Jazzie's Note: This is totally something I just wrote on the fly! All on my iPhone, dudes! I realized I had wektten anything for the Teen Wolf fandom as of yet and could stand it. Also, I have an unhealthy obsession with bottom!Derek and older!Stiles. Stop judging me. Anywho, I hope you guys enjoy!

Warning(s)/Tag(s): Totally and completely unbeta'd, Bottom!Derek, Dirty Talk, Top!Stiles, Grinding, Coming Untouched.

When Derek left the Hills he wasn't sure if he'd ever come back. It was his chance of freedom - some sense of normalcy. Whatever the fuck that meant. What he didn't expect was to grow bored. To fight with Cora over redundant, nonsensical shit. And least of all, he didn't expect to become home sick.

He came back to Beacon Hills on a Thursday, a full eighteen months, two weeks, and four days later. Everything was the same and yet some things had changed. He isn't quite sure how he got to the next moment and try as he might to come up with a worthy explanation he can't. Everyone else saw it coming but him apparently, so it's basically all his fault, right. Right. Is it ever not?
-

Stiles has him pinned to the floor of what should have been his empty loft exactly two point four seconds after he'd stepped over the threshold. The door sliding closed behind them. Stiles. The human with sort of magical abilities has him pinned. /To the fucking floor./ One hand holding Derek's wrist to the ground above his head and the other one tight on his throat - Derek's free hand gripping that wrist tightly. Exercising enough restraint not to break it in two.

Their legs are tangled, breath fast and tight in his chest from adrenaline. How the fuck did they escalate to here? Derek practically screams in his mind. A simple greeting would suffice or a 'fuck you for leaving and not saying goodbye' from Stiles.

"Derek?" Stiles mutters questioningly like he can't believe who he just body slammed into the tacky thrift shop rug forty-five fucking seconds ago.

That's when Derek finally saw it - everything. Stiles has changed, his face seems more mature - eyes a little darker and slight. Shoulders a bit more broad and... The light shadow of hair clouding his jawline.

"Yeah?" He hacks the words out like a dry cough, trying to mask his chaotic emotions with one he knows quite well; anger. "Who the hell were you expecting, Santa Claus?"

Stiles is gone in a heartbeat with a snort, standing and offering a hand to Derek; completely nonchalant. He pulls Derek off the floor easily. And then he's staring and...and he can't fucking focus because Stiles' nose is two inches away from his eyes. His eyes.

And Derek's brain short-circuits.

"Uh, Derek?"

When the hell did Stiles become taller than him? Taller, mature looking, and just..this. What the fuck was his life? Derek shakes his head and paces away from the younger male, absently picking up his dropped duffle bag and tossing it on the second hand couch of his.

He doesn't ask why Stiles is there or how he got in. He can't. He won't.

"So," Stiles begins while shuffling his feet and looking everywhere but at Derek while the latter is staring at the long, pale column of Stile's neck. He has to discreetly adjust himself while the human is looking elsewhere.

There's an old looking tome on the batter coffee table in front of the couch and a jacket thrown over the arm chair to his right.

"Why are you here? Don't you have a home?" he grunts, turning his back and crossing his arms over his chest. He can't look at the other right now, it wouldn't do to jump someone six years his junior no matter if he's legal now.

Stiles heartbeat trips over itself for a moment then resettles. It's a tad faster than normal with a small uptick that seems to be a quirk for anything Stiles related. Might be because of the adderall. But this isn't what Derek is supposed to be focusing on.

What really should be on his mind is how long will it take for Sheriff Stilinski to both find Stiles and shoot Derek for molesting his sort of under aged son. Because damn. He'd forgotten how good Stiles smelled. Honey, wheat, and blackberries. Like summertime and fond memories he had so few of.

Stiles is talking but he's not listening. He's watching the other out the corner of his eye while pretending to brood. There's pointing to the kitchen and, nope. Nopenopenope. Derek still can't make out the words being said. Stiles looks a little more muscular, like he's been working out. His mind supplies a superimposed image of Isaac over Stiles. The two could pass for relatives now that their heights and builds match up. But Derek doesn't want to think of Isaac and Stiles being new bros. Derek really wants to kiss the fuck out of Stiles face.

"Top or Bottom?"

"Bottom." Derek says unthinkingly then freezes, blinks and stares at Stiles in tense surprise but before he can get a good look at honey brown eyes, soft, slightly chapped lips smack into his. The world doesn't really stop so much as it tips off it's fucking axis and hurtles into the sun because Stiles is dragging his tongue along Derek's lower lip; his hand curling around the back of his neck and pulling him in closer.

And Derek's world sort of implodes after that. Stiles is dragging him closer still, chests bumping together and his tongue is sliding into Derek's mouth with complete confidence that all the other can do is greedily accept. It's hot, too hot and the thrum of his wolf is heating his blood; making it surge and vibrate under his skin. Derek really needs to calm down or -

Stiles' hot hands drag down his spine, heavy and feeling so good, to cup his ass and slotting their hips together with one filthy jerk.

Ohshitohshitohshit.

The itch in his eyes and tingle of his nails signal the shifting; he's losing control and he can't stop it. Stiles makes a noise that crashes into his groin when Derek's teeth sharpen and lengthen but he doesn't fucking pull away. Instead Stiles does a filthy grind into him and Derek's eyes roll. It's too much but it feels so fucking good and Stiles hands are still palming his ass.

Too hot, too fast. Derek thinks frantically while lips are dragged along his jawline to his earlobe; he's definitely doing some hideous mouth breathing now but only because he needs air to caress his goddamn lungs.

"Missed you so fucking much, Der." Stiles whispers heatedly in his ear, sounding fifty kinds of wrecked.

Derek whimpers brokenly and shifts on his toes, his trapped dick bumping with Stiles' hip. He almost didn't catch the words because his heart is ringing in his ears over the rush of blood singing through his veins. And Stiles shoves and have down the back of his pants, parting flesh with warm spit-slicked to nudge the furled circlet of muscle down there.

Starbursts. Whole fucking galaxies explode into being behind Derek's scrunched eye lids. He's shaking all over, legs growing weak. His ears tingle and everything is growing fuzzy - sliding away.

"It's okay." Stiles says above him. "I've got you, Der." And that's the last thing he hears.