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A Story To Tell The Grandcubs

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Oh god it's Kurt. Creeper Kurt, the worst blind date in the history of the universe, has just come in. Creeper Kurt who couldn't take a hint, who Stiles finally got rid of by telling a ridiculous lie that is now going to bite him in the ass.

Stiles spins around, panicking a little because why is this his life? Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

The hot guy in the leather jacket standing next to him at the bar is watching him have his little panic attack while he waits to be served, seemingly amused. And then he hears from behind him, “Stiles, is that you?”

And Stiles says to Leather Jacket Guy, “Creeper ex headed this way, I'm sorry, please go with this,” and pauses just for a moment, to see if there will be any sudden objections, but the guy just smirks, so Stiles leans up the inch or so it takes to reach his mouth and kisses him.

Leather Jacket Guy is, in addition to being hot and accomodating, an excellent kisser. “Stiles? Hey!” Kurt says cheerfully. Kurt was always ungodly cheerful. Like one of those robots off Buffy. A Kurt-bot.

“Hi,” Stiles says.

“Hi,” Leather Jacket Guy says to Kurt.

“Hi,” Kurt says to Leather Jacket Guy. Stiles wants to die from the awkward.

“I swear he normally has manners,” Leather Jacket Guy says to Kurt, holding out one hand to shake. “I'm Derek.”

“Kurt,” Kurt replies, with such a vigorous handshake that Derek momentarily appears nonplussed. Then he says to Stiles, “I thought your ex was named David.”

The ex I completely made up? Stiles probably did say David. Hell, he might have said Murgatroyd, how is he supposed to keep track? “Nope,” Stiles replies. “Derek.”

“Oh.” Kurt looks puzzled for a moment, brow furrowed and head tilted like a dog trying desperately to understand human speech, before it smooths out into that eerie, too-wide serial killer smile. “Well, it's nice to meet you, Derek. Stiles was really happy about you moving back to Beacon Hills. Said he never got over you. And now I see why.”

Creeeepy. Who says shit like that? Stiles wonders. But Derek takes it in stride, shrugs and presses a kiss to his temple. “I thought I wanted to be anywhere but Beacon Hills, and then I was, and all I could think about was home and everyone I missed. Especially Stiles.”

Finally the bartender gets to their end of the bar. “What'll you have?”

“Two beers.” He glances across the crowded room, then barks a laugh and shakes his head. “And a pina colada, apparently.”

The bartender serves him, he pays, and says, “It was nice to meet you, Kurt, but we should get back to our table.”

“Right, sure,” Kurt says, but he just keeps standing there smiling.

“Okay, well, bye,” Stiles says, takes the beer Derek hands him, and makes his escape.

“Who's your friend, little brother?” says the woman waiting at the table, stirring her straw through the dregs of a pina colada.

“Laura, this is Stiles. We're rescuing him from an ex who might legitimately be an axe murderer. Or a robot.”

“Yes!” Stiles says, because finally someone else gets it. “Like the Buffy bot, oh my god, so creepy!”

“I was thinking more like Ted,” Derek surprises him by saying. “With his closet full of dead ex-wives.”

Stiles shudders, because-yes. He has made a narrow escape. Again.

“I guess things didn't work out with...David?” Derek asks.

“There was no David,” Stiles admits in an agony of mortification. “I just really suck at breaking up with people. I went on three dates with him after the worst blind date of all time, just because I couldn't get out the words, 'I don't want to see you again.' So I made up an elaborate lie, and I really should have known better; it's not like Beacon Hills is a big city where I'll never run into him. Thank you for rescuing me.”

“There's no David?” Derek asks. Stiles shakes his head. “And you're incapable of breaking up with people?” Stiles nods. “Good,” Derek says, looking satisfied.

“Oh, really?” Laura asks, and at her brother's nod, starts laughing, and says to Stiles, “Look at it this way; you'll have a hilarious how-we-met story to tell your grandkids.”

Stiles starts to wonder if he has been rescued, or only fallen out of the creepy frying pan and into the crazy fire. Then Derek puts an arm around his shoulders, nuzzles his neck and...sniffs him? And that really doesn't help.

But he says to his sister, “You just want me to hurry up and have kids in the hope that Mom will stop nagging you, now stop scaring him off or I will tell her all about your secret boyfriend.”

“Don't you dare!” she yelps, and then Derek steals her drink and tells her only good sisters get their alcohol paid for, and she threatens to tell embarassing childhood stories to Stiles, and Derek's arm around him is warm and appealingly muscled without being confining, and Stiles decides that it was just exposure to Kurt making him paranoid. Derek is probably perfectly normal, apart from being hotter than a volcano god.

As it turns out, Stiles is wrong about that, but werewolves beat out creepy axe murderer robots any day.

Chapter Text

Derek can smell him even over the assault on his senses that is a crowded bar. The kid next to him (okay, not a kid, early twenties unless he has a very convincing fake ID) smells like old books, leather and vanillin, hints of warm skin and winter air, all layered over a deeper smell that's not really like anything tangible but makes Derek think of laughter in a crowded kitchen and curling up in bed after a long day. His mother always said, "You'll know your mate when you meet them because they'll smell like home." Derek had thought that was ridiculous.

But Hale women always have to be right. It's a thing.

Derek's about to say something, maybe offer to buy him a drink, when he jumps, flailing a little, then whirls around to face the bar. His heart is rabbiting in his chest, and his scent changes, overlaid with a sour hint of panic that Derek really dislikes.

He flinches again when someone calls over the ambient noise, "Stiles, is that you?"

Derek's mate turns to him and says, “Creeper ex headed this way, I'm sorry, please go with this,” and before he can manage to string words together, they're kissing.

Apparently Fate has decided Derek's been her chew-toy for long enough. Derek takes full advantage, yanking the guy closer with a hand on the small of his back, cupping the nape of his neck to angle their heads to deepen the kiss, filthy and wet, and Derek's sucking on his tongue and resisting the urge to bite a little because it's probably too soon for that, when someone says, "Stiles! Hey!" practically in Derek's ear.

His mate-Stiles?-pulls back and Derek barely resists a growl. "Hi."

"Hi."

"Hi."

There's a little pause after that, and Derek is already tired of this mate-stealer with the eerily cheerful smile, who smells of want and something else twisted and disturbing. "I swear he normally has manners," Derek says with a smile that is more like a baring of teeth. "I'm Derek."

"Kurt!" the man replies, clearly not intimidated at all. His handshake would be bone-jarring if Derek wasn't a werewolf. "I thought your ex was named David," Kurt says, and Derek frowns. Does his mate have a harem of men?

"Nope," Stiles says, heart tripping as he lies. "Derek."

“Well, it's nice to meet you, Derek. Stiles was really happy about you moving back to Beacon Hills. Said he never got over you. And now I see why.”

Derek narrows his eyes at the interloper and pulls Stiles closer to his side, presses a kiss to his temple. Mine. Back off. Stiles can't see the warning expression on his face, and he makes his voice light and easy as he says, “I thought I wanted to be anywhere but Beacon Hills, and then I was, and all I could think about was home and everyone I missed. Especially Stiles.”

Finally the bartender gets to their end of the bar. “What'll you have?”

“Two beers,” Derek says, then glances across the room to where his sister is grinning at him, clearly having listened to the entire conversation. She waggles her empty glass at him, and he laughs. “And a pina colada, apparently.”

They're having a special on pina coladas, so it only takes the bartender a moment to pop the tops on two Bud Lites and pour another girly cocktail for Laura out of the oversized pitcher. Derek pays, and sees that Kurt is still standing there, just watching. “It was nice to meet you, Kurt, but we should get back to our table.”

“Right, sure.” But he just stands there and smiles, and Derek knows now what Stiles meant when he said 'creeper ex.' There is something wrong with this guy.

"Okay well bye," Stiles says, takes the beer Derek hands him, and flees. Derek has to catch up to him and nudge him to the right table, where Laura is watching their approach gleefully.

"Who's your friend, little brother?" Laura teases.

“Laura, this is Stiles. We're rescuing him from an ex who might legitimately be an axe murderer. Or a robot.”

She raises one eyebrow at him, and Derek nods. Yes, he smelled wrong, he might be a threat.

Stiles misses the exchange, too wrapped up in agreement. "Yes! Like the Buffy Bot, oh my god, so creepy!"

He wasn't a robot. But it did remind Derek of something... “I was thinking more like Ted, with his closet full of dead ex-wives.” Stiles shudders dramatically, and Derek uses that as an excuse to shift his chair closer. “I guess things didn't work out with...David?”

“There was no David,” his mate admits, and Derek just barely restrains himself from raising his arms in the air in victory. “I just really suck at breaking up with people. I went on three dates with him after the worst blind date of all time, just because I couldn't get out the words, 'I don't want to see you again.' So I made up an elaborate lie, and I really should have known better; it's not like Beacon Hills is a big city where I'll never run into him. Thank you for rescuing me.”

No David? Can't leave? Pretty mate, you shouldn't say such things, the big bad wolf will eat you all up. “There's no David?” Derek asks. Stiles shakes his head. “And you're incapable of breaking up with people?” Stiles nods. “Good,” Derek says.

"Oh, really?" Laura looks between the two of them and starts to laugh. “Look at it this way; you'll have a hilarious how-we-met story to tell your grandkids.”

Derek puts an arm around Stiles' shoulders and nuzzles his neck to get a discreet sniff in, and he smells uneasy, that sour, panicky overtone that Derek hates. He kicks Laura under the table. “You just want me to hurry up and have kids in the hope that Mom will stop nagging you, now stop scaring him off or I will tell her all about your secret boyfriend.”

"Don't you dare!" Laura yelps, because she's gone to great lengths not to get caught by any member of their pack with Chris Argent's scent on her person. "How did you find out? Oh my god, I hate you!"

"Behave and I won't have to," Derek replies warningly, and takes her pina colada away. "Sorry, only good sisters get their alcohol paid for, I think I'll just hold this hostage for now."

"Give it back or I will break out the naked baby pictures, Derek!" Laura threatens, waving her phone at him.

"You don't have baby pictures on there," Derek scoffs, but he's not sure. It seems like the sort of thing Laura would do.

"We have iCloud, little brother," she reminds him. "And Mom went digital last year for the reunion."

Crap. He nudges the drink back in her direction. "I don't like pineapple anyway."

Stiles laughs, and now he smells like amusement and happiness with only the faintest peppery traces of arousal. "I have never been so glad to be an only child," he says.

Laura huffs. "I don't know what you're talking about, I am delightful."

Derek laughs too, because her heart doesn't stutter, which means Laura actually believes that, and just. No.

After about an hour of talking, Laura goes off to spend time with her Secret Boyfriend, growling at him when he teases her, and Derek pulls Stiles closer and kisses his neck and says plaintively, “Come home with me,” and it's too much too fast, but Derek has never been very good at only doing what he's supposed to.

Stiles just kind of melts against him when Derek nibbles under the hinge of his jaw. “Yeah, okay.”

By the time they get outside, with Derek pausing every few steps to maul Stiles, he's panting, and he gasps out, “My place is closer.”

Derek debates for only a second between having Stiles' scent in his den and leaving his own scent everywhere in his mate's space to warn off competitors. “How close?”

“Two blocks.”

“Let's go.” Some asshole has double-parked behind Derek's car, so they walk. They're practically running when they get to the lobby of Stiles' apartment building, and the elevator doors open as soon as Stiles punches the button. Derek pins him against the wall as the elevator shudders into motion, and Stiles groans and wraps his legs around Derek's hips. Derek rocks his hips against Stiles, and their kisses are brutal and biting and interspersed with moans.

Derek almost rips the door off the hinges when Stiles finally gets it unlocked, kicks it shut behind him, still carrying the other man who is wrapped all around him and biting his throat, making him growl, “Bed. Now.”

“End of the hall, on the left.” His voice was breathy, and apparently more trusting of the hold Derek had on him, his hands stopped clutching Derek's shoulders and slid down his back to grope his ass. “God I want you to fuck me, I bet you're a powerhouse-”

Normally he can control the knot, but nothing about this is normal. Derek's already hanging onto sanity with his fingernails, and he doesn't want to have to make awkward explainations in the middle of sex. So he says, “Uh-uh. Gonna pin you down and ride you.” He throws Stiles onto the bed and starts stripping out of his clothes.

Stiles whines and makes exaggerated grabby hands when Derek pushes down his boxer-briefs, and he shouldn't find it charming but he does. “You're going to deny me that?” he complains, staring at Derek's dick, which twitches to show how much it appreciates the attention.

“Just for now.” Derek pounces and starts peeling Stiles out of his clothes like he's unwrapping a much-anticipated birthday present (there may be some ripping involved). His mate is creamy-pale, like porcelain or winter mink, and dotted with moles. He seems equally fascinated with Derek's hide, fingertips tracing lines of muscle and bone. “Don't you want to feel me slide down on your-oh fuck.”

Breaths rasp in and out of Derek's chest like the air is full of knives as he looks at Stiles' newly uncovered cock. He's cut, something Derek's never seen in person before because he's only ever rutted with other werewolves, at least eight inches long, and nearly as big around as Derek's wrist.

Stiles laughs nervously and says, “Yeah, you still sure about that?”

Derek's mouth waters. “Definitely.”

“I don't want to hurt you.”

Derek laughs at that, because if he wasn't capable of near-instantaneous healing he'd probably worry about it too, but as it is, he just wants. He licks up the prominent vein on the underside and holds Stiles down when he bucks and swears, and in a sudden reversal, he's quiet except for gasping breaths and the occasional moan, and now it's Derek who can't shut up.

“I'm gonna hold you down,” he breathes against his mate's skin, because his wolf needs that, power given freely. “Ride your cock until I come, keep you from touching me. Use your body to get myself off. And you're gonna let me.” Please let me. “You're gonna love it.”

He lets out a shaky breath. “Yes. God, yes, please.”

Derek scents the room and tracks the slick chemical scent of lube to the second drawer in the nightstand. He knows his own body well enough that he's generous with the lube and starts with two fingers and quickly works his way up to four. Stiles watches, eating him up with honeyed eyes, muttering curses under his breath.

He nearly snarls when his eyes flick to the box of condoms, still visible in the open drawer. He wants to carry his mate's scent inside him, not the stink of latex and glycerin. “I'm clean,” he says, and it's true; werewolves can't carry diseases. “I haven't been with anyone in nearly a year.” That's true too.

“Bad idea. Bad, bad idea,” Stiles says, but it's not no.

“Please, I want it. I want to feel you come inside me.”

“If this ends in tears I am blaming it all on you,” he warns. “I'll tell everyone and their dog you took advantage of me while I was drunk.”

Derek leans down and nuzzles against him, because he can hear the lie in his heartbeat and smell the acceptance on his skin. Pretty mate, I could never hurt you, he promises silently. “Thank you,” he breathes, and then hitches his hips up to position Stiles' cock.

He swears at the burn, but when Stiles reaches for his hips to slow him down, he only gathers both his mate's wrists with one hand and pins them over his head, holding on tight enough to bruise. “Don't you dare-don't you dare-uh, ungh.”

Derek tries twice to rise up far enough for a proper thrust, but the sharp pain low in his gut convinces him it's not a good idea. He needs his mate's cock in his ass, cum inside him, mixing with his own scent...he forcefully does not think of cubs and running together under a summer moon and other things he cannot have. Instead he rocks his hips viciously over Stiles', what would be a knotting grind if his partner were a werewolf.

“Fuck fuck fuck, you're so hard, it feels so good, I'm gonna cum all over you-” make you howl for me, leave my scent everywhere to mark you mine, wear your scent and your touch like a brand, show everyone I'm mated, wanted, taken-

“So gorgeous,” Stiles chokes out, straining against Derek's hold on his wrists, but from the full-body shudder that goes through him every time Derek tightens his grip, he doesn't really want to be free. “Your eyes-”

Derek should worry about whether Stiles can see the neon blue that marks him as a beta, but his body insists that impending orgasm is more important than potential exposure. “Cum for me, let me feel it-”

Stiles' grin is a dare. “You first,” he pants, and grinds his hips up in a mind-bending circle. Then again, rocking the shaft of his dick against Derek's prostate in teasing glides, and Derek should have known better than to expect his mate to be submissive in any way. He'd be bored in a week with someone biddable, but from the way Stiles bites his plush lower lip as he arches upward, challenge written on his features, Derek will never have to worry about that.

Derek doesn't want to set a dangerous precedent of Stiles getting his way, but then Stiles lets out a truly filthy moan that makes Derek clench down on his dick involuntarily, and then he's coming, howling as he spurts all over his mate's chest. He falls forward onto his elbows, hips flexed back in a way that's probably going to be painful if he doesn't move, but he can't move. Stiles strains underneath him and comes with a series of shuddery gasps, eyes wide and shocked and looking straight into Derek's own, and it's pretty much the hottest thing ever.

Stiles tugs gently at Derek's grip on his wrists, but Derek doesn't let go, instead leans in that last inch to kiss him, slow, slick, deep kisses as they both quake with aftershocks.

Finally, Derek can't justify keeping him pinned any longer, and lets go of Stiles' wrists, admiring the red marks there for a moment. They'll bloom into bruises in the morning. He wants to be there to see them in the greyish light of dawn, press his fingertips to them to bring up the ache, then lick, and lick, until the aching stops and Stiles is purring under his mouth and his hands.

Derek wants a lot of things, but instead he hitches his hips up so that Stiles' half-hard cock slides free with a wet squelch, and moves to lie on his side, facing Stiles, who is eating him up with dark eyes but still hasn't said a word.

“Do you want me to go?” Derek asks at last, even though he really, really doesn't want to.

Stiles makes a grunt of negation and turns on his side too, pulls one of Derek's arms over his waist so they're spooned together. “Get some sleep. I expect you to fuck me in the morning if you want pancakes.”

FIN.