For the first time in six and a half years, Derek had a good dream.

It was warm, and he was in someone's arms. Someone was stroking his ears. No-one had ever done that. A shiver passed up his spine. Every sense was tingling with pleasure. It was blissfully silent, save for the ever-present far off rumble of the road and distant wildlife. The softest morning light reached his eyes. The most delicious smell he had ever smelled filled his nose. Not chocolate, not herbs or coffee steam or mown grass or citronella. It was … better. Infinitely. Not fresh or old, or spicy or minty, just … warm. Close. Somebody. A person. The usual acceptable, unavoidable combination of skin, hair, sweat, the bare hint of food, and that underlying unique scent that, for everyone, is just a bit different. But this was perfect. This was more than just a tolerable "person". This was a sweet, beautiful, lickable, irresistible person.

Fingertips drew a path right under Derek's ears, and he melted into the touch, stretching his neck. He couldn't help himself. He was in heaven. He was in ecstasy. The fingertips tickled from his jawline upward, stroking the sensitive area where the back of his ears met his head, and a defeated whimper escaped his lips.

Then the fingers stopped dead still, and Derek heard a sound, a thump-thumpa-thump right under his ear, pick up rapidly. Sluggishly, his body responded, his eyes opening, bewildered for a moment at his strange surroundings.

Then he felt the body beneath his. The familiarity of the narrow arms, the fragile ribs, the bony legs. And that smell.

Fucking. Wizard.

Was going.

To die.

Derek pushed himself up on his forearms and looked down at the stunned, barely-awake teenager beneath him. There was a moment of soundless recognition. A long moment. Then, quietly,

'I can't breathe.'

Derek shifted his weight off Stiles' body. He wondered if he had spent the whole night like that, and come to think of it, how and why the fuck he landed in Stiles' bedroom, let alone in his bed, let alone on top of Stiles.

'How did I get here?'

Stiles blinked. He must have only woken up when Derek … oh God, he'd whimpered. He hoped Stiles didn't remember that.

'I think you came here in your sleep and just kind of ... made yourself at home.'

'I don't sleepwalk.'

Stiles rolled over and looked at his carpet, grumbling awkwardly. 'See for yourself.'

There were marks on the floor, from the window, all the way up to the bed. Paw-shaped marks, tracked in faint smudges of dirt. Derek looked at his hands and feet. Some of it was on the sheets. He wasn't very dirty, but he wasn't clean. He must have wandered all the way from the abandoned station, where he had intended to spend the night, to Stiles' house in his sleep. In full alpha form.

'If anyone saw me, we're in deep trouble,' Derek said, becoming uncomfortably aware of his nakedness, and Stiles' smell, ohgod it's all over me and it's incredible

'You're in trouble.'


'You. You are in trouble, if you were seen. We're trying to keep me out of it, remember?'

The discomfort shifted from irritated embarrassment to slightly unhappy on Stiles' part, and Derek forced the feeling to the back of his head.

'If anyone saw me coming here, I don't think it matters whether we're trying to keep you out of it or not. Hopefully no-one did see. If you're asked, you'll need a cover story.'

'I'll tell anyone who asks that I'm dog-sitting for the station,' Stiles said, after a wide-eyed moment's pause. Derek didn't ask what the sour bite in his voice was about. He had to get back to his den, and he had to do it dressed.

Stiles tumbled out of bed, and rummaged in his dresser until he found a pair of black tracksuit pants, and undid the drawstring. 'These might fit,' he said, tossing them at Derek. 'Help yourself to a t-shirt, if you want one.'

Then he scooped up a pair of jeans and a shirt, and removed himself to the bathroom.

Derek picked up the pants and tried not to feel the strangeness, and the foreboding glow of warmth in his chest, in his abdomen, that came from knowing that he'd be going back to his den wearing Stiles' pants. The thought of wearing anything of Stiles' had irked him in the past, but now it sent a bolt of heat through him, and guiltily, he wondered if it would prolong the scent, the mingling smell on his skin of him and Stiles –

Shit. The others would be able to smell Stiles all over him. They would want to know what had happened, or they would decide for themselves what had happened, and how would that make him look? It would make him look weak. Like a hypocrite. Keeping Stiles all to himself and banning the others from seeing him at all. Sleeping with him at night, returning wearing Stiles' clothes, covered in that smell.

He could hear Stiles falling to pieces in the bathroom. His hard breathing, a tetchily muttered "asshole". Derek let himself feel guilty, let Stiles call him an asshole. Just this once. Only days after dismissing Stiles from the pack altogether, hours after criticizing him for his behaviour, he went and cozied up to Stiles in his sleep. Derek pulled on the pants (a little tight around the thighs, but Stiles was skinny, and what did he expect), and couldn't avoid listening to Stiles lose his composure one room away. The kid was barely standing up. His heart rate was all wrong, and even a room and a closed door away, the smell of sweat was starting to –

Panic attack

Derek vaulted into the bathroom and caught Stiles just as he was sinking to the floor. He was hyperventilating and shivering, eyes wide open in what looked like shock. Stiles tried to push him away and tug him closer, neither of them knowing which, or what to do, and all Derek could do was hold Stiles, arms wrapped around his shoulders and hope to God he didn't faint or have a heart attack, although heart attacks didn't happen to teenagers who had panic attacks, at least he didn't think they did, but Stiles was freaking out and his skin was too hot and it was Derek's fault and he didn't know what to do and he felt so useless and it was his fault and he caused this. He caused this.

It felt like an age. It felt like five minutes. Stiles returned to normal jerkily, slowly, and Derek realized he had started to rock slightly, clutching Stiles to his bare chest and holding his head to the side so he could breathe. He stopped. Neither of them moved, even when Stiles was back to normal and his head was resting gently under Derek's chin, lips parted and chest rising and falling instead of jumping.

'I'm sorry,' Derek said. It felt like the first time he had ever said it, at least genuinely. He almost felt like he was the one who had had the attack.

'No,' Stiles said weakly. 'I'm sorry. I shouldn't have … I don't even know why … I'm sorry.'

Stiles was still much too warm, but Derek didn't want to let him go. He didn't think about why that was, or what it meant He didn't think about whether he should. He kept his arms around Stiles and kept him close, felt Stiles' slow steady inhales, knowing that, this close, the combined smell of them would be evident to Stiles too, and the way his blood flowed, the way his muscles relaxed, it was finally clear Stiles wasn't uncomfortable. That was something. And Derek wasn't taking that away from either of them, not just yet.

Stiles rearranged his legs, and it was definitely a choice now. They weren't curled up together out of exhaustion, or panicked necessity. He moved his arms so Stiles could move his, and rest so his shoulder wasn't digging into Derek's chest. Shyly, Stiles relaxed completely into Derek and let himself be held, and fuck. It was about the most inadvisable thing Derek had done, but he was sure as hell going to keep doing it.



The first time, snuggling, that is, had been weird and maybe it could be called accidental, and one of them had been technically unconscious throughout the whole thing. And now the second time it was weird and maybe accidental but now definitely deliberate, because Stiles was fine, he was more than fine, and Derek was holding him. Stiles felt like he'd just had a really terrified orgasm or jumped off a cliff and now he was wrapped up in Derek and they were cuddling, on the bathroom floor, which was not entirely comfortable but he would be pretty happy to just not move. For, like, a year.

But all good things must end, and Derek moved one hand from Stiles' back. Stiles prepared himself to sit up and crawl away into an abyss somewhere, but the hand was suddenly back, just under his chin, lightly settled with the thumb right under his bottom lip and he felt his head being tilted up, and wow, Derek's face was closer than he thought.

'How are you feeling?'

His voice was low. Wrecked.


Way to give away far too fucking much. Ambrosia or not, Stiles was going to get punched in the fa …

Or kissed. Kissed was fine, too.

Actually, kissing was amazing.

Derek closed his mouth over Stiles', sliding together until they fit perfectly, the tip of his tongue tracing the inner line of Stile's lips until he opened them enough to let it through, let it lick against his own and suddenly his whole body was responding, and he'd never actually kissed anyone, not like this, not except a peck on the cheek once in elementary school but Derek's tongue was all over his tongue and if he didn't stop him, this was going to go somewhere very forbidden very quickly.

But he couldn't stop. He didn't want to. He didn't have the will, at least not one to challenge the onslaught of sex that was a keyed-up Derek. Derek's hand was sliding up his thigh and cupping his half-hard erection, and his mouth was passionately clinging to Stiles, invading, doing a very in-depth impression of what sex was probably like, and the more intense it became, the more Stiles gave in, and the more Stiles gave in, the more Derek lost it, and the more Derek lost it, the more intense it became.

Suddenly Stiles was being pulled onto Derek's lap, legs apart, and Derek was hoisting him up and carrying him back to the bedroom, mouths still glued together and then Stiles was on his back, Derek towering over him and bucking against him and ooooouuuuaagahalvafiva that felt good. Very very good. Derek tore Stiles' pants in an effort to pull them down and he must have pulled the ones Stiles gave him off because Stiles' cock was suddenly being gripped tight against Derek's and the surprise, the feeling of wrongness, this is all going way too fast, this is exactly the kind of thing that they were trying to avoid, this is exactly why I was off limits in the first place, but it was impossible to think, impossible to act, with Derek's hand sliding over him, Derek's cock rubbing against his, Derek groaning right into his mouth and grinding up against him in sheer, out-of-control ecstasy. Derek twisted his wrist with his hand tight around the base of their cocks, making Stiles moan and dig his fingers into Derek's shoulders. Derek knew how to use his hand. He barely even looked like Derek any more, not the strict, controlled Derek Stiles thought he was. His free hand dragged the front of Stiles' shirt up until it was up to his neck, and he palmed Stiles' chest as his tongue fucked Stiles' mouth. He was touching everywhere. His arms, his muscles and his stubble, everywhere.

Derek's cock was thick and pulsing against Stiles' and he was pumping fast, jerking them off with the same sense of ruthlessness with which he did everything, and his free hand was pinching Stiles' nipple and it was all too much. He slowed, and then he picked up the pace again, thumbing the head of his cock, rubbing and teasing and slowing down and suddenly speeding up again.

Derek convulsed above him and something warm, wet, obscene, splashed against Stiles' bare torso. An absurd sense of pride, combined with a crushing sense of guilt, shot through him as he came, mingling their come in the sweat on his skin, numbly aware that, throughout the whole thing, Derek hadn't once broken the kiss.

And he still didn't. Coming down from the high, from orgasm, Derek moved his lips against Stiles', the sound of hands on bare skin and flesh giving way to the wet, intimate sound of desperate kissing. He relaxed onto Stiles until they were pressed together, face to knees, heedless of the thick layer of moisture on his belly and chest. Stiles' whole body felt impossibly sensitive.

One hand, as if of its own accord, went from Derek's shoulder to his neck, then up to his ear. Derek melted into a puddle on Stiles as he stroked and scratched behind Derek's ears, gentle and teasing. The kiss broke, and Derek's head flopped to the side, face tucked into Stiles' neck so he could continue to scratch behind Derek's ears and make him make those low, humming, pleased sounds.

It was absurd. It was like being on another planet, where no rules whatsoever existed. It was like being in wonderland. Derek's mouth resumed its attack, this time on Stiles' neck, lazily and wetly sucking on a patch of skin.

Stiles didn't know what to say. He didn't know what he could say.









I don't actually have a clue what you're supposed to do for someone who is having a panic attack. If you're supposed to give them room, or what. I apologize to anyone who does know, and for whom the experience of the scene was in any way ruined.