Title: a lot like
Author: kototyph
Pairing/Characters: Derek/Stiles
Rating: M
Word Count: 4233
Warnings/Tags: Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Werewolf Culture, Werewolf Mates, Accidental Bonding, Morning After, Awkward Conversations, Shower Sex, Bathing/Washing, Cuddling & Snuggling
Summary: Wherein Stiles is not possessed of all the facts, and Derek is not a reliable source of information.
A/N: Originally posted as a gift for werewolfjesus and the Teen Wolf Holiday Exchange (2014).

"... just two, then?" the woman at the server station finally asks. She's leaning back like she thinks the dirt might be catching, eyebrows about as far up as they can get without leaving her face entirely.

"Uh, yeah. Nonsmoking please," Stiles adds, then tries to remember if you still have to say that in restaurants. Probably not? But this place barely qualifies as a restaurant; maybe a diner on a good day, a shaky step up from a dive only because he can't actually see a bar from here. He wouldn't put it past them to have an illegal smoking section.

"Booth," Derek murmurs in his ear, nosing into the filthy collar of his hoodie and sighing.

"Dude," Stiles says out of the corner of his mouth, trying to shrug him off. Derek just grumbles something and rolls with it before burrowing even closer, and Stiles gives the ceiling a pained look. "And, if we could get a booth, that'd be great. Thanks."

"Sure thing," the woman says slowly, eyeing them as she steps out from behind the podium. "Right this way, please."

Stiles shifts to step after her and becomes immediately aware of all the places his clothes are starting to stick to his skin with mud and… other things. Ugh. It's a miracle she didn't just kick them out, because Stiles? Stiles would have totally kicked himself out. The two of them are managing mountain-men levels of dishevelment at best, and more likely look like a couple of Swamp Things wandered in from the lagoon. Granted, Derek has the mountain man vibe even when he's not actively shedding pine needles with every step, but Stiles personally feels he's gone from his best bonfire-casual to an extra at the end of a horror movie. A really campy horror movie, with evil trees and chainsaws. There are leaves and probably slugs in his hair, his back is one long streak of mire, and he keeps finding burrs in new and exciting places.

Speaking of burrs... Stiles reaches for the hand that's snuck into his front pocket, again, and gets their fingers linked before tugging it pointedly out. "Okay, we're walking now. Work with me here."

Derek's still breathing down his neck, warm little puffs that make Stiles' skin prickle. "Uh huh," he says agreeably, sagging into Stiles' back.

Fucking werewolves and their fucking creepy, clingy habits; he weaned Scott off this shit years ago, but apparently they aren't big on minding human manners in whatever hick pack Derek comes from. Stiles shoulders him away and starts moving, ignoring the man's stumble and protesting grunt. After a moment of tug-of-war with their hands, though, Derek gets with the program and lets himself be pulled towards the far end of the diner.

The woman leads them to a thankfully dim corner and splays their menus over the chipped tile table, offering a desultory, "Your server will be will you shortly," before disappearing. Stiles starts to scoot onto one bench, and then has to get up and physically force Derek to sit opposite him, ignoring some impressively pitiful looks and grabbiness in the process. God, so much with the hands and the manhandling. Even when they're both finally seated Derek has their legs tangled like a cat's cradle in seconds.

"Seriously?" Stiles says, trying to extract his foot. "Personal space, Derek. You do notice we're in public, right? That there are other, non-werewolf-type people here?"

Derek just looks confused, then mountingly pathetic, and after a moment Stiles just drops his head and surrenders his ankles to the inevitable.

The diner-dive is even more unpleasant up close than it had been at the door, seats grimy to the touch and the whole place reeking like burnt coffee and fried potatoes. It's fine, though— he's tired enough, and hungry enough, that even the cheapest, meanest breakfast sounds great as long as it involves caffeine and copious amounts of fried something.

Derek, who he might have expected to be choosier about smells, looks too blissed out to notice much of anything. He's staring at Stiles from across the table like Stiles' face is sunshine on a cloudy day and all that other metaphoric crap, like he's addled and twitterpated and ass over teakettle. Like Christmas. Like they just spent hours having crazy tantric full moon sex before staggering through the woods until they found the highway and a greasy spoon.

Which, yeah, exactly what happened. Stiles is a little unclear on the 'hours' part, but he definitely remembers the 'tantric' and the 'crazy' (hence the mud, hence the burrs). In his defense, he usually makes much better life choices when sex isn't on the table.

"What do werewolves even eat for breakfast, anyway?" he says, picking up a menu and belatedly noticing the dirt caked under his nails. Gross.

"... bacon," Derek announces after a long pause. "Lots. 'n ham. 'n sausage."

"Animal proteins, gotcha," Stiles says, scanning the breakfast section. They've got waffles, awesome. Does he want strawberries or the classic syrup combo?

Their waitress eventually saunters over bearing coffee, eyes ringed in solid, metallic turquoise and enough mascara to make a wig. Stiles does the ordering, because Derek's still grinning at him like an idiot and hasn't glanced away even once. If he looked any more besotted he'd have literal hearts for eyes.

"And, uh, do you have something that's— just meat?" Stiles says, flipping the laminated menu. "All meat?"

"Oh, you'll want the special plate. It's right here," she says with a wink, and points at an entree that reads like it could satisfy Godzilla's carnivorous urges. "Discounted today. Had a good run last night, hon?"

"Uh," Stiles says intelligently, and her eyes gleam briefly gold as she laughs.

Derek chooses that moment to start growling, a subvocal rumble Stiles feels through his seat, and for some reason it makes her laugh all the harder.

"Seriously?" Stiles asks him, unimpressed, and Derek stops, looking confused again.

"You're just adorable," the waitress tells him, giving them both a very amused look as she takes the menus. "These'll be right out, gentlemen."

When she's gone, Stiles a sip from his lukewarm mug and gives Derek a nudge with his knee. "So. Are you going to be like for a while?" he asks. "It is normal? Should I be calling a wolf doctor or something?"

Derek blinks, then smiles at him. It's a little goofy and a lot dumb.

"Right," Stiles sighs, settling his chin on his hand.

He should probably text Scott soon— hey, sorry for disappearing on you. Remember that one asshole from last Lupercalia? Well, this is actually the third time we've met during one of your little werewolf shindigs and you know what they say about third dates!

I got lost on my way back to the bonfire and accidentally reenacted Little Red Riding Hood, complete with subtext!

You didn't fucking tell me "honey moon festival" was code for horny werewolf season opener, you asshat, I would have dressed way down and maybe pet a skunk or something.

Exactly how long does this screwed-brainless thing last with you guys? Because it's cute, really, but holy crap it's like I'm talking to a stump. A stump that wants to play footsie and left some really incriminating bitemarks that are making it difficult to sit still on this hard plastic bench thing.

"Stiles?" Derek asks, the tiniest of frowns crossing his face.

"Sorry, what?" Stiles says, shifting in his seat. Now that he's thinking about them, his bruises are all starting to throb like a motherfucker. He needs a bucket of Tylenol and a long, long shower, as soon as he can possibly get them. After waffles, obviously, but soon.

"Stiles," Derek repeats, and smiles again, apparently content with just his attention.

"That's my name," Stiles says dryly, but he doesn't resist when Derek reaches across the table to recapture his hand, tucking it into his. The dry heat of his palm feels good.

Outside the none-too-clean windows, the sun is bobbing past the horizon like a fat yellow cork. In the growing light, Derek's teeth are a bright, even white against what is definitely an all-over coating of forest floor, dirt sticking in the creases next to his eyes and nose. Stiles scratches at his collar and winces as something flakes off under his fingers. "Crap, we're a mess."

"Mmhm," Derek hums, blinking slowly. There's even dirt on his eyelids.

"You especially," Stiles says, grabbing a napkin and dunking it in his glass of water. "C'mere, hot stuff."

He's anticipating some kind of flinch or protest, but Derek submits to being wiped down with a low pleased noise, closing his eyes and leaning into it like— okay, Stiles knows better than to throw around dog analogies with shapeshifters (Kira would smack him and Scott would give him that sad, disappointed stare, which is ten times worse), but Derek's angling into his hand exactly like Mrs. Treadwell's retriever puppy used to. He's not quite as cute, and his rough cheek reminds Stiles of the decidedly un-puppyish stubble-burn all over the insides of his thighs, but there's enough resemblance to have a smile sneak up and spread before he can tamp it down.

Stiles has gone through four napkins and is ripping a fifth from the dispenser when their waitress comes back with more coffee and waffles the size of his head, and yeah, he's all over that. Derek gives him a slit-eyed look of disapproval when he drops the napkins and goes for his plate, but quickly gets distracted by the largest pile of pork products Stiles has ever seen in front of him.

"Holy crap," Stiles says, pausing to stare. "Even you can't eat all that."

Derek squints at him. "M'sharing. With you."

"No thanks," Stiles says, reaching over to grab the imitation syrup. It sticks to the table for a second before pulling free.

"Sharing," Derek insists, nudging his plate forward. "S'important."

"Awww," the waitress coos, refilling Stiles' coffee. "You boys are just the cutest."

Stiles doesn't really see what's so cute about it, but he looks down at the plate consideringly. All that bacon does have a certain crispy, greasy allure. "... I guess I could trade you a quarter waffle," he allows, and Derek beams.

Apparently 'sharing' involves Derek shoveling half a hog over the lip of his plate and onto Stiles', then looking expectant until Stiles grudgingly surrenders most of his own meal in return. That much bacon deserves a whole waffle, anyway, and Stiles lets it go without more than a token protest when he sees how wide Derek's grinning about it. Seriously, why?

"Use some frigging silverware at least," Stiles grumbles around sweet waffle-y goodness.

Derek contemplates his fork for a moment, then casually flips it up and stabs it into an enormous pink slab of breakfast ham. He proceeds to use it as a handle to maneuver the entire chunk in his mouth.

"Not... really what I meant," Stiles says, mesmerized in a sick-to-his-stomach kind of way.


"No that's— fine. Carry on."

Derek nods and goes back to taking huge bites of everything, leg tucked warmly under Stiles' knee. Stiles watches him chew and swallow, meditatively sucking the last of the syrup off his own fork, and finally concludes that A) it's way too early for this bullshit, B) life is confusing enough anyway, and C) werewolves are just really fucking weird and not worth wasting any of his valuable breakfast time on.

The sun's most of the way up when they stagger outside, Derek trying and mostly failing to get his wallet back in his pocket after he'd insisted on paying for everything (all sixteen dollars of it; whoa there, big spender). The waitress leaves a little note on their check congratulating them; what exactly she thinks she's congratulating them on, Stiles isn't clear and doesn't want to contemplate, but it makes Derek look furtive and strangely happy.

Stiles thinks it's in the best interests of everyone if they just get the hell back to town as quickly as possible, but that's going to be kind of complicated. The forest he and Derek had stumbled out of an hour earlier lines the highway as far as the eye can see in both directions, no signs of civilization beyond the cracked asphalt and rusty metal siding of the building behind them.

"So, do we hitchhike? Or— who are you calling," Stiles says suspiciously, angling his head to read the screen and ready to bat the phone out of Derek's hand if necessary. He doesn't want to meet anyone he knows even in passing right now, with hickeys dotting most of his body and come dry and itchy on his stomach.

Derek droops onto him, free hand creeping under his shirt and around his waist. He seems more coherent with food in him, thank the baby Jesus. "Car. Service for the full moon."

"There are special werewolf taxis?" Stiles asks, because what the fuck, Scott made him pick up his cold, naked ass all twelve full moons last year. In December it was from clear across the state.

"Mmhm," Derek says, nuzzling into his collarbone.

Aaand they're back to grunting. This is honestly starting to worry him; even Malia is more with it than Derek after shifting. "Did I break you?" Stiles wonders out loud, unable to turn his head because Derek's using his shoulder as a pillow. "Was the sex really that awesome?"

"Don' be stupid," Derek mumbles, opening his mouth on Stiles' skin and just... breathing.

Fucking creepy creepster werewolves. Stiles kicks him in the shin, lightly. "Hey! I have legitimate concerns, here, you're barely even verbal, clearly something is—"

"Stiles," Derek says, obviously taking great pains to enunciate. "Shut. Up." A beat. "Please."

"Now he says please," Stiles mutters, because there hadn't been a lot of politeness in the way they went at each other once they'd gotten out of earshot of the party. He can still smell woodsmoke in Derek's hair and idly wonders if he's going to associate it forever with stifled laughter and eager hands in the dark.

Derek's tongue grazes his neck, just enough to prompt a shiver before he pulls back to stare at his phone, thumb fumbling across the keypad.

"You're going to have to let go of me at some point," Stiles says, fingers straying through Derek's hair despite himself.

"No," Derek says emphatically, reeling him in with his one free arm.

It turns out Derek is right, and he doesn't— not there, huddled awkwardly together on the curb, not in the funky-smelling cab that eventually appears, not through the energetic and mostly one-sided exhortations of their driver, and definitely not when they're parked outside Stiles' house and Stiles is trying to find the most tactful way to tell him he's great in the sack and all, but Stiles has been having increasingly erotic daydreams about his bathtub and his bed in that order and Derek doesn't feature.

"This was nice," he tries, bracing a hand on Derek's chest and trying a subtle push. Then a shove. "Really nice, look, you've got my number and—"

"Thanks for the ride," Derek says to the driver, already herding Stiles out of the car like a freaking sheepdog.

"Congrats, kids!" the man says cheerily, and then Stiles is standing at the end of his thankfully empty driveway with a werewolf still attached to his shirt, watching the taillights recede into the distance.

"I heard something about a shower?" Derek asks, smile sly as Stiles turns to glare over his shoulder at him.

"Oh, did your frontal lobe finally grow back?" Stiles says snidely. "Here's what you missed, asshole: I didn't invite you to steal my breakfast, I definitely didn't invite you to come home with me, and why the fuck does everyone keep congratulating us?"

"Oh, that." Derek shrugs in what he probably thinks is a nonchalant way, but his ears are turning pink. "It's a, uh, you know. Wolf thing."

"A wolf thing," Stiles says slowly, turning to face him. "Am I wearing a sign that says 'got mounted but good' or something?"

"Well," Derek says, eyes sliding away.

"Oh my God," Stiles groans, pulling free and stomping up the front walk. Fucking werewolves.

"It's not that bad!" Derek tries, following him. "You just smell really— you smell like mine."

Stiles covers his face with his hand and tries to unlock the front door by feel. "Are you freaking serious right now."

"Yes?" Derek says, hovering behind him. "You smell... good."

There's a bit more throaty appreciation in Derek's tone than Stiles is prepared to deal with before eight on a Saturday. "Okay, first of all, ew. Second of all, showers, so many showers—"

"We should take one together," Derek says seriously; too seriously. "It's important."

"That's what you said about the bacon," Stiles points out, and the door finally unlocks and swings open at his nudge. "Why, exactly, are bacon and showers so important?"

Derek doesn't answer him, too busy maneuvering inside before Stiles realizes what he's doing and can slam the door in his face. "I'll get the water started."

"That's hilarious, you don't even know where—" Derek's already trotting up the stairs and Stiles kicks the door closed and chases after him, pulling off and throwing his mud-caked shoes behind him as he goes. "You're so freaking lucky my dad isn't home!"

Derek leaves a brazen trail of leaf litter and filthy pieces of clothing all along the landing. Stiles grabs and wads them into an angry ball as he passes, and considers tossing them out a window— but a naked Derek is the last thing he wants running around the house. "Listen up, jackass," he says, rounding the bathroom door ready to drag Derek out again, and damn. Damn. Maybe he's being a bit hasty here.

Derek grins toothily, leaning a bare hip against the sink. Even streaked with dirt his body is mesmerizing in the worse way, and the smug tilt of his chin says he knows it. Behind him, water hisses and steam starts to billow out of the open shower door.

"Care to join me?" he says, scratching casually at the arrowing dark hair below his navel, like Stiles needs any help directing his attention downwards. Derek's cock is already half hard and flushed red, and Stiles means it very sincerely when he says it looks mouthwatering.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you," Stiles mutters, but he's closing the bathroom door behind him, dropping Derek's clothes on the floor and stepping into Derek's space even as Derek reaches out for him.

Stiles has bruises from this mouth running up and down his spine like stitches, but Derek's weirdly gentle now, hands cupping Stiles face while they take their time opening up to each other. A little mystified by the change, Stiles keeps his hands in PG-rated territory too, splayed wide over Derek's back and shoulders. They kiss slowly, sweetly, air around them going thick and humid as the water runs hotter. Stiles laughs a little as they ease apart to breathe.

"Dude, what the fuck," he says softly, dragging his teeth over Derek's bottom lip. "Is this finesse? Are you actually good at this?"

"Shut up," Derek grumbles and dips his head again, this time bolder. Stiles parts his lips and gets rewarded with an approving little groan and the full weight of Derek's tongue over his own, slick and hot.

The kiss gets serious and Stiles is kind of embarrassingly into it, arms up around Derek's neck. He's in deep enough that he can't stifle a squeak of surprise when Derek steps backwards, pulling Stiles with him into the shower and under the spray.

Stiles jerks his head away, blinking water out of his eyes. "Damn it, my clothes—"

"You have to wash them anyway," gets husked right into his ear, lips brushing the curve. Derek is a cheating bastard.

"Bastard," Stiles calls him, pushing him back so he can unzip his sodden hoodie, and Derek helps pull the drenched cotton off, fingers already rucking up the hem of his t-shirt as Stiles tosses the wet mess out onto the floor.

They manage to get his shirt off and his pants unbuttoned, but then Stiles gets distracted by how Derek jolts and moans when the wet denim of Stiles' jeans rubs up against his balls and the underside of his cock, and that calls for some experimentation.

"There's come all over the inside anyway," Stiles reasons, nudging his knee between Derek's. "What's a few more spots?"

"I don't want rugburn on my dick," Derek protests, but he's the one rocking his hips into Stiles, so he can stop any time he likes.

Stiles comes for what might be the fourth or fifth time since last night with his pants still around one ankle, Derek's hand in a greedy fist around both of them as he trips after Stiles with a muffled groan against Stiles' cheek. Stiles has his arms braced on the tile on either side of Derek's head and has to fight to keep his knees from buckling as it gets dragged out of him, sharp and hooked and so hard his vision blurs. "Shit—"

Then Derek slides down the wet tile and nuzzles into Stiles' groin with a desperate-sounding whine, mouthing at his still-jerking cock, and Stiles is trying to be polite and not hump his face into the wall but Derek is making it really hard, really fucking hard, oh, fuck—

Stiles sinks down, ending up on his knees and straddling Derek's outstretched legs. Derek keeps his face pressed to his belly and his arms wrapped around Stiles' hips, murmuring something low and drugged-sounding into his skin. When Stiles can coordinate enough to tug his head back, Derek's lids are at half-mast over pupils the size of dimes.

"St'les," he slurs, grinning dopily, and Stiles is too close to his last orgasm to get all that annoyed, but really? They're back to this now?

The water's getting cold, and Stiles grimaces as he sits up. Derek tries to pull him back, but subsides easily enough when Stiles points at him and says, "No, stay. Stay. Good boy." The detour was awesome but there were reasons he'd wanted this shower, several itchy, gritty reasons. Derek watches sleepily as Stiles pulls off his jeans and chucks them out, then kneels up to readjust the water temperature and grab shampoo and soap.

"Eyes closed," Stiles orders, squirting some of the former into his hand, and when Derek obeys Stiles slicks his fingers back through his hair, rubbing it in.

Sexed-brainless werewolves love getting their hair washed, go figure. Stiles is feeling certain affectionate impulses despite himself, so he lingers over it until lather is everywhere and Derek's head looks like the deep end of a bubble bath. Stiles gives him a Mohawk, then devil's horns. Derek makes wordless contented noises and rests his head on Stiles' chest, hands on the backs of his thighs.

Derek is just lucid enough to make a half-assed attempt to return the favor when Stiles starts in with the soap, and they trade the bar of Dial back and forth as mud and grass stains disappear and the draining water finally runs clear. The tap is running well and truly cold by the time they stagger out, and there's just one towel so they share it, shivering and dripping all over the bathroom floor.

His dad's squad car is still mercifully absent from the driveway, so Stiles grabs Derek's hand and drags him to his room, giving him a helpful shove towards the bed while he goes back for their clothes. Derek is literally rolling in the sheets when he gets back, wiggling deep into the mattress in what a blind man would recognize as some kind of scent-marking thing. Goddamn werewolves.

"Good, you made it! Now how about under the covers? Can you do that for me?" Stiles asks as he drops the soaked clothes into his hamper, and from the bed Derek blinks at him, eyes gleaming a bright, luminous amber.


"Brain dead," Stiles pronounces him, and yanks at the comforter trapped under his ass until he gets the picture.

They're both still damp and Derek's hair is making the pillows wet, but the tight spoon Derek muscles him into is surprisingly comfortable, especially with all the body heat he's pumping out.

"Fine. You can stay for... a couple hours," Stiles decides. "Dad's still gone, which means he has second shift and we're safe for the day. I'll even run your clothes through the washing machine."

"Mmhm," Derek hums, forehead pressed to Stiles' nape.

"Only if you promise to leave when I tell you it's time to go. I'll even make lunch."

"Mmm. M'kay."

"Say, 'I understand'."


"Say, 'I will leave when told to'."

"Will. Pr'mise. L'nch?"

Stiles rolls his eyes so hard they fucking hurt. "Grilled cheese and tomato soup. After we sleep, because I am so fucking tired, Derek. So tired." He's having trouble keeping his eyes open at all, actually, so he stops trying.

"Sleep," Derek agrees. "Soup's good."

"It's a deal, then." Satisfied, Stiles pulls the sheets up to his chin and prepares to pass right the fuck out. Finally.

"Y'good mate," Derek sighs, arms tightening, and Stiles' eyes pop open.

"Wait, what?"