AN: Please note the change of rating people. Adult material ahoy.

Stiles scowls, chewing on the straw of the mocktail in front of him. It's some disgustingly sweet, fizzy number that is apparently warranted because it needs to look like he's drinking. Stiles really, really wishes he was drinking. What the hell is the use of having a fake-ID (thankyouverymuch Danny) if he can't use it?

"Stop scowling," Lydia's voice hisses in his ear, tinny and small through the Bluetooth earpiece. "You need to look approachable."

"I'm approachable," Stiles mutters. "I'm adorable."

Lydia snorts and Stiles has to remind himself that he's had a crush on her since grade school and doesn't hate her guts right now. Even if he does a little. "And stop mangling your damn straw," she says. "Your lips are your best asset, suck it."

Stiles goes one better and almost chokes on the thing.

"Oh my god, Lydia," Scott says and it doesn't matter that they're on the phone, Stiles can perfectly picture the look of scandalised horror on his best friend's face.

"What? It's true," Lydia says and if this were two years ago Stiles may have been doing the hula. Now though...

"She is right," Boyd - fucking Boyd - pipes up and Stiles lasts just long enough to hear Erica start laughing before he jolts to his feet.

"I'm going to the mens," he hisses and before any of them can protest, hits the call hold on his iPhone.

Being a human member of a werewolf pack has it's perks. Stiles is positive it does. Right now though, he's having a lot of trouble coming up with even one.

He bashes through the back door towards the toilets with probably a little more force than is strictly necessary but screw it, the bar he's in is seedy enough no one's going to notice the extra dint in the wall.

Just like no one'll notice the one he makes when he's thrown up against it. Stiles is about to scream bloody murder before the leather and the stubble register.

"Oh my god, Derek-"

"You hung up," Derek growls, and he's so close Stiles can actually feel it.

"I'm going to pee," Stiles says. "I know we're a tight-knit pack and all that but I'd like to keep some things a mystery."

Derek's nostrils actually flare in his anger and Stiles rolls his eyes. "C'mon dude, game plan - this thing isn't going to show if it sees you being all growly and up in my business."

Derek's eyebrows twitch. "I don't like this plan," he says as he - okay, that is the opposite of moving away.

"So you've said," Stiles says, trying to fuse to the wall because Derek hasn't been this far up in his grill in a long time and it's - well, it's less familiar and more disconcerting as freaking hell.

Derek tips his head to the side, nose scrunching. "Why do you smell like alcohol?"

Stiles blinks. "What? I-woah okay-"

"You weren't supposed to be actually drinking," Derek growls from like - yeah, that's against his neck. Stiles's skin is getting the full surround-sound here and it's really, really not okay that it seems to be passing the signal onto his pants because jesus this is Derek.

"I wasn't," Stiles says and it comes out way too much like a squeak for his dignity not to do a face-palm. "Derek-"

"I can smell it on you, Stiles," Derek says, taking another big ol' whiff, stubble scraping across Stiles' throat and Stiles slams his hand hard back against the wall.

"If you don't back off, that's not all you're going to smell," Stiles says, voice weak and fucking mortified because Jesus, when the freaking Christ on a stick had this become a thing? But... okay, Stiles can admit that Derek's - well, hot doesn't really cover it but - but no, okay? Just no. This is Derek. And sure, the last couple of years have seen him become less of a lesson in douche-hattery and the way he's pulled the pack together after everything is almost awe-inspiring and...oh fuck.

Stiles totally has a thing for Derek. Derek who's currently pressing into his neck, all hot breath and low humming and from here Stiles can see perfectly where the scar he left almost two years ago...isn't.

Stiles blinks. No scar. He blinks again, thinking wildly that he has the wrong shoulder but no - no he knows the look of that freaking thing almost better than the inside of his own eyelids - it's become something of a theme - and if it's not there- Oh fuck, fuck, fuck.

Derek - oh god not Derek - licks a hot stripe up the side of Stiles' neck and when Stiles shudders it's not with anything even close to pleasure.

Because the baddie of the week they're hunting? A freaking succubus, and Stiles has seen pictures of what those things look like when they're not shifted into their prey's ideal...oh fuck Stiles' life - their prey's ideal partner.

Stiles takes a split second to throw that particular revelation onto the back burner of things-not-fair-at-the-fuck-all before he braces and throws his knee up.

The succubus makes a choked yelping sound and if Stiles hadn't already been sure of what it is, that would have cinched it. It probably speaks a lot about his life that he knows exactly what sort of sound Derek makes when he's in pain.

The creature spits at him, eyes flashing violet. "You little-"

Stiles doesn't hesitate, just brings the can of pepper spray up and aims. The succubus grins and it's too wide and full of too many teeth for Derek's face. "You think that'll stop me?"

Stiles swallows hard. "Nope," he says. "But it'll slow you down."

Then he sprays half the can in the thing's face. The succubus goes from grinning to howling in a very satisfying split second and seriously, if Stiles gets out of this alive he's going to kiss Deaton full on the freaking mouth. The succubus flails, features rippling and Stiles doesn't stick around to watch it recover, instead bolting for the back door which leads to the back alley and blessed, blessed backup.

To his credit, he makes it about half way there before a grip catches him around the ankle and he falls with a yell, knee cracking painfully against the floor boards. He flips, kicking the claw off him but doesn't make it back to his feet before the succubus is on him, breath hot and rancid and oh ew the pictures had been way too kind-

"You're going to regret that," the thing hisses and Stiles has just enough time to brace, hand fumbling for his pocket before there's claws shredding his jacket like tissue paper and slicing into his shoulder.

He cries out just as he hits what he hopes is the freaking hold button on his phone and suddenly there are voices, loud and urgent in his ear and Stiles can't even begin to focus because-

"Derek!"

Later he's going to kick himself that he hasn't noticed Derek's been his go-to in tight spots for a while now.

The claws dig in and twist and Stiles can't help the broken yell that breaks out of him when he's slammed back into the floor. It almost drowns out the sound of the roar echoing painfully loud through the wireless bud in his ear.

Stiles grins a grin that's probably more grimace. "You are so screwed," he says.

The succubus leans over him, eyes burning. "He's too far away to save you," it says.

"Yeah, but I'm not," a voice says. The succubus jerks up, eyes wide and Stiles mentally slaps a bullseye on it's chest a second before the arrow hits. Stiles has never been so proud of Allison's aim in his life. He's never calling her Katniss again - she's totally been upgraded to Hawkeye, fuck gender norms.

The succubus makes a choked, wheeze of a sound and falls, thankfully enough to the side that Stiles can scramble out from under it with minimal effort. He's made it to the wall, knee throbbing and hand bloody where he presses it to his shoulder before his vision is suddenly full of worried werewolf.

"Stiles!" Scott says urgently, eyes still gleaming yellow and Stiles thinks it just may be his new favourite colour. Fuck purple.

"I'm okay," Stiles says, grabbing for - oh, okay, yes - that's Derek's arm that's attached to Derek's hand that's pulling him up and-

The sudden flare of pain from his shoulder is basically the greatest thing in the history of ever, even if it does make him stumble a bit, gripping Derek's jacket for balance because at least he has an excuse not to look up. Because looking at Derek after what's just happened is the absolute lowest thing on his to-do list. In fact, Stiles thinks he'll be just fine to never look Derek in the eye ever again.

"You hung up," Derek growls and Stiles can't help the automatic wrench out of his grip, falling with his back to the wall and wide eyes locking with...red. Red eyes. Okay. He can do this. Stiles swallows the sudden spike of panic and winces.

"Can we just...wait 'til Deaton's patched me up before you yell at me please?" He asks and he's pretty damn proud of how his voice doesn't waver, particularly since Derek's already pinning him with the intense eyebrows.

Derek pauses a little too long for comfort before he nods and Boyd and Isaac move past him to grab the succubus' body. It's a small miracle no one's heard the commotion already, the last thing any of them need is to leave a dead supernatural calling-card.

Stiles swallows hard when he looks at the thing, remembering hot breath and - oh god - tongue, before he lets Scott help him out to the jeep, scrubbing at his neck as he goes.

Deaton takes one look at him, sighs and heads straight for the draw with all the sharpest freaking needles, screw Stiles' life.

"How'd it go?" He asks as Stiles shrugs out of his jacket, wincing all the way until Scott finally has to step in and help him remove the final cuff.

"The succubus is dead," Derek says. "Stiles is an idiot."

"Hey, we had a deal," Stiles protests, groaning when Isaac appears with a familiar pair of fabric scissors. "Really dude? This is my Iron Man shirt."

Isaac, bless his cotton soul, at least gives him a consoling look. As he should, Stiles has seen his comic book collection. "It's already totalled," he says sympathetically and Stiles really can't argue - the sleeve of it is a tattered mess where the claws went in and the rest of it looks like a crime scene. Stiles knows better than to hope that all of the blood is his. Which, ew.

"On second thought, please get this off me like, yesterday," he says and then jumps when he hears the unmistakable sound of rending material because Isaac's still at the door and- yep, okay, those are Derek's freaking claws making short work of Stiles' shirt. "Oh my god, warn a guy?" He protests and absolutely doesn't startle when Derek's claws graze the back of his neck as they cut through his collar.

"You smell like death," Derek says, like that's an excuse for tearing a guy's shirt off him which- oh wow, so not following that train of thought.

Seriously, screw succubuses and their stupid ability to worm their way into the subconscious. Because this? This Stiles could have lived with happily buried for the rest of eternity.

The final tattered remains of his shirt are removed with a gentle efficiency that Stiles can't help but pay way too much attention to. Then, thank god, Deaton steps up in front of him with all the antiseptic, needles and other medical paraphernalia that're going to make Stiles' next couple of hours a living hell. As distractions go, Stiles can't really ask for better.

Deaton looks him in the eye. "This is going to hurt more than normal - I have to cleanse the wounds to make sure none of the venom was transferred," he says and Stiles groans - anti-venom wound washing is always the worst. "Ready?"

"If I say no, would you not do it?" Stiles says and like every time Stiles tries to joke in a situation like this, Deaton just fixes him with his don't-be-an-idiot look. Stiles rolls his eyes. "Have at it House."

The first swipe of the anti-venom feels like Deaton's struck a match across the wound and Stiles bites down hard on a pained shout. Then Scott's hand is there, gripping his good shoulder and yaaaay, werewolf morphine for the win...

Things get fuzzy after that. Stiles thinks he falls back to lean against a wall of heat behind him, the prick and drag of Deaton stitching his shoulder up a muffled throb against the cotton wool world werewolf pain-suckage always puts him into. For the longest time it's just that - shuttered pain and wounded noises that sound too far away to be real. The hand on his shoulder goes away to he replaced a second later by another, and then another until Stiles blinks down into darkness.

When he comes to, he's got a face full of leather and the rumbling of an engine all around him. He blinks slowly, eyes focusing on the street lights streaking by the window. The movement makes him slightly dizzy.

"How're you feeling?" Derek asks and Stiles doesn't know why he didn't recognise the sound of the Camaro's engine sooner.

Stiles groans and sits up, the leather jacket that's been pillowing his head against the window crumpling into his lap. He blinks stupidly down at it for a second. "Did I pass out?" He asks because, wow embarassing. Stiles has had to be stitched up more times than he can count and he's never gone under like that.

"Deaton said there was something extra in the anti-venom," Derek says and the explanation soothes Stiles' ego a little.

Stiles grunts and attempts a tentative stretch. His shoulder feels tight, tender and still slightly numb but hey, the life he leads, still having a shoulder is good enough for him. "The others?"

"Isaac drove Scott home a couple of hours ago - you know how he gets after healing," Derek says, turning through a green light and Stiles realises then that they're heading for his place - something he probably should have been more pro-active about asking about except... Except he's with Derek.

Stiles swallows. Hard. Because apparently sometime over the past two years he's started feeling safe enough around Derek that he trusts him to get him where he needs to be without asking and fuuuuuuck, this is bad...

The leather jacket in his lap suddenly feels about ten times heavier than it actually is which is nothing to the weight of his own shoulders when he realises that - yep - he's wearing one of Derek's shirts, likely from the stash he keeps in his car for wolfy emergencies. God.

"You heard from the others?" He says, because he has to talk or there's gunna be like, hysterical laughter or something, he just knows it.

Derek grunts, turning into Stiles' street. "They've taken care of the body," he says, which means Beacon Hills reserve just gained one more anonymous gravesite. "Everyone's home safe."

"And roll credits," stiles says, because he's never going to stop thinking of his life as a Joss Whedon paranormal drama.

Derek pulls into Stiles' driveway and Stiles has just enough time to register his dad's land rover isn't present, before Derek's killing the engine and god, of all the nights. "Okay, so dad's not home, that doesn't mean-"

But Derek's already out of the car and circling around to the passenger side, face set and Stiles thumps his head back against the headrest.

"I'm fine," he protests when his door is pulled open.

"You passed out," Derek says in his don't-fuck-with-the-alpha voice, a tone that's highly at odds with the care he's taking while helping Stiles out of the car. "I'm not leaving you to brain yourself walking up the stairs."

Stiles snorts as he gingerly unfolds himself from the car. His right knee is throbbing which makes putting weight on it a lesson in not-fun but he manages to stand without too much difficulty. "That was one time," he says.

"Your father threatened to put wolfsbane in my coffee if it happened again," Derek says, swinging the car door closed before shadowing Stiles up to the porch like the creeper he is.

"He was totally bluffing," Stiles says, climbing the stairs only slightly faster than a little old lady. "Against all laws of man and nature, he actually likes you."

"In my coffee, Stiles," Derek says, like Stiles' dad had threatened to desecrate a holy temple, which, with the way Derek treats every caffeine fix like a religious experience, is probably pretty appropriate.

It takes a bit of shuffling and absolutely no leaning on Derek at all, thanks, for Stiles to get his keys out and the front door unlocked. When they reach the stairs, Derek doesn't even try for subtlety - simply hooks Stiles' arm around his shoulders, anchors his own around Stiles' waist and all but carries him bodily up the freaking things. "You really know how to make a dude feel emasculated, y'know that?" Stiles says as he's deposited at the top of the landing.

"Excuse me for not wanting to spend my night watching you hobble up one flight of stairs," Derek says.

"Hey now, this-" Stiles flings his arm down at himself as he does not hobble into his room to collapse onto the edge of his bed. "-this is a warriors limp. One gained while heroically fighting off an evil sex demon, I might add." Stiles lets himself fall backward onto the mattress, legs dangling over the edge of it as he fist-pumps the air with his good arm. "ALL the manly points for me!"

"Yes," Derek says and Stiles freezes solid because Derek's- "All the manly points to you for heroically nearly getting yourself killed," Derek says as he tugs the laces of Stiles' cons open. It's not the first time Derek's taken off Stiles' shoes, mainly because it's not the first time Stiles has been injured enough to warrant it but - well - after the events of the evening it's suddenly a whole new class of disconcerting.

Stiles realises very suddenly that if he were to look down he'd be treated to the view of Derek Hale kneeling between his legs. Stiles doesn't think he's ever flushed so hot so fast.

Derek yanks his shoes off with all the sex appeal of stripping a bed but it doesn't seem to matter to Stiles' dick at all because the fucking thing twitches. Stiles practically jackknifes into a seating position so that the curl of his body maybe - please god - obscures it a bit and the move earns him a raised eyebrow from Derek who - because this is Stiles' life - is still crouched between his knees.

Stiles tries for nonchalant, reaching up to rub at his neck only to regret it a moment later when Derek's eyes narrow at the hand like it's personally offended him. Before Stiles can blink, Derek has a hold of his wrist.

"Woah, hey-"

"You keep doing that," Derek says, holding Stiles' hand away from his neck and the way he's crouched now, all up in Stiles' space, Stiles could really, really easily just lean in and- nope, nope.

Stiles pulls his hand out of Derek's grip and leans back, heart tapping double-time. "Do what?"

Derek's answer is to lean closer because of course it is, grabbing Stiles' chin to tilt his head to the right and oh-

"You keep rubbing your neck," Derek says. "You've made a mark."

Stiles bats Derek's hands away; can feel his ears turning red as he huffs. "Yeah, well - I might go at it with a cheese grater later," he says. "Mr Sex McGrossgross got a little tongue action in. It was suitably scarring."

Derek's eyebrows do their angry huddle. "It licked you?"

"Don't worry, there's no adverse effects beyond severe mental anguish," Stiles says. "I checked. Twice." Benefits to getting Danny to host the bestiary online - Stiles can get at it from anywhere with phone reception.

Derek scowls at him, reaching up again to tilt his head to the side and Stiles lets him, because he's seen Derek in this mood before and knows from experience it's best to just let him go. "You should have had Deaton look at it," Derek says, and then, because he's a creepy-ass werewolf he leans in slightly and sniffs. Stiles doesn't know if he's trying to scent if anything's up with the mark or what and really - tragically - it doesn't matter, because despite Derek keeping a discrete - well, as discrete as werewolves can be anyway - distance from Stiles' neck, the move is still similar enough to what the Succubus had done that Stiles flinches, hard.

Derek sits back sharply like he's been slapped and Stiles groans, squeezing his eyes closed. "There's like, zero chance of us pretending that didn't just happen isn't there?"

An ice cap melts in the ensuing silence which in itself is proof enough that Derek's putting the pieces together. Stiles isn't dumb, Derek will never admit it of course but he does know it. They both know the Succubus would never have gotten within licking distance if it'd been wearing a stranger. And now... Well, if Derek can't follow this to its logical conclusion then he's not nearly smart enough to be Stiles' type at all.

Which is why, when Stiles gives up and cracks one eye open a moment later, he knows he's entirely and utterly screwed.

Under absolutely any other circumstances, Stiles would find the look on Derek's face hilarious. The dude looks trapped, frown practically etched in as his eyes dart anywhere, anywhere but Stiles' face.

He tries twice to say something before any sound comes out and with each false start Stiles feels something spike hotter and hotter between his shoulder blades. "Stiles, I-"

He doesn't make it beyond that, because Stiles- Well Stiles has apparently turned into a freaking crazy person, because before he can really think about it he's half leaning, half falling forward, slotting his mouth over Derek's in a move that really wouldn't go amiss appearing next to the word 'uncoordinated' in the dictionary. Along with a picture of Stiles' face.

Derek makes a noise that's half yelp, half surprised grunt before Stiles is suddenly being pushed away and holy shit, he's going to die. He's actually going to die. Derek's going to rip his throat out, with his teeth.

"Oh my god, please just make it a quick death," Stiles says as he opens his eyes and Derek looks- Derek looks-

Derek looks fucking wrecked.

Stiles licks his lips, imagines he can taste Derek there - as stupid as that notion is - and Derek just stops. Freezes entirely solid for a split second as his eyes dip to Stiles' mouth and oh holy shit...

Derek swallows, and it's a victory Stiles feels down to his bones. "I'm not-" Derek starts but Stiles doesn't let him finish. His aim is better this time, probably because he manages to get his good hand around Derek's neck to angle him and it only takes a slight tug and a quick swipe of tongue across Derek's lower lip before he's - holy god - making the best noise in the history of ever and opening up and jesus christ Stiles is gonna die but what a way to go.

Derek's mouth is hot and wet and distracting as hell which is about the only excuse Stiles has for losing his balance and slipping off the edge of the bed but Derek - perfect, coordinated, fucking sucking-on-his-tongue Derek - just catches him under the thighs and hoists him up and onto his back and not even the flare of pain from his shoulder is enough to distract him from this because fuck yes.

Stiles moans and he can't even be embarrassed that it sounds like something off a porn soundtrack, not when it earns him Derek's breath hitching on a growl and Derek's hips pressing down and that's a dick - holy shit, he can feel Derek's dick.

"Oh my god," Stiles gasps, breaking the kiss and then - because he really does know Derek far too well - he digs a claw grip into Derek's hair to yank him back into the whole ten inches of space he's managed to put between them. "If you try to run right now I swear to god I'll kick your ass."

Derek looks down at him, pupils blown, hair a mess and Stiles doesn't think he's ever seen Derek look so terrified. "I- " he stops, blinks down at Stiles' mouth like it's a compulsion or something, which awesome, before he's shaking his head with a growl. "We can't."

"Oh yes we so can," Stiles says, hooking his good leg up and over Derek's hip. It's enough to make Derek's knee slide a bit on the comforter which breaches another three inches. Progress, by Stilinski. "I'm legal as of three months ago, your boner for me was just jabbing me in the hip and in case you had trouble working it out, my jonze for you is so vast a fucking succubus tried to kill me while wearing your face tonight." At the reminder, Derek's eyes flick down to Stiles' neck and Stiles isn't even going to try and deny his dicks interest when they flash red. He licks his lips and tries not to squirm. "So- so right now, we're going to rub up against eachother until both of us come, you're not going to judge when I do so really fucking fast and then we're going to have a shower together and I'm going to blow you."

Derek chokes on air at that and Stiles uses the moment to brace himself and pull. For a full second Stiles finds himself just sorta hanging off Derek, like a giant uncoordinated sloth, because fuckyouverymuch werewolf strength. Then - thank god - Derek huffs, lowering them both down until he's pressed the length of Stiles again and Stiles would do a fist pump only his good hand is busy sense-memory-ing the fuck out of Derek's stupid-soft hair.

"You're a fucking nightmare," Derek says.

Stiles uses his new leverage to roll his hips up which earns him a flash of alpha red before Derek closes his eyes and groans like Stiles is killing him. Stiles grins so hard his face hurts. "You like me anyway," he says and then nearly dies when Derek hooks one hand around his good knee, lifts and meets his next roll with one of his own. "Oh fuck, Derek..."

Derek's answer is to duck his head, nosing Stiles' jaw to the side like some kind of giant stubbly cat before-

Stiles freezes, he can't help it because there's tongue and suddenly he's back in the dingy hallway and- Derek grabs his hand from where he's probably leaving claw marks in his neck and presses it between them to - oh...

Stiles doesn't know when Derek started growling, but it's there, practically subsonic but Stiles can feel it vibrating through his hand. It's enough to ground him, enough to remind him of where he is and who's sucking hot - oh god - hot open-mouth kisses to his throat, scraping teeth against the tendon and leaving him shaking and seriously, having a predator pressing teeth to your neck should not be a fucking turn on. Werewolves are the worst.

"You can-" Stiles chokes at another of Derek's mind-melting hip roll combos, fisting his hand in Derek's shirt which is ridiculous because of all the times for Derek to not lose his shirt. "B-bite," Stiles gasps, and then, because werewolves. "I mean don't bite bite, but-" Stiles cuts off on a strangled yell, because Derek's taken his permission and fucking run with it, wasting no time in sinking - thankfully human - teeth in and hello kink Stiles never knew he had.

Stiles arches up and comes, hard and debilitating. He has just enough time to remember how to breathe before his world is shattering again as Derek goes rigid above him, a wounded noise punching out of him as- holy fuck, Stiles has made Derek Hale come in his jeans. This is officially the greatest day in the history of fucking ever.

To Derek's credit, he does try to collapse beside Stiles, probably trying to save jostling Stiles' injuries more than they already have been. Not that Stiles is having any of it because - well, maybe it's a post orgasming with another person thing or maybe just a Derek thing but touching is awesome.

Derek grunts a little in surprise as he's stopped mid-roll before sighing like his life is so hard and pressing back. Stiles grins and licks a stripe across the seam of his lips because he'll dare anyone not to take that opportunity if it's right there in front of them. "We should do this with less clothes next time," he says, pressing a kiss to the corner of Derek's mouth which earns him an eye roll but also makes Derek's hand clench a little over his hip so Stiles saves the knowledge away. "Or - y'know - with no clothes," Stiles continues. "No clothes would be better."

"You seriously never shut up do you?" Derek says but jokes on him because Stiles is a master of the tone of fond exasperation and that there? Totally a prime example.

Stiles grins and presses his face into Derek's neck. "Nope," he says happily before licking stripe over the scar there. Derek shudders like he's coming apart, fingers digging sharp into Stiles' hip and oh hell yes. "We should do that shower thing," Stiles says against Derek's jaw.

"No," Derek says and it's abrupt enough that Stiles jerks back.

"No?"

Derek sits up and Stiles' stomach goes cold for a second before he registers Derek is...is yanking his shirt over his head...

"Your knee is busted," Derek says. "There's no way you're kneeling anywhere tonight."

And then he's standing up and heading for the hall - the hall that leads to the bathroom and Stiles will follow him just as soon as he stops gaping.

Because tonight.

Stiles does a spastic flail of success which he immediately regrets because stitches.

Still. Worth it.