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He Blinded Me With Library Science

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When Stiles’ very own letter had arrived, he felt elated and guilty at the same time. His father had rubbed his hand against Stiles’ buzzed hair and said, “She’d be proud, you know. Your mother loved magic.”

Stiles remembered that, of course, but it eased the ache in his heart a little and he grinned up at his father. “Does this mean I can have my own broomstick finally?”

“We’ll see,” his father sighed.


The long and short of it was that his mother had been a Veela and his father was a muggle and back in the day they had met at a county fair and fallen in love. When she had died they’d both been devastated. His father had packed up all of her magic things - her wand, her books, her broom, her potion supplies and robes - into a beaten up trunk for a month. Stiles had been eight: old enough to remember everything, young enough to think it might have been his own fault.

“It might be good for you to be closer to your mother’s family,” his father had said seriously. “You’re growing up pretty fast and I won’t be able to help you with - with things.”

“Can’t they just floo in sometimes? I don’t want to move. My friends are here.” She’s here, he hadn’t said, but all his memories of his mother were wrapped up in that house and leaving it behind would have felt the same as leaving her behind, even though she was long gone. His father had huffed out a breath and said nothing was set in stone, but they never did move.

Back then, Stiles hadn’t understood what he meant.


“I need access to the reading room,” someone growls at Stiles as he finishes scanning another return into the system. Stiles glances up and makes eye contact with possibly the most beautiful person he’s seen since Lydia Martin entered his life in the third grade. He’s tall, with gently curling dark hair, light eyes, and the stubble and leather jacket of someone way out of his league. His right hand is clutching a single galleon.

Stiles blinks. “Right, the reading room. Do you have your, uh ...library card?” he asks. He’s never been able to make that sound normal and not vaguely dirty when he actually means wand. The main branch of the NY Public Library also plays host to the main branch of the National Wizarding Library, which is probably the only reason Stiles got this job.

Tall, dark, and scowly frowns at him, but nods, so Stiles locks his machine and comes around the desk to lead him back through the stacks. “It’s this way. Is this your first time here? I don’t think I’ve seen you before and I know most of the people who, you know, need the reading room. I’m Stiles, by the way,” he adds.

The only answer he gets is a curt “Derek,” but Stiles shrugs it off. Maybe tall, dark, and magic isn’t really the conversational type, more the stare at the back of your neck intently for no apparent reason type.

The entrance to the NWL really does look like a private reading room, except that the sign always reads Occupied. Stiles stops them in front of the door and gestures at the handle. “Go for it, bro.”

Scowling at him, Derek glances back over his shoulder as if there aren’t wards all over this whole corner to keep the muggles from poking around, but pulls out his wand and unlocks the door with a muttered alohomora.

Because Derek is so grumpy looking, Stiles can’t help himself. “If you need help looking for anything, just ask for Lydia. Good luck!”


“I need access to the reading room.” Deja vu. His mystery patron doesn’t look any happier than he did the last time.

“Sure,” Stiles says, standing up and leading him through the stacks again. He very carefully doesn’t mention that this guy doesn’t actually need Stiles to show him to the NWL now that he knows where it is. Maybe he comes from one of those old as balls wizarding families and is accustomed to being waited on; who knows? He looks like he could be that type.

“You must be doing some serious research, huh?” he says quietly. “I mean, if you’re coming here twice in the same week. Most people don’t seem to like spending that much time in here. I mean, I like the smell, but I’m kind of a research nerd. Seriously, you should’ve seen me at school. Dad always says it’s a miracle I didn’t come home with glasses, you know?”

Instead of answering, Derek just grunts and comes to a stop in front of the NWL entrance. He pulls his wand out of his jacket and then nods at Stiles, briefly making eye contact. “Thanks,” he says shortly, and Stiles takes that as his cue to get the heck out of dodge.


The third time, they actually talk. Sort of. “I need a book on the history of werewolf clans,” he says instead of hello. This time he’s staring right at Stiles, almost aggressively making eye contact. Stiles loses a minute to trying to figure out what colour his eyes are. Green? Weirdly gold? Hazel? They’re not like any hazel he’s ever seen before. They’re almost hypnotic.

He makes himself snap out of it when grumpy mcgrumperson starts to scowl. “European, North American, African, Asian? All of the above? Are we talking migratory history or clan battles history? What are we talking about here? I’m Stiles, by the way,” he adds, holding out his hand, “I helped you out a few times before.”

Grumpy McGrumperson stares at him blankly for a second before shaking it. “Derek,” he says, almost reluctantly.

Stiles resists the urge to say “I know,” but only partly because if anyone is Han Solo in this situation, it’s Derek.

“If you have something on North American migratory history and maybe something else on Asian clan battles, I’d appreciate it,” Derek continues with barely a nod of acknowledgement.

Stiles can’t help but grin. “I’ll write down a couple titles for you, but you’ll have to find them in the NWL or ask someone to help you - I’m not supposed to leave the desk much.”

“For the safety of everyone?” Derek asks dryly. Stiles can’t help but laugh and rub at the back of his head a little.

“Yeah, yeah, that’s what they tell me.” To be fair, Stiles’ wand can be temperamental, even when he’s not actively using it, though he maintains that the explosion in the potions section was not his fault. (Everyone knows Veela hair cores tend to be unpredictable at best.)

He jots down a short list and hands it to Derek, their fingers brushing. The half-smile he gets in return is distracting, but not as much as the way the edges of Derek’s eyes momentarily glow bright blue before the colour recedes.

Stiles has read a lot of books about werewolves (and Veela, and House Elves, and Goblins, and just about every sentient magical being or creature recorded) but none of them have been able to tell him everything he wants to know.

Like the Veela, werewolves keep a lot of their knowledge amongst only their own kind, and who could blame them after centuries of persecution; after the first and second Dark Wars? Veela haven’t been hunted in ages but that hadn't stopped his mother’s family from sitting him down for the First Rule of Veela Club is You Don’t Talk About Veela Club talk. Everyone knows that sometimes a werewolf’s eyes change colour when they’re angry or in pain, but no one knows what causes it to happen any other time.

“Thanks,” Derek says, tugging the paper a little. Stiles lets go, feels heat crawl up his neck and knows he’s probably flushing unattractively. Any day those Veela genes want to kick in, that would be awesome.

“Sure, no problem,” he replies out of habit. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

Derek nods once and heads off in the direction of the reading room. Rubbing his hands over his face, Stiles groans a little. Of course grumpy, super hot library patron is also a werewolf who can probably smell Stiles’ awkward feelings and when he last farted and whether or not he’s hungry. Of course he is.


After that Derek comes in every week, always at the same time. He must have a busy schedule or something, because if Stiles had werewolf senses and the dweeb at the reception desk had a boner for him he would try and figure out when that kid wasn’t working. But Derek doesn’t - he’s always in when Stiles is on-shift, and he always comes to Stiles for advice first.

“Selkies, sure,” Stiles nods, “I know a few good books about selkies. Are you getting a Masters in Magical Creatures or something?”

If he didn’t know better he’d almost think Derek flushed a little. Leaning forward over the desk to get a better look at Stiles’ notepad, Derek shakes his head. Their faces are practically side by side, and this close, he has an up-close and personal view of his stubbled jaw, the way his adams apple bobs when he speaks, the breadth of his shoulders under his leather jacket. It’s distracting.

“Maybe I just like the library,” Derek replies, glancing up from the paper to make eye contact again. Maybe Derek is part Veela - it would explain the way Stiles can’t look away when that happens, how his hand stills on the paper. The edges of Derek’s eyes bleed bright blue again before he looks back at the paper. “Just these two?”

Stiles startles, his pen scratching a messy line trailing off the end of Selkies and Sea Serpents of the South Pacific. “Uh, no, one more. I mean, you can take a look, see if you like any of these better than the others.” He jots down one more title and sits up straight, leaning back out of Derek’s space and taking a deep breath before handing it over.

Derek takes the list without even looking at it, keeping eye contact with Stiles. His heart speeds up a little. “Thanks,” Derek says lowly, inhaling. “Don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Hey, that’s why I work here. I mean that and I’m a not very secret nerd, but you know.” He just has to act normal. Totally, Stiles-normal.

Humming, Derek nods. “Yeah, my family’s in the registered breeder business,” Stiles also has to keep his mind super out of the gutter, “Dragons, pixies, the basics.”

“You call dragons the basics? Are we talking about the same creatures? Vicious, fire-breathing giant class-five lizards that can fly? Where do you even keep them?!”

“Well,” Derek shrugs, “With floo powder and apparition it’s not that hard to get back and forth between here and upstate New York, so that part’s easy. The hard part,” he says casually, shrugging one shoulder as if it’s not really that difficult at all, which is ridiculous, “is getting the eggs away from them. They don’t really like that part.”

Stiles can’t help but laugh a little, relaxing. “Yeah, I can imagine. Or, no,” he says after a second, “I can’t imagine. Do you--” he laughs a little “--do you collect them every morning before breakfast like chicken eggs or what?”

Derek explains the basics of dragon breeding, from matching dragons up correctly to when it’s actually the right time to take the egg away from the mother and how to safely transport it.

“The magical creatures division of the Fish and Wildlife Service is big on paperwork, so we only have a small window of time after they’ve said the documentation is good to get the egg before it’s due for delivery. If you don’t get it right the first time, the second attempt will be twice as dangerous.”

He shrugs again, like it’s no big deal. “So it must really help, being a werewolf, right?” Stiles asks, unable to help himself. Derek doesn’t seem offended, so he keeps going. “I mean, better speed, faster healing...”

“Sometimes,” he agrees, “but it’s harder to hide our scent from a dragon than it is to hide the scent of an ordinary wizard. The hormone sprays they sell don’t work as well on us.”

Derek shivers a little like the spray is something distasteful, and maybe it is - werewolves have a much more advanced sense of smell than most other people. Stiles has seen Derek’s eyes half-close when he inhales, sometimes, like his sight might interfere with whatever he’s picking up from the air around them. All Stiles can smell most of the time is dust and old books; sometimes the astringent whiff of cleaning products from the janitorial staff.

“Stiles,” Lydia cuts in coolly as she steps behind the desk, “You have to take your break now before the rush. I’ll watch the desk.”

He almost falls off the chair trying to stand up properly. “Right, sorry, I got--” Stiles gestures haphazardly at Derek, who suddenly seems to be standing back further than he was before, looking over the list. “--caught up.” Managing to make it back out onto the floor proper without embarrassing himself further he smiles at Derek. “See you next week?”

Derek’s smile as he ducks his head is wide and somehow almost a little shy, endearing. “Definitely,” he agrees.


It gets to be a routine. Derek’s visits to the NWL run like clockwork, and each time they talk a little longer, get side-tracked and derailed. Sometimes it almost seems like their conversations last longer than Derek’s research, his actual reason for coming the library at all.

Probably, Stiles guesses, because it just happens that Stiles actually knows a lot about the things Derek is researching, and in return he gets to learn about dragon breeding and how to keep pixies. If he didn’t know better he’d think they were almost friends, really.

Though friends don’t get incredibly distracted like that one time that Derek told him about dragonfire burns and how even werewolves can’t always heal from them and then Derek had lifted up his shirt to show Stiles his scar. The scar that ran down the left side of his incredibly defined abs and disappeared into his pants, angling down along the hip lines and okay maybe Stiles wanted to follow it with his mouth and maybe he had lost track of time for a bit there but he was only half-human, okay? Derek hadn’t seemed to mind, anyway.

The point being that it’s not just his paycheck that Stiles misses when he catches the flu a few weeks later and has to stay home. It’s Derek, too, and it makes him extra grumpy, at least according to Scott.

“Dude,” Scott says like they’re still sixteen and sharing a dorm room instead of a fourth-floor walk-up, “You are way worse this time than you were last year when you had the flu, and I’m not talking about the puking and ...stuff.” Scott gestures loosely at Mount Snot, the tissue pile he’s been hand-crafting over the last 72 hours. Stiles would roll his eyes, but his whole head hurts and he’s a little afraid that if he does he’ll bring the digestive cookies and orange gatorade back up. Again.

He settles for saying, “You don’t know my pain,” and pulling the blanket closer to his chin. He’s freezing one minute and boiling up the next.

“I totally know your pain because you sound like me when Allison went to Auror school.” Stiles groans because there is no way - no way he sounds that bad. He barely even knows Derek, except for the part where they’ve been talking for a few hours every week for the last few months. Other than that, it’s not like they see each other outside of the library. They’ve never run into each other in the coffee shop around the corner, or at the laundromat, or the bodega or any of the places where maybe sometimes Stiles gets caught up in the odd day dream about meet-cutes.

“Shut up, I’m dying. Can’t you just be nice to me on my deathbed?” Stiles squints up at Scott from his position on the couch and makes the best sad face that his aching head will allow.

Like he always does, Scott folds and shoves Stiles’ feet over so he can squish onto the end of the couch with him and flip to the Discovery Channel. “You’re so lucky I’m your best friend. There’s an episode of Planet Earth showing - you’re gonna be unconscious in like five minutes.”

“Lies,” Stiles mumbles, but true to form, David Attenborough’s voice lulls him right off to sleep.


Once he can actually keep his food down and stay awake all day, Stiles gets back on the schedule for work. “It’s about time,” Lydia says as they wait outside for someone with a key.

“You missed me! You missed me, right?” Stiles is ecstatic. “I knew eventually I’d win you over, Lyds. Absence makes the heart grow fonder!”

Lydia snorts delicately, cutting him off. “Hardly. But your monosyllabic boyfriend was here every day trying to terrify anyone at the desk into giving him a status update.”

“He’s not my boyfriend! And he’s not monosyllabic! I talk to him all the- wait. Wait.” Stiles stops for a second. “He asked about me?” He points sharply at his own face just to be sure.

Rolling her eyes, Lydia shrugs and leans up against the building. “It’s like you don’t even listen to me. I’m only going to say it once, Stiles, so listen up: Congratulations on your Veela powers finally manifesting or whatever.”

Stiles freezes.

Right. There is no way that Derek is actually interested in Stiles for normal reasons. All those times he’d wished he actually had gotten some of his mom’s Veela charms and now that he finally has them he just wants to give them right back. He swallows back against the lump in his throat and manages a sub-par smile for her. “Pretty cool, huh?”

Pretty horrifying.


The whole day is like that, mostly - NWL staff congratulating Stiles on his Veela inheritance, NYPL staff telling him his boyfriend is scary hot. He manages to half-convince himself for a little while that maybe he hadn’t hypno-veela-ed Derek, maybe Derek was just a really good, concerned person. But then one of the NYPL muggle staff who’d only ever spoken to him twice before stands at the desk and aggressively hits on him for ten minutes.

Everything is terrible. Derek doesn’t even come in to the library. Stiles figures maybe the lack of exposure has finally had an effect and Derek is probably at home or at work, wondering why he’d been so hot and bothered over a skinny, mole-covered library page. That was going to be awkward to explain later. He’ll have to figure out if he can turn the whammy off somehow, too, or things are only going to get worse.

“Cheer up, Stiles, I’m sure your boyfriend will come in to see you tomorrow,” Lydia says as they leave for the day. Yeah. That’s what he’s afraid of.


He sleeps fitfully and half-heartedly drags himself back to work the next morning, hunches over the desk and pokes at the returns pile instead of scanning them into the system. He doesn’t even notice someone is standing there until a shadow falls over his keyboard.

“How can I help you?” he asks, straightening up a little. Derek’s smile is wide and bright and probably chemically induced by Stiles’ crazy genes and “Holy crap, why is your face burned?!” Derek ducks his head a little with a laugh. It looks like it probably hurts; fresh, pink skin and a distinct lack of stubble arcing down the right side of his face and fading along his neck.

“I’ll be fine in a day or two, it’s just a dragon burn,” Derek rolls his head a little, shrugging. “How are you feeling? I,” he pauses a little, inhales deeply through his nose, eyes half shut for a moment, “I was worried about you.”

If Derek actually meant it, Stiles would be ecstatic, but that was just the Veela roofies talking. “I’m- yeah, I’m better now. Gross flu,” Stiles manages to get out. He just wants a little more time with nice Derek before he ruins it all. “Tell me about the dragon?”

Derek leans his elbows on the desk, tilts forward right up in Stiles’ space and grins, clearly pleased. The burn is from a Chinese Fireball, and Derek seems incredibly proud, even fond, of it even as he explains how he and his sister both took a few blasts before they managed to get the egg from her.

”That is amazing!” Stiles can’t help but blurt out. Muggles could only read about this kind of thing in books but Derek lives it.

Ducking his head, Derek, leans, improbably, even closer to Stiles, his forearms braced on the counter and Stiles can’t help but notice the breadth of his shoulders, the gentle slope of his collarbones peeking out from the vee of his henley. “You uh,” Derek swallows as if he’s nervous all of a sudden, “You should floo up and see for yourself. After your shift today, if you’re free.”

Oh. “Sorry, I uh - no.”

Derek’s face falls, briefly, before his expression closes off. “Sorry,” he says stiffly, “I must have mis-interpreted.”

Waving his hands in a typically awkward flail, Stiles cuts him off, heart pounding. “No, I mean-- I should explain. It’s not you, it’s me, or it’s my-- I’m part Veela?” He doesn’t mean for it to come out like a question but there’s no going back now so he forges ahead anyway. “You should maybe take a walk around the block, get some uh, non-Veela air or something and you’ll probably, you know regret that. Me. This whole-- Lydia! Hey, great!”

He practically falls off his seat trying to get out of there before he does something idiotic like tell Derek he’s changed his mind. Derek turns Stiles stupid, as though Derek is the one with sneaky Veela genes that make resistance futile.

It isn’t actually time for his break, but the rest of the staff seem to take pity on him and leave him alone, crashed out on a couch in the break room, arm thrown up over his eyes for twenty minutes before Lydia shows up.

”You owe me one,” she says, standing over him impatiently. “And he’s gone now, so get back out there, I have a research request I have to fill for one of the wizards.”

Hauling himself back to his feet, Stiles gives her a crooked grin. “Thanks,” he says, but she brushes him off with a wave of her hand.

”I’m not kidding about owing me one,” she says coolly, “And I always collect.”


The rest of his shift only flies by because he buries himself in his work. Derek doesn’t come back, which probably means he went outside, got some fresh air and realized that Stiles is a mole-spotted, skinny weirdo.

It shouldn’t hurt as much as it does, really. It’s not like Stiles ever thought he had a serious chance with Derek but that didn’t stop him from coming up with silly situations where it might work out; running into him in one of the hundred little corners of New York that Stiles frequents and striking up a conversation, maybe asking if Derek would mind re-locating to a bar or his apartment, maybe.

Instead there’s only the knowledge that once Derek actually stepped back out of the Veela hormone splash zone he realized he was making a mistake. People like Derek don’t ask people like Stiles out.

Even though his flu is gone, he curls up in front of another episode of Planet Earth that night and falls asleep on the couch before ten.


Derek is waiting for him outside the library bright and early before opening the next day. “Hear me out,” he says, holding up a hand before Stiles can say anything. Stiles sighs, resigned.

And that’s when Derek sprays him in the face.

”Oh my god, my eyeballs! My mouth! It’s in my mouth! It’s in my eyeballs!” Stiles scrubs frantically at his face, presses his palms hard into his eyes to try and relieve the burning. “What the hell, Derek?!”

Instead of answering, Derek takes advantage of Stiles’ new position (hunched over, hacking up a lung onto the steps) to spray the rest of him as well with some kind of aerosol Stiles hadn’t noticed earlier. “You don’t have Veela powers, you idiot,” Derek says instead of apologizing like a normal person would.

”I’m half Veela! Of course I have Veela powers!”

Snorting, Derek tucks his aerosol can back into his jacket and offers Stiles a hand up. “You really, really don’t,” he says dryly. “It would be a lot easier to explain if you did.” He pauses, reaches out to rub a hand against the side of Stiles’ neck, which is weird. “I’m in love with you, not with your magical imaginary hormones.”

Stiles sighs, closing his eyes for a second, pressing the heels of his hands to them again before letting his arms fall back to his sides. “I know you think that, Derek, but it’s not real. I’m trying to be a good person here, okay? I mean, look at you--” he gestures broadly.

In the early morning light, Derek’s hair is touched golden at the edges, and his eyes might as well be their own sunrise topping off cheekbones Tyra Banks would kill for above broad, muscled everything. “People like you don’t go crazy and ask people like me out, or assault us with-- what is that even, watered down pepper spray?” he coughs again. “Seriously, everyone goes insane when it comes to Veela stuff, okay? I get it, but you need to, to give me some space because it’s still really hard to say no to you!”

Derek has the gall to roll his eyes. “It’s the hormone erasing spray we use for getting dragon eggs, Stiles. I wish it was that easy to explain why I can’t stay away from you.”

”The hormone spray?” Stiles parrots back, blankly.

”So that dragons can’t smell us. I told you about this before,” he says impatiently, tugging Stiles closer with one hand wrapped firmly around Stiles’ left hip. “I still love you and right now I can’t smell a thing,” he continues, eyes flaring that bright, unnatural blue briefly. “I still want to kiss you,” he says, lifting his free hand to drag his thumb across Stiles’ lower lip, lighting up the nerves there, “and- I want to do so many things to you, you don’t even know,” he continues, his voice dropping into a low rumble. “How I feel doesn’t have anything to do with whether or not you’re part Veela. I like you.”


Stiles just kind of stands there, too close to Derek who doesn’t seem to mind that Stiles is covered in spray, eyes red and mind gone stupid with surprise. In fact, Derek drops his head to press his cheek to Stiles’ own, stubble dragging across his skin and leaving Stiles flushed.

Pulling up, Derek presses their foreheads together. “I’m going to kiss you now,” he says quietly, stroking his hand up stiles side and back and just breathing out over Stiles’ lips without making contact.

”Okay,” Stiles manages to squeak out, “Yes, please, feel”

He trails off when Derek cups his jaw, thumbs stroking over his cheeks as he just goes in for the kill, nibbling gently at Stiles’ lower lip, stroking his tongue across the seam of his lips and slipping inside when Stiles inhales on a desperate gasp.

Grasping at Derek’s shoulders, at his neck, Stiles presses forward, fervent and needy, greedily trying to get more of this, more of Derek any way he can.

That, of course, is when someone taps him on the shoulder. Stiles jerks back, guiltily, and sees Danny standing with Lydia. “You look like something the cat dragged in. Go home before you get flu germs all over us.” Danny unsuccessfully tries to smother a grin behind her, lifting his eyebrows at Stiles as if to say ‘nice get’.

Stiles half-trips backwards into Derek who steadies him with a hand on either shoulder. “Sorry, thanks, I, uh,”

”Just get out of here,” Lydia says, rolling her eyes. “You can take my Friday night shift as a thank you. And you still owe me two.”

”Yes, absolutely,” Stiles agrees quickly, “Thanks, bye!” He turns, grabs Derek’s hand, and hauls him half a block before his heart rate cools down even a little. They slow to a stop at 44th once they’re out of sight of the library.

”So I was thinking,” Stiles starts, stepping back into Derek’s space, only to get cut off by another kiss, shorter this time.

”You should go home and shower.”


”I’m a werewolf, Stiles,” he says, rolling his eyes again and acting as if they’re not right out in public in the middle of a muggle street in New York. “It’s driving me crazy not being able to smell you right now.” He inhales sharply and frowns.

Stiles squints at him, tilting his head. “Are you sure I don’t have Veela powers? One of the muggle Pages was all over me a few days ago. I think I--eep!”

Derek kisses him again, fiercely this time, and fast, before pulling a sharpie out of his back pocket and grabbing Stiles’ arm, scrawling a number on it. “Shower, then call me,” he says, pinning Stiles in place with a slow once-over.

He surprises Derek and himself with a sudden laugh. “You- were you carrying that around all morning, too? Planned this pretty carefully, huh?”

Cheeks suddenly pink, Derek looks upwards briefly and then shrugs, helpless. “I just-- will you call me? I want to do this properly.”

The smile that spreads across Stiles’ face is sweet and suddenly he’s in no hurry to push. “Yeah, I can do that. Do you-- dinner? I mean I can cook dinner. Sort of. From a box. If--”

Derek kisses him again, quickly, and Stiles can see that’s probably going to become a habit. “Dinner sounds great.”


Stiles is fresh out of the shower, dressed only in a towel and dripping all over the floor when he realizes that their apartment is a disaster and also that Scott is probably going to be home by dinner and that dinner is like six hours away and he can’t tell if that’s just barely enough time or too much entirely.

By the time the buzzer goes, almost everything is ready except Stiles, still in sweatpants and a worn TMNT t-shirt from high school.

Not that Derek seems to mind. When Stiles opens the door to let him in, half breathless and about to apologize, Derek beats him to the punch, immediately wrapping one hand around Stiles’ left bicep and his right hip, dropping his face into the curve of his neck to breathe deeply and let out a desperate-sounding groan.

”Sorry,” Derek mumbles against the sensitive skin behind his ear, dragging his nose up and then down the length of his neck. “I just.. you smell really good.”

Stiles has just enough presence of mind to kick the door closed before Derek turns him around and presses him back against it, one knee slotting in between Stiles’ legs and pressing gently up and down again and again, maddening. He’s already half hard and getting harder by the second, and suddenly Stiles doesn’t regret not managing to get dressed on time, let alone put on actual underwear.

An embarrassingly high pitched half-sound escapes his throat before he manages to clear it, hands clutching urgently at Derek’s shirt, rucking it up under his jacket to press his fingers to warm, bare skin. “I guess, haaaa,” Stiles has to pause for more air as Derek bites at his earlobe sharply before detouring back down to his collarbones, “I guess that’s a, a, no to dinner?”

Derek freezes and pulls his head back enough that they’re eye to eye, and Stiles can see that his pupils are blown wide but for a ring of electric blue. “I was going to be cool,” Derek says, chest heaving and hands still stroking Stiles’ arm, his hip, stroking up his back almost unconsciously. “I can, just give me a minute and--”

”Are you kidding me? Please continue to ravish me. All I have is mac and cheese from a box and this is much, much better,” Stiles blurts out.

Apparently it’s the right thing to say because Derek dives back in, knee hitching right up against Stiles’ balls as he thrusts his tongue into his mouth, delving in as though he’s chasing something.

Stiles shudders, lifts his hands to press futilely at Derek’s jacket before he has to pull back and gasp out, “This, off, and, and-- bedroom. I have a bedroom.” The look Derek gives him fairly smoulders, but he shucks off his jacket and lets it fall to the floor before inhaling sharply and grabbing Stiles by the hand to tug him down the hall, unerringly to the right room.

They haven’t even made it the scant few steps to the bed before Derek is stroking his thumbs along the top of Stiles’ sweatpants, glancing back up from the wet spot spreading steadily across the front and licking his lips. “Can I...?” he trails off, slipping two fingers below the waistband to press down.

Stiles whines, actually whines as his hips buck up against the pressure. “Yes, yes, come on, you too, get your clothes off,” he agrees, fumbling at the button of Derek’s jeans, at the hem of his shirt, torn between which item of clothing he wants to get rid of first.

Derek solves that problem for him by stepping back and stripping off his shirt unselfconsciously, kicking off his shoes and socks, unzipping his jeans and stepping out of them, his, left in charcoal grey boxer briefs that do nothing to hide how extremely interested he is in the proceedings. If Stiles looked half that good he’d probably strip off all the time.

Thankfully, Derek seems to think he looks more than good enough, because he wastes no time in sliding Stiles’ shirt over his head and tossing it aside, running his hands back down his sides until he’s shoving the sweats down to the floor and practically rumbling when he finally has proof that Stiles wasn’t wearing anything else.

”I was going to change,” Stiles can’t help but feel the need to explain, “but I got caught up.”

”I need to taste you,” Derek growls, pressing forward until Stiles falls back onto the bed, dick bouncing up to slap against his belly, leaving a slick trail across the skin.

”Oh god,” Stiles gasps, scrambling back until he can prop his back up against the pillows and watch, “Yes please, yes, any time, yes.”

Derek settles himself between his legs, spreading Stiles’ thighs and draping one possessive hand warm over the jut of his hip bone, the other tracing up his balls, along the vein, finally rubbing his thumb across the slit to wipe away the moisture there.

Stiles groans, loud, and arches his back to try and relieve some of the tension building in him. “Please, just, please I want your mouth, Derek, please,” he begs, and that seems to definitely do it for him because Derek immediately takes the head in his mouth and sucks, teasing the shaft with his free hand, and Stiles shoves his own fist in his mouth just to keep from giving the neighbours cause for a noise complaint.

Pulling off with a slick pop and hooded eyes, Derek licks his lips. “I want to hear you,” he says lowly, “I want to know that it’s good for you.”

”It’s good for me, it’s good for me,” Stiles babbles, hands clenched in the duvet to keep from grabbing his hair, “Believe me, I really want you to keep doing that but I’m also like half a minute from coming, okay, and I just--”

Derek’s expression shifts, and he immediately ducks down to swallow Stiles whole, right down to the root, tight and hot and wet and Stiles can’t help it, he can’t, he’s coming just like that, back bowed, toes curling, shooting down Derek’s throat without even so much as a by your leave.

He half expects Derek to be at least a little annoyed, because, rude, but instead Derek slides back up a little, hums around him happily, coaxing out a twitching last effort from Stiles’ dick before pulling off and crawling up his body to kiss his taste back into Stiles’ mouth.

Derek is still hard, still wearing his underwear and when Stiles has been kissed through the aftershocks and into a pleasant afterglow, Stiles fits his hand between them, slips under the band of Derek’s boxer briefs to give him a firm tug. “Take these off, come on, you want my mouth? My hand? Inside me?”

Groaning, Derek ruts against his hip for a greedy minute before managing to shuck the boxers off, too, and sucks what will probably be a massive hickey high on Stiles’ neck. “Just, here, like this,” Derek stumbles over his words, pressing in again against him, half-frantic now and leaking steadily.

”Yeah, okay, so do it, come on,” Stiles says, running his hands up Derek’s back, digging his fingers into his hair and then trailing off, distracted by the breadth of his shoulders again. “Give it to me.”

He judders at that, control lost, hips thrusting against Stiles frantically for a minute before he groans, low in his throat and comes all over Stiles’ stomach and chest, jackrabbits into it for a minute more while Stiles strokes up his arms, his back, cops a feel just because he can.

They lay there, slumped together for long minutes, catching their breath and trading kisses without the urgency of before until Stiles feels like his brain has reassembled itself.

”So,” he asks brightly, “Delivery?”


When he shows up for his Monday shift with Lydia, she assesses him coolly and says, “Good, now you owe me three favours.”

”What’s the third one for?” Stiles asks, grabbing his phone from his bag and setting it on silent before chucking his bag into the break room.

Lydia reaches out and taps him on the back side of the tendon on his neck, and it stings a little. “Clearly I did you a bigger favour last week than I thought,” she replies. “if the massive hickey here is anything to go by. Possessive much? You can start by doing the re-shelving this morning.”

She heads out to the desk and Stiles winds up twisting himself into an awkward position in front of the little mirror in the breakroom trying to see for himself. His phone vibrates in his back pocket. It’s from Derek.

Just in case that muggle Page gets gutsy again, it reads.

Stiles rolls his eyes and heads for the reading room. He’s got a few books on werewolves to set aside for himself.