Archive of Our Own

“Why not go hunting for witches on Friday the 13th?” Stiles says under his breath, squinting down at his feet like that will help him see where he’s going in the middle of the night. Seriously, from now on all these outings should really be cleared with him, because this seems like a bad date to pick, just instinctually. Stiles is going to have a man-to-man with Derek at some point about it. Some vague day in the future.

“It’s Thursday,” Scott supplies from behind him, where he’s giving Allison a piggyback up the rocky side of the hill. Allison is way more sure-footed than Stiles can ever hope to be, he can admit that, so he’s a little bitter his best friend isn’t giving him a piggyback ride.

Stiles catches the little narrow-eyed stare that Derek throws back at him, but chooses to ignore it.

“It’s past midnight,” Stiles tells Scott, but that doesn’t get an answer.

“At least it’s not a school night again,” Erica says.

“True,” Stiles agrees, mostly to try and get Derek to glare at him again. He has gotten better about remembering that his pack and various hangers-on (that he couldn’t do without, let’s face it) are actually all still going to high school. “Summer will definitely be a nice change of pace, late night weekday runs through the woods and everything.”

“Shut up, Stiles,” Derek says without turning around.

Stiles doesn’t really want to because the climb is steep and the walk is boring, but Scott gives him an imploring sort of look so he tries for a few minutes to not say anything else. It’s not a stealth mission; someone else could definitely be filling up the silence. Eventually Stiles jogs to the front of the group for a change of scenery, knocking his fist into Derek’s shoulder in greeting.

Derek gives him a thin-lipped look, what, and shakes his head, but he catches Stiles’ arm when he starts to slide over a rock a few seconds later and then sort of flings him forward in a way that totally negates catching him in the first place.

Stiles wrinkles up his nose when his palms slide over grass and against gravel, but manages not to make a noise. When Derek deems they’ve stalked through the woods long enough to finally stop and give up for the night he’ll check out the damage. There’s a little assorted first aid kit in his jeep for just this sort of late night excursion, he’ll patch it up later.

Everyone is silent for the rest of the trudge up the hill, the classification of which Stiles is changing to ‘small pebble-y mountain’ in his head. He flexes his arm as he walks, trying to shake off the feeling of Derek’s grip -- he might be bruising, but it gives him something to think about as they walk in silence.

The top of the hill-mountain is glowing with more than just post-dusk light when he get close enough, and Derek stops at the front of their group to cock his head to the side and listen. Stiles knows from experience it’s not the best idea to laugh at that, even if it looks hilariously canine-like, so he just stands still, watching the backlit line of Derek’s jaw, and pretends if he strains hard enough he might be able to hear what everyone but he and Allison can.

“Five,” Boyd says, somewhere to his right. “Maybe more?”

“No more than seven,” Derek says.

“Definitely some Latin going on,” Isaac offers.

“Sounds like fun,” Stiles starts, but promptly has to duck along with everyone else when some sort of gigantic bright streak of light rushes at them, hitting a tree without a sound, not too far from where Scott was just standing.

“Holy shit, that is some actual magic happening,” Stiles says, not even bothering to keep his voice down because they’ve clearly been noticed and everyone is getting up to run -- toward the source of the flaming ball of fiery magic, not away, because such is Stiles’ life. Isaac cuffs him in the back of the head to get him to move faster, which he doesn’t appreciate.

“Guys,” Allison shouts, and Stiles turns to follow the line of her arm, pointing with an arrow already poised to shoot.

The tree the magic light ball thing hit? Gone. Not even, like, singed and ash or splintered or anything, but gone as in vanished with only a smooth circle of soil left in the ground, grass ringing it like nothing was ever there.

“Shit,” Stiles says. “We are completely unprepared for this.” Allison catches his eye and shakes her head, just minutely, before running past him to join everyone else at the top of the hill.

Stiles can deal with werewolf fights and all they entail (just blood, on a good day, guts if Jackson and Erica are feeling particularly right about whatever they started fighting about in the first place), but he’s seriously out of his element with what’s happening on the top of the hill.

He runs toward the side of the fighting, anyway, ducking behind a tree -- not that, in light of knowledge gained ten fucking seconds ago, a tree is going to protect him from these witches in their bedazzled robes with their magic light balls -- to try and figure out what he can do.

If they had only done this next weekend and not when Stiles had finals to worry about he could have really researched what they were up against. Isaac gets taken down first, by a sparking thing of light that hits him in the gut with more force than light, if science has anything to say about it, should, doubling him over onto the grass but thankfully not vaporizing him or anything.

Across the clearing on the top of the hill Allison is standing between a few trees, much like Stiles, arrow held taut and constantly aimed, tracking shots, but she seems reluctant to take any. Not that Stiles wants anyone to die, but these people are also clearly trying to kill them, so he personally wouldn’t mind seeing an arrow or two flying through the air. Maybe even shot at the very least at the flares and balls of too-bright light whizzing around the space, if that might help deflect them somehow, like a -- mirror.

“Erica!” Stiles shouts, hoping he’s heard over the fray, and she turns at her name, half wolfed-out, growling, but he just repeats himself, motioning with flailing arms for her to come over. He saw her putting on more lipstick after they parked earlier and everyone was gathering up behind Derek.

She rolls to the ground but rushes over after she claws behind herself at one of the witches, her hand dripping blood near his face when she stops herself from crashing into him with a hand on the tree he’s leaning on.

“You -- a compact! I need your make-up thing,” Stiles says. “Mirror.”

Her eyebrows raise and Stiles can practically hear the growl building up in her throat but he throws his hands up and shakes his head.

“Trust me, I just need it,” he says. After a frozen second she narrows her eyes instead, which Stiles gets -- because trust issues 101 is probably not the highest on Derek’s never-ending list of things to teach his pack --  and hunches over to dig into the pocket of her jeans.

She presses it into his chest a moment later, propelling herself backward with the motion and back into the fight,

Stiles fumbles with the latch and then opens it, tipping it over to drop out the puffy sponge sitting on top. He rolls his shoulders forward, hoping this works and he doesn’t end up vaporized or immobile (and hopefully, really hopefully not dead, because Isaac hasn’t moved and now is not the time for people to be dying), and runs out after Erica.

Just in time to catch a rush of hot and bright magic light sailing over Scott’s head and into the trees where Stiles just was, so Stiles jumps to the side just enough to raise the little compact mirror he’s clutching into the air, right in the path of the light.

He squeezes his eyes shut when it comes close enough, but opens them again when his arm starts vibrating with the the force of something heavy hitting it, or hitting the mirror to be more precise, hitting the mirror and, “Shit, yeah, ” rebounding back toward the witch who threw it. (Scott has to duck because it ends up back over his head again, but it’s worth it, because Stiles figured out how to help.)

He spends a few minutes darting in-between groups of fighting, jumping up to catch the mis-aimed spells of light and send them back where he can. He runs backwards into Boyd and one point and into Boyd’s clawed-out hands, nails ripping through his shirt and against his skin, and it stings enough that he cries out but barrels forward anyway.

Just in time, too, because Derek is fighting one of the tall, less-bedazzled witches and turned to the side, so he can’t see the huge, sparkling line of a spell whooshing toward him from another angle.

“Shit, Derek,” Stiles yells, leaping as far as his body will allow him to and throwing his mirror into the air, because he can totally get there in time, because Derek can’t die, not like whatever happened to Isaac where he’s still frozen in the middle of the fight, because Derek is kind of important to everything in Stiles’ life right now. Not happening. His arm protests the movement, stinging and hot when he jumps and he falls just short of the light, and instead finds himself watching in frozen millisecond horror as the spell slams into his stomach, hot and heavy and blinding, propelling him backwards into Derek.

He’s conscious of the way an arm wraps around his stomach, of the loud and ear-splitting howl that Derek lets out, but not much else past the breathlessness he feels, the heat that isn’t really a pain.

“Saved ‘ya,” he chokes out, blindly trying to twist and get down on the ground because of the fight, because Derek holding him up is not helping anyone, but everything is so, so --

“Stiles, Stiles, that was so fucking stupid, are you --”

-

Stiles wakes up slowly, becoming aware of all of his limbs in a distinctly individual way. His mouth feels like he had rocks for his last meal, downed with a bottle of tequila, if the burn in his throat is anything to go by.

He stretches and hears things pop without feeling them, and opens his eyes only when he’s sure everything is, in fact, still attached to his body, bits and pieces floating through his consciousness of light and fighting and magic and, jesus, he’s suddenly fully awake.

Fully awake and not in his own bedroom. He’s in a room he’s definitely never been in, on a mattress on the floor with a dresser at the foot of it, looming over where most people would have a headboard. Footboard, whatever.

He’d really been hoping to avoid the whole kidnapping thing again, but if he’s kidnapped, at least he’s not chained up somewhere. The mattress is kind of cushy for being on the floor, actually, and he bounces a little to test out his limbs again and kind of to test the mattress, which is how Derek finds him.

“Awake?” Derek asks, one eyebrow raised while Stiles comes down on his back mid-bounce, rolling over to hide his face for a second. He’s on Derek’s bed. Which is not, contrary to some of Stiles’ extra secret late night thoughts, is not a pile of blankets in the corner of the warehouse somewhere. This is definitely much better than that; Stiles will have to amend his fantasies at some point in the future. When he’s not in the same room as Derek.

Rolling over feels weird, though, like maybe Stiles did something to his chest, so he has to roll back over and face Derek in panic, sitting up against the wall behind the mattress to lift up his -- okay, not his, huh -- shirt and see if he has stitches or something, which --

Stiles tries to say several words at once, but what comes out is a sort of manly shriek of several vowel sounds because what the fuck.

He squeezes his eyes shut and can actually hear Derek shifting from foot to foot on the floor.

“Please,” Stiles says, taking a breath, “please tell me I’m having some sort of swollen reaction to magic mosquito bites or something.”

“Or something,” Derek says, helpfully, sounding pretty awkward about it.

Stiles squeezes his eyes shut harder and moves his hands to his chest. He has boobs. Not like, pornstar boobs, and not even like let-himself-go man boobs. Nice, round, perky -- jesus. He slams one of his hands between his legs, not even really thinking about it, and promptly feels himself starting to have a panic attack.

“Oh god,” Derek says, strangled from where he’s still standing to the side of the bed.

“Oh god,” Stiles agrees. “I have --”

“I didn’t check, I promise, I only did your shirt,” Derek says, and Stiles opens his eyes to stare.

“Oh my god, you looked at my boobs?”

Derek’s eyes go wider than Stiles thought they could go, and it would be hilarious and Stiles would be cataloging the expression for future delight if he wasn’t busy freaking the fuck out.

“I just changed your shirt because of the blood,” Derek says, waving a hand and stepping back toward the door. “I didn’t know.”

Stiles kind of feels like throwing up for several reasons, so it’s not his fault that his brain to mouth filter isn’t on the top of his priority list (when is it ever, really), but the only thing he can think to say is, “I have a vagina!” as Derek slips back out his bedroom door.

After a second, Stiles distinctly hears Scott yell through the door, but he ignores it, rolling over into Derek’s pillows, ignoring the weird sensation of his breasts smashing up against his chest, and squeezing his eyes shut, hoping when he opens them this will all be another weird, possibly Derek-fueled nightmare. Usually they end happier, his nightmares about Derek, but Stiles has been stockpiling Thin Mints because it’s girl scout season in town and sometimes those don’t really work for him in massive quantities.

The point is, it’s not possible. Stiles is not a girl. Or Stiles-with-girl-parts.

-

He gets over himself after at least a half hour and rolls off of Derek’s mattress, letting the little foot high drop onto the floor fully wake him up. When he stands his jeans start to slide down his hips, stopping at a weird and indecent point just below his hip bones where his hips have decided to grow along with his chest.

Super weird. He steps back up onto the bed to get to Derek’s dresser, rummaging for something to put on besides his too-big blood and whatever else stained jeans. He comes up with some boxers in a half-opened package and pulls a pair out, shucking his jeans and his own briefs while determinedly not looking between his legs, and sliding on Derek’s, rolling them several time until they’re mostly just really short shorts but stay up on his hips.

The shirt Derek put on him -- which is weird enough that Stiles is definitely not going to dwell on it, not right now, anyway -- is a faded and worn v-neck that hangs loosely on his shoulders and dips way too low, baring cleavage. Stiles pauses with his hand on the doorknob to smush his arms together and look for a second, because it’s weird and probably indecent, but he’s sure whatever assortment of werewolves are gathered already heard his freak out earlier, and Erica isn’t a big fan of anything resembling a turtleneck, so Stiles figures it’s fine.

The bedroom door leads to a large landing with metal floors and a futon couch, and Stiles realizes he’s in the warehouse and this is a loft-like area he’s never noticed, with stairs leading down to the main floor. It’s disorienting for a moment; Derek’s room had four walls and a ceiling and, excepting the bare furnishings and lack of windows, looked like it might have been in a regular house. This loft is clearly part of the warehouse, and Stiles can hear echoes of conversation happening somewhere on the lower level, probably underneath him, though he doesn’t really want to walk over to the side and lean over and check.

The stairs round off into a space next to the old train car where everyone is, and Stiles is greeted with a low whistle from Erica, which gets her an elbow to the shoulder from Boyd.

“I thought you guys were shitting me,” Jackson says. He’s sprawled out on the couch with his eyebrows raised in Stiles’ direction, looking more relaxed than anyone else. He had the night off from stalking through the woods defending territory, and Stiles tries to convey with his eyes that he wishes it were Jackson standing where he is now. As a girl.

“So,” Scott starts, stepping forward and then backwards, looking pretty lost.

Stiles sighs. Derek is leaning against the train car, the farthest away, staring at Stiles in an unnervingly unreadable way, nostrils flared, so Stiles stares right back at him until his eyes start to water.

“Wait,” Stiles says, pulling at his shirt and looking away from Derek, turning on Isaac instead, “what about Isaac? Are you --”

“No,” Isaac says, cutting Stiles off quickly, but he stares over Stiles’ shoulder and looks pretty shifty, so clearly something happened. More for Stiles to figure out in his free time. Isaac doesn’t say anything else.

“I guess it’s too much to hope for that anyone did any research and tried to figure out how to fix this?” Stiles asks.

Scott raises his phone in the air and waves it around, narrowly missing Jackson’s head. “I called Allison! So she could help you with all the, you know,” he says.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Thanks, buddy,” he says. “But I’m pretty sure I don’t need to have that sort of awkward conversation with your girlfriend. I’ve got the basic mechanics down.”

Erica’s loud, “ Hah! ”, echoes through the warehouse, and Stiles wrinkles his nose at her.

“In theory, ” Stiles amends, somewhat reluctantly and definitely to Jackson’s delight. “If no one has any valuable input, I’m going to go home and --” he waves his hands in what amounts to a fixing-things gesture, which clearly no one understands if Jackson’s scrunched up brow is anything to go by.

“Wait,” Derek says, leaning away from the side of the train when Stiles is only a few feet from the door.

Everyone, including Stiles, swings around to look at him, and there are several seconds of collective awkward silence before Derek leans back again and crosses his arms over his chest.

“Waiting,” Stiles says, leaning back and forth between where he’s standing and the direction of the door to make a point.

“Just check-in if you find anything,” Derek says blandly, with a little shrug that makes Stiles irrationally want to punch his face. “And there’s a meeting. At five.”

Instead of asking to get himself bodily harmed by way of being thrown across the warehouse, Stiles just turns and walks out the door, slamming it a little behind him, happy at least to see his jeep is parked outside in its usual spot, keys dangling out of the driver’s side door -- which he’s going to have to talk to someone about, because it’s not like Derek chose this creepy warehouse for the neighborhood. But he appreciates it for now and gets in his jeep like everything is normal, even if he’s suddenly aware of how different everything about the normal motion of sitting down and starting up his jeep, his baby, feels.

-

His dad thankfully is out on patrol when Stiles turns into the drive, which gives Stiles more time to figure out if this is the sort of thing Stilinski men share with each other, like the existence of werewolves and chili recipes, or if he should definitely keep this to himself. He’ll figure it out over lunch.

Lunch affords the clarity he’s looking for; imagining sitting across the dining room table from his dad explaining about his sudden replacement cars, no, not for the jeep, for me, doesn’t sound like a funtime in any way, shape, or form, so Stiles figures he might as well start researching as soon as possible.

Shower first, though, something Stiles is equally looking forward to and dreading, not sure if he’s cool with the exploration he knows will definitely go down. Stiles smells like dirt and blood and also like the cologne Derek wears sometimes, and a little bit like cheap laundry detergent, and as soon as Stiles becomes aware of it, of every shift of Derek’s over-worn shirt against his skin, his bare breasts, nipples pebbling, oh my god, he can’t stop smelling it everywhere around himself.

He runs up the stairs toward the shower, practically tripping inside the bathroom so he can fling his shirt off and lean in front of the mirror, looking down into the sink where the shirt is all crumpled up.

Reflexively, stupidly, he snatches it back up and brings it to his face and breathes, straightening up and catching his face in the mirror, half-covered by Derek’s shirt, and he flings it out into the hallway and shuts the door.

That was weird. Or, okay, maybe not so weird if Stiles wants to get all introspective like Mrs. Morell keeps telling him (in a weirdly cryptic way, like she’s more concerned with his soul instead of how his grades are reflecting his mental health like a normal guidance counselor, but). Someone without a sense of smell would probably even realize Derek smelled good on a daily basis, or something, and it’s not like Stiles dwells on it, it’s just something he noticed. Clearly all the weirdness of today caught up to him in a moment of weakness.

After a moment Stiles looks back up at the mirror, backing up to really look.

“Definitely boobs,” he says to his reflection, reaching up and watching himself cup them. It’s his first time rounding homebase, so he makes it count, disregarding the fact that it’s with himself. His nipples are sensitive when he brushes his thumbs over and he jerks his hands back, a flush rising up over his neck that makes him grin goofily at his reflection before he puts his hands back, curling his fingers to bounce the weight of his breasts in his hands, small enough that they fit just perfectly in the cup of his palm.

His hips are definitely wider, too, his waist a little narrower, everything a little softer. It’s disorienting to watch himself drag his hands along his sides, over the soft roundness of his stomach and to the flare of his hips. The boxers he stole from Derek’s dresser are rolled several times over where they rest at that point, leaving little red material creases pressed into his skin when he starts to slide them off inch-by-inch, and he shivers a little when more cool air hits his skin.

His pubic hair is trimmed close and neat when he leans his head down to look after stepping fully out of the boxers, looking much like his own manscaping endeavors with some few notable exceptions. He starts to slide his hands down from his hips to his hipbones, stopping when the pads of his fingers catch on hair. Stiles looks up and laughs at his reflection, flushed down his chest now and between where his breasts lay, nipples rosy and still peaked, and he shakes his head, walking away from the mirror to step in the shower and turn the spray on.

Stiles can handle this, though. He can just roll with this, just like he rolled with werewolves existing and magic existing and various other way more gruesome things than suddenly having a vagina and some pretty, honestly spectacular breasts. Weirder things have happened somewhere in the world, he’s certain. Probably even in Beacon Hills, though this isn’t really something he wants to ask Doc Deacon about in any great detail. Not yet, anyway, maybe if he gets stuck in his research or this lasts for more than the weekend. Stiles is pretty confident this will be over with by the last week of school on monday, is the thing, and he’s not going to worry about it until then.

The spray of the shower is relaxing, but Stiles feels tense and wired, pacing back and forth under the spray, sliding soaped-up hands over his chest every few seconds in between freaking out, washing his way up from his feet and pausing at his inner thighs, sliding his hands in between and sliding a little against the wall when his whole body jerks at the sensation.

He also spends far too long letting the water beat down on his back, remembering the sting of being clawed and grateful the magic or something seems to have cleared what would have been a nasty set of cuts up. He also spends a few minutes staring at the razor in its holder on the wall, trying to figure out if he should shave his legs for the experience.

He’s not ready to get out of the shower and deal with everything yet, so shaving it is. It’s an ordeal with a little more blood than Stiles expects, but he rubs his hands up and down his calves when he’s finished and groans at how good it feels, bare skin against his palms, the muscles loosening up after how he’d strained to figure out how to shave his legs at all without feeling like he was training for Cirque Du Soleil. Shaving his legs: once in a lifetime good idea.

He really has to focus on researching how to fix this whole weird thing, though, so he towels off and throws Derek’s boxers back on, tiptoeing out the door with one arm across his chest to find the shirt he flung into the hall, too, hoping his dad isn’t home when he shoves it over his head, holding his breath, and runs across the hallway to lock himself in his room.

-

If Stiles had been thinking clearly, he definitely wouldn’t have put the shirt back on, and he definitely wouldn’t have bypassed his computer chair and his dresser and flopped down onto the bed.

The changes to his body are so weird. When Stiles lays down his freshly shaved legs rub together and it makes him want to groan at how good it feels, all soft skin, goosepimpled with cold and a few errant water droplets.

He lets his hands move up the sides of his thighs instinctively, prickling against a hair he missed here and there, but mostly all a smooth slide all the way to the high cuff of the boxers. He slides his fingers just underneath the hem on both sides, scratching against the skin with blunt nails and making his toes curl. He feels so much more sensitive everywhere; either that or because he hasn’t spent his much time exploring his skin since he found out what his dick was for in the first place.

Briefly, Stiles squeezes his eyes shut at the thoughts that leads to, and he skips over the moment of indecision he wants to have in favor of lifting his hips to slide his boxers over his hips and entirely off.

“I’m doing this,” he tells his empty room, letting his hands trail up the sides of his bare hips to roll up his shirt to all the way up against his collarbones, getting hit full-force with the same cologne/detergent/earth/Derek scent from before his shower, his toes curling instinctively when he breathes in.

(Derek put this shirt on him to begin with. Derek saw his magic breasts. This is not as creepy as that. Or, it’s evenly creepy. Payback creepy -- something, shit.)

The first press of his hand between his thighs is awkward, not right, and Stiles spreads his thighs apart to make it easier, digging his heels into the mattress on an angle. His window is open along the wall and sun is streaming through, casting a bright splash of light on the floor that just barely reaches the end of Stiles’ bed. Somehow this feels so much more illicit than Stiles jerking it in the middle of the day like usual.

The second pass of his hand is much, much better, “Fuck,” Stiles says, sliding his hand down to rest on his thigh for a second before bringing it back. He’s already wet, low between his legs, and the press of one finger as he drags it up is slick and slow until he gets up to the bundle of nerves at the apex, sliding the wetness up and hissing between his teeth when the pad of his finger rolls all the way over his clit, only to dip back down low again and bring more slickness back up.

It’s quickly addicting: the little sparks that play out over his skin, bouncing from nerve to nerve all centered between his legs when he passes two fingers over his clit, sliding them over and around, leaving them pressed down and just moving, fuck. It’s so different and he can’t stop, dragging his other hand over his chest and watching the press of his breasts together, flicking over his nipples with the wetness from between his thighs, sliding his hand back down to join the fingers rolling repeatedly over his clit and pressing in until the angle is right and one finger slides inside.

His thighs open wider, heels digging into the mattress as he tries to slide in a second finger because it feels so good inside, clenching around his own finger but instinctively he knows he needs another to feel full enough, to stop the strain of every muscle, every heated nerve in his body, to -- fuck.

The slide of his second finger inside is perfect, his clit more hard than soft under the play of his other hand and he groans, high and breathless when everything feels too coiled, when he feels like nothing but the whitenoise of his thoughts and the slick slide of his hands exists, and then he comes, bowing up against his hand and gasping with the full-body feel of it.

It takes a while to come down, too, his fingers still crooked inside, and the longer he lays and just curls his fingers inside of himself, his other hand trailing wet and cool across his chest, the more he feels like he isn’t relaxing at all, like he could go again.

He rolls to the side just to check the time, mentally budgeting for at least getting some research in before he has to get back in his jeep and show up at Derek’s pack meeting where they’ll probably just talk about what happened for hours and single handedly keep Pete’s Pizza Palace in business for another month instead of getting anywhere.

And mentally budgeting time for more orgasms because everything is already feeling good again, and he’s so wet he can feel each absent press and curl of his fingers sliding more wetness up over his knuckles and down over the curve of his ass. He can totally research a little later and fix this after the meeting, yeah.

-

Stiles is late, which is rare enough that he doesn’t care. He’s a little too blissed out to care, too, so that helps. He’s just starting to feel less aware of every single nerve ending in his body as he pulls up behind the warehouse, and even more in control of the dopey expression on his face that his dad had commented on when they passed each other leaving and entering the house.

“You’re lat-- what happened to you?” Is the greeting Lydia gives him when he knocks on the warehouse door, which means Stiles maybe isn’t as in control of his face yet. He cracks his jaw and shrugs.

Lydia looks at him critically for a second and then gives him a really creepy, hopefully not as understanding as it looks sort of smug smile. Stiles pushes past her, acutely aware of the way his chest, even covered in a hoodie over Derek’s shirt (for his Dad’s sake), brushes over her shoulder.

Scott claps him on the shoulder when he walks in before sliding back to the other side of the room to where Allison is, which Stiles can’t take too much offense at.

Jackson opens his mouth and manages half of a syllable before Stiles overrides him. “Whatever joke about me being a girl you were going to make can die in your throat, dude. I’ve thought of them all.” He had, too, mostly all on the drive over.

Jackson actually looks so put out Stiles almost feels bad, but Lydia goes and sits on his lap, distinctly reminding Stiles that when he feels bad, he has no one to sit in his lap, and Stiles decides not to care.

Derek, sitting in a chair around their planning table, clears his throat in an aggressive, alpha way, and all the various wolves in the room perk up and turn toward him. Allison and Stiles share a look that’s almost methodical, but Lydia is paying full attention, too. She’s not usually at every meeting, so when she is around she always looks like she’s taking an extensive and verbatim catalogue of mental notes.

Stiles brought a notebook once, when they were trying to figure out a complicated myth that basically amounted to the sandman and people in town having nightmares that sometimes ended in death, but Derek had glared at every scratch of his pen and Boyd silently judged him in a really intense way, so Stiles understands the mental note taking.

He’s just here for all of the meetings and they have a pattern, so he tunes in and chips in when needed and tries to beat everyone to the best perfectly topping-to-cheese-ratio slices of pizza.

“Now that Stiles has come back, we can start,” Derek says.

It’s as much of an introduction as Stiles has ever heard him give, so he gathers with everyone else around the table, hoping something great has turned up, especially re: body parts, but the meeting ends up being 70% pizza comas, 25% shoptalk, and 5% weird wolfy noises, as usual.

Lydia and Jackson leave first, Jackson only slightly herding her out when she starts wondering if getting hit with a witch-y spell would give her a penis, a question that is accompanied by a truly terrifying and sort of hot look at Jackson, explaining his rush to leave.

Allison and Scott follow because they are Allison and Scott, and freedom to be together seems to have not worn off months after the fact. (“If you’re still making up for lost time,” Stiles yells after them, only feeling a little petulant that he has no one to leave with, now that his post-orgasms high is almost all worn off, “I think you could time travel by now!”)

Stiles doesn’t really want to go home yet and face his dad and try to hide the fact he has breasts, and there’s still pizza, so he hangs around until Boyd and Erica leave to scout something at Derek’s not really mild suggestion, and Isaac grabs one of the books from the cart (a whole cart! Stiles has no idea how he just walked out of the public library with one of their metal carts filled with books in the middle of the day, but he’s a little envious) he’d procured from the library’s mythology and lore section a few months back, to go read up on the roof under a street light.

Stiles spends a few minutes watching Derek cleaning up after his pack’s (and human’s) pizza and soda explosion around the big planning table, the sight so domestic Stiles want to throw up a little, with how it makes his stomach feel all tight and weird. He feels disturbingly obvious after a minute or two, though, and gets up to help clear paper plates and red solo cups, following Derek around the back of the train car to the garbage.

“Oh, hey,” he says, watching Derek’s back stiffen as he steps closer to dump his pile of trash and trying not to feel a little hurt at the way Derek is holding himself. “I’m totally keeping that pair of new boxers I stole from your dresser, earlier, just so you know.”

Derek makes a weird gutteral noise that Stiles takes as some sort of assent.

“You probably want your shirt back, though,” Stiles says, and the tone of his voice is completely not what he was going for, the fact he doesn’t actually want to give the shirt back bleeding through accidentally. Stiles cringes at Derek’s back and doesn’t wait for him to turn all the way before he panics a little in indecision and slips his hoodie over his head, Derek’s shirt underneath riding up with the motion, and not thinking, Stiles just pulls it off too, squinting his eyes open to hand Derek’s shirt back to him, not even re-washed or anything polite.

Derek doesn’t move to grab it at all, though, instead frozen in mid-turn, staring at Stiles.

Stiles, whose nipples are hardening under Derek’s gaze, pebbling against the coolness of the warehouse, his chest heaving a little, just pushing his breasts up even more, when Stiles startles to awareness at what’s happening, that he’s standing half-naked in front of Derek, arm hanging numbly into the foot and a half of space between them, his hoodie clutched limply in his hand.

“ Stiles,” Derek says, not in the tone Stiles was expecting at all, in a sort of low groan that makes Stiles back up against the cold metal of the train car a foot behind him, even as Derek steps forward, keeps stepping forward until he’s caged Stiles in.

“Derek,” Stiles says, maybe a little high-pitched.

Derek’s eyes are glazed over, his mouth a little parted, and Stiles wants to reach up and rub his fingers over his own nipples because they feel so tight, all of his skin feels so tight. Shit, he wants Derek to do it, and he has no point of reference for the expression on Derek’s face right now, only that it looks like a distinct possibility.

“Shit,” Derek says, dipping his head closer, talking against the side of Stiles’ face while Stiles tries not to have a heart attack or breathe so hard his chest brushes against Derek’s shirt. Derek is standing that close.

“Shit,” Derek repeats, sounding strangled with it, an echo of earlier this morning, but lower, “Stiles, you have no idea -- you. When you walked in here, I could just --” Derek makes a rumbling sort of noise low in his throat, not like any growl Stiles has heard him use in aggression, and it makes Stiles’ toes curl, panic rushing liquid under his skin and not feeling that much like panic at all.

“You had my shirt on,” Derek says, makes it sound like an accusation, and Stiles can hear the hum of warping metal behind his head where Derek’s hand is pressed into the side of the train car. “And I could smell you so much more than usual, could tell you were wet, that you were practically aching with it, not the same arousal as usual, and mixed in with me, and --”

Stiles groans, he can’t help it, can’t help the sudden ache between his legs, either, and how he’s glad he doesn’t currently have a dick because it would be so obvious, but Derek breathes in sharply next to Stiles’ ear, nose bumping against his hairline, and Stiles realizes it’s pretty fucking obvious right now, too.

It seems to shake Derek out of it, though, and he’s stepping forcefully backwards with a motion that creaks the metal behind Stiles’ head in a dangerous sounding way as his eyes flash.

“I’m --” Derek starts, and physically shakes his shoulders back, barely looking at where Stiles is flushed and still pressed against train. “No.”

Stiles blinks at him, at the coil of tension currently standing a few feet away from him, curling and uncurling his fists like he didn’t just aggressively dirty talk Stiles’ coherency out the window. “What,” Stiles says, and follows it up with, “ please. ”

Which is not what he meant to say and how to meant to say anything at all.

Derek, because he’s Derek and also a dick, just walks away so quickly he looks like he vanishes.

And Stiles, because he’s Stiles and also programed for the complete opposite way of handing things, races around to the other end of the warehouse and up the steps to the loft to bang on Derek’s closed bedroom door.

“We’re talking about this!” he yells. As expected, he gets no response, and he’s pretty sure Erica and Boyd are due back from their watch rounds soon, and that Isaac might be able to hear him from the roof, so he gives up his losses and heads back downstairs, around to the train car and to where Derek’s shirt and his hoodie are laying in a heap.

“I’m taking your shirt back,” Stiles says as he slips it on and tucks his hoodie under his arm, knowing Derek can probably hear him. “It’s mine now. Dick.”

The drive back home is overly long and Stiles says goodnight to his dad without stopping in the living room.

In his room he throws his hoodie over his desk chair and slides out of his jeans and into one of the smaller pairs of briefs from before his last growth spurt in the back of his closet that he’d never gotten around to getting rid of and slides into bed. He figures esearch can wait until tomorrow when he has the whole day to do it, and he gets himself off after only a minute’s back-and-forth, coming around his fingers on a low noise he hopes his pillow muffled enough, thinking about the heat of Derek’s words against his ear and the skin of his neck.

-

Stiles wakes up in the early hours of the almost-afternoon, his dad long gone on a day shift, and he luxuriates in bed for a few minutes before palming down his sides mid-stretch and, oh, right, boobs. Boobs and Derek being a total freak last night, wow.

He thinks about rolling out of bed and getting started on researching how to fix this as soon as possible, but ends up rolling out of bed, taking a look at how loose and wrinkled Derek’s v-neck is hanging on his chest, and deciding to make as much food as possible first.

Which is a pretty good plan, even if it dissolves into finishing off a bag of BBQ chips on the couch during the last of Saturday morning cartoons instead of research. But he eventually gets up from that and grabs more food to bring upstairs, resigning himself to another day of suspicious google search strings he really hopes aren’t the tipping point for some governmental agency investigating him.

Stiles is one step into his room when he almost drops the plate of cut up research fuel fruit he’s carrying when he notices Derek, frozen halfway in his window. He kind of wishes his reflexes were more awesome so he could throw the plate at Derek instead, just to make himself feel better, even if it would be a waste of fruit.

“I came back for my shirt,” Derek says, sounding weirdly defensive about it before Stiles can even express his total abject dislike of this window-creeping thing. Again.

“Window, come on,” Stiles reminds him, gesturing. “And seriously? It’s really old and looks like all of your other shirts, I’m sure you’ll live.” The main problem with this is that Stiles is still wearing Derek’s shirt, which Derek seems to notice at the same time Stiles remembers.

“That’s not the point,” Derek says, stepping all the way inside Stiles’ room. “You can’t just steal shirts.”

“You can’t just -- do,” Stiles sets his plate of fruit down on his desk, just in case, as Derek steps closer. “Things,” he finishes weakly, because Derek is standing really close.

“It’s mine,” Derek says.

“Dense much,” Stiles mutters, just as Derek reaches forward to lift the hem of the shirt over Stiles’ stomach.

His hands instinctively move down to bat Derek’s away but Derek just grabs his wrists and lifts them over Stiles’ head, backing up against the wall next to the door and using one superhumanly strong hand to hold Stiles’ arms up.

“The fuck, Derek,” Stiles says, maybe not proud of how it leaves his mouth sort of breathlessly, but proud he manages it anyway.

“I’m taking my shirt back,” Derek says, looking down between them and then lifting the shirt slowly off of Stiles’ stomach with his free hand, rolling it up under his chest and then pulling harder, Stiles’ small breasts bouncing a little when they’re uncovered, but Derek doesn’t pause, isn’t distracted, instead pulling the shirt up and off Stiles’ head.

It gets tangled where Derek has Stiles’ wrists pinned to the wall, though, and Stiles lets out a choked-off laugh of breath, which makes Derek grunt.

“You totally didn’t plan this aggressive shirt taking off too well,” Stiles says in a rush.

Derek stares at him, fingers flexing in their hold. Stiles holds his stare, trying not to feel so ridiculous, bare-chested and pinned to the wall by only one of Derek’s arms in some sort of aggressive shirt stealing vendetta.

Stiles opens his mouth to say something, to get the program moving along, he’ll totally give Derek his shirt back, jesus, he was going to wash it first and then passive aggressively leave it on the warehouse doorstep or something, just --

“Stiles,” Derek says, letting go of Stiles’ wrist and reaching up so both his hands are cupping Stiles’ jawline, and before Stiles can even process it, Derek is crowding in even more to kiss him, just tilting his face down slightly, chest warm through his shirt and pressing up against Stiles’ breasts, making him want to arch up before he can even get himself together enough to respond to Derek’s mouth.

Fuck, his mouth. On Stiles’ mouth. Stiles responds just as Derek’s hands on his jaw start to hurt, opening his mouth around an involuntary gasp when the slide of their lips turns slick instead of rough all at once, Derek licking instantly along Stiles’ bottom lip, pulling it between his own and rolling.

Stiles is pretty much completely unprepared for this turn of events, hand slamming back into the wall when Derek’s thigh slips between his legs, before Stiles even realizes he’s two seconds away from sliding down the wall in shock. It’s so good, the way Derek is kissing him, licking into his mouth, between his lips, teeth pulling with blunt pressure, taking so fully that all Stiles can do is open and let him. His other hand comes up to grip at Derek’s upper arm, and he groans at the feeling of tightly-controlled muscle under this palm, barely giving under the press of his fingertips as he tries to figure out how to breathe and not lean away from Derek’s mouth, suddenly afraid if he moves in any sudden way he might startle Derek out of doing this.

He groans and breaks away, though, when Derek’s thigh wedges tighter between his legs, in a way that Stiles probably wouldn’t have liked before today, but right now the hard press of denim and solid muscle against the thin layer of Stiles’ brief is mind-breakingly perfect, and he digs his nails into Derek’s arm and pants, trying to follow Derek’s face as he leans back.

“No,” Stiles says, “not happening.” Derek isn’t running away, though, just wrapping his arms around Stiles’ back and lifting, pushing him higher up the wall so he has to crane his neck down to get back at Derek’s hips, legs tangling behind Derek’s back instinctively to balance himself. Stiles can definitely get on board with this, with being able to clench his thighs tighter around Derek’s hips and rock forward because if this is actually a thing that is happening, he’s going to make the most of it.

“ Stiles,” Derek groans, the word ripped out of his throat in a way that Stiles should probably be worried about, worried about Derek’s control of the situation or getting his own throat ripped out -- not that he thinks Derek would intentionally, if the making out is anything to go by -- but instead Stiles just feels helplessly turned on.

“Yes,” Stiles agrees, to everything, head slamming back against the wall when Derek presses in closer, his face suddenly buried in the v of Stiles’ -- Derek’s -- shirt, nuzzling between the curve of Stiles’ breasts.

The scrape of Derek’s stubble pebbles Stiles’ nipples faster than anything, and when Derek groans into his skin, nosing the v-neck to the side so his mouth can get to more skin, Stiles can feel it down to where his heels are pressed into Derek’s thighs. “Oh my god.”

He has no basis of comparison with his regular, non-magic-spelled nipples, but the way it feels when Derek’s mouth trails along the inner curve of his breast and tugs a hard nipple between his lips is pretty incomparable and makes Stiles buck forward, falling back against the wall when Derek’s hands falter in their grip on his back.

“Fuck,” Stiles says, and if it sounds like a question it’s only because his brain is melting out of his ears from stimulation.

Derek laughs, this halting, gravel-y laugh that Stiles makes Stiles want to reach out and just hump his leg, jesus, but he can’t because Derek is pressing that same noise into the niche between Stiles’ jaw and ear, groaning and swinging them both around toward the bed.

Stiles’ briefs are being tugged off as soon as his back hits the mattress. Derek shoulders up between his legs, flashing a look up at Stiles that Stiles only groans at before Derek is licking between his legs, no preamble to it at all, just making rough noises that vibrate into Stiles and shoot down his spine as Derek buries his face in close, licking where Stiles is already so wet and slick.

Stiles presses at Derek’s head between his thighs because maybe they should talk about this, or something, but it’s the last thing his coherency offers him before his feet dig into the bed, pressing himself closer to Derek’s mouth as Derek’s tongue flicks over his clit, lips pressing around to suck, and shit, Stiles’ hands curl around Derek’s head instead, fingers slipping between his hair to get a good grip to press him down.

Derek jerks up at that, though, not saying anything but rolling back off the bed like he’s been burned. He only stands to fling his shirt over his head, though, and slide his jeans and underwear off his hips in the quickest, most efficient, mouth-drying striptease Stiles has ever seen in his life.

Derek is breathing in deeply as he makes his way back up the bed, slower this time nose catching the underside of Stiles’ knee when he ducks his head low, his hands splaying out over Stiles’ thighs to part his legs further.

“What are you smelling?” Stiles pants, and it’s completely inane but it bubbles out anyway, full of energy he has no idea what to do with.

Derek drags blunt teeth across Stiles’ inner thigh and looks up at him, all hot breath across Stiles’ skin when he laughs, low.

“Everything,” Derek says, closing his eyes and inhaling. “ You, so much you. And --” he leans down, breaking off to drags his lips up to the crease of Stiles’ hip with a heady groan, “-- fruit, across the room,” punctuated with the slide of his tongue back down between Stiles’ legs, stopping just short of his clit, where he wants it most, “my shirt on your skin, jesus, Stiles.”

“Shit,” Stiles says, hands flying back down to Derek’s head and scratching into his hair when Derek licks a hard line downward. Derek doesn’t even try and shake Stiles’ hands off his head, even when Stiles digs in with the pads of his fingers to tilt his hips up and get the angle even better, and that’s almost as good as the way Derek’s tongue feels lapping over his clit.

Derek keeps going, face buried between Stiles thighs, looking so obscene Stiles can’t even look for more than a few seconds at a time, head slamming back against his pillow whenever Derek’s eyes flick up over his body to catch his gaze, pupils completely blown with the kind of lust Stiles is only used to seeing on his face during fights. He keeps going even when Stiles starts to squirm away from the sensation, prickling sharp into his core and not dissipating, keeping him on edge and aching inside. He wants -- he wants Derek inside him like this, to feel what it would be like this way.

“Fuck me,” he grits out, not even surprising himself because it’s pounding through his head like the only thing worth thinking about, and Derek groans, tongue slipping down to suck against his opening with a slick noise.

“No,” Derek says, which is not what Stiles wants at all, but his back arches up off the bed when Derek slides one finger inside him anyway, thick and enough to clench down on even though Stiles wants to feel even more, rocking his hips forward and feeling the wet motion of it, dripping down between his legs. He gets his wish a few seconds later when Derek slides in another, fuller than two of Stiles’ own fingers and drawing perfectly pornographic noises out of Stiles on each press inside.

He comes like that, shaking and twisting one hand into his sheets like they’re a lifeline, Derek’s cheek resting low on his stomach as his fingers keep moving through Stiles’ orgasm, and he keep the motion of his own hips going against Derek’s fingers, not wanting to ask.

Derek gets it, though, keeps pushing him past it like Stiles did with himself yesterday afternoon, fucking him until the ache builds up tight again and dipping his head back down to lick in hard, heartbeat-matching presses against Stiles’ clit until Stiles is groaning brokenly through his second orgasm, hips twitching away from Derek after a few too intense seconds.

And then Derek is rutting against his thigh while Stiles fades in and out, pressing heavily against Stiles on the mattress and panting against the side of Stiles’ head, marathon level deep breaths that only stop when Stiles tips his head to the side, all loose-limbed and pliant against the press of Derek’s mouth against his own.

Derek comes on his stomach and hip, jerking forward through the aftershocks, come spreading out across Stiles’ skin as he and drags his teeth down Stiles’ neck. They stay like that, with most of Derek’s weight on top of Stiles, dick still mostly hard between them, Derek’s shoulders hunched up and awkward, until Derek rolls heavily over onto his face in the space next to Stiles on the mattress.

Stiles has no idea what to say when he finally sits up just  enough to strip off the shirt bunched up awkwardly around his neck. This is kind of a first, for him. A series of firsts, really. Derek is lying face-first on the bed next to him, smushed into Stiles’ favorite hugging pillow and breathing steadily, measured and too loud in the sudden silence of the room.

“So,” Stiles says, letting the word drag on until it dies out in his throat.

Derek makes a complicated and muffled groaning noise, rolling his face over slowly to blink at Stiles. He still looks sort of wrecked, not that in focus when he tracks the movement of Stiles sitting up against the headboard with his eyes.

“So,” Stiles repeats. He has no idea what the protocol for post-sex pillow talk is, let alone the protocol for post-sex pillow talk when you currently have the wrong parts because of witches and your first time sex partner is a complicated werewolf.

Derek’s hand comes up out of nowhere, splaying out along Stiles’ ribs over his heart, brushing along the low curve of his breast. Stiles can feel how fast his heart is beating, which is in itself not a really rare occurrence for different reasons around Derek, but it’s one of the first times Derek has addressed it, and he jumps under the touch without thinking.

Derek’s hand slides back with a sigh and Stiles wants to grab it back, maybe tangle their hands together and just stay in bed until dinner.

“We going witch hunting again to fix this tonight?” he asks instead, sliding further up the headboard and leaning over his knees.

Derek rolls off the bed with more grace than the bulk of his body should allow, and Stiles just watches the movement of his muscles shifting under the skin and tries to turn off his brain.

“No, not tonight,” Derek says, sliding on his jeans. “We were -- significantly underprepared.”

Stiles snorts. “Yeah, story of my life.”

Derek shoots him a look as he pulls his shirt back over his head, and Stiles doesn’t miss the fact the look has less of its usual threat but doesn’t know what to do with the difference. “Do some research today, see if anything helpful turns up,” Derek says.

“That what I was planning on doing today,” Stiles says, making a face at where Derek is standing in the middle of his room.

Derek has the gall to look almost (two percent, maybe) sorry about that, looking at some point located above Stiles’ head. “Okay,” Derek says, instead of anything Stiles expects him to say, and then leaves the room through Stiles’ bedroom door.

Stiles hears the front door open and close a few seconds later and he slides back down the bed to stare at his ceiling. He realizes after a few moments of panicked introspection that still has Derek’s shirt, crumpled up near his head, and he is definitely keeping it, what the fuck.

It’s the lure of the fruit across the room that drags him out of bed in the end, sweet-smelling to him even across the room. He’s suddenly ravenous and really wants to derail the thoughts he’s having about pushing back research again to stay like this for a little while and maybe figure out a plan to get Derek to go down on him again and maybe fuck him because the thought is not a new one but still makes him want to curl his toes into the carpet. If this weird magic messed up body is what does it for Derek, instead of regular, dick-sporting Stiles, Stiles might as well try and take advantage of that while it lasts.

And if he has automatic jerk off material for the rest of his life after this all gets fixed? Derek doesn’t need to know about it.

-

Stiles flips back and forth on that same line of thought for a few hours, stringing search elements into google and pasting the slightly less ridiculous sounding links into a document for later perusal.

He goes down for dinner, nothing really accomplished beyond fielding a few texts from Scott about coming down to the warehouse. (To be fair, he almost goes when he gets: ‘ dude jackson bought isaac a spiderman suit bc of the roof n wall thing and is tryn to get him to wear it ’ but the thought of going and having to deal with Derek, with the stupid persistent ache between his thighs that he knows Derek would know about, would be able to smell on him -- apparently can smell his general low-grade Derek-fueled arousal on any given normal anatomy day, even -- and that makes him set his phone down in frustration.)

Dinner is sort of awkward for no reason, though the burgers his dad made are as good as ever, pepper jack and horseradish cheese melted perfectly between the meat and bun because Stilinski men don’t do anything half-assed, especially burgers. But his dad keeps giving him these contemplating looks, like he can see right through the three baggy layers Stiles has on and is trying to puzzle anything together.

“Are you -- hurt?” he asks Stiles, throwing Stiles off right as Stiles finishes off the last of his burger and burps, patting his stomach affectionately.

“Uh, no,” Stiles says, shifting forward. “I’m completely fine!”

His dad gives him a look, totally not buying it. Which is fair, but not anything Stiles wants to deal with it. “I just want to make sure you’re okay with all the adventures you’ve been, uh, going on recently.”

“First, adventures makes it all sound fun and not like I’m helping save lives or anything, thanks for trivializing this, Dad,” Stiles says, going for light but then feeling bad when his dad’s face shifts a little. “Second, no, I’m just kind of cold. Maybe my ironclad immune system is finally breaking down on me, who knows. I’m not dying or anything, though.”

“That’s good.”

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees. He jerks his thumb over his shoulder toward the stairs. “I’m just going to go research things.”

His dad laughs at him and his chair scrapes against the floor when he stands, discussion officially over. “Oh, no you’re not, kiddo. Dishes first, werewolf stuff I don’t explicitly want to know about later.”

-

Throwing himself headfirst into soaking up as much information as possible ends up being a good distraction from everything else Stiles wants to think about.

He catches some pretty reputable-sounding sources recommending the mirror thing, which Stiles feels pretty awesome about. No one even congratulated him on his super spur of the moment planning skills or anything, which he’s at least used to by now, even if that doesn’t make it any less annoying. He adds a mirror to his ever-growing backpack arsenal of things to fight the non-human presence around Beacon Hill, and some sage from the spice cabinet because it’s mentioned several times over.

At 3am he finds links to a local new-age hippie cabin convent thing a few miles north of where they were on the hill the other night and ends up with some good leads from there on, enough that by 6am he’s confident enough to shoot an email to Boyd with the whens and wheres and whys, knowing he’ll relate it to Derek.

If Stiles couldn’t bring himself to email it to Derek, or call like he usually does, he blames it on the fact it’s six in the fucking morning and every time he closes his eyes he wants to get himself off to sharp-edged memories of the way Derek’s head looked between his legs.

-

Breakfast seems like a better idea than sleeping, when Stiles really gets to considering it. His dad is already up and in the kitchen, a few pages into the paper when Stiles starts rummaging through the fridge.

“You’re up early, kid,” his dad says, turning a crinkling page.

“Scrambled eggs?” Stiles asks, waving the egg carton over his shoulder.

“Dill, please.”

Stiles is acutely aware of the fact he’s been watched over the top of the paper as he moves around the kitchen in all his layers of clothes and eventually brings the plates over, but his dad doesn’t say anything beyond a compliment for the eggs.

His phone buzzes when his dad turns a page of the paper, and Stiles knows he’s being watched again when he slips it off the table to read, but doesn’t really care. It’s from Derek, which makes Stiles want to throw up his eggs a little, which is a ridiculous reaction that he needs to get a hold on, and simply says: ‘ 2 @ the hiking trail on the map you sent Boyd.’

Stiles thinks the ‘you sent Boyd’ part seems pretty weirdly specific, but he just shoves another forkful of eggs into his mouth, maybe a little too aggressively if the way his dad chuckles is any indication, and ignores everything but the specifics.

His phone buzzes merrily through-out the rest of breakfast, texts from every single member of the pack, starting with Scott, and one from Lydia, all asking him to confirm their meeting time and who is riding with who.

Stiles resists telling all of them but Lydia to text their freaking Alpha, the guy who made the plan and should be confirming it, but breakfast is making him feel more human than zombie so he just confirms with a mass text, CC’d to Derek so Derek knows at least one person is apparently on top of shit.

And not just on top of Stiles, shit.

“You okay?” his dad asks, and Stiles stops choking long enough to nod with watery eyes.

“Super fine,” Stiles assures him. “Going on a witch hunt later, don’t wait up.”

“It scares me when you say things like that,” his dad says, shaking his head and disappearing behind the paper. “I never know if you’re serious or not.”

-

Stiles listens to some aggressively loud rap on the drive out to the nature park a few miles north of Beacon Hills. He’s alone, since everyone else paired up in different cars; Scott in Allison’s, Jackson and Lydia, everyone else apparently crammed into Derek’s little camero.

It’s like Stiles has some sort of anti-werewolf air freshener hanging in his trusty and roomy jeep the way everyone avoids it. Whatever, he thinks his pine fresh tree is pleasant and definitely helpful in masking the lacrosse gear odor that generally hangs around.

He doesn’t turn his music any lower when he turns into the dirt parking lot for the nature trails and gets several glares from the more sensitive-eared members gathered unsuspiciously around their cars.

“We’re just waiting for Jackson,” Scott tells him when he joins everyone. He’s holding an arrow between both hands, testing how springy it is.

It looks like a spectacularly bad idea, considering Scott’s track record with sharp things, so Stiles throws a look at Derek without thinking about it, looking in between where Derek is staring at him and where Scott is playing with the arrow, Allison crouched down behind the trail map twisting things into her arrowheads.

“I thought we decided to come in peace,” Stiles says, stepping back from all the arrows.

“Allison is going to hang back,” Derek says. “Come walk with me for a second, Stiles.”

“Uh,” Stiles says, “I’m good.”

Isaac and Erika turn to look at him with evilly synchronized and overly interested expressions. Stiles rolls his eyes at them both and turns to follow Derek, walking back towards Stiles’ jeep.

“You look like shit,” Derek informs him when they turn out of sight, talking low even though Stiles is completely aware everyone except Allison can clearly hear him.

“Thanks, didn’t get much sleep, surprisingly,” Stiles says dryly. “Did you walk me back here to tell me that to spare me from the humiliation of your pack? How swe--”

Derek backs him up against the jeep mid-sentence and cuts him off with his mouth, and Stiles barely spares a thought to not reciprocating, gripping at Derek’s arms and opening his mouth for the hard and warm slide of Derek’s lips.

Derek’s hands are fluttering over various parts of him, settling at his waist and then moving, one low on his spine and one cupping his head, and Stiles feels light headed with it, acutely aware of the slick noise of their mouths, of his own harsh nose breathing, but he can’t bring himself to care about the pack behind them. He kisses back as aggressively as he can, edging away from the way Derek tries to press their chests more fully together and denting his teeth into Derek’s bottom lip, a little payback.

Derek breaks fully away after a few more confusing seconds, and Stiles is about to pull him back and tell him how stupid he is before he hears the crunch of gravel that means Jackson is speeding around the corner into the little parking lot, narrowly missing Allison’s car.

Derek, apparently done with whatever just happened, a last minute moment with Stiles and his current not-normal issues that they’re definitely getting fixed today, walks around the jeep before Stiles even pushes himself off the spare tire.

Jackson and Lydia are getting out of the car when Stiles turns the corner, followed by Danny.

"Danny? Wait," Stiles says, pausing only to gain his footing, one of Derek's stupid big warm hands catching his shoulder and balancing him, "why is Danny here?"

Danny shrugs over at him.

"Because," Jackson says, shooting Stiles a narrow-eyed look. "Scott gets his best friend here all the time, why shouldn't I have mine?"

Next to Stiles, Derek looks pretty pained by this development, but surprisingly says nothing against it, which means Jackson must have won some sort of argument about it recently.

If Stiles was a betting man, he'd bet it was last night while Derek was all post-orgasm hazy. Stiles' dad could have conned him into doing dishes for the rest of his natural life if he'd tried hard enough last night, and Stiles would have agreed. If Stiles wasn’t feeling so uneven about last night, he might laugh at Derek’s expense.

"Wait," Stiles adds when they've all already started moving up the path. "Hey, Danny knows about everything? Since when!"

Danny turns from where he's walking shoulder to shoulder with Jackson and laughs. "Seriously? I knew before Jackson even told me. I probably knew longer than Jackson did."

"Huh," Stiles says. It makes a weird amount of sense. Derek looks torn between wanting to go back on whatever he promised Jackson by violent means and begrudgingly finding Danny amusing, the latter of which Stiles completely understands.

The trail up to the woods they’re going to cut through to get to the commune thing is too narrow for any of them to walk next to each other, so they end up walking single-file after Derek like some weird school field trip, Allison bringing up the rear with her bow, occasionally flicking the string just for some noise.

Stiles sighs.

-

There isn’t a battle, which most of their group seems pretty put off about. Stiles should demand their next pack meeting be about moral priorities. It’s kind of nice to do a whole sit-down peace treaty thing instead of a bloodbath once and in while.

The group of witches they find look more like half-naked, half-bedazzled hippies than anything else, and there’s a man who straightens up to speak for all of them once Derek announces their presence.

They promise not to get into any territory disputes since their coven rules don’t take territorial claims into account, and as long as Derek lets them practice magic where they want and no one on either side kills anyone, everything will be fine as dandy.  

A contract is drawn up, with a minor dispute over signing it in blood or ink. Derek is heavily on team no-blood, and Stiles can’t blame him. He doesn’t want anyone messing with Derek’s blood, either.

Lydia solves the whole dispute for them pretty simply. “Blood? That’s medieval, seriously,” she  says, flicking her hair back and procuring a pen from somewhere in her jacket, handing it to Derek. “My aunt’s a notary, I’ll just be your human under signer and everything will be fine.”

Pretty much everyone forgets about Stiles’ current predicament, ready to leave when everything is signed. Stiles, at least, is still perfectly aware he doesn’t have a dick, and would like it back, awesome string of orgasms the past two days notwithstanding.

The head witch guy, Stone, laughs when he brings it up. “Oh, sorry,” he says, “that must have been an errant spell that got transformed by an outside source, pheromones in the air or something. We do very natural magic.”

Erica snorts.

“Yeah,” Stiles says, dismissively, “but you can fix it, right?”

“Sure,” Stones says, smiling, and Stiles has a few seconds to blink expectantly at him before he’s being doubled over by a bright flash of light and passing out.

-

“This is familiar,” Stiles groans, coming into consciousness slowly and curling onto his side, half tangled in sheets that aren’t his.

There’s a very Derek-sounding grunt of agreement from behind him.

Stiles blinks his eyes open slowly. The little bedroom has a soft glow from one lamp, which tells Stiles nothing about how long he’s been passed out.

“You really need to get a window in here,” Stiles says, rubbing his face. “What time is it?”

“It’s been dark for an hour or two.”

Stiles rolls over looking down at himself before daring to look over at Derek. His chest is flat and normal again and he’s definitely aware of his dick. He palms at his chest on instinct and pulls his hands away quickly when Derek groans from across the room.

“Nothing like waking up to post-magic shenanigan deja vu,” Stiles says, laughing a little awkwardly. He’s not in the shirt or hoodie he wore out to the commune, instead he’s wearing another one of Derek’s shirts, based on the rich and familiar scent, this one a low, threadbare scoopneck.

“I’m keeping this one, too,” Stiles says, pinching the collar when he rolls onto his side to actually look at Derek.

“By all means,” Derek says, gesturing.

He’s sitting on the floor across the room and Stiles thinks Derek may have actually been watching Stiles sleep, which is too unnerving to think about, especially when it makes him feel kind of cared for.

“As long as you wear it around me,” Derek adds, the corner of his mouth curling up.

Stiles drops his hand from from where he’d been absently toying with the neck of the shirt and maybe gapes a little for a second. “Oh my god,” he says. “You can’t just -- that’s not a thing you can say.”

Derek pushes up off the wall into a kneeling position. It’s a pretty small room, considering the size of the mattress and dresser, and he could probably crawl over to Stiles in a heartbeat if he wanted to. Not that he wants to, probably, except for how he also maybe does, because that shirt comment, what.

“Why not?” Derek asks, clearly being dense on purpose.

“Why?” Stiles asks, and he has lots of reasons all flooding head head, but what comes out is a too-loud and unfiltered: “Do want me to smell like you?”

“Apparently,” Derek says. He looks sort of amused. Maybe Stiles was actually in a coma for a year or something this time around and Derek had a long time to work through feelings while staring at Stiles’ prone form or something.

“What? Since when?”

“A while,” Derek says.

He’s purposely being frustrating. Stiles worldview has been tilted at least 60 degrees this weekend and he’d appreciate some specificity.

Stiles presses his face into Derek’s pillow and rolls back over when Derek’s hand comes around to the back of his neck. “Wait,” he says, “so this isn’t just a magical vagina thing?”

Derek tips his head back and laughs, full. “No.”

“You -- what? You have major issues,” Stiles says finally, frustrated.

Derek leans in with both of his eyebrows raised, shoulders up. “I know,” he says dryly.

Stiles shakes his head, runs the palm of his hand over his head. “I didn’t mean in general, I meant with -- with feelings,” he amends.

“I know,” Derek agrees, deflating a little, eyebrows still raised in what looks scarily similar to a duh, Stiles sort of look.

“No,” Stiles tries again. “With feelings concerning people! Specifically me!”

“I know,” Derek says, kneeling forward onto the bed, knees pressed awkwardly against Stiles’ ribs. He looks more frustrated than Stiles feels.

“This conversation isn’t working,” Stiles says. “I don’t think you’re agreeing to the same things I’m saying. I didn’t even know you knew how to agree to that many things in a row.”

Derek leans even closer and Stiles tips up to meet him, just to mix the pattern up.

“You’re right,” Derek says. “This conversation isn’t working.”

“I know,” Stiles starts, but Derek isn’t just stepping into his space so they can figure out a different way to talk about these weird circumstantially important feelings they are not talking about, he’s stepping close to run his knuckles over the side of Stiles’ jaw.

“So let’s not talk about it right now,” Derek says, voice suddenly dipped low and warm.

“Not talk,” Stiles repeats, tipping his neck back when Derek’s nose follows the trail of his knuckles. “Not really something I have much experience with, but I can definitely try.”