Work Header

How far do I have to go to get to you

Work Text:

Stiles is no more than three steps inside his bedroom when he stops short and squares his shoulders. He’s not even sure why he does it, only obeying the quick slithery feeling that climbs up his spine in an instant. “No,” he tells the darkness by the bookshelf without even turning towards it. “No, no, absolutely not.”

It says a lot about Stiles’ life that he’s gotten really aware of shadows, shadows in parking lots and locker rooms and after-hours vet clinics — even the innocent-seeming shadow cast by the streetlight out his bedroom window, that squared-off neat shape cast against the wall by his bookshelf. It’s the very shadow he’s seen every night his whole life, a shadow that stopped being scary about the time he gave up footie pajamas and bubble gum flavored toothpaste, and then started being scary all over again around the time Scott got turned. Because this shadow, it turns out, is exactly the right size and shape and depth to cloak any number of foul beasts or errant werewolves.

So: it’s going to be either bloody death and terror, or —

“You haven’t even heard what I want, yet,” says Derek, stepping out into the half-light. He’s wearing his black leather jacket — for maximum creeping potential, Stiles assumes — and a scowl. His hair is headed due west today. His jaw is square and chiseled and heroic. His eyes are flinty, hard, determined.

“No,” says Stiles, more to the entire notion of Derek than to whatever he might be about to propose. “No, I mean it.”

“I need access to,” begins Derek regardless, but Stiles raises a hand, palm-out. Miraculously, Derek stops. Well, he pauses, anyway, before deciding that Stiles’ gesture isn’t worth his consideration. “Access to the sheriff’s”—

“I came in here to get a game,” says Stiles, “which is a thing you might have heard of, if you hadn’t hatched out of a pod or, or beamed down from Planet Dire Threat, or”—

—“A game?” Derek repeats dangerously.

“Yes, a game,” Stiles echoes back, and lunges for the case that’s lying out on his unmade bed. “A game, Derek, an unwholesome, cartoon-violence-riddled, utterly pointless and mindless video game, in which the worst possible outcome is having to repeat a level.” He knows he’s waggling the game case in Derek’s face now, a little frantically, but — goddammit! — Stiles needs this. And Scott, poor fucking perpetually overwhelmed and underthinking Scott, who’s sitting downstairs in front of the TV at this very moment — Scott needs it even more.

Derek isn’t flinching away, exactly; Derek doesn’t flinch, that’s Stiles’ kind of move. But he’s turning his face away just a little and he’s staring resolutely past the game case at Stiles, like persistent glaring is the only tactic he needs. (Which, generally, yes, that’s true.)

But Stiles is determined, tonight. He continues, undeterred, gathering momentum and losing syntax as he goes: “There’s a game, and there’s Red Bull, and there’s just — a fucking shit-ton of microwave popcorn, and no one is wearing underwear under their sweats and there’s a bunch of ground rules including some pretty extensive detail about liberty of bodily functions but the most important rule, Derek, the cardinal rule tonight is”—

—“Liberty of bodily functions?” Derek bites out, eyebrows jumping up and then furrowing back into a yet fiercer scowl, but Stiles isn’t waiting for his reaction, he’s plunging on.

—“No life-or-death situations,” Stiles concludes a little wildly, perhaps even a little squeakily, but fuck it, fuck it — Derek’s seen worse from him. “So — whatever lycanthropic emergency you’re dealing with tonight, you’re on your own. Skedaddle!” He flicks his free hand in the direction of the window. “Scoot!”

Derek doesn’t immediately growl or slam Stiles against furniture or fist his shirt up and drag him to the computer. He instead flicks his eyes over to the video game case that Stiles is still holding up. “What’s a — Raving Rabbid?” he asks shortly, like the words pain him a little.

Stiles only realizes he’s been braced for further resistance when he feels himself go limp with relief. “Are you serious?” he says. “You’re not going to — with the, the looming and the intimidation?”

Derek’s jaw flickers like he’s quietly grinding his teeth, biting back whatever he might like to say. He exhales hard through his nose and looks over Stiles’ shoulder. “Well,” he says, “just, maybe you guys do need a night off.”

“You think?” Stiles says, because sarcasm is like a chronic disease with him, and his stupid mouth has long since proven itself to be beyond the reach of classic conditioning.

Derek’s gaze is withering and immediate and predictable, but there’s something — something a little—


“You’ve never played Rayman?” ventures Stiles, going off the faint undertone he thinks he almost sensed in Derek’s expression. “Not a lot of, ah, recreational indulgences in the Hale family, I’m betting?”

Derek licks his lips quickly. The shake of his head that follows is so fast that Stiles almost thinks he imagined it.

“Well,” says Stiles, hating himself a little already, anticipating Derek’s inevitable and disdainful refusal, “then you should stay, maybe.”

Derek shifts his weight, right to left, and folds his arms over his chest. His leather jacket squeaks. Stiles’ curtains flutter and billow lightly behind him.

“If you want,” Stiles adds, because Derek’s silences are at least as unsettling as his words. “Scott made me put bacon fat on the popcorn. It sounds disgusting but it’s actually awesome.”

Derek unfolds his arms again, restive. If Stiles didn’t know better, he’d think Derek was almost considering the offer.

“We have Double Stuf Oreos,” Stiles adds, which is the grandest and most generous (if utterly empty) gesture he can make. He already told Scott in no uncertain terms that he’s not sharing his cookies tonight.

But Derek’s hands go to his belt, and suddenly he’s undoing his pants, matter-of-fact.

“Dude,” says Stiles, ears flashing red-hot in an instant. “What the hell are you”—

—“You said no underwear,” says Derek, like it’s no big deal. “Can I borrow some sweats?”

So Derek’s in Stiles’ basement rec room, wearing sweats with elastic cuffs and Stiles’ worn yellow shirt with owls on it, and he’s staring skeptically at the Wii remote that Scott’s holding out to him.

“I’ll watch,” he says.

“It’s easy,” says Scott, “we’ll walk you through it, man.” And he flashes Derek one of his sweetest little-boy grins. Derek all but bares his teeth in reply. Stiles bites back about twenty things he wants to say about puppies trying to wrestle with grouchy old dogs and Scott chewing on Derek’s floppy silken ears and Derek swatting Scott down with one lazy sweep of a big velvety paw.

Derek takes the remote, though. Holds it, dangling from thumb and forefinger, like it’s pair of dirty shorts.

Scott beams encouragingly and turns his attention back to the TV, clicking expertly through menus to get to the multiplayer game.

Once upon a pre-wolf era, this shit was normal: Wii tournaments and popcorn and Oreo-hoarding and fart-amnesty zones and holey sad-ass old sweatpants. This used to be life for them, for Scott and Stiles, and while — yes — in some ways it’s nice to feel like they have a higher purpose, a mission, some real serious shit that they’ve accomplished — Stiles has missed this. He plunges down onto the couch and crosses his legs, reaches for the Oreos, and resolutely switches his brain off.

“I thought guys your age liked the games where you shot people and stole cars,” says Derek, stiffly, still standing in the middle of the room with Stiles’ old gym sweats slowly riding up his calves.

“Yeah, we get enough of that in real life,” says Stiles and holds out an Oreo, because Derek is wearing silkscreened owls, willingly, and that kind of thing needs rewarding. “Don’t you think?”

Derek hesitates visibly, then reaches for the cookie. Stiles half-expects him to sniff it, inspect it, look puzzled as how to approach eating it, but Derek instead just twists the cookie in half and gamely drags his tongue over the white filling. It’s kind of hilarious, or it would be if Stiles didn’t think that laughing would completely derail this tentative foray into normalcy on Derek’s part. Stiles bites the inside of his cheek, then busies himself with eating an Oreo of his own to distract himself from the way Derek’s licking, pink broad flat of his tongue, steady firm strokes lapping at the —

“Is it Asia that you get to do the burping game?” asks Scott, wonderfully oblivious to everything ever in the history of homoeroticism.

“Yeah, I think so,” Stiles says, snapping his attention over to the screen. “Derek, sit your ass down, make yourself at home, dude.”

Derek sits his ass down, which is equal parts surprising and relaxing. That he chooses to sit his ass down directly beside Stiles on the saggy old couch falls into another category of emotion entirely, one that Stiles is going to ignore with all his heart because — the bump of Derek’s leg alongside his own, the sudden warmth of him, the faint weirdly normal scent of antiperspirant that he gives off — it’s all a distraction from tonight’s real mission, which is to do their damnedest to regress one or two years and revel in all the stupid awesome immaturity.

“Gimme another Oreo,” says Derek in the same brusque serious alpha-voice he uses to boss Stiles and Scott around when it comes to fighting evil shit.

“Oreo incoming,” Stiles mimics back in his best Bale-as-Batman voice, and wriggles a cookie free of the plastic tray, bounces it over into Derek’s lap.

Derek gives him a sidelong look, like he knows Stiles is making fun of him but he doesn’t quite know whether to slap him upside the head for his insolence or — but no, there’s the slightest curl of one corner of his mouth, instead, grudging good humor where Stiles expected irritation at best. “You have chocolate crumbs on your mouth,” he says, dropping the bossy voice.

Stiles swipes the back of his hand over his lips, hiding his grin.

Then suddenly, Scott’s starting the game and there’s no time to spare a thought to the curve of Derek’s lips, the nudge of his knee, and the fact that he was looking at Stiles’ mouth.

Scott sits down on the other side of Derek, arms and legs everywhere, and they promptly devolve into Rabbids-style chaos, the three of them elbowing each other and shouting at the screen and protesting that there’s something wrong with the fucking — someone’s remote is busted, or stupid, or someone else is totally cheating. Stiles thinks it’s hardly fair being matched up against two werewolves for this one mini-game, his arm is tired already and they’re all super-strong and shit, and Scott says something pointed about how he thought Stiles would be the most practiced at jerking his fist up and down. Derek seems as shocked as any of them by the belly-laugh that explodes out of him in reaction, but they’re all too busy shaking the remotes and leaning towards the screen to stop and comment.

They go through three continents’ worth of mini-games. By the time they finish up with Europe, Stiles’ stomach aches from laughing so hard (or maybe it’s from the overconsumption of popcorn and Oreos and Red Bull). They’re all dissolving into the plush sloppy cushions of the couch, exhausted from flinging their arms around, straining to make tiny cartoon rabbits do their bidding.

“Aw, shit, that was fun,” Stiles says happily, uncrossing his legs and letting them splay out in front of him. “Wasn’t that fun, Scotty?”

“So much fun,” says Scott from the other end of the couch, rolling his head back into the cushion, blissed out on sugar and laughter. He looks relaxed like he hasn’t for months, like the happy dumb kid who used to be over every other night, the kid who once stuffed twenty-four Dubble-Bubbles into his mouth and drooled a huge pink syrup stain into this very couch, the kid who earnestly believed that Santa was real well into middle school, the kid who tolerated Stiles’ sort of embarrassing and obvious crush on his mom because Stiles tolerated Scott’s sort of embarrassing and obvious hero worship for Stiles’ cop dad.

Stiles grins a little wider and sighs, pleased.

“Oh,” says Scott, sitting up and wriggling his phone out of his pocket, the screen lit up and screaming ALLISON ALLISON ALLISON as it buzzes. “Uh, I don’t have to,” he begins awkwardly, though it’s obvious that it’s killing him, not answering instantly. She doesn’t risk calling him directly, much; it’s either a real emergency or possibly just a sex emergency. A sex-mergency. Probably the latter, given the tender way Scott’s cupping the phone in the hollow of his hand.

Stiles waves a hand to grant permission. Scott’s phone isn’t even supposed to be on according to the ground rules, but Stiles is feeling forgiving, expansive, warmed from the inside by the sight of Scott so happy. Who is Stiles to deny Scott contact with the person who makes him happiest of all, most of the time?

Scott rolls to his feet and puts the phone to his ear, but a slightly-gooey-sounding heyyy is all they hear before he wanders out of the room and some distance up the basement stairs in search of privacy.

Which leaves Stiles and Derek in rather close quarters on the couch, which in turn makes Stiles aware that Derek’s been staring at him for a while. Steadily, and a bit creepily.

This in itself is hardly unusual, to be fair, but what is out of the ordinary is how scary it’s not at this moment; Derek’s lost all his intimidation cachet somewhere between wearing Stiles’ hand-me-downs and losing spectacularly at almost every game, trash-talking the Wii using phrases like, ‘no, I said down you little asswipe!’ and ‘shit, not there, not there!’ and ‘fuck you, I did not press that button!’

Stiles turns his head and meets Derek’s gaze, smiling fondly at the memory of Derek verbalizing the sort of shit he’s probably always screaming internally as he tries (and mostly fails) to control Stiles and Scott, like they’re insane chaotic cartoon rabbits only marginally under his power. “We could do a two-player version,” Stiles suggests idly, even though it might make Derek look away, move away.

“You’re a good friend,” says Derek. It could sound condescending, or grudging, but the way Derek says it — it sounds sort of revelatory, special, newsworthy. “He’s — he’s lucky to have you.”

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees. “He is. But, you know, I’ve always been a dog person, so”—

—“I forget how you guys grew up normal,” says Derek, ignoring Stiles’ reflexive grasp at levity. He looks around the basement. “I forget about that, a lot.”

“I know you do,” says Stiles, dropping the jokey tone. “We forget, too, sometimes. About you.”

“I should go,” says Derek suddenly, going all tense beside Stiles, back to his normal self and away from the loose-limbed good-humored version of Derek who’d been occupying the spot seconds earlier. “I should leave you guys to do your”—

—“Stiles, man,” says Scott, poking his head back in the room, still holding the phone to his ear. “I, uh — Allison was wondering”—

“Go,” says Stiles, sighing, dredging up a forgiving smile. “Go, go to her.”

“Yeah?” says Scott, sunny smile bursting forth. “Okay, okay, I — thanks for the, the everything.” And he lunges in, gets his backpack, and is gone within the space of a dozen heartbeats.

Derek’s standing up too, like it’s the end of the party and he doesn’t want to overstay his welcome, like Derek knows about social cues — which, if he does, what’s his fucking excuse for every other time he’s ignored them?

“You should still stay,” Stiles says hastily, because he teases Scott all the time about the wolf thing, the dog thing, but this might be first time he’s been able to trace the likeness of anything puppyish in Derek fucking Hale, Alpha fucking Wolf: the faint droop of his shoulders, the drag of his feet. If Derek had a tail it’d be sagging, and if he had pointed ears they’d be flattened, dejected.

“No, I,” says Derek confusedly, “I should”—

—“Stay,” says Stiles, hoping it doesn’t sound as much like an obedience command to Derek as it does to Stiles. He softens his tone, tries again. “Stay, please. I’m — not even tired yet. It’s early. Scott’s ditched me.”

Derek looks like he wishes he had pockets in the sweats, something to do with his hands. He folds them over his chest and stuffs them into his armpits, sways indecisively from one foot to the other, averts his gaze. “If you’re sure,” he says.

“I’m sure,” says Stiles. “My dad’s working the night shift, I’m alone tonight.”

Derek’s mouth tightens, unconvinced.

“I have Mario Kart,” Stiles adds, trying to sweeten the pot a little.

Derek lifts an eyebrow. “Like, a racing game?” he asks.

“Yeah, like a racing game,” says Stiles, thinking of poor fucking Derek’s poor fucking neglected weird wolfy childhood. Probably they didn’t own a TV, Stiles thinks sadly. Probably Derek’s idea of fun was, like, skinning rabbits and shit, like something fucked up out of Silence of the Lambs. “We can do the easy version at first, come on.”

“Well,” says Derek, “if we start out easy.” And he sits down on the couch and digs his Wii remote out from between the cushions and casts an eager expectant look up at Stiles. Stiles’ stomach lurches and his heart pounds and he sits down, trying not to notice how the sleeves on the yellow owl shirt look on Derek, how the cuffs bite into Derek’s biceps, how the fabric pulls taut over his broad solid shoulders.

It turns out Derek’s childhood wasn’t quite as dire as Stiles maybe guessed; they had a TV, for sure, and an N64, and an earlier version of Mario Kart. Stiles learns all this in the time it takes Derek to run Stiles’ Princess Peach cart off the track on MooMoo Farms about seventeen times in one lap.

“Fuck you fuck you fuck you,” Stiles yells, leaping half to his feet as though he can physically urge Peach back onto the stupid rutted dirt track.

“Watch out,” says Derek with annoying calm, and fires a green shell into Peach’s cart as he whizzes past on his final lap.

“Oh my god, you’re like the Usain Bolt of Mario Kart, you dick,” Stiles groans once he finally limps Peach over the finish line. He flops down onto the couch, landing half on Derek, half off. Doesn’t bother readjusting his weight; Derek can take it, the lying manipulative supernaturally strong son of a bitch.

“The who?” says Derek, because he may have had an N64 in the nineties but he hasn’t had a TV since. He’s not wresting Stiles away. He’s just — smiling. He has nice teeth, even and white and — and Derek should probably smile more, actually.

Stiles kisses Derek’s mouth, the corner of it, just a quick stupid instinctive duck and dash of lips. When he pulls back, Derek’s smile is gone, replaced by the sort of dark steady startled look Derek usually reserves for unplanned confrontations with enemies.

“So,” says Stiles, “so that was stupid and probably we should never speak of it.”

“It was,” says Derek, sounding stunned, “holy shit, Stiles. What the hell was”—

—“What part of ‘we should never speak of it’,” begins Stiles bitterly, feeling his cheeks warm and his heart start to race, which — shut up, heart, shut up, Derek can hear you

A press of lip to lip, startling and as out-of-the-fucking-blue somehow as Stiles’ kiss must have seemed to Derek. But where Stiles’ kiss was inelegant, off-centre, lightning-quick and sorry for its imposition even before it was over, Derek’s kiss is almost unrecognizable, unlike anything Stiles associates with Derek. Derek’s kiss is tentative, slow, gentle, uncertain of its welcome, pausing for long breathless moments between brushes of lips as though giving Stiles every possible opportunity to escape.

Stiles hates the thought on principle; he’s no one’s timid prey, and he’s not fucking going anywhere.

He gets Derek by the jaw — hand cupped around hard bone, skin raspy with stubble, tender under the arch of bone — and holds him steady. Kisses him a whole new way, not fast, not gentle, but steady and insistent and unafraid. It is, Stiles knows in some deep part of him, the only way he can keep this going: this press of breath to breath, mouth to mouth. Stiles isn’t some whimpering beta presenting his jugular in obeisance; he’s no fucking wolf, at all. Stiles is male, and needful, and he’s got Derek by the throat because he needs to hold him still for the kissing, and kissing, and kissing.

“Shit, shit,” says Derek, finally pulling back, bruised-red lips and heavy eyelids and heaving breath. “Stiles, I can’t. This is fucked up.”

Stiles laughs without meaning to, and curls his hand around the back of Derek’s neck now. It’s nothing, won’t stop Derek if he really wants to go anywhere, but it’s enough to shake away some of the tension that coiled up Derek’s arms and shoulders when he pulled back a moment ago. “This is fucked up?” Stiles repeats, grinning, licking his lips. “This?”

Derek doesn’t smile back, doesn’t laugh. He tilts his head into Stiles’ stroking fingers, though, almost like he doesn’t realize he’s doing it.

“Derek, this is by far the least fucked up thing that’s happened to me in months,” Stiles points out. “This is, like, normal teenage shenanigans, here.”

“I’m not a teenager,” says Derek, a little breathlessly, because Stiles has just noticed that Derek has a hot spot at the nape of his neck, and Stiles isn’t afraid to press any advantage he can, drawing firm little circles over the place with the pad of his thumb.

“You sure about that?” Stiles asks. “I mean, we seem to be on the same page about this one thing, anyway.”

“What, what one thing?” asks Derek, sounding a bit stupid. Looking a bit stupid, come to that: mouth hanging open, eyes glazed, gaze dropping helplessly over and over to Stiles’ own mouth, and lower, to where sweatpants are doing fuck-all to hide Stiles’ reaction to the situation.

“I wanna be a dumb kid, tonight,” says Stiles, and ducks in to kiss Derek again, one-two-three and a nasty little dip of tongue. He backs off to find Derek looking satisfyingly disarmed — and if Stiles knew about this, so many of their stupid confrontations would have ended much more pleasantly for all concerned. “You wanna be a dumb kid with me?” he asks, more whispering than talking now. In case his argument lacks persuasiveness, Stiles follows his up by slipping his hand down from the back of Derek’s neck, over Derek’s chest, gliding fingertips back and forth over the bump of nipple visible through the too-small yellow owl t-shirt.

Derek’s brows draw together briefly; Stiles can almost see him trying to gather his wits together, but — shit, it must be ages since the guy got any action, and Stiles knows perfectly well what that does to the mind. “Yeah,” he says, and nods for emphasis, reaches up and sticks his hand right up Stiles’ own tee. Hot callused fingertips and unapologetic groping, fuck. “Yeah, I wanna,” he says, and goes right over onto his back when Stiles pushes him oh-so-gently in the center of his (hard, broad, smooth) chest.

Better, like this, because Stiles can crawl over Derek now, can land heavy on him matching hips up with hips, and — wriggling maybe a little inelegantly — cock with cock. The couch is a shitty horizontal surface, really, too squashy and temperamental, too difficult to pin Derek in place so Stiles can have his way with him, but then Derek’s hands come up and close firmly on Stiles’ ass, hold him perfectly steady as Derek rolls his hips upwards in amazingly greedy little thrusts. And, oh fuck, that’s hot — Derek needing. Stiles providing.

“You know,” says Stiles, breaking the kiss they’ve been trading, pushing up on his hands a little to get Derek’s attention away from the lower functions, “I’ve never thought about it, but there’s a huge benefit to this whole no-underwear policy that,” and Derek’s firing on all cylinders after all, thank you, because Stiles doesn’t have to finish the thought before Derek’s lifting his hands and shoving them down the back of Stiles’ sweatpants, using his wrists and forearms to work the waistband down as Stiles lifts his hips and helps.

“Your shirt, your shirt,” Derek says hotly, the instant Stiles kicks his legs free and he’s bare from the waist down.

My shirt?” Stiles repeats incredulously, already halfway out of it, talking with his head stuck in the collar. “Your shirt!”

“Fuck,” says Derek, and his hands come up shaky when he reaches for Stiles — for Stiles — kneeling naked astride him. “I tried to convince myself you’d be kind of skinny,” he says, drifting fingertips over Stiles’ chest, sides, stomach.

“I am kind of skinny,” Stiles points out, because honesty is his second worst quality, right after sarcasm.

“No,” says Derek, “you’re”— but he doesn’t finish the thought, which troubles Stiles for all of two seconds before Derek’s doing some kind of athletic-looking ab crunch to get close enough to — holy hell — lick Stiles’ chest, circle his nipples with a pointed tongue, and then scrape them with the flat like the motherfucking Oreos earlier. Stiles freezes and clutches at Derek to hold him in place until suddenly it’s too good and he has to shove Derek back, gasping.

“What?” says Derek, startled, his hair mussed like maybe Stiles was pulling at it unknowingly. “What?”

“Take your clothes off,” says Stiles, yanking at the hated owl shirt. “Take my clothes off. I can’t believe you wore these, you — you look like such a fucking dork.”

Derek’s laughter is a peal, a weirdly beautiful and unexpected bubble of happiness, and even though he’s still got the yellow t-shirt hanging off one arm, even though he hasn’t even gotten as far as his sweats, Stiles has to get back in there and kiss Derek’s impossibly handsome stupid face with the unexpected perfect smile, the smile that Stiles made appear. “Your stupid idea,” Derek says against Stiles’ mouth, between kisses. “Your dorky clothes.”

“I know, I know,” says Stiles despairingly, kissing back fast-hungry-desperate now. “Hey, please say it’s cool with you if part of the being-a-dumb-kid plan involves me coming, like, embarrassingly soon.”

“It’s cool with me,” says Derek, smiling again, like he doesn’t know what that does to Stiles, and then — there’s his hand, fuck, his hand circling Stiles’ cock and pulling at it, and Stiles can feel Derek’s delts and pecs working under his hands, working to get Stiles off, fuck, fuck. Stiles presses his forehead to Derek’s and hopes he doesn’t have a stupid O-face because — oh, shit — Derek’s about to see it. “Yeah,” says Derek, moving his hand faster, sounding really fucking turned on too, and that’s it for Stiles, oh, that’s all, coming into Derek’s hand, onto Derek’s belly, shaking and making probably-stupid hurt-happy noises as he chokes down on the yet-stupider groans and shouts that want to escape him, and oh.


Coming on someone is nice. Everything is the world is nice. Derek’s the nicest of all, Derek with his come-wet hand and his murmurs of encouragement and that fucking delicious smile tipped up in Stiles’ direction like he’s as happy about Stiles coming all over him as Stiles is about having done it.

“Oh my god,” Stiles manages, “you’re so pretty,” and then suddenly he’s flat on his back on the floor with Derek over him, which is fucking hilarious, actually, so Stiles laughs and goes limp and doesn’t fight it at all when Derek yanks his sweats down and parts Stiles’ legs and falls down between them.

“Pretty?” says Derek, fiercely, rubbing his hard cock — oh god, Derek’s cock — into the crease of Stiles’ hip and thigh, even as Stiles keeps laughing helplessly. “Did you call me pretty?”

Stiles nods. “So pretty,” he says, and abruptly stops laughing, because — Derek’s over him, Derek’s intently rubbing one out on him, Derek’s hot and strong and gorgeous and he’s getting off on Stiles, and Stiles is probably getting wicked rug burn on his back and some impressive stubble burn on his front with Derek nuzzling his neck and shoulders, but it’s all good, it’s all amazing. Stiles reaches around and scrabbles his hands over Derek’s back, muscle corded over hard frame. Down further, to Derek’s bare ass, to where Stiles can feel that sexy insistent roll of hips as Derek thrusts against Stiles’ belly, against the wetness between them that’s — fuck — right, that’s Stiles’ own come. “Derek,” Stiles says senselessly, and Derek turns his head in answer, kisses Stiles’ mouth messily, and then makes a hard choking sound, goes very still.

Comes into the warm and close place between their bellies, shuddering breath out and tipping his face into the crook of Stiles’ neck.

When Derek pushes up on his hands, it’s clear that he’s not quite as filled with noodly post-orgasmic goodwill as Stiles was a few moments earlier. He’s flushed, and loose-limbed, and free of the fierce cool spark that usually burns in his stupid heroic eyes, but there’s a new edge there, too. He’s watching Stiles too closely, hovering over him, like Stiles has to pass some secret test of his werewolf senses. Like Stiles has to smell right, or have the right pulse rate.

“Shut up,” says Stiles.

“I didn’t say anything,” says Derek, looking oddly hurt.

“You were about to give me an out,” says Stiles. “You were going to say some shit about how you should probably go, and how it was fun being a dumb kid for a night but you’re not, really, and we should go back to the thing where this never happened and we’ll never speak of it.”

Derek considers this for a moment. “That doesn’t sound like me,” he says. “Too many words.”

But then he’s smiling again and dropping his full weight down on Stiles, kissing his mouth, stroking his hair and his arm, seemingly unbothered by the way their sticky bellies are kissing, farther down. Stiles is maybe holding on too tight, because he doesn’t quite believe yet that Derek’s not going to dissolve back into darkness, not going to melt seamlessly into the dim space by Stiles’ bookcase upstairs, back to black leather and shadow and scowling.

“Stay,” Stiles says, when Derek pauses at last, rests with his cheek pushed hot and insistent against Stiles’ own.

“Rrf,” says Derek into the side of Stiles’ neck, and when he lifts his head up, he’s all pale skin and blue-screen TV light and a silly small smile that won’t go away no matter how often Stiles kisses it.