#sbalpha

“Okay, whoa,” Stiles says. He sounds a little more like himself; Derek, face burning, forces himself to look up at him. Stiles is frowning. “That’s kind of unfair, dude,” he says. “I mean, I wasn’t expecting you. You can’t apologise for a kiss that barely even happened. I didn’t have time to be bad at it!”

“Wha—” Derek says, utterly mystified by this seemingly nonsensical stream of thought. “What?”

Stiles has an odd little smile on his face. “You wanted to kiss me, right?” he asks, his voice strangely tentative. “I mean, you didn’t just do it because you thought that was what I wanted?”

Derek stares at him. “No?”

“Cool,” Stiles says. “Do it again.”

Something very close to hope is blooming in Derek’s chest, warm and inviting. Fervently hoping that he’s not totally misreading the situation, he reaches down slowly, unbuckling his seatbelt with a faint click. Stiles smiles, the expression almost sly.

“Stiles—” Derek says, and then stops. He wants to ask, are you sure? But it seems pretty clear from the way Stiles’ tongue is running over his lower lip, the way his breath is coming in short sharp pants, the way his heart is thrumming – not fear, after all – that yes, he’s sure, Derek doesn’t need to check.

Stiles will tell him to stop, if that’s what he wants. He trusts him to do that.

He trusts Stiles.

This time, he moves slower, sliding across the seat with purpose so that he has less distance to reach Stiles. Stiles is waiting, smiling, and Derek finds himself reaching for his face again, holding it in both hands. His thumb brushes across Stiles’ cheek; it’s like electricity, dancing through Derek’s fingers and up his arm at the place where they’re touching. Stiles closes his eyes, shuddering.

Derek kisses him again.

His mouth is warm, soft in a way Derek wasn’t necessarily expecting, and as he kisses it, Stiles wraps his arms around Derek’s neck. It’s been so, so long since Derek had another person in his arms, soft and fragile, yet somehow reassuring in his sturdiness. Keeping one hand on Stiles’ face, he reaches around Stiles’ waist with the other, wanting to feel him, as much of him as possible.

“Derek,” Stiles sighs into his mouth, and somehow the sound of his own name is enough to make Derek groan, the sound low and filthy. He kisses Stiles harder, sliding his tongue between Stiles’ parted lips, his movements frantic and needy. Oh, if he could have planned this, he’d be so suave, the best kisser in the world! But here he is, grinding his entire body against Stiles’ with absolutely no game whatsoever, because he’s desperate for it, desperate for Stiles, desperate to feel this.

He realises, with a sudden shock, that he’s pushed himself up against Stiles, so much so that he’s almost looming over him. Is he forcing this more than he should? Stiles is kissing him back with enough enthusiasm that Derek isn’t worried that he’s not enjoying it, exactly, but still, it feels like too much.

“Hey,” Stiles gasps. “Derek. Come back.”

Derek pulls back just enough to pant: “What?”

“Don’t overthink this, dude,” Stiles says. He laughs, the sound choked and breathless. “Believe me, I’m, like, the king of overthinking, but can we just go with it? For now?”

“Stiles,” Derek says.

Stiles reaches up to touch Derek’s face. “Yeah?”

“I—” He stops. “You’re important,” he offers lamely.

Somehow, however, it seems to be enough; Stiles’ face splits in an enormous grin. His voice is – there’s no other word for it – positively gooey when he speaks. “Yeah?” he says.

“Yes,” Derek says with certainty.

“So are you,” Stiles says firmly. “To all of us, and especially to me.”

“Okay,” Derek says, and even allowing that much feels like a big deal.

“Can we go back to the kissing thing now?” Stiles asks.

“Yes,” Derek says, and they go back to the kissing thing. Derek kisses Stiles’ jaw, the side of his mole-speckled neck, the soft skin behind his ear, and Stiles gasps and shudders and holds Derek close, like he’s something precious.

“Oh shit,” he whispers, as Derek sucks a mark into the underside of Stiles’ chin. “Your mouth, Der, I swear to God, I’ve – fuck – been wanting this for so fucking long—”

“You have?” Derek says curiously, blunt nails scratching up the back of Stiles’ neck and into his scalp. Stiles moans loudly.

“Yeah,” he groans. “Yeah, I have. Oh God, Derek, do that again.”

Derek, his teeth scraping against Stiles’ collarbone, is quite happy to do it again, his hands tightening on Stiles’ hips. Suddenly, the desire to laugh almost overwhelms him; it just seems so ridiculously funny, sat here in the passenger seat of his own car, making out with this beautiful exhilarating magical boy like he’s a teenager again, here in the grocery store parking lot where anyone could see him, like they don’t both have perfectly respectable homes they could go to. And they’re doing it – not because they have to, because anyone’s survival depends on it, but because it’s a thing that they want to do. It’s that simple, that easy, that exciting.

“Derek?” Stiles says, his voice questioning.

“Yeah,” Derek says huskily, nipping Stiles’ jawline. And then he does laugh, just a little, because he can.

“Careful,” Stiles says fondly, kissing Derek’s mouth. “People will think you’re actually happy.”

I am, Derek thinks.

They kiss for a long, long time. Stiles’ mouth and chin are red with stubble burn, and they’re both breathless and gasping, by the time Derek finally draws back. There’s absolutely nothing dignified about it, nothing sophisticated, and rather against his will Derek is thrown back to a time when all he wanted was to be dignified and sophisticated for Kate, because he thought it would impress her.

She’d laughed at his attempts to seem more grown up, but that hadn’t stopped him from making them. And now – now he can be as ridiculous and undignified as he likes, because it’s Stiles. He can do anything he wants with Stiles.

“We should probably get the food,” Stiles puffs, out of breath. Derek grins at him.

“Okay,” he says. “After you.”

Stiles huffs out a laugh and gives him the finger, because there’s no way either of them are going anywhere until they’ve calmed down a little. Stiles’ shirt has slipped down his shoulder, and his hair is even more unruly than usual. His face is flushed and happy, and if he’s in any kind of similar state to Derek, he’s painfully hard. It’s quite nice, to be hard without feeling like he has to do anything about it just now; there’s no rush. They have time.

When they finally do tumble out of the car, Derek has a smile on his face that he can’t – and really, doesn’t want to – shake. He waits for Stiles to walk around the car, and the anxiety he thinks he probably should be feeling still fails to make an appearance. Stiles grins at him.

“They’re going to be able to smell this, aren’t they?” he asks. Derek bites his lip, but even then, he can’t stop smiling.

“Yes,” he says honestly. “I don’t mind, though.”

Stiles slips a hand into Derek’s. It’s warm, slightly calloused. “Good,” he says. “I’m clingy.” He glances mischievously at Derek. “And braggy. Dude, I’m going to brag about you.”

Derek thinks about this, and decides that it’s fully okay with him. “Alright,” he says.

As they walk across the parking lot, Stiles keeps sneaking little looks at him, like he has to continually check that Derek is actually there. He trips over nothing a couple of times, because he’s not really looking where he’s going, but it’s okay because Derek is still holding his hand. Keeping him upright. Which, he figures, is only fair, since that seems to be what Stiles is doing for him in the pack.

Stiles’ cell starts buzzing just as they walk through the double doors at the front of the store, so Derek goes off to get a trolley while Stiles answers it. He has to wait behind a middle-aged woman with a little boy hanging off the back of her coat; she gives him a tired, apologetic smile, and then tips her head a little to one side, considering him. Perhaps she thinks he’s attractive – that, at least, is normal – or perhaps she thinks he looks like a serial killer. Either way, Derek hopes that she’s watching as he takes his trolley, pushing it back to where Stiles is standing, still on his cell phone. He hopes that she sees him curl his arm protectively around Stiles’ waist, sees him pressing a kiss into Stiles’ hair.

Stiles smiles distractedly, leaning into Derek’s touch. He says: “Look, Corey, if you don’t know what an integer is, ask Mason. I’m busy. Put Scott back on the phone.”

There’s the buzz of someone talking on the other end, and Stiles sighs. “Liam, I don’t have to be a werewolf to know it’s you.”

Derek finds himself smiling into Stiles’ hair; he squeezes the back of Stiles’ neck, and Stiles muffles a groan, arching back into his touch. He says, his voice garbled: “No – what? Not you, Liam. Yes, we’ll get fucking Angel Delight. You’re twelve. Can you just—? Oh, fuck.” He grinds to a halt as Derek swoops forward to kiss the side of his neck, his tongue sliding up behind Stiles’ ear. “Scotty? Um, nothing. I’m f-fine – Derek—”

In one fluid motion, Derek scoops the phone out of Stiles’ hand, putting it to his own ear. Stiles is pressing back against him, eyes closed and head tipped back, and somehow it doesn’t seem as though he’s in any fit state to talk to Scott.

“Stiles?” Scott’s concerned voice is thin and metallic on the other end of the phone.

“Stiles is fine, Scott,” Derek says firmly. “He’s in the middle of something. What did you need?”

“Um,” Scott says. “Are you guys—?”

“Yes,” Derek says. His face flushes red, even though Scott can’t see him. “I’m hanging up now.”