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Won't You Lay Your Hands On Me, 1/1
Title: Won't You Lay Your Hands On Me

Fandom: Teen Wolf okay

Pairing: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski

Summary: "He misses his regular appointment to get shorn because he's too busy trying to keep Scott out of trouble and he starts to look a little bit like a hedgehog. By the time he misses the rescheduled appointment though, his hair's grown out enough that he really can't be bothered."

Length: 3600 wordsish

Warnings: the usual- shenanigans, hair pulling, etc.

Notes: So, my tumblr addiction to Dylan O'Brien, aka the guy who plays Stiles, led to looking at pictures of Dylan O'Brien, like this one and then my usual cohorts, [profile] moonklutz and [personal profile] thehoyden, and I were like OH HEY. And then this happened. Also, I will be AWOL for the next week... since I need to write my thesis. So, don't expect to hear from me until next Thursday. And then I'll be drunk.

Stiles had started cutting his hair short because Jackson had called him "lady locks" and elbowed him into the showers. He had to admit it was convenient- no fuss, no muss, no spending hours perfecting the "messy" look like Scott. However, it meant he either spends all winter looking like an idiot in increasingly stupid winter hats- it's not the hats' fault, Stiles just doesn't have a hat head- or painfully cold.

He misses his regular appointment to get shorn because he's too busy trying to keep Scott out of trouble and he starts to look a little bit like a hedgehog. By the time he misses the rescheduled appointment though, his hair's grown out enough that he really can't be bothered. It's kind of nice to not have to wear a hat anymore, too, and no one shrieks upon seeing him, so he figures it's fine.

It isn't until they get caught out in the rain on one of Derek's "bonding" activities that Stiles begins to catalog the annoying things about it. It's not in his eyes, by any means, but he can feel it, flat against his forehead, dripping in his eyes.

"Ugh," Stiles mutters, shoving it back and out of his face. Great, now it's all dripping down his back.

"Stiles." Derek barks, glaring.

"What, I wasn't doing anything!" Stiles cries. And for once, that's true.

"Pay attention," Derek growls, leaving Jackson and Scott rolling around on the forest floor, getting muddy and disgusting, to invade Stiles' personal space.

"What exactly am I supposed to be paying attention to?" Stiles asks. He doesn't know why they bring him along on these kinds of things, anyway. He's not terribly ornamental.

"Pay attention, or you're next," Derek says, shoving a hand into Stiles' chest, Stiles' back bumping up against the tree behind him. It's just warm enough that the rain isn't unpleasant exactly, but Derek's hand is a lot warmer.

Derek goes back to pick Jackson and Scott up like errant kittens and shake them, but Stiles is still frozen still against the tree, hand over the warm spot on his chest.


The first time Derek grabs Stiles by the hair, they're on the forest floor because this is Hogwarts or something and they're horrifying magical creature magnets. Derek probably knows what it's actually named, with his arcane knowledge of shit he shares only under extreme duress, but Stiles just thinks it's a blast-ended skrewt. Either way, though, Derek is forcibly dragging his head down so the two of them avoid getting charbroiled.

"Stay down, idiot," Derek shouts over the roar of the flames.

"I don't seem to have a choice right now, anyway," Stiles yells back. Derek's hand is still in his hair, clenched tight, just short of pulling. He's also sort of half on top of Stiles, in a way that makes him painfully aware of the fact that Derek is like, sculpted out of hotness.

"Stay down," Derek growls, right into Stiles' ear before going off to fight the skrewts like a fucking crazy person.

Stiles lies on the ground and tries to pretend that he isn't half-hard.


The second time, they're sneaking into the skanky club in the next town over, hot on the trail of a shapeshifter who's playing at being a wolf and making the Argents pissy and suspicious.

"I am specifically not allowed in here, I just want to put that out there," Stiles whispers.

Derek rolls his eyes. "Because a downmarket club is worse than hanging out with a bunch of werewolves." he says.

"I didn't say that I had a problem with it, I just said I wasn't allowed to be here," Stiles shoots back. His dad had done two county-wide drug busts at this place and it had been verboten since. And well, probably before then, but explicitly not allowed after that.

"Don't get caught, then," Derek says, sounding half-annoyed, half-amused.

"You don't get caught," Stiles snipes back aimlessly. "What are we even looking for, anyway?"

"I'll know it when I see it." Derek tells him.

"Oh, great, like pornography." Stiles groans.

Derek raises one sardonic eyebrow in an eloquent "what the fuck?"

"You know, Justice Stewart? 'I know it when I see it'- pornography... no?" Stiles trails off awkwardly. "Okay, super nevermind." Stiles doesn't know why Derek didn't bring Jackson or Lydia, since they'd at least look like they belonged, like Derek does. Stiles feels a little comforted that Scott would be awful at this too- not because Scott is unattractive, but because Scott is a goober. But Derek had shown up at Stiles' house, made him get in his aggressively sexy car and go with him. Maybe he's bait, or a distraction- god knows, enough people are staring at him, he must stick out like a sore thumb.

"Stiles, you-" Derek breaks off suddenly, his eyes flashing red.

Stiles frowns. "Derek?"

"Shut up," Derek hisses before he's threading his hands into Stiles' hair and tugging until Stiles' face is tilted back, Derek crowding him against the wall. "Do not speak."

Speaking is the farthest thing from Stiles' mind- Derek is searing hot pressed all along his front and even his non-wolf nose can smell leather and spice and clean air. Derek's mouth is pressed into Stiles' neck, his breath hot and damp right beneath Stiles' jaw. Every atom of Stiles' body feels hyper sensitive and painfully aware of Derek's every move.

"She's at the bar, to your left," Derek whispers. "Blond hair. Blue shirt."

It takes Stiles a moment to figure out what he's even talking about. "O-okay?" Stiles says, questioning.

"I'm going to talk to her, you're going to steal her purse," Derek says. "We need to know where she's staying. Take it to the bathroom, bring it back, don't screw up."

Jesus christ, why didn't Derek bring Lydia?

"Okay, then you should let go of me?" Stiles suggests, and Derek's fingers tighten in his hair before he lets go and walks away without looking back.

What the fuck was that? Stiles shakes himself because if he messes this up, Derek will kill him. Her purse is dangling off the back of her barstool- it shouldn't be hard- provided Derek is distracting, and if nothing else he just proved how, um... distracting he can be.

Derek is like a pod person- laughing, grinning and generally appearing attractive without his usual edge of wanting to murder you. It's freaking Stiles out, which is an added layer of nervousness added to Stiles essentially committing a robbery. To give Derek credit, he doesn't even glance over her shoulder at Stiles, and as she leans forward to run her hand over the lapel of Derek's jacket, Stiles lifts the bag right off the chair. He practically runs to the bathroom and thank jesus, hallelujah to all the little angels, the trademark tacky key of the Bluebird Motel is right on top. Stiles snaps a photo, the glittery yellow "#14" coming out bright and clear.

Stiles darts back out of the bathroom and oh, fuck, she's reaching for where her bag should be, turning back to Derek to say something, confused. Stiles races across the bar.

"Miss?" Stiles taps her on the shoulder. She spins to face him. "I think your purse fell off your chair." He points down, the purse almost beneath the chair, where he flung it.

"Oh, thanks," she says, reaching for it.

"You're welcome," Stiles says and Derek shoots him a glare as she bends over to pick it up. Stiles takes it as his cue to get the fuck out of there.

He's leaning against the Camero when Derek comes out of the bar, about ten minutes later.

"That was close," Derek growls, practically caging Stiles in against the car.

"It's fine, it worked," Stiles says quickly, brandishing his cell at Derek. "See? Room 14, Bluebird Motel."

Derek takes a deep breath before finally nodding. "Good job."

Stiles feels like his knees are going to give out in relief. "Good," he echoes. Derek heads for the driver's side.

They're halfway back to Beacon Hills when Stiles has gathered up his courage. "Um, earlier, with the- the wall-" Stiles starts.

Derek stares him down.

"Yeah, never mind," Stiles says, his heart beating double-time, knowing Derek can hear.


The third time is after Derek beats the crap out of the shapeshifter- who can apparently do people as well as animals, which would have been good to know before Stiles got concussed. She- he?- the shapeshifter had taken Allison's car and then her face and it hadn't been until he was getting his face slammed into the dashboard that he'd realized it wasn't Allison.

But apparently Derek had opened a can of whoop-ass and the shapeshifter had agreed to stay off their turf on penalty of Argents, which Stiles was all about.

Stiles remembers blacking out, but apparently he was up a couple of minutes later, and then passed out again five minutes after the pack had shown up at the motel.

"I fainted?" Stiles asks, maybe for the second time. It sounds familiar.

"Yes," Derek answers and that's right, Derek had gone home with him to watch him. Well, Derek already watched Stiles a lot. But specifically and for a legitimate reason- this time.

"Jackson will never let me live this down," Stiles says, and the words sound slow to him.

"Stop talking," Derek instructs and Stiles is going to keep talking just to prove he can, but then Derek's hand steals into Stiles' hair and starts rubbing gentle circles against his scalp.

"Oh god," Stiles mumbles, because seriously, Derek has magic fingers. His headache melts away and the only thing he can and wants to focus on are those fingers, working their way over his scalp. Someone's making like, porno sounds, though, that could be weird.

Derek's fingers pause.

"Oh, no, dude, if you stop doing that, I am going to rip your throat out. With my teeth. Which are human teeth, so they are not as sharp. So it will take longer and hurt more. LIke the Sheriff of Nottingham tells you to do." Stiles warbles, pressing his head back into Derek's warm, amazing hands, like an overgrown cat. He can be tremendously embarrassed later, but later is not now and Stiles decides it's okay to be shameless in the name of head rubs.

Derek snorts, but the fingers resume their work and Stiles feels like he's floating away on a cloud of sunshine and angels.

"I'm going to marry your hands," Stiles says, deadly serious, just so Derek understands his commitment. This cannot be a hands one night stand, these hands need to be tied down. "I like them, so I am going to put a ring on it."

"Okay," Derek says and the lack of argument throws Stiles for a loop. For some reason, he thought Derek would object. He doesn't know why, he just did.

"Well, good," Stiles tells him, before entering into an off-key rendition of "Marry the Night" dedicated to Derek's hands.

He falls asleep, head in Derek's lap, Derek showing no signs of going anywhere.


He can vaguely remember Derek waking him up a lot, but Stiles wakes up alone the next morning, tremendously embarrassed.

scott kill me he texts, face still buried in his pillow. He remembers being on the couch downstairs, which probably means that Derek carried him up the stairs, too.

uh no derek would knife me w his teeth

what? Stiles stares at his phone.

dude guy is like mad in love wit you

i love you man but you've been hit in the head with a lacrosse stick 2 many times Stiles writes back. Because there is no way Scott is right about this.

im srs u didnt kno?

Stiles does seriously love Scott, but Scott is too dumb carry out an extended punking. Which means Scott really does think that Derek is in love with Stiles. He's frantically happy that it's Saturday and he doesn't have to try to go to school and act like everything is normal and oh god, did he tell Derek he was marrying his hands last night?

He still feels groggy and weird, but he drags himself over to the computer.

WHAT IF YOU ACCIDENTALLY ASKED A WEREWOLF TO MARRY YOU WHILE YOU WERE CONCUSSED he types into Google. He hits search out of habit and oh god, there's a lot of porn all over his screen.

Stiles can't believe this is his life.

He's having trouble focusing, and he doesn't know if it's the lingering concussion or the lack of adderal in his system. He means to close the tab and get his shit together, but instead he starts dozing off sitting up.

"Stiles," Derek says from- holy shit, right behind him, his hand slipping into Stiles' hair, tugging gently until Stiles' face is tipped back.

"Heeeeeeey," Stiles says, horribly aware of what it says on his screen. He hopes that Derek is busy creepily staring at his face and not at the screen.

"I was gone for twenty minutes, what are you doing, get back in bed," Derek tells him, punctuating it with a little tug. Stiles bites his lip on a kind of slutty sounding hum. "You're still concussed, idiot."

"Scott says you're in love with me," Stiles groans, because seriously Derek's hands and-

Oh fucking hell shit, did he just say that?

Derek's hand freezes.

"I mean, of course he's super fucking crazy, right, I mean, you- me-" Stiles is babbling and Derek just sighs, spins the chair around and jesus christ, kisses Stiles.

"Get back in bed," Derek repeats, barely an inch away from Stiles' mouth still.

"Um," Stiles says, because his entire brain is short-circuiting with the words yes, more, now, please.

"Come here," Derek essentially picks Stiles up like a kitten and puts him back in bed.

"You- mouth," Stiles manages.

Derek looks at Stiles for a long moment, before he finally huffs a little laugh. "Go back to sleep."

"What, no!" Stiles says, even as his eyes drift shut.

"I'll be back." Derek rolls his eyes. "Apparently I can't stay away."

Stiles stares up at Derek, wondering. "Holy shit, you do like me,"

"Less and less with every passing second," Derek says, but he leans over and kisses Stiles again and Scott was right, Derek Hale is totally in love with him.

"Derek-" Stiles starts, but Derek just puts his hand over Stiles' mouth.

"If you keep talking, I'm going to kiss you again. You're still concussed, so I'm not going to kiss you any more. So you need to be quiet and I'm leaving." Derek heads for the window.

"But you'll be back," Stiles can't stop himself from checking.

Derek smirks from halfway out the window.

"Shut up, I don't know why I want you to come back and put your hands in my hair and kiss me and get out, I'm so embarrassing right now," Stiles babbles.

Derek looks like he's on the verge of giving up and coming back in- which Stiles would really be okay with- but he just growls and jumps out.

"Oh shit," Stiles mumbles, fishing his phone out. He sends out a text before he gives up and falls asleep again.


When he wakes up again a couple of hours later, finally feeling normal again, there are 12 texts from Scott:













Stiles just buries his face in his pillow and laughs.

"What's so funny?" Derek asks.

Stiles nearly jumps out of his skin. "Can you... make noise when you move?" he asks.

Derek raises an eyebrow. "Nope," he says, but there's this expression on his face that Stiles has been seeing more and more often and it finally hits him- that's fondness.

"We need to work on your communication skills," Stiles teases, but he's already distracted by the idea of Derek communicating, um, non-verbally.

"They're fine," Derek says, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

"Okay, I thought you barely tolerated me and instead you want to kiss me and play with my hair," Stiles protests.

Derek snorts. "I do?" he asks.

Stiles gulps, but he summons up his courage. "You do."

Derek doesn't say anything, he just puts his hands into Stiles' hair and kneads. Stiles can't stop the moan. Derek tucks his face into Stiles' neck and breathes in deeply.

"See, that's the noise you make," Derek says, his voice a low rumble. "That's why I can't stop."

"Okay, I will just keep making that noise," Stiles stammers. "Like seriously, were your hands stolen from an angel? Or maybe a demon?"

"Stiles, shut up," Derek kisses him, mouth open, hot and slick.

"So you know," Stiles gasps out when Derek decides he's done. "That's a much better way of shutting me up."

"I'll bear that in mind," Derek says. "You have no idea how distracting you've been." The pads of Derek's fingers catch and rub against the grain of Stiles' hair.

"Dis-wha?" Stiles asks, his hands, clutching in the front of Derek's shirt.

"Your hair," Derek scrapes his teeth over Stiles' throat. "I can get my hands in it, pull." Derek tugs and Stiles whimpers. "Put you where you should be." He keeps his hands anchored in Stiles' hair, kissing him deep.

"Oh," Stiles breathes out. "That's, you- okay, um, go ahead, yep." Stiles can feel the curve of Derek's smirk against his mouth and the sharp edge of his teeth on Stiles' lower lip.

"So you like this," Derek tugs at Stiles' hair- careful, just enough to be felt. "Like it when I pull your hair."

Stiles's hands flex and twitch in their death grip on Derek's shirt. Oh god, Stiles does like it, this puts a whole new spin on pigtail pulling, shit.

"What about this?" Derek asks, using his grip on Stiles' hair to tilt his head back like before, but instead of kissing him, Derek noses at Stiles' collarbone, trails little biting kisses up and down Stiles' neck and wow, Stiles apparently has a neck thing to go with his hair pulling thing.

On second thought, it might just be a Derek thing, because the way Derek just insinuates himself into Stiles' lap is mind-blowing and painfully sexy. Derek uses his position to bend Stiles back, pressing him back into the bed and Stiles doesn't think human bodies were meant to hold this much arousal. In fact, maybe his can't, because he's unbelievably hard, and Stiles seriously cannot come in his pants with Derek Hale on top of him. Oh, he can, and it'd be insanely easy, but he can't embarrass himself like that, just cannot.

"Derek," Stiles groans. "Derek, hold up,"

Derek abandons Stiles' neck to look at him like he's personally offended to have to stop using Stiles as an all-you-can-eat buffet. "What?" he growls. Yeah, this isn't helping Stiles' boner problem.

"You're going to make me cream my pants, slow it down," Stiles says, brain on auto-pilot and oh my god, he needs to be banned from talking. Derek actually looks completely surprised for a moment, before he breaks down laughing into Stiles's neck.

"Shut up, this isn't funny-" Stiles hisses at Derek, shoving at him, because nothing is a mood killer like being laughed at, fuck. Only Derek doesn't move, he just kisses Stiles; sweet, almost apologetic.

"Sorry, sorry," Derek says, which is something Stiles never imagined coming out of Derek's mouth. "I just wasn't expecting that." A hand slips out of Stiles' hair to stroke soothingly at the skin where Stiles' tee has ridden up.

"Yeah, well, not an issue now." Stiles grouses. Derek gives him another one of those sweet "sorry I'm an asshole" kisses.

"Are you sure?" Derek asks, the tips of his fingers just dipping below the band of Stiles' shorts. His traitorous body insists that no, really, it could be convinced. "Because I can be nice, really." Derek's hips grind against Stiles' thigh, proving he's every bit as affected as Stiles.

"Let me make it up to you," Derek offers and Stiles has never heard him like this before- persuasive and amused, excruciatingly seductive.

"Yeah, okay," Stiles mutters, because Derek's hand is tracing along the sensitive skin along Stiles' hip bone, promisingly close to Stiles' cock, which is fully on board with this idea.

"Thought about this a lot," Derek says, the words vibrating over Stiles' skin. "Put my hands on you," He does. "Watch you shake apart."

He does.

Stiles pants his way through the leisurely strokes, breathing like he's running a marathon. Fragments of words trail off the ends of breaths- 'yeses' and 'gods' and slurred phrases: likethat, nofaster, Derekplease.

"Hurry up, I want to see what you look like when you come," Derek says, growling and rude and so him that Stiles sucks in a wounded sounding breath and comes hard.

"Fuck," Stiles moans, loose-limbed and pleased. He realizes Derek is unzipping his jeans; he can't manage to do much other than watch, fixated, as Derek brings himself off, face buried in Stiles' shoulder.

It's probably the sexiest thing he's ever seen- Derek's shirt shoved up and out of the way, his hand, confident and precise as he strokes himself. It takes him a moment to gather up his courage, but Stiles reaches out, puts his hand over Derek's- whose eyes fly open from their half-closed drift, and he comes almost immediately.

"Stiles," Derek's voice is a hoarse groan, his body half-collapsed over Stiles.

"Next time," Stiles draws a shaky breath. "Next time, you should let me help."

"Next time, you're doing all the work, and I'm just going to hold on." Derek uses his clean hand to tug on a lock of Stiles' hair.

He's never fucking cutting his hair again.

Yo dawg, why don't you comment on the dw. Because you can do that. And I want you to do that. Right here. http://twentysomething.dreamwidth.org/28120.html?mode=reply <3.

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