now," Derek says.

It isn't the tone of voice – sarcastic with a touch of boredom – that causes Stiles to do what he does next. And, he really is not to blame for his reaction, because when a werewolf surreptitiously enters your bedroom, via a window you'd intentionally closed to keep such creatures of the night (namely your best friend, Scott) out, and then proceeds to give you a freaking heart attack and just stand there watching as you struggle to remember how to breathe again, not to mention sort your heart out, you have the right to do whatever you want to said werewolf. Up to, and including, what Stiles does when Derek just stands there with a self-satisfied smirk on his devilishly handsome face, and yeah, Stiles is a master of multi-task thinking, and he's been thinking a lot about what he likes about those of the opposite, and of the same sex, and he likes the five-o-clock shadow that smudges Derek's chiseled jaw (and, okay, so maybe he's the read the occasional romance novel over Lydia's shoulder one too many times).

Stiles isn't usually given to pride, but, he silently crows when he manages to take the unflappable Derek by surprise with his, apparently unanticipated move, and, seriously, didn't werewolves have supernatural senses that made sneaking up on them impossible? He dances out of Derek's reach, after flicking him on the nose and saying, "Bad dog." And seriously, where are the wolf's unnaturally quick reflexes, because there's no way that Stiles should have been able to do that, and get away with it, not to mention keep his hand.

"Very funny Stiles." Derek's voice is still sarcastic, bored, but, now that Stiles' heart has resumed a rate that resembles its normal rhythm – always a little irregular and rapid, like the pattern of his speech – he can hear something else in the werewolf's voice that gives him pause.

After his daring, and uncontended move, Stiles isn't entirely certain that he should approach the wolf just yet, because, in the past, Derek hasn't exactly been averse to slamming him into a wall, or, and Stiles' eyes are drawn to the now open window, to the almost full moon that lies beyond it, perhaps tossing him out a window, second floor, and strictly vulnerable human status notwithstanding. He wouldn't put it past Derek to at least dangle him out of the window with one hand wrapped tightly around his ankle, and not pull him back in until all the blood had rushed to his head.

When no more speech is forthcoming from the admittedly tightly-lipped, but seriously overly tightly-lipped-tonight, werewolf, and Derek just kind of stands there, in the middle of his room, curiosity gets the better of Stiles and he ventures forward, keeping just outside of Derek's striking range. Tiredness descends upon him, kind of like the way that the roadrunner drops an anvil on Wiley Coyote, smashing him flat, now that the adrenaline rush from being scared out of his skin has died down.

His knee feels like it's swollen, the skin around it tight and hot, and, now that his heart is no longer trying to kill him, it really just hurts. And, he groans, because he knows that he's going to be limping tomorrow, probably for the next foreseeable future, that he'll have to sit on the bench during practice and games, and that he'll be subjected to a lamenting rant from coach alluding to some obscure movie or book that will, once he's had time to process it all, actually make some roundabout sense and be relevant.

Derek's gloomy presence, which he hasn't even begun to start to explain, doesn't help matters at all. According to Stiles' phone display, Derek's been there for all of fifteen minutes, which is plenty of time for the werewolf to have at least said why he's desecrated the sanctity of Stiles' room at two in the morning, on a school night.

Stiles doesn't relish the thought of collapsing into an exhausted heap at Derek's feet, who is still just standing there, staring at him, because, he wouldn't put it past Derek to take advantage of him. And not in any of the good, but naughty ways that Stiles' currently sleep-befuddled brain has been supplying him copious images of, much to his embarrassment. He can feel the slow rush of heat as it creeps up his neck and colors his cheeks a telltale rosy shade of pink.

Which, by the way, is not just for girls. It might not be the most masculine of colors, but Stiles doesn't understand why girls should hold the market on all things pink, particularly blushing, especially considering that it used to be a boy's color, because it represented health, and back in the dark ages, before the advent of electricity, girls' health didn't matter all that much.

Stiles finally breaks. "Why are you here?"

He's tired, and, even if he does manage to fall asleep once Derek's said his cryptic piece and left, like he usually does when he pops in on him unexpectedly, he'll only be able to manage four, maybe five hours of sleep tops before his alarm goes off and he has to drag himself to school. Without having finished his homework. Because Derek's little interruption has completely thrown him off, and there's no way he's going to be able to finish reading his history text and write an essay, not with the headache that's been building up behind his eyes, and is now threatening to become a full-fledged migraine.

Plus, given the lurid images running through his mind, not to mention Derek's continued presence, all pensive and shadowed by the light of the moon seeping in through his window, Stiles doubts if he'll be able to get any sleep at all. And, after the crappy day that he's had, he could really use it.

"I, uh, it can wait," Derek says, shifting from one foot to the other, and making some funny kind of hand motion that Stiles is clueless as to how to interpret, because Derek isn't the funny-hand-motion kind of guy.

The moon's doing something funny with Derek's face, makes it look like there's a clew of worms nestling beneath the surface of his skin, and it's unnerving. Or maybe Stiles' eyes are just playing tricks on him. A flash of red – Derek's eyes – causes Stiles' heart to start another hundred yard dash within the close confines of his chest, and he struggles not to let fear overtake him for a second time within the twenty minutes that Derek's been lurking in his bedroom.

Stiles pinches the bridge of his nose between his index finger and thumb, hoping that it will help with the headache – it relieves some of the pressure that's built up behind his eyes, but the headache's still very much there. He closes his eyes, half-hoping, half-fearing that when he opens them again, Derek will be gone, having vanished by the light of the moon. And while part of him, a very large part of him at this moment, wants Derek to have disappeared when he opens his eyes, the other, far more logical part of him just wants an answer.

"No, Derek, it can't wait," Stiles says. He keeps his eyes closed, hoping that the sudden onset of dizziness will pass sooner if he does.

"Because, first of all, you scared the shit out of me, nearly, might I add, giving me a heart attack." Eyes closed or not, and teetering on his feet like a drunken sailor on land, Stiles uses the hand not glued to his face to demarcate his points.

"Second of all, my window was closed, sealed from the inside, and yet, now, thanks to you, it's propped open, letting the cold, night air into my room." In spite of his headache and the dizziness which is making his stomach queasy, Stiles opens his eyes, and pins Derek with a hard look, because, while he might be the geeky sidekick friend of a lone werewolf, he is still very much a man, and Derek is in his home. His territory. And he wants an explanation as to why.

"Third of all, your ninja-like moves caused me to bust my knee, and now I can't even get it to straighten out. And did I mention that I have school in the morning, and thanks to your little wee hours of the morning jaunt, I'll be getting an 'F' in history?"

Stiles isn't even aware that he's been slowly closing the gap between himself and Derek until he looks up and Derek's face is only a few inches from his own. The man's lips are taut across what Stiles' determines is best described as a non-frown. His eyebrows are scrunched together, and look somewhat like a child's drawing of a fuzzy black caterpillar scribbled in crayon across his forehead. His jaw's locked tight and his nostrils are flaring.

There's just a hint of white peeking out from the corners of Derek's mouth. His sharp and elongated fangs are showing, and it's enough to get Stiles' heart racing once again. He's now well within striking range of the werewolf, and he knows that he's walking a thin line between amusing the alpha wolf and annoying him. He tries to backpedal, but somewhere along the way, he's placed himself between a possibly angry werewolf and his bed, and backing up causes him to lose his balance and fall, rather inelegantly, onto his bed with a loud, "Oomph."

It looks to Stiles like Derek's debating between making an early morning snack of him and something else that Stiles really doesn't have the energy to consider at this early hour. He leans back on his elbows, tries not to let Derek's silence get to him, because, really, he's said his piece, and now it's Derek's turn.

"I'm…sorry," Derek says after a pause that is way too long, and makes Stiles more uncomfortable with every passing second.

"You're…sorry," Stiles parrots and he sits up. "Look, Derek, I know that you enjoy that whole dark, mysterious thing you've got going on, or at least I assume you do, because you're always springing up out of nowhere like one of those whack-a-moles, except I don't have a mallet, and even if I did, I doubt that I'd be quick enough to whack you with it, not that I would whack you, or,"

When Derek surges forward and places a finger against his lips, Stiles holds very, very still, his words freeze, before fleeing him completely, and his heart just kind of sits there in his chest, unsure of what to do, because it, as well as he, is certain that any little movement, even life-ensuring ones like continuing to support blood flow to its host's body, will result in a quick, and probably not painless death.

After a short eternity passes, and his heart starts to beat again, Stiles gets an insane urge to do something which he knows will cost him his life, and he blames Derek, whose strategically placed index finger makes his lips feel swollen and itchy and that they've caught fire.

It feels like he's kissed devil's ivy and the poison's burning his lips. Not that he's ever kissed devil's ivy before, because that would be stupid and wrong on so many levels, but he has an overactive imagination, which supplies him with vivid imagery, complete with sensations, and it is precisely his imagination which continuously gets him into trouble. Not the poisoned by devil's ivy kind of trouble, but the lethal kind of trouble that he's about to land himself in if he acts on the thoughts that are skittering about in his mind.

His tongue and mouth are dry, and he really can't take much more of this silence, and of Derek, just standing there, backlit by the moon, which, if he's recalling correctly, will be full tomorrow. And, then it hits him, even as his earlier thought, the one which will get him killed solidifies itself into action, that maybe that's why Derek's here, to warn that something bad's going to happen during the full moon.

But, Stiles is no longer completely in control of his body. And, as many times as his mind has played and replayed this scene in his head, he doesn't think that he's getting the physical sensations quite right. His body wants to know, of its own accord, if, upon his first kiss, his toes will curl; if his stomach will do a funny little somersault; and if, maybe, there'll be something close to an electrical impulse passing between him and the recipient of his first kiss.

"Stiles, I came here to wa…"

Stiles surges upward, dispelling Derek's finger from his lips. He takes Derek by surprise, once more, when he captures the werewolf's lips mid-word, swallowing whatever it was that Derek had been about to say.

Suddenly, it's just not that important for him to know why Derek snuck into his room at such a god awful hour of the morning, because Derek's lips are strangely soft and strong, and the man doesn't taste at all like Stiles had imagined a werewolf would taste – gamey with perhaps a touch of copper. Not that he'd given that particular train of thought more than a passing consideration since he'd learned about the existence of werewolves, because there were a whole lot of other things that he had to think about, worry about, and his toes don't so much as curl as arch upward as though his feet are trying to plant themselves into the carpet of his bedroom and ground him in the present so that he doesn't float away and lose himself in the kiss.

Derek's mouth, and Stiles cannot believe that his tongue and Derek's tongue are actually dancing some sort of complicated tango, tastes like wood smoke and cinnamon. It's intoxicating, and Stiles has no idea what to do with his hands, but he sneaks one up beneath Derek's shirt, places his palm flush against the werewolf's chest. It's hot, almost burning his palm, and the steadily increasing tha thump of Derek's heartbeat stirs something inside of Stiles that even his hyperactive imagination had not anticipated.

His other hand hangs loosely by his side until Derek snags it with one of his own and entwines their fingers. And yes, he feels an electrical surge, except it's more like he's been struck by lightning, because Derek's tongue chooses that moment to do something amazing to the roof of his mouth.

Derek's other hand finds its way up beneath Stiles' tee-shirt, and around to the small of his back. The werewolf presses forward until the back of Stiles' knees hit the edge of his bed. Stiles falls backward with Derek on top of him, and it's awkward, because Stiles isn't entirely sure what it is that's pushing up against his dick, which is so hard that it's screaming for some attention, but both of his hands are otherwise occupied – the one is now sliding up and down Derek's side, squeezing and pressing fingers at different intervals; the other is still firmly clasped in Derek's, who has it pinned to the mattress beside them. And he's aware that, for some unfathomable reason, Derek hasn't pushed him away yet.

Derek, who Stiles is half-certain, hates him, is kissing back, nibbling along his jaw, sucking at the feverish skin on his neck, and moving the fingers of the hand not holding his, to the waistband of his sweats, tugging them down to bear his ass, cupping and kneading. Derek's lips aren't at all unlike what Stiles imagined the kiss of devil's ivy would be like. They raise bruising welts on his skin, cause fire to burn within his veins, and his stomach doesn't somersault so much as it completely drops from him as it does when he rides the rollercoaster at Six Flags.

Stiles' heartbeat quickens to a wild drumming. The room seems to tilt and sway, and he can actually hear his blood rushing through his veins. It drowns out all other sounds, except for that of Derek's throaty growl-like moan when the werewolf starts to move his hips, creating a moving friction between them.

"Stiles." It's a guttural utterance, and it goes straight to Stile's groin and, for once in his life, Stiles cannot find his voice.

He's got a million things that he wants to say. Things about how mind-blowing this is; about how, when Derek thrusts and then twists his hips just so, it makes Stiles' stomach clench; things like: Derek, Derek, Derek, and yes, and fuck; and then even coherent thought fails him, because all of his blood rushes from his head to his dick, and shouldn't it have already done that before now?

Derek's fingers are ghosting along the crack of his ass, and Stiles pants, drives his hips, his dick upward into Derek's, begging, without words for the werewolf to move faster because he needs this, he needs Derek, and this is far better than anything his imagination could ever have fabricated. Stiles' world is reduced to the sounds that Derek and he are making – wet, sucking, raspy – and raw sensation. Fire and pain that doesn't hurt so much as it feels like if they don't move faster, if Derek doesn't meet him thrust for thrust, he's going to explode.

Derek's teeth clamp down on his collarbone, not hard enough to break through Stiles' skin, but hard enough to leave a mark behind– a bruise of two incisors, equally spaced – and then Stiles does explode. White light erupts behind his eyes, momentarily blinding him. A kaleidoscope of colors spark and burst like fireworks as his body shudders beneath Derek's. The werewolf's still thrusting, still rubbing their crotches together, and Stiles rides it out, sags back against the bed when Derek finally stiffens, and then howls as he comes.

When it's over, Derek shifts so that he's lying beside him. They're still holding hands. The fingers of Derek's other hand are nestled just within the crack of his ass, and Stiles finds that it's not a wholly uncomfortable feeling.

Stiles feels like rubber. The pain in his knee is now a dull throb that barely registers, and he can feel Derek's heart beating beneath the palm of his hand – it's quick and sure, evening out. He wants to say something, opens his mouth, closes it, because the words, "Thank you," just don't cover it, and he doesn't want to blurt out something along the lines of, "I think I love you," either, because he's pretty sure that would scare Derek off, and he doesn't want to do that, because he wants this to happen again, maybe even something more than just the mutual, clothed humping they engaged in tonight.

Stiles turns his head to the side, watches the clew of worms, or whatever it is, move beneath the surface of Derek's skin as his face is illuminated by the cool light of the moon. A shift occurs, a slight pulling and distortion of the werewolf's features, and then it's smooth again. Derek's eyes are green, not an angry red, and upon closer inspection, Stiles can see that the werewolf is smiling. It's not the face-splitting grin that Stiles can feel tugging at his own lips. It's a barely-there-if-you-blink-it's-gone kind of smile, but it's the first smile that Stiles has ever seen on Derek Hale's stern face, and it kind of sort of makes him look even more handsome.

Before Stiles can open his mouth to let out some of the words that have been building up inside of him, because if he doesn't say something, he might burst into flames, or maybe Derek will disappear into thin air as he has a way of doing, Derek raises their clasped hands and brushes his swollen and bruised lips against Stiles' knuckles in a lingering kiss.

Derek holds his gaze for the space of several heartbeats, and then his lips curve upward, revealing teeth and fangs, and Stiles' breath catches in his throat, because Derek, dangerous, kickass werewolf, is smiling at him, and it's not a barely-there kind of smile, it's an, I-love-you, kind of smile, or maybe it's just an, I-love-what-we-just-did, kind of smile. Either way, it's beautiful, and Stiles is going to take what he can get.

And then, even though his eyelids are heavy, and he can barely think straight, Stiles says, "Can we do that again?" He yawns, and ignores the chuffing sound, which is too much like a chuckle for his liking, that Derek makes. "You know, after sleep?"

His eyelids refuse to open again, and he curls in toward Derek, because the werewolf's on his side of the bed, and he won't be able to get any sleep otherwise. Derek's fingers slide up from his ass, to rest just beneath his shoulder blades, and it's like they're cuddling, except Stiles isn't sure that Derek would call it that, and he doesn't want to lose a limb just for thinking it either. 'Do werewolves even cuddle?' he wonders.

Before the sturdy, tha thump, of Derek's heartbeat beneath his palm and ear, lulls him to sleep, Stiles thinks he hears a murmured, "Yes," and that a kiss is pressed to the top of his head. He can't be too certain, though, because soon he's dreaming of running through a field of tall grass and being tackled by a wolf with green eyes.

When Stiles wakes, he feels hot and sticky, and he tastes wood smoke and cinnamon on his tongue. Sunlight is streaming through his open window, and it takes him several rib busting heartbeats to realize that the reason he cannot move is because, sometime during the night, Derek Hale's arms have somehow wrapped themselves around him in a possessive embrace.

The clock on his wall tells him that he's already missed half a day of school. Stiles yawns, settles his head back against Derek's chest, and listens to the sturdy heartbeat of the man he thinks that maybe he might love.