This has gotten out of hand.
Coming back to himself with the hazy ache of magic nested behind his eyeballs and the taste of Stiles on his tongue had been bad enough. Distorted memories of lithe muscle trapped under him and strong, willowy hands, the body-rich smell of come, had all been bad enough. The phantom tingle of teeth marks that had faded before Derek was even himself again. The questions banked in the packs’ eyes. The days and days when Stiles still carried a whiff of Derek's scent on his skin under a layer of soap.
The nights running through the woods around the Stilinski house, raw fear rattling his bones that Stiles would be in danger if Derek wasn’t on hand to protect him.
The sick, clawing, crawling need.
Out of hand.
If it was only his wolf side it would be one thing. Derek was raised to pay attention to his instincts, but he's not ruled by them. Control is an art he's carved into himself through years of work and will, but control can only take him so far when his humanity craves the same thing. Has craved it, apparently. Derek’s gotten so good at fighting the impulse he hadn’t even noticed. How much time and energy he spends on Stiles. Thinking about him. Being near him. That face and voice and scent always in the outer orbits of Derek’s awareness. Here he’d thought Stiles was just preternaturally annoying, but the wolf doesn’t know how to lie to himself.
Stiles doesn’t make the revelation easy to ignore, either. He stands in front of Derek and rambles and snarks and licks his lips every four seconds in what is either a debilitating nervous tick or a completely intentional shot at driving Derek insane. Because he oozes ‘sixteen and sex-hungry’ out of his pores, clogs up the air with it until Derek’s nose burns. It’s like a time machine, breathing around him; slip-slide backward into five-foot-eight and skinny, pissed off that he can jump higher and run faster than any guy at school and still isn’t allowed to try out for the basketball team.
Derek remembers in his bones what it was like to be that young and hungry and wild. Not a boy, but not a man either; unfulfilled, edgy, chafing at skin that refused to fit right regardless of his form. Jittery with desperation.
Stiles has had a taste now of satisfaction and it's never been in his nature to disguise a need. He wore being in love with Lydia like a brand on his skin, not knowing or not caring that the whole world could see it. Now he looks at Derek that way - a plea, from honey-brown eyes to gangly legs, pink splotches above his jawline going red, tempting Derek to press his lips there and test the heat.
Derek also remembers what it was like to be taken advantage of at that age, naive as a pup and so stupidly willing. Hot hands on his skin, words like burnt sugar and arsenic whispered in his ear. Remembers it like the taste of smoke that’ll never wash clean from the back of his throat. So he won’t touch Stiles. Can’t. Shouldn’t.
Which doesn't do a thing to explain why he's climbing through Stiles' window.
It's cool from the crack of space Stiles had left between the sash and sill, crisp nature smells muddling the edges of the deeper, ground-in scents of fabric softener and boysweat. A deep breath of it is a balm on nerves that have no business being frazzled, loosening Derek's shoulders at the same time it ratchets up his heart rate.
He shouldn't be here. Giving in to this can only make it worse in the long run, but the sensation of helplessness is the same as that spell he keeps hoping is still infesting his system just so he'll have an excuse. He shouldn't be here. He doesn't want to be anywhere else.
Stiles' room is the same casual semi-chaos as always, clutter on every available surface, random assortment of clothes that didn't make it to the laundry basket in the corner. Last time Derek was here he'd knocked it over and rolled in them. Some of the clothes from the closet too. Might have broken the hanger rod. It's all a blur.
They’ve hardly spoken about it since. A few jokes have been made, some light teasing, but for all that the betas can be self-involved idiots, they’ve got better intuition than he generally gives him credit for. None of them has asked about it, and none have given Stiles as hard a time as he would have bet on.
"This is why everyone buys it when you get accused of felonies."
Derek's vision brightens, full contrast in shades of blood. He fights the itch of lengthening claws and teeth, swallows against the thunder in his chest. Stiles should know better than to startle something like him, but knowing better has never seems to stop Stiles. If anything, it eggs him on.
"Just so you know," is swaddled in a yawn, heavy as the eyelids Stiles peeks at him from under. The beat of his heart is sleepy-slow in Derek's ears. Barely awake enough to count, but of course he has something smart ass to say.
He's sunk deep into his pillow, arms tucked around it. Belly down and legs strewn everywhere in a tangle of sheets. One foot is moving in a slow arc, back and forth, swish swish swish against cotton. Too pointless to be intentional. Habit, then, self-soothing. He's probably done it since he was little, all short-limbed and chubby to fit with that babyface, lulling himself to sleep with rhythm like a pulse. Derek had always had the sounds of siblings and cousins, a living, breathing lullaby. Stiles probably would have liked it. Probably could have piled into the middle of them and curled up, content as he looks now. Open and eager for affection.
Derek needs to go.
Now. Go. Leave.
Stiles' voice is sharper this time, broken-bottle edged were he's still dragging himself toward consciousness. His heartbeat has kicked up a notch, eyes still dazed, but open and wet. Like his mouth. God, his mouth. Why does he have to-
"Finally got you in the room, man, don't pussy out on me now."
Derek's six inches closer to the exit than he was when he decided to leave. There's no way he's making it the rest of the way. Not with Stiles asking him to stay.
And he is. Everything in the warm, heady scent of him says so. Ferric blood rising closer to the surface, thicker locker room musk as all the sensitive, thin-skinned places on him heat. Cotton candy strands of hope and tantalizing fear sewing up the seams. Even just lying there, staring, he's an invitation, just as much as the open window. Embossed and gilded when he reaches back and paws at the t-shirt collar riding high on the nape of his neck and tugs up, over, off.
Mostly off. He gets tangled in the tail end of it and winds up flailing instead.
Sighing, Derek makes his wolf ease back as he trudges over to the bed to free Stiles from yet another trap of his own making. Stiles pops free of the tangled cloth with a grunt and a self-conscious grin.
"Not quite as smooth as I'd planned," he says. Derek's hardly paying attention. The fabric in his hands is worn soft, saturated in Stiles. The heat in it digs into Derek's gut like a fist, tugs at him, demands.
For over a week now he’s been trying to hold on to how he used to think of Stiles before that witch ripped the top layer off of his denial right along with his inhibitions. How Stiles is annoying, frustrating, impossible to deal with. No respect for authority, can't even fathom that he might be wrong or that any of those orders he shirks are for his own damn protection. None of that has changed, except for the way it sounds in Derek's head.
"What?" The word is muffled, Stiles busy chewing on his lip at the same time he tries to talk. He looks as young as he actually is, all mussed and jumpy. Not afraid of the predator inside Derek, afraid that he'll say no.
Shaking his head, Derek watches himself set a knee to the mattress like it’s someone else’s body. Feels the shift in weight as Stiles moves toward it like he's magnetized. Or maybe the other way around. A palm settles fitfully on his thigh, burning hot through denim, faintly damp. Timid, skittish as a newborn fawn. As if Derek needed encouragement to see prey in Stiles.
Only no, not at all. Stiles is like prey if Bambi had a diabolical plot to lure the hunters to their death. Stiles is a wolf in sheep's clothing, and all the more dangerous because he doesn't even know it. Stiles just might be the deadliest thing in Beacon Hills.
"Any chance you're gonna say, like, anything at all here?” Stiles’ voice is nervous-high as he rolls over onto his back; impetuously making room for Derek. “'Cause I'm kinda starting to question if we really took care of that spell thing or not, considering the circumstances, and I'd at least like to know what my odds are with the throat-ripping teeth scenario and did you really piss in my bushes?"
Derek freezes in the middle of hitching a leg over to straddle Stiles’ body. He doesn’t remember deciding to do that in the first place, but here he is. It looks awkward, he’s sure, but he can’t be bothered with that right now.
“Oh my God, you pissed in my bushes?”
“Did Scott tell you that?”
“You pissed in my bushes!” Stiles repeats, tone morphing into some combination of incredulous and delighted. He’s a very odd child.
Child. Yes, remember the child part.
Derek’s face is burning. He hasn’t blushed since he was in middle school, but he had better self-control back then than he generally musters around Stiles. He eases back, moving to step off and away from the bed. Out the window if he can manage it.
Stiles sets a hand to his hip, tugs, strong for a bird-boned human who seems to spend most of his energy slumped over books and computers. That just leads Derek to thinking about what Stiles might be doing with his hands and how often to build up that kind of strength. That way lies madness. Luckily, he can always count on Stiles to interrupt his train of thought.
“Hey no, it’s cool. I’m kinda flattered, actually. As long as it’s just the bushes. This isn’t going to turn into a watersports thing, right, because I think there needs to be, like, safewords and rubber sheets and I’ve never even had my dick touched by an actual person who isn’t me so there’s a good chance I’d end up pee-shy and that would be awkward and-“
Despite the constant motion and the fact that most days Derek can see the gears in Stiles’ head turning a mile a minute, Stiles doesn’t actually babble much. For some reason Derek feels better knowing that he’s not the only one who’s lost control of himself.
“I promise not to pee on you.” Derek puts an effort into curving his mouth upward by way of a reassurance. It doesn’t sit quite right and the corners of it keep twitching like his muscles don’t understand. “Tonight.”
The confused little grin that bleeds across Stiles’ face is a worthy reward, however uncomfortable Derek may be about the way that pleased feeling curls up in his belly and purrs. “Was that… did you just make a joke? Oh my God, this is a dream, isn’t it?”
“Stiles. Shut up.”
It feels nothing but natural when he lays his hand across Stiles’ throat. Not really pressing, just letting it rest there, cupping. Under his palm, Stiles’ Adam’s apple shifts on a loud swallow. Derek can feel his heartbeat now, on top of hearing it. A feedback loop that has no excuse for being as reassuring as it is.
Without a second thought, Derek finds himself leaning over into Stiles’ space – one arm worming beneath Stiles’ pillow, the other crooked at a mildly uncomfortable angle so that he can keep thumbing at the pulse fluttering under Stiles’ jaw. He’s still on his knees, ass in the air despite the stunning urge to grind down onto Stiles instead. The position’s needlessly suggestive, and every molecule of his being responds to it, loose and relaxed like he hasn’t been since the pack broke the spell.
The rich, sticky smell of pheromones is like a cloud, pressed in this close. Derek turns his face into Stiles’ neck, mouth open so the thickness of it will settle on his tongue. Traitorous heat slinks up his spine, pitiful as a starving dog.
“I didn’t come here for this.”
There’s no telling how long Derek’s dick has been hard for. Long enough that the blurt of precome that pushes out of him when his lips catch on Stiles’ skin and the flavor of it melts like sugar over Derek’s tastebuds just adds to the damp inside his jeans.
Stiles’ breathing has gone erratic beneath Derek’s hand, rustling the hair above his ear in choppy gusts. “Please tell me this is you still joking.”
When he leaves he’s going to reek of Stiles. His breath. Skin. The sweat dewing at all of his delicate places. The urge to roll around and get it all over him like a candy shell sweeps in along with the red crowding at the edges of Derek's vision. “It shouldn’t be like this for you.”
“Uh, my decision to make, dude.” Stiles shivers as he pushes his hands under Derek’s jacket. Gasps and stutters his hips up into nothing, Derek’s body not quite close enough to touch.
Derek can’t resist rubbing his face against the side of Stiles’ head to feel the silky brush of shorn hair against his lips. “You’re sixteen, your dick is making the decisions.”
Fists tangled in Derek’s shirt, Stiles jerks at it hard enough that Derek’s next inhale gets stuck on a collar of cotton. Stiles growls; tiny, puppyish, terribly human, “Hypocrit.” Then his teeth find the soft spot below Derek’s ear and clamp down.
For a second, Derek can’t see. Hear. Function. Full body meltdown from the shockwave crashing through him. Down his spine, spiking through his groin, unspooling along his nerves in crackles of heat lightning. His heart skip-skip-resetting to a steady throb of Stiles Stiles Stiles.
In the blood-black behind Derek's eyelids, the world spins. His hand smacks loud into the wall, struggling to find his balance as he tumbles backward onto the mattress. More to the point, is shoved.
“That. Is the hottest shit ever. Like, FY-fuckin’-I.” Stiles is fumbling against him, over him. The heel of his palm digs into Derek's sternum and his knees knock against Derek's thighs.
It’s a memory in dissonant chords. Sweet clove perfume versus faintly sleep-sour breath, shivery-excited against his cheek. Plush give of breasts brushing against his arm in contrast with the hard line of heat rubbing fitfully against Derek's leg. Short, dark-manicured nails drawing patterns instead of the bitten ones rasping clumsily at his skin.
Derek isn't even aware of surging upward until a high, strangled consonant knocks the sense back into his head over the roar of adrenaline. Kate would have never cried out. Kate would have growled, "That's my boy," and savaged his lips with a grin half-turned into a kiss.
Stiles is different.
When Derek opens his eyes, everything is painted a panic-inducing crimson. His own sight, not blood, but it could have been. So easily could have been sinew and muscle sticking under his claws instead of the wisps of thread and blanket-fluff when he jerks his hand away from pinning Stiles to the bed by the neck. His palm feels sticky like it's true, but there's only sweat there when Derek looks. Kills a minute watching his fingers tremble. It's better than the alternative.
In his periphery, he can see Stiles slowly sitting up, his own hand rubbing at the rising bruises on his skin.
"So, uh," Stiles coughs, clears his throat, tries again, "Note to self: Derek likes to be on top. That's cool, I can work with that." He stinks of fear like molasses and tar, sickly sweet and primally tempting with the way it's layered over that newly-familiar, bubbling want. How can he still… How can he?
The headboard rattles against the wall when Derek slumps back against it. He should be grateful the sheriff isn't home, with all the racket they've made, but at least then he'd have a reason to force himself to leave. Instead he buries his head in his hands and tries to bring the wolf to ground again. He hasn't been this out of control since he was fourteen.
“The fi- my first.” The words sound dull in his own ears, muffled against his palms.
He doesn’t say ‘only’.
It always seemed like the cruelest joke of all that everything important in his life was reduced to smoking rubble while the thing that caused it all refused to ever burn out. Smoldering and licking at his insides over a pair of pretty eyes or smooth skin or an honest smile. The pain should have purged it from his system, scoured it out and left him hollow, but the want stayed and fed on him instead. Leached at him every time someone made his heart race.
Even with Laura the words wouldn’t come. After years of her worrying and fussing that he needed to have a life. Practically throwing him at girls and boys and anyone he so much as looked at twice. He could never tell her, not with so many other sins tied up in it. Too selfish to risk losing the only thing he had left. To let her see why this desire in him is so dangerous, untrustworthy. He’ll never have the chance to now.
“She killed them.”
It isn’t enough information by half, but he knows there have been clues before, plenty for someone as smart and dogged as the fragile human hovering a foot out of his reach. Stiles has always been better at understanding Derek than he has any right to be.
“You wouldn’t hurt me. Not for real.” Roughed up as it is, Stiles voice is steady. So relentlessly certain that Derek can’t not look at him.
Eyeing the dark shape of fingers mapped out in broken capillaries under Stiles' chin, Derek barks a husk of a laugh. “You have too much faith in my nature.”
Stiles rolls his eyes so hard Derek can hear the slick of fluid moving against the lid. “I’ve had your nature all up in my business, dude. I think I might know it better than you do."
Contrary to all reason and logic, Stiles rolls his knees underneath him and starts crawling up the bed. Derek's been operating under the assumption for a while now that Stiles doesn't actually have survival instincts.
"Your nature had the chance to do any fucking thing it wanted to me. You couldn't remember your own pack, but you were going to protect me from them."
He's halted at Derek's side, avoiding climbing over Derek's legs and boxing him in, but still very much in his space. "I don’t care if you don’t trust yourself, I do."
He looks determined and sincere and… good, the wolf supplies, with eye for how Stiles has braced himself on all fours, the mild slope as the small of his back tips up into his ass. Derek tries to tamp down on the swell of heat in his gut, but his wolf thinks that Stiles is making a good point. His wolf is worse than a teenage boy about being led around by his dick, though, or he wouldn't be in this situation in the first place.
Either Stiles picks up on the weakness, or he has a natural predatory gift.
"Now stow the emo monster act and get over here, jackass," he gripes, closing in on a murmur as he leans forward and puts his mouth up close to Derek's. "You owe me so much making out, you don't even know.”
Derek can't imagine what he must look like right now. The red has mostly bled out of his field of vision, but his claws are still extended and his teeth feel packed too tightly in his mouth to be blunt and safe. He'd never had to struggle this much to keep the wolf inside when he'd been with Kate, even in the heat of the moment, so he's never given any real thought to someone kissing him this way. To someone wanting to. But then Stiles' lips are on his, this urgent, whining hum shaking free even before they touch and it doesn't really matter what Derek has thought about before.
For a long moment it's just warm and uncoordinated. Chapped lips snagging on Derek's and teeth bumping through the soft cushion of flesh. Cautious fingers moving along his jaw, scritching through the hair at the nape of his neck to make Derek's eyelids droop. Instinctual, he sweeps his tongue out, turning the drag slick. Stiles moans and opens up for it like all he's been waiting for is permission. Like Stiles has the capacity to care about permission.
It should be harder than this. Is harder than this. But it's not, either. It's the wet slide of tongues and muted, hungry noises. It's Stiles' pressing against him like he thinks Derek's going to walk away now, after all the opportunities for it he failed to make good on. It's the jagged, excited breaths on his cheek that turn into an almost-laugh, when Stiles' mouth skids off course. This delighted, disbelieving sound as if having Derek in his bed is something remarkable. Not a terrible, stupid mistake neither of them seems to be able to avoid making.
God help him, Derek adores it.
He gets the feeling, from the way Stiles moves, mimics him, that Stiles may not have done much of this before. Done anything before. For all that there are very few substances on the planet that can touch Derek's sobriety, he's out of his head with how intoxicating that thought is.
Most of the time he forgets how close in size he and Stiles really are. Stiles is so good at making himself seem smaller. Big clothes and the hunched slope of his shoulders and his stupid, little boy haircut. Derek could still throw Stiles around like a ragdoll without breaking a sweat. Has. But there’s something about Stiles being as big as he is that sticks, matters, as Derek rolls them onto their sides. Something that makes it better. The lean strength, and maddeningly clever mind. Sureness crafted into the nimble fingers digging at Derek's shoulders. Gravity in the curl of his body, eliminating the space between them. Demanding what he wants whenever Derek hesitates to give it.
He could be a leader. A match. A mate.
Breaking the kiss, Derek gasps in a harsh breath that’s ice water hitting his lungs. The hand Stiles has twisted in his hair tugs like a warning he's too busy sucking on Derek's neck to voice.
Derek almost wants to laugh at himself, but he knows it would come out sounding broken. Of course this is what he would do. Let himself get twisted up over someone he could never have a life with and not even realize it until he’s already in over his head. He's thought he was going to spend the rest of his life with everyone he's ever wanted to sleep with. That it's a small sample size doesn't change how true it is.
But then Stiles isn’t the same as Kate there either. However enthralled Derek was, his wolf had never responded to her the way it does to Stiles. Never felt the need to hover and possess and protect. To roll belly up and be owned. His human side knows the danger. Betrayal. The destruction that comes with it. The wolf only cares about care and belonging and pack.
Stiles mumbles an unhappy sound that Derek thinks was meant to be another, “What?” Most of his attention seems to be occupied with tearing at the drawstring on his pajama pants, never getting around to forming the entire syllable. Derek can’t really pretend he minds either. Even though he should. Even though all of his reasons to run far away from here are still good ones. The best one still the best.
He could hurt Stiles without even trying and it’s still nothing compared to what Stiles could do to him. Claw marks and teeth scores all heal in time.
Derek shakes his head in lieu of answering. Maybe just to himself. He’s lost track by now if any of this was really for him. Whether any of it was his decision or if he was just looking for an excuse not to fight it all along. He’s sliding his hands down the back of a sixteen year old’s underwear, in the sheriff’s house, and as rough-shod as the adrenaline igniting his veins is, it feels like nothing so much as a forgone conclusion. Who knows how long Stiles has had a leash on him, but Derek’s got a feeling it was there well before magic got involved.
That ass fits perfectly into Derek’s hands, skinny little bump to match the rest of his body. High, tight mound of muscle from lacrosse games he never gets to play in. From running around the woods with a pack he’s hardly equipped to keep pace with. Derek buries a whine at the thought of ‘tight’ into the stingy give of Stiles’ chest. The last thing he needs is to let his mind travel that direction. He’s already in forbidden territory.
Not that he has any choice in the matter. Stiles send the whole thing off the rails anyway, humping backward into Derek’s hands and his dick forward haphazardly against Derek’s hip. He’s so sloppy and new and innocent. All of that hot, unmarked skin that’s never felt the touch of another hand. Never been with another body.
The skin pulled tight over Stiles’ collarbone proves a temptation he can’t resist when Stiles tips his head back on a moan. Derek fits his mouth to it and breathes in teenage lust like a narcotic. Savory and deep, thick with the loamy earth smell of a straining human body. Of Stiles, in particular.
Derek is older, marginally more experienced. He’s alpha. He should have more control than to whimper when Stiles works his shirt up high enough to get his mouth on Derek’s chest. Soft heat and suction and those bites. Those bites that make him feel insane. That set his wolf back on its haunches and howling.
He gasps Stiles’ name, fingers tightening until Stiles hisses and grinds his teeth around a mound of Derek’s flesh. His stomach muscles bunch with the force of the next spurt of precome that leaks out of him.
“Fuck,” Stiles slurs, licking across where his teeth marks are already fading from Derek’s skin. “So hot. Is that, like, a wolf thing or are you just kinky like that? ‘Cause, seriously, negative number of complaints here, I’m just saying that shit is kinky and I haven’t noticed any of the betas gnawing on each other for kicks or whatever. I mean Sc-“
Stiles’ hair is too short to get a grip on, so Derek settles for pressing Stiles’ face against him to shut him up. “If you say Scott’s name right now I’m going to leave.”
Which is a blatant lie, but also gets Stiles to stop talking and starting paying more attention to getting Derek’s jeans undone.
That’s another issue altogether.
The denim gives way easily once Stiles works the zipper past where Derek is bulging against it. When his dick pops out into the open air, bare and wet, he has one of those rare moments when he considers the merits of expanding his wardrobe to include underwear.
“Oh,” Stiles breathes, hushed, forehead braced against Derek’s pec as he looks down, so all Derek can see is the top of his head, “Wow. Uh.”
Heat rising in his face again, Derek fights the urge to pull away and tuck himself back in. This has never been a problem before either. With Kate he’d always had plans. Spent more time than he’d like to admit imagining giving her his knot, waiting for the right moment to show her. To ask. But it had never happened of its own volition. He can’t blame Stiles for being stunned.
“I, uh, I researched this. I mean, not this this.” Careful fingers wrap themselves around the shaft, stroking until the foreskin slides down enough to expose the shiny, red head. “There’s not, like, a manual on werewolf sex out there, although, we should make one of those. That’d be fucking handy.” The curl of his fist bumps against the faint swelling around the base and Stiles’ breath stutters. Derek balls his hands in the bedding to distract himself from bucking into it. Hopes Stiles didn’t have a strong attachment to these sheets. “Heh! Handy.”
“The knot,” Stiles whispers, as if it’s a secret when he’s got his eyes locked on it right this second. Derek wonders what he read and where, how far off the mark it was. Gets caught somewhere between laughing and moaning at the curious fascination on the face Stiles turns up toward him. He’s got no doubt Stiles was the kid who couldn’t take anyone’s word the iron was hot, had to touch it for himself before he’d believe it would burn.
“Does it hurt?” Stiles' heartbeat is deafening to Derek’s ears. Fast. Avid. He doesn’t wait for an answer before he’s feathering touches around the flushed ring of flesh.
Biting his own lips shut, Derek pushes into the touch. He’s felt himself like this plenty of times. Around the full moon, when the drive gets to be too much to block out, partially shifted and acutely sensitive. Having Stiles do it is nothing close to the same. He’s gentle where Derek tends toward rough, exploratory where Derek’s perfunctory. All the intensity he applies to learning new uses for mountain ash and researching the paranormal mixed bag that fate keeps throwing at them is focused on Derek’s body. What makes him shiver, what makes him squirm. His entire being catalogued by Stiles’ roaming eyes.
No one ever gives Stiles enough credit for how much he sees. How much he sees though.
“So that’s a no on the hurting?” Stiles is smirking, breathless and grinning and evil. Pure evil. Pure, glorious, firm handed, deft fingered- Fuck.
Stiles toys at the foreskin with his thumb, pushing it down past the ridge and back up. Does it again, this time circling the slit with the slick pad of a finger, slowly enough to make Derek’s eyelids flutter.
“Yeah, you like that,” Stiles says smugly, nipping at Derek’s chin, damn him. “You like that so much.” His hand slides down, fingers splaying as he hits the knot and squeezing. “Know something else you like too.”
His voice comes out too shaky to match the confidence in the words. Stiles in a nutshell; cripplingly familiar with failure and willing to fling himself into its path anyway. Then Stiles’ tongue is pressing to Derek’s jaw, and Derek can’t focus enough to analyze Stiles’ psychology. Wet velvet dragging deliberately up the curve of bone. Backing up. Doing it all over again.
Any chance Derek might have had at denying exactly how right Stiles is about him dissolves with the emphatic flex of his dick in Stiles' grip. Kate hadn’t- She’d known, knowing was the point, the only reason she’d ever touched him to begin with. But he hadn’t known she’d known, so she’d never played into it; the quirks of his natural predilection toward touch, the places where his wolf side and the human one mesh into something that is both and neither.
Stiles licks over his skin slowly, thorough. Up past the rasp of stubble onto his cheek, pressing a kiss to the corner of his eye. Intimate enough to flay Derek raw.
The boldness in Stiles’ touch builds as the drag of his palm gets slicker. He’s still unpracticed, stroke going arrhythmic whenever some small difference in Derek’s body intrigues him into investigating further. But there’s a proprietary edge to it too, like he’s aware that Derek might stop him, but not that he wouldn’t, shouldn't, have the right to touch in the first place.
The curve of Stiles’ smile presses against Derek’s ear, punch-drunk puff of a laugh when Derek growls and hauls him in closer, smashing Stiles’ hand between their bodies.
“You wanna fuck me.” He purrs it like the certainty that Derek would love to pretend it isn’t. Worse, like a dare, because Stiles plays with werewolves like other kids use street drugs.
Derek’s not proud of anything he’s done tonight, but the way his dick leaks when Stiles shimmies out of his underwear might be the worst. Might even be worse than letting Stiles angle his cock down and slip it into the hot, damp space between Stiles’ thighs. Because letting it happen is bad, but wanting it, aching for it, that’s the point where he loses his tenuous claim on righteousness.
The noise that jolts out of Derek as he bucks forward against the sticky, soft skin of Stiles’ balls is something pre-verbal, infantile. Stripped bare as he was born by this child, who isn’t a child at all. Who’s hardly younger than Derek, when it comes down to it. Who’s more, in so many ways, than most adults will ever be.
Stiles moans like he’s the one getting something out of it. Jostles his knees against Derek’s to squeeze his thighs together. The friction is nerve-shredding. Too harsh to feel good and somehow perfect. Derek shouldn’t like it as much as he does, but then that’s true about most of the things he likes.
Stiles isn’t so much pliant under his hands as he is willing, content to move how Derek wants, let Derek touch wherever. As if Stiles would have any real chance at stopping him if things went beyond his threshold.
And Derek? Derek has a brand new reason to hate himself because that thought nails him straight in the balls. Makes him grab at Stiles’ skin, cup a hand to the sweet curve of his ass and really grind so Stiles’ dick leaves thick smears on both their bellies. Stiles couldn’t stop him if he wanted to, and he doesn’t want to. Every bitten groan and shudder says all he wants is Derek.
Like a struck chord, orgasm spikes through Derek, shock bleeding out into pleasure as his body clenches and his mind grapples with the sudden maelstrom of sensation. It shakes him to the foundations, bright and burning and then Stiles works his hand between them and squeezes around Derek's knot and he suddenly understands all of that poetic license about the little death. Minus the little.
Of course Stiles can’t shut up.
“Jesus, I was wrong, this the hottest shit ever. Fuckin' look at you, you can't even stop, can you? You're just gonna keep going til it's all over me. Gonna give me all of it, aren't you?”
Derek's going to assume those are rhetorical questions because he can't get his lungs to work right now. All of the nerve-endings in his body have spontaneously migrated to his cock and they are all busy writing love notes to Stiles.
"That is so fucking gross," Stiles moans, ecstatic, wriggling so that the shocky-sensitive head of Derek's dick skids over his hole, smearing it wet with the come Stiles keeps milking out of him. Clearly he has a unique relationship with 'gross'.
Derek can't stop thrusting with Stiles' coaxing hand on him. Stiles' voice in his ear, rough and strung-out with desire thick as the slippery mess drenching the space between Stiles' thighs. Whispering about smelling like Derek, if the pack will be able to tell, if Derek wants them to, wants Stiles to leave it, wear it around like an advertisement, make everybody think Stiles is his, his boy, his bitch.
Stiles comes in the middle of his own pornographic ramble, and oh, Derek knows the feeling. He probably would too if he wasn’t already. He hasn’t even gotten a hand on Stiles, so out of control he’d be risking slicing Stiles open to do it, but Stiles might be young enough that he doesn’t need it anyway. Or he might just be that easy. Either way, he’s stuttering his cock up against Derek's stomach, spreading wet heat between them.
His hand clenches just-right-too-tight where he’s still gripping Derek’s knot, but it's the smell that makes Derek's eyes roll back in his head. Makes him grab Stiles and mash their mouths together. Lick at the slack shape of Stiles' tongue.
It’s perfect, that scent. Him and Stiles and Stiles and him. Them. Together. It’s so good he can’t stand it. Is shaking with it. Hurts from how hard the next spasm of orgasm hits, like his body really is going to give Stiles everything. Every last scrap of himself to claim that salt-sweet skin.
“I admit- huh-“ Stiles is panting, but he’s still trying to talk, voice deep and a little thready. Derek decides to allow himself the bone-deep glow of pride at that. “That I don’t have- much of a frame of- reference. But I’m pretty sure- this is not acc- acceptable post-coital- uh-“ He breaks off as Derek moves on from nosing at the mole on his left cheek and nudges Stiles' head back to start licking the sweat away from the column of his throat. “Thingie.”
“Thingie?” Derek doesn’t move his mouth from Stiles’ skin, but it doesn’t do much to smother the goofy smile he can feel taking over his face. He’s going to blame it on the fact that he’s still, slowly, coming.
"Oh fuck you. Like I can think when you're getting licky with it."
Just because he can, Derek takes to opportunity to lap a wide stripe over Stiles' Adam's apple. Feel the hitch of Stiles' breath against his lips. The jerk of his half-soft cock in the pan of Derek's pelvis.
This must be the allure of getting high, Derek thinks. This pleasantly heavy, dopey sensation where everything feels good, contented.
It's making him sort of nervous, actually.
"You done?" Stiles asks after a while, finally letting go of Derek's cock to wrap both arms around Derek's shoulders and pulling until Derek's rolled on top of him. Derek goes with it, too boneless to argue. Enjoying it more than he should when Stiles' legs part for him to settle between.
"I…" Derek hesitates, shifting his hips so that his dick moves through the sludgy mess he's made on Stiles' skin. He's not soft yet, and his knot is still distinctly swollen, but the little undulating waves of pleasure have settled down and his balls don't feel tugged up tight anymore. He nods sharply in answer, suddenly unsure where to put his hands.
Afterward, Kate usually had somewhere to go or something to do. Or else fondled him until he was ready for another round. Stiles looks too dazed for either of those things but he's not letting go of Derek either so Derek's not sure what he's supposed to be doing.
It's nice, though. Here. Stiles' body is warm and he smells good. Really good. His heartbeat has slowed down enough that it's a lull in the back of Derek's head. Coupled with the way Stiles' fingers keep moving against his skin - tracing the shape of the tattoo, he thinks - Derek could almost fall asleep.
"So, ok, I'll give you the biting thing, people are into biting, but this tongue bath deal, that's total weirdo werwolf-ness, right?"
Stiles is grinning at the ceiling when Derek looks up. His skin is flushed, still a little damp, but his eyes are bright and intense. There's a spot blooming under his ear that would just match the shape of Derek's mouth. He looks beautiful and young and so much like something that Derek could call his own that Derek feels sick for a second.
"I should go," is what he says, when he can without it turning to ash in his mouth. Not that there’s much point in leaving now. The damage is well and truly done.
The come is turning sticky between their bodies, clings in spider-silk strands to his stomach and legs and dick as Derek peels himself away. Stiles wrinkles his nose at it. Apparently 'gross' has lost its appeal.
"That's gonna get old, you know," says Stiles as he swipes a stripe through the cooling fluid on his thigh and tests the texture of it between his fingertips. He brings it up close to his face to sniff. Carefully touches his tongue to it and makes a thoughtful noise.
"I mean, if you go all Heathcliff Von Sourwolf and howl your manpain out on the heathered moors what the fuck ever every time we screw around I'm going to stage an intervention."
He's looking at Derek now, but he's also still curiously kitten-licking at the thin sheen of come on the pad of his thumb in between words.
Derek has entirely lost the thread of this conversation.
"Seriously, dude, intervention. The whole pack. We'll write letters and talk about our feelings." Gingerly, Stiles shifts, nudging Derek repeatedly with his knees until Derek gathers enough braincells to stand up and make room for Stiles to swing his legs over the side of the bed. "It'd be way easier on you to just sleep over."
Trying to make sense of all that and failing miserably, Derek watches dumbly as Stiles snags a pair of plaid boxer shorts off the floor and sloppily cleans himself up. It’s not a particularly attractive show, with one lanky leg hiked up on the desk so Stiles can mop behind his balls. Derek finds it strangely endearing.
“So,” Stiles prompts, lobbing the wadded ball of fabric at the hamper and actually hooking it in. He grins and does a little wiggle that might qualify as a victory dance. He really does have a good body. Young and in the works yet, but still appealing in its own way. A few years and everybody with eyes is going to be throwing themselves at him. “Cozy, mildly jizzed on bed or the betas sharing and caring about their daddy issues?”
It could be that Derek is too stunned from the events of the last half hour to think clearly, or it could be that Stiles has yet to master the concept that everyone else doesn’t hear the parts of the conversation that happen in Stiles’ head. Either way, it isn’t until that moment that Derek gets it.
Stiles said ‘every time’. Stiles wants to sleep with him.
Stiles said every time.
A silky, soothing heat flushes through Derek’s body. Thrilled and nervous and happy. Makes him want to run and makes him want to stay so intensely that for a second he can’t breathe through the paradox. And then like a tangle pulled just the right way, everything loosens and he just feels light.
After a pause that is probably only slightly too long, Derek arches an eyebrow at the bed. “Mildly?”
With a critical expression only a cartoon character should be able to manage, Stiles huffs, “Hey, man, you’re the one who set off the spooge grenade where we have to sleep.”
He’s kicking aside molehills of clothing as he talks, though, at last coming up with a towel that he flings across the worst of the wet spot. It smells faintly of mildew, as if Stiles had abandoned it to the clutter still damp, but the room is thick enough with the mingled scents of sex and the two of them that it doesn’t bother Derek much.
“If anyone ‘set it off’, it was you,” Derek points out flatly. Shucking his jacket and pulling off his twisted, fist-crumpled tee in the process probably weakens his argument, he imagines. Somehow he doesn’t mind.
Stiles is grinning when Derek looks at him again. Smug is oddly fitting on his face.
“Yeah, I did.” He even wags his eyebrows. His eyes are roaming over Derek’s torso, the jeans that are still clinging to his hips and his dick where he hasn’t gotten around to tucking it away again.
Derek’s spent his whole life among humans, pretending to be one of them. He knows that bodies, nudity, are a big deal to them and on a surface level, he understands it. That attitude never stood much of a chance in him, given his way of life, so it’s nothing to Derek to shove the denim the rest of the way off and step out of it. The tiny, strained noise Stiles makes in the back of his throat is gratifying, though.
“Lock the window,” Derek commands when Stiles just stands there with his mouth hanging open. Staring. And smelling like want again.
Alright, very gratifying.
“Hm? Right, yeah,” Stiles responds dazedly. He fumbles at the window, taking twice as long to get the latch closed as it should reasonably take since he refuses to take his eyes off of Derek. His, “Really happening,” is so quiet under his breath that Derek doubts he was supposed to hear it.
Derek waits for Stiles to crawl into the bed before following. Makes a protective wall out of his back between Stiles and the rest of the room. There haven’t been any inklings of impending danger since they took care of the witch, but Derek still feels more settled knowing anything that comes with have to get past him to reach Stiles.
Stiles is all warm, sticky skin, between the sheets. Hands that keep brushing at Derek in not quite casual ways. Fidgety too. He readjusts the towel underneath them twice. Can’t seem to find a comfortable position for his legs. Finally Derek gets frustrated with it and urges Stiles around so that his back is to Derek’s chest and Derek’s got a firm arm slung across his waist to hold him in place.
Not the best thought out plan because that fits Stiles’ naked ass against Derek’s equally naked groin.
“This is not sleeping,” Derek growls. He had let the first tentative shifts of Stiles’ hips go, hoping that Stiles was just trying to get nest in. Obviously he should know better. Stiles is horny and devious by nature – he is not above exploiting such a tactical advantage.
Stiles hums a noise that is neither affirmative nor negative and keeps rubbing himself back against Derek’s steadily hardening dick. He’s getting all heated up again and he smells so good and the back of his neck is right there, practically begging for another pretty, mouth-shaped bruise.
He means for, “Stiles,” to be a warning, but it spills out of his mouth in the middle of rolling Stiles onto his stomach and molding himself on top.
Stiles arches under him. Lets loose a parody of a growl and sinks blunt teeth into the muscle of Derek’s forearm. The pain shoots directly to Derek’s cock and tightens into sick, sweet pleasure. “What’s the point of a healing factor if you can’t pull an all nighter every once and a while?”
It doesn’t take much to slot himself between Stiles’ ass cheeks, ride against all that soft skin. Every time the head of Derek’s cock bumps up against his hole, Stiles moans like he has a clue what he’s asking for. That might just be because the pressure grinds his own dick down into the bed, but Derek’s ignoring that part for now. However stupid a mistake this may turn out to have been, Derek’s committed now. For tonight at least. And he’s not one to back down from a challenge.
If Stiles wants all night, Derek will give him all night. He just hopes there’s another towel laying around here somewhere.