Actions

Work Header

#nofilter

Chapter Text

#nofilter



It’s...Okay. It’s 3:30 in the morning on a Tuesday. Stiles doesn’t need to be up for another three hours. He didn’t expect to be woken up by the familiar trill of his phone.



“Stilinski’s House Of Horrors,” he slurs out sleepily, phone pressed between his head and the pillow. “Office Hours are Monday through Friday, eight a-m through six p-m,” ha, Stiles thinks. As if. “In the event of an emergency, please hang up and call your local Alph---”



“Stiles,” Derek growls out, and oh. Oh. Derek never calls him. He usually comes over on his own, or has one of the betas call for him.   “I need your help. For research.”

 

He doesn’t sound panicked. Stiles can’t hear gunfire or shouting. Or growling. Or cackling (witches, man).  None of the betas are bitching in the background. “Something you don’t want to share with the class,” Stiles says slowly because there is no other reason he’d be calling at all, let alone at such a ridiculous fucking time. “So it’s either potentially dangerous or embarrassing. Lay it on me. Tell Papa Stiles your current life woes.”



Derek makes an infuriated little noise in the back of his throat. “How did you---” He growls, maybe at himself, maybe at Stiles. “The latter. It’s. There’s a....I can’t....I didn’t know--They never told me---”



“Derek,” Stiles cuts Derek off as he continues to cut himself off. Honestly, Stiles isn’t use to being on this end of the incoherent rambling. It’s nice. Refreshing.“You’re calling me personally, at three-thirty in the morning on a Tuesday. Either you can’t get here, or you can’t look me in the face when you ask.  Should I come over?”



“I....No. No. Definitely not.”  Which means Stiles should.



He sighs. Getting anything out of Derek is like milking a rock. Basically impossible and pretty painful. “Do you want to play twenty-questions. Is it bigger than a bread box?”



“No.” Derek huffs, and answers Stiles next question before he can even ask.. “No I don’t want to play twenty-questions, and no it’s not bigger than a bread box.”



“But it’s something,.” That narrows it down to....oh just about everything. Nouns, in general.  “Person place or thing?”



“Stiles,” Derek growls. He sounds decidedly pained, but that’s not unusual. It alleviates some of Stiles inherent worry.  “I’ll....Jesus. I’ll send a picture.”



**



Stiles is...not sure what he was expecting when his phone chirps, announcing a new text message.



He just kind of stares at it.  It’s a lot to stare at, after all. Derek upgraded his phone to a Galaxy for quicker googling purposes (plus he owed Stiles like five phones), and the thing is like the size of a package of hot dog. The resolution is nothing to shake a stick at either.  



There on it’s massive little screen, is Dereks’ dick.



Dick pics. That’s a thing they were doing now.



It’s...hard. Which. What? Why? What?  Derek has it laid out in his open palm, on the bathroom counter. The lighting is soft and yellow, like an instagram filter but Stiles knows it’s just the shitty bulbs Derek buys.  His nails are decidedly wolfish, thick and pointed.



He manscapes, so...he has that going for him.  Among other things. It’s. Okay. So.



Yeah. No. Stiles’ has nothing.  He has been rendered silent for what is possibly the first time in his entire speaking life. He’s been rendered silent by Derek’s dick pic.



Another text message chirps through.



So?



That’s it. That’s all Derek has to say about his inexplicable dick-pic. So. Yeah. Nope.



He swipes the message away, and stares at the pic some more. With a decisive little nod to himself, he turns his phone off and goes back to bed.  



***



In the morning, it’s still there.  He carries the phone into the bathroom, lays it on counter as he brushes his teeth. He stares at it, toothpaste foam escaping the corner of his mouth. Nope.  Nope, even with the light of day. Stiles has no idea why Derek sent this.



He tears his eyes away from the photo, and stares at himself in the mirror, purple toothbrush hanging out of his mouth limply. Limply.  There’s a toothbrush in the photo - Stiles almost did not notice it what with all the penis taking up most of the frame.  It lays abandoned to the left, perfectly parallel to Derek’s junk.



How big is a tooth brush anyway? He should google it. Stiles palms his toothbrush handle, and then on a whim, palms the top half with his other hand. A good inch peeks up from the top and Stiles drops it in the sink and leaves the bathroom without rinsing his mouth. He comes back a moment later, and grabs the phone and googles how long a tooth brush is. It’s not a whim.



Nope.  



He makes it exactly twenty-three minutes before he’s jerking off, thinking about Dereks’ dick.  And okay, if it’s not the first time, sue him. But this is different. Now he knows. Now all his admittedly depraved fantasies have been proven brutally true.



Typically braced for rejection and disappointment, Stiles can’t say he’s accustomed to such validation. It’s kind of a culture-shock.  Stiles’ world views are being re-written. He was right. Derek has a big (big-big-big-big-oh-god-that's-like-two-and-a-half-penises-worth-of-penis) dick.



Of which he has so graciously supplied Stiles a picture of.  He may, or may not, accidentally come on his phone, a little. But hey, it’s certainly seen worse.



***



Derek launches himself through Stiles’ bedroom window an hour later, looking typically grumpy and unapproachable. Stiles stares at him, still wordless.



“So?”



“So?” Okay, so maybe he’s not that wordless. “So? That’s all you have to say. So. You sent me a picture of your dick!”



“Are you telling me you didn’t notice it?” Derek reels a little, eying Stiles like he’s a moron. That’s not exactly unusual though, so Stiles ignores it. “It’s huge.”



Flushing a little, Stiles manfully resists the urge to throw something at him. “Yes I noticed. it’s kind of hard not to when you send me a fucking picture of it. The important question is why you sent it in the first place?”



“Because it’s not normal!” Dereks’ eyes are wide in his head; he looks dangerously close to bursting a blood vessel. “It’s never happened before. Last night, I just woke up and it was there.”

 

“You’re telling me you’ve never gotten morning wood?” He’s calling bullshit. That’s bullshit.



Derek scowls, the tips of his ears burning a deep, dark red. “Not...not that. I mean, the other thing. The thing... the bump.”



“If you have bumps on your dick, I’m really not the person you should be talking to.” It’s Stiles turn to frown. “Wait, I thought werewolves couldn't get diseases?”



“Not that kind of bump!” Derek’s voice rises, almost hysterically. “The bump Stiles! The bump at the base!”



Stiles slumps back on his bed a little, bewildered. “I think I’m missing something.”



With a wild, wounded noise, Derek snatches Stiles’ phone off the desk and pulls up the picture. “This,” he hisses out, pointing at the fucking dick pic. “This bump, see? Jesus Christ.”



And okay, now that Stiles isn’t staring at the dick -which, in his defense, appears to be the center focus of the picture okay - there is a rounding to the base of Derek’s junk. It’s tucked up tight, swelling from the low pubic-hair area, down.  It’s not that noticeable, not in the shitty bathroom light, not when the dick is stealing the show. 



“Okay,” he says slowly, looking away. Derek looks flushed, and angry. “Okay I will admit, that’s not exactly normal.  I can’t...really tell, in the photo though. Was it hard? Soft? You said it’s never happened before.”



Derek makes a weird noise, kind of choked and frustrated. “It happened again this morning, when I was taking a shower.”



“Recurring! Okay, I can work with that. Um.” He twitches, feeling wriggly and weird like his skin is on inside now. There's a heat, low in his belly. He doesn't want to put a name to this, he doesn't. Who needs lables? Not Stiles.  “Once is an accident. Twice is a coincidence. Three times is a pattern.”



“You want me too----” Derek looks to horrified to finish his sentence. Stiles is okay with that.



“To be fair, I can’t really tell from the picture what I’m looking at. I think I need to see it.” He tries not to look/sound/smell to excited at the prospect. “I won’t like touch it or anything---”



Derek makes the noise again, the choked one, and his cheeks burn red. “It’s....Fine.” He makes to reach for his jeans and holy shit this is really happening---



“Wait, don’t you want to like---take a moment for yourself. In the bathroom,” Stiles rushes to add. “I’m assuming you need to be hard.”



“It won’t take long,” Derek grinds out between his teeth. “It just keeps happening.” He thumbs the button on his jeans with an arched look, and doesn’t wait for Stiles to answer, before unzipping.



And there it is. Derek’s dick.  Just.... Hanging out, in Stiles room. It plumps up even as the air hits it, zero-to-sixty just like that.  He had no idea an erection could look so angry, but nope...Derek’s dick totally looks angry.  It's kind of purple too. Like the Hulks pants. 


Stiles brain is a weird place, he fully acknowledges and accepts this. 

 

“So?”



“Hmm?” Stiles looks up, blinking wildly. Then he looks back down. And there it is. The bump. “Oh. Right. Um. It’s not that big. Does it hurt?”



Derek’s hands clench at his side and his dick jerks. “No.”



“Does it....do anything?” Honestly, Derek isn’t giving Stiles much to go by here.



“It was bigger, when I first woke up.” Derek doesn’t move as he speaks, but his dick bobs anyway. It’s really distracting. “I was about to...”



“Come,” Stiles supplies, with an uneasy feeling in his stomach. “Um. I’m guessing you didn’t come.”



“No.” Derek sucked in a breath. “But I also haven't had a wet dream in like ten years. It’s ...sensitive.”



“Yeah.” Stiles...has theories. “You’re...going to need to finish.”



“What.”  Not even a question. Never a question.



“I have an idea, but I can’t be sure until you come and okay, this is weird. I get it. You think it’s weird for you? This is the closest I’ve ever been to a dick that isn’t mine and I’m analyzing it for defects.”  He takes a deep breath, and sits back on his bed. “So. I’m going to need you to finish.”



Derek...looks pissed. That’s understandable. But he takes himself in hand regardless. Which....not what Stiles meant. He doesn’t need to see. He meant the bathroom! The en-suite bathroom, it is literally right there, to their left. But...now that Derek’s started, Stiles can’t....he really can’t bring himself to tell him otherwise.



Stiles is...a bad person, probably. Definitely. Whatever. There’s about three feet between them and Derek is furiously jerking it. Stiles has lived through worse. 



“Are you always so rough with yourself?” Stiles asks before he can help himself but to be honest, it seems like a fair question.  Stiles dick twitches in sympathy. Totally in sympathy. 



“I just want this over with,” Derek bites out, looking up at the ceiling. He takes a step back, putting a little distance between them. Stiles takes a moment to revel in the oddity that is Derek Hale masturbating in the middle of his room.  This is his life. This is his life now. “I want it fixed.”



Stiles doesn’t tell him his suspicions. There’s no confirmation yet, anyway. “How long does it usually take?”



“I’m not sixteen Stiles,” Derek grits out, gaze dropping down to him to meet Stiles’. “There’s this thing called stamina--”



“Now really isn’t the time.” Not that Stiles isn’t enjoying the show. He is. He really is. So much so that he’s about to make everyone in the room deeply uncomfortable.  Stiles can smell Derek’s junk and he’s not even a werewolf. He can’t imagine what Derek must smell.



“I’ve had a near constant hard-on since I called you.” Derek’s hand slips down his shaft, the heel digging deep into the slight bump. He makes the noise again, the choked whiny noise. “It shouldn't take long okay, now shut up”



“I think you should touch it,” Stiles says, strangely bold. It’s not weird okay, he has a theory! “Grip it, as soon as you feel like you’re about to come.”



“Shut up,” Derek snaps, again, but his hand drops down to the bulge with his free hand, even as his other hand continues its brutal stroke.  Stiles can’t help it, he squeaks. Derek’s grip is fierce, palms going white with the force of it.  He moans this time - there’s no choke about it. “Stiles....Stiles what, why....I think---”



“I think it’s a knot,” Stiles tells him, a little dazedly. It's...Okay. So. Stiles is learning all kinds of things about himself.  “Yeah, I’m pretty sure it’s a knot. Wait, shit, don’t----”



But it’s too late. Derek comes with a roar, wolfing out just enough to lose control of his teeth, and ears. Like a fucking geyser, Derek comes and because Stiles has the worst/best luck, it hits him straight in the face.  



He scrambles back but it doesn't serve to do anything but re-direct the spray down his front, across his shirt, and the crotch of his jeans. Jesus Christ.  He can now cross bukakke off his list of life accomplishments.



Once out of the fire-zone, Stiles hazards a look at Derek, probably risking an eye in doing so.  Derek is....Derek has checked out, from the looks of it.  His face is blank, but not the empty kind of blank. He looks blissed out, hand still clenching around what Stiles’ can confirm is yes, a knot.  He’s not done coming either, weak little spurts spraying out across Stiles bed and carpet.  Stiles can’t even...He is officially a Tumblr Girl. He can’t even.



That, of course, is how Scott finds them.





Chapter Text

#amaro

 

 

“I’m taking a shower,” Stiles says to the room at large. Scott is gone, leaving a trail of horrified awkwardness in his wake, and the echo of what might be the ill-bred-child-of-a-dying-whale-noise, and pterodactyl screech.  Derek doesn’t say anything, just nods dazedly. “You should put that away,” Stiles adds, pointedly not pointing at Derek’s spent dick. “You’ll put someone's eye out.”

 

Stiles sort of assumes, as it’s his usual MO, that Derek will bolt before the bathroom door shuts behind him.  It’s with that in mind that he commences with his usual morning ablutions. That is to say, he gets his hand on his dick before the water turns warm.

 

Go ahead. Judge him. Hot-Like-Burning Derek Hale just got off in his bedroom. On his face. An embarrassing little noise claws its way out of Stiles' throat at the thought, and his balls clench.  All things considered, pearl necklaces are pretty vanilla on the Kink-Scale. Not like ... say ... knotting.

 

Stiles comes all over the shower taps, and he spends the rest of his shower washing away the evidence of the morning, and thinking about his life choices. And people try and say he can’t multitask. Pshaw.

 

When he stumbles his way out of the bathroom - naked because in his haste, he forgot both a towel or change of clothes - he finds his assumptions wildly inaccurate. Derek has in fact not bolted. Instead, he’s sprawled himself out like the world’s most attractive starfish on Stiles bed, belly-up and half naked.  The blankets have been kicked to the floor in a rumpled, sticky heap. Derek’s shirt has joined them.

 

He’s snoring, for fuck's sake, and the quiet puff-and-chuff of breath makes Stiles clench with how unexpectedly fucking cute it is. Fuck the o-face, Stiles can now say he’s seen Derek Hale asleep.

 

It hits him harder than the dick pic did.  It guts him, digs its way into his chest and clings all hot and warm and weird. It’s not sexy - not even sexual - but something about seeing Derek sleep comes off as far more intimate than even his aggressively sexy solo show could manage.

 

Derek snuffles suddenly, and rolls to his side. He burrows down into Stiles’ pillow, and curls into a ball, one hand hanging off the edge of the bed.   Juxtaposition, Stiles thinks: the contrast of two things seen together. His claws are out, and his ears are pointed and Stiles doesn’t know what to make of it as Derek curls himself into a ball on the bed sheets, more like a sleepy kitten than the vicious predator he’s proven to be.

 

Alarmed at his own train of thought, Stiles dresses quickly, and stumbles down the stairs.  He’s already missed the first two periods; any more and his dad will have him wearing his own ass like a hat. Stiles hikes his back-pack up his shoulder and makes for the jeep.

 

He catches Scott at lunch.  It’s a quiet encounter - Scott stares at him with wide, mortified eyes. His nostrils are flared a little, suggesting that Stiles wasn’t nearly as thorough in his shower-scour-power-hour as he thought.



“It wasn’t what it looked like.” He winces even before the words are done spilling out of his mouth. It sounds like a line, for all that it’s the truth. “There was a thing. Derek’s thing had a thing and he needed me to look at it, and then -”

 

 

Scott just continues to gape, mouth opening and closing like a guppy. “I - You - He!!!” He looks so helplessly horrified, Stiles knows he absolutely cannot laugh. Laughing would be wrong. “You. He.”

 

“Yes,” Stiles agrees instead, biting into his fry with what he hopes is a solemn and apologetic expression.. “Lucky for us, we don’t need to speak of it. Let us never speak of it.” Because Stiles can barely think about it without getting twitchy in the pants-area. Talking about it might actually kill him.

 

“All over your face,” Scott chokes out, shaking his head. He looks down at his tapioca, and frowns. “Just. Everywhere.”

 

“I know Scott. I was there. It was a terrible and horrific occurrence for all parties involved, so let’s just -”

 

Scott makes an even more wounded noise than before, recoiling a little from his half-eaten pudding cup. “Oh Jesus. That’s a lie. You’re lying. You lik -”

 

NEVER SPEAK OF IT,” Stiles cuts him off, his voice rising hysterically. So it was a lie. Stiles lies all the time. To himself. To others. Generally for the benefit of their safety, health or friendship. They don’t dissect it; it’s a thing they don’t do. It’s a system that has worked well for them in all the years they’ve known each other. This lie will be no different.

 

***

 

Derek’s gone when Stiles gets home after school. He expected as much. He dumps his backpack on the bed, ignores the still-rumpled mess of blankets, and pulls up Wikipedia on his phone, bookmarking pages even as he slips back out the front door to his jeep.

 

After all, Derek had questions. Stiles had answers. And also dick pics. Stiles had Derek’s dick pics.

****



“According to Wikipedia, the bulbus glandis -also known as a knot- is an erectile tissue structure on the penis of canid mammals, including wolves. During mating, the tissues swell up and lock - also known as tying - immediately after penetration of the male's penis inside the female.  Ejaculation of both sperm and prostatic fluid occurs. That certainly explains the ... amount.”

 

Stiles hadn’t bothered with anything so plebian as a proper greeting as he barged through the front door of the loft.  He doesn’t know where Derek is, milling about upstairs probably, but he knows he’ll be heard.  “For domesticated animals the tie may last up to half an hour or more, though usually less.” He looks up from his phone. “I’m assuming it has something to do with how safe the dog feels.”

 

“I’m not a dog Stiles,” Derek growls, from the upper landing. Hopping the rails, he drops down beside Stiles with his usual welcoming scowl.  “What are you even doing -” He stops abruptly, nostrils flaring wide. His teeth drop - a novelty Stiles will never get bored of, now that the threat of being maimed is gone. “Go away.”

 

“What?” Stiles blinks at him. “What? Dude, no. You had questions. I have answers. It’s a knot -”

 

“Yes, we’ve covered that,” Derek snaps. The effect is lost in the lisp-ish slur of the words as they unfold around his canines. Stiles has honestly not seen this much teeth flashed since Scott first changed. He shakes his head, pulls his teeth back, and gives Stiles a pointed look. “Go away.”

 

“Don’t you want to know why you have a knot?” Stiles asks, ignoring Derek entirely as he heads for the living room. “Come on, we both know you want to know.”

 

Derek takes his seat as far from Stiles as possible, perched on the arm of the chair on the other side of the coffee table. “I’m the Alpha.”

 

“You’ll never get sick of saying that, will you?” He snorts dervishly. “It’s like you’re go-to answer.”

 

“I’m the Alpha, Stiles.” Derek closes his nose, and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I remember my parents talking about things like this. Not to me, but to my sister. Obviously not this,” he rushes to add before Stiles can ask. “But about changes an Alpha’s body makes, when they reach maturity -”

 

“Maturity?” Stiles blinks because Derek is plenty mature - physically, at least.   “Wait, like sexual maturity?”

 

“Yes,” Derek grinds out between his teeth. “Sexual maturity. My parents told Laura that depending on various factors, her body would shift somewhere between twenty-five and thirty. She’d become more ... fertile. Receptive.” He looks a little green in the face, maybe because he’s talking about his sister, or maybe because his sister is dead. Stiles can’t say. “I remember. Other wolves ... showed more interest, after her twenty-eighth birthday. Laura thought it was funny.”

 

“So it is for breeding purposes,” Stiles ventures, because he figured as much. Born wolves seemed like a big deal. “How’s that work on your end, though?”

 

“Mating, not breeding.” Derek takes a few steps back, and pushes the window open. “Or at least, that’s how my parents told it.  Anyway, riddle solved, it’s a knot. Congratulations, you can leave now.”

 

Stiles doesn’t leave. He stares at Derek, where he’s half hanging out the open window now. “You’re being weird,” he decides, narrowing his eyes. “Why are you being weird? Is about the thing?” The thing where you jizzed all over my face, Stiles doesn’t say. “ Because we don’t need to talk about it.”

 

“Then why are you still here?” Derek asks, from where he’s still hanging halfway out the window.

 

Stiles reels a little, because seriously? “Because you’re being weird! Weirder even, than sending me pictures of your dick at three in the morning, okay? Possibly weirder than whipping it out in my room. Any and all weirdness in my life is a potential cause for concern, so excuse me for being a little wary here.”

 

Derek ducks back into the living room, and scowls. “I’m not being weird. You ... ” His eyebrows twitch, and Stiles watches in morbid fascination as they begin to recede into the skin, disappearing into a newly forming ridge. “Smell,” he finishes, flashing wicked teeth at Stiles.

 

“Holy shit dude,” he breathes out, as Derek sticks his head back out the window and takes in a deep, greedy breath. “Oh. Oh. Really?”

 

“It isn’t like I have a lot of experience with this,” Derek growls at him. “Didn’t you shower?”

 

“Shit, yes, I showered,” Stiles snaps, because how can Derek even ask that? Derek jizzed on his eyelashes. “What? You think I went to school covered in your spunk? You pretty much glued my eyelashes together. I don’t understand why it’s fucking with your control though. Do you typically wolf out when you fuck?”

 

“No!” Derek makes a face, eyes flashing. He seems to have lost the battle with his eyebrows - they’re gone, off to wherever were-brows go in the shift.“But I’ve never knotted before this morning. Ever.  It smells ... different. Than my normal, uh ... stuff.” He gives Stiles a mean look, like everything wrong in life is Stiles’ fault. “I thought we didn’t  have to talk about it.”

 

“Yeah, if you’re losing control of your eyebrows, we have to talk about it. I showered - what more can I do?”

 

Derek stares at him for a long moment. “Go stand on the balcony.”

 

Stiles generally likes to avoid that rickety death trap. “Yeah, no. I’m going anywhere. I don’t care if you wolf out dude. Just ... get in the fucking loft before someone sees you.”  He grabs Derek by the bend of his elbow and pulls him along. Derek goes willingly enough.

 

Stiles throws himself down on the couch, while Derek perches on the counter dividing the kitchen from the living room. He makes a scratchy, growling noise, before barking at Stiles. “At least open the fucking windows, okay, you reek.”

 

Stiles grumbles, but does as he’s asked. “What’s the problem? I mean, it’s not like I should smell weird to you, I mean I just smell like you.”

 

“You smell like we fucked.” Derek pulls the collar of his shirt up over his nose and mouth. “It doesn’t smell like me, it smells like us.” He twitches then, eyes shifting all over Stiles' body. before settling low.  The ridges where eyebrows should be shoot up, accusingly. “Did you ... When you -”

 

“Shut up,” Stiles squeaks out, and he can feel his face burning red. “I’m a teenage boy. You’re very attractive. I’m not sorry!”  He is a little sorry though, because he’s already chubbing up a little and he doesn’t know why.  This is not an acceptable response to shame, he thinks a little despairingly. His life is so fucked.  He grabs one of the ugly green throw pillows Lydia insisted upon, and settles it in his lap. “Just. Shut up, okay? Uncontrollable erections, whatever. Kettle. Pot.”

 

When he looks up, Derek is staring at his own dick with an openly betrayed expression. “I think ...” He blinks, looking between Stiles and his dick once, and then twice. “Jesus Christ. Again?”

 

Stiles just ... can’t really help but twitching a little. A full-body twitch, not just a pants-twitch.  “Problem?” He asks, despairing at the way his voice rises a little higher than necessary. Really, puberty, not the time. He clutches the pillow.

 

Derek slides down from the counter in one easy roll, and it’s just ... Stiles isn’t sure how not to stare at the blatant erection between them. It’s a lot to not notice and Derek is wearing sweat pants. He stares at Stiles for a long moment, wolfed-out and growling lowly. “Go. Home.”

 

This time, Stiles does.


Chapter Text

Derek stood near the windows, watching as Stiles clambered back into the Jeep.  Even at the distance, he can smell himself all over the boy.  The scent would hang in the loft for days, thick enough you could practically fucking touch it.

 

He looks down at his dick, now only half-mast in his gray sweatpants. Derek can’t figure out if he was too old for this shit, or too young.  His parents hadn't prepared him to be Alpha. There hadn't been a point; he was a beta. Laura though, she was raised to be a leader. captain of the girls hockey team, student body president, debate club champion; Laura ruled.  Derek followed.

 

And Jesus, but he misses it sometimes.  It hurts, how badly he wants to just ... shed the mantle on his shoulders, to follow blindly his alpha, in faith and his trust. And he had; first his mother, and then his sister and even Peter before reality crushed him into a fresh, broken form.

 

Nothing seems to slot into place, like it had for them.  Derek doesn’t wear power well. He wasn’t prepared for the weight of it. He wasn’t raised to carry it.  In the darker moments of the night, Derek thinks his parents failed him in their eternal optimism. It’s a terrible thought and it leaves him guilt-sick.  But ... they’d never considered anything could happen to Laura, to themselves.  

 

They hadn’t explained the chain of command, how it fell not from eldest down, but to most worthy, most deserving.  The knowledge stung; Derek was neither; he was just what was left. On his best days,  he was an ill-prepared, rash, red-eyed beta with more blood on his hands than in his body. He was all that was left; what was left wasn’t much at all.

 

He doesn’t jerk off. Derek’s well-practiced in denying his baser urges and this is very much a base urge.  It’s sort of visceral the way it hits him, low in the gut like a fist full of flames.  The first time, when he woke from a touch-starved dream to find himself on the urge of coming, he’d wrote it off as exceptional morning wood.  He’d reached into his pants, and found himself panicking at what he found there.

 

It fit wrong in his palm, that was the first clue. He’d scrambled out from beneath the covers, shoving his shorts down to reveal a ... a ... he had no idea. Whatever it was, it was wrong. He’d tried to research it himself, but googling ‘lump on my dick’ revealed an unsurprising amount of links to STD prevention, diagnosis, and treatment sites.  Derek even made the mistake of clicking images. Never again. Just. Just no.

 

So he called Stiles. Everything sort of spiraled from there.

 

Sighing, Derek picks up his phone and dials reluctantly.  “Peter,” he growls, because he doesn’t want to do this, he really does not. “We need to talk.”

 

***

 

Peters’ eyes widen as he steps into the loft, nostrils flaring. “You’ve been busy.” His gaze drops low, and God, Derek doesn’t remember him being such a creep before. “Baby boys’ all grown up.”

 

“You know about ...” He waves to the front of his pants. It’s somehow less humiliating than putting the words out there, to be mocked. “This.”

 

“Not personally,’ Peter snarks, rolling his eyes. “My big-boy balls had dropped long before I was Alpha.  But yes, I’m not ... unaware.” He takes a seat on the couch, wriggling down in a way that makes Derek want to throw him across the room. This is Derek’s den, not to be marked by others. Not Peter, anyway. “It isn’t inherent in all wolves.”

 

“Only Alphas,” Derek concludes, knowing as much.  

 

“Only Alphas of the line,” Peter corrects, arching a brow. “Natural Alphas.”

 

“Born, not bitten?” Derek didn’t think that was right. It didn’t feel right.

 

“No,” Peter says slowly, like Derek was stupid. “Natural Alphas who came into their power through the line of hierarchy. The ... trait is passed down; it’s there to secure the line. A wolf who kills to become Alpha cannot breed the line. I suppose yours is a special case.  Yes you may have killed me, but you were last of you line and,” He pauses, thoughtful. ”It bears considering, at any rate. Only wolves born of the blood of the First Wolf bare the knot. Of which only four families can claim as much.”

 

“I’m younger than ...” It’s hard sometimes, to speak of Laura. Especially to Peter. “I’m younger than Laura was, when she reached maturity.”

 

Peter winces a little, at the mention of his niece and Derek can only feel vindicated by it. “Unsurprising. These kinds of things can be stunted in times of threat or stress. Your wolf must first feel safe, before it will breed.”

 

Derek thinks about his and Laura’s little townhouse on Staten Island, with its flower boxes and kitchen nook. They’d ran through it’s empty rooms, laughing and rubbing along the walls, rolling over the carpet like giggling idiots until it reeked of them.  It stood to reason that Laura would have felt safe there. It was just the two of them, but Derek was always only a few feet away; nothing but plaster and drywall dividing them at any given time.

 

He thinks about sending Peter away now, having heard what he wants. But ... “What else,” he demands, because it isn’t like Peter to spill everything so easily. “Now.”

 

“It is for breeding,” Peter smirks. “No matter what sappy drivel my dear sisters sang on about.  It won’t lead you to your mate like a divining rod, won’t point you to your soul mate.  It will, however, knock up any woman you should choose to lay with, the first time you should choose to do so. It’s controllable, so I’m told. It needn't happen every time, but the urge to knot will be strongest between April and June. Wolves like winter babies.” He sniffs again, loud and pointed. “Not that it matters to you, it would seem.”

 

The casual way he says it, like cubs mean nothing - it hurts Derek in a way that makes him want to hurt Peter back. Beyond the physical, something deeper, more damaging. Derek thinks of Pottery Barn and paint colors and a grainy, black and white photo pinned to their fridge.  “Laura was ten weeks along,” he tells his Uncle.

 

It works as intended, but it doesn’t make Derek feel any better. Peter looks away, throat rolling on a dry swallow. “It would have been a girl, I think.”

 

Derek stares at him for a long moment. “Go now.”

 

“Derek,” Peter says, sounding almost hesitant as he heads for the door. “Don’t deny yourself. This, like shifting, like scenting, like any other urge - it is not to be shamed. Allow yourself this, even if only at your own hand.” He levels Derek with a heavy look. “You know what happens when we deny our wolf.”



***

 

Things were quiet,  of which Derek was eternally grateful.  The kids were settled, into their skin and into the pack. They’d grown closer, after the kanima, after Gerard Argent, after the Alphas, the nemeton ... the ... everything.  They were a pack, made of misfits and castaways. But that wasn’t right anymore - that’s what they’d been before. Now they were family.

 

They had each other, and they had their den. The loft was Derek's, bought and paid for. It wasn’t much, but it was home. It stank of his cubs, his kids, his mess of  teenage dirtbags and it felt right.  It felt right in a way it hadn’t since Staten Island, since Laura.  So it made sense, if what Peter said was true, that Derek’s wolf would decide now was a great time to ... yeah. Do the thing with his dick.

 

But, because Peter had proven to be untrustworthy in the past, Derek opts not to take his advice. He ignores the thing on Monday, when he showers, switching the water from hot to cold with a tired sigh.  He ignores it on Tuesday, when the seam of his jeans rubs him the wrong/right way. He ignored it on Wednesday twice,  first he finds himself with his hips pressed flush against the washing machine as it switched to spin cycle, and again when he wakes at two in the morning grinding down onto his mattress, half-wolfed out and tearing up the sheets.

 

On Thursday, March ends with a light rain and a new moon, and Derek ignores his dick then too.  It’s only then that he considers the merits of Peter's advice.

**

 

The Pack is good on Moons now. They’re settled, and safe, and anchored not only to each other, but themselves.  Derek doesn’t have to babysit them, but they spend the night together anyway.

 

The non-wolves, by rote, stay at home or with each other somewhere that isn’t with the wolves.  It’s their bonding night too.  Stiles, Lydia and Allison all pile themselves onto whatever couch they’ve picked for the night, and watch terrible werewolf movies and gossip about whatever, Derek's never been interested.

 

Stiles doesn’t usually crash with the girls though - their parents might not care, but Stiles' dad certainly does. Stiles will come home, sinking of perfume and popcorn and often not a little wayward lust. He’s a teenage boy; Derek won’t judge him.

 

Can’t judge him, actually. Ever again. Derek can never judge Stiles again.

 

He doesn’t remember climbing through the window. Derek's on his knees on floor, at the edge of the bed. It stinks of Stiles, and day-old jizz, but beneath that, is the smell of Derek. Combined, it drives him mad - it smells like sex, like sex they haven’t had, but sex nonetheless. He rides the edge of the  mattress, where his come must have splattered, where Stiles sleeps and sweats and jerks off.

 

His pants are shoved down low on his thighs, his dick and balls out and proud, and his hands are balled into the blanket, the only purchase he can find. He’s wolfed out, he knows he is, caught in the shaft of moonlight pouring in from the window. Without thinking, he pushes the blankets away, the top sheet and then the bottom.  His dick drags across the mattress, as Derek folds himself down, mounts the thing and goes to town. He’s going to come. He’s going to come all over Stiles bed, he’s going to - he’s going to -

 

Derek?!” Stiles screeches, flipping on the light. It blinds Derek for a moment, but his hips never stop. Can’t stop. Derek is beyond gone; this is going to be very embarrassing in the morning, but in the moment, he doesn’t care. it feels good, and it smells like them, all mixed up and heady, and Derek needs - he needs -

 

“Whoa dude, no! No.” Stiles rushes forward, grabs Derek by the shoulder like he means to pull him away, but Derek's having none of it.

 

He grabs Stiles with one hand, and pulls him right down beside him.  Stiles goes easily, he’s no match for Derek. He flails, bouncing as he hits the mattress, and Derek's hips never stop, never slow, as he fucks and fucks and fucks, presses Stiles down by his neck, pins him there and just ... breathes on him.

 

“You’re buying me a new mattress,” Stiles tells him, and Derek growls, coming in long, shuddering spurts. His knot swells, and his hips jerk as he presses himself down harder and comes and comes and comes.

 

He’s asleep before he finishes.

 

***

 

When Derek wakes the next morning, he’s tucked up under a blanket on the floor ... and clean.  He sits up, bleary-eyed and feeling strangely light in his skin. Stiles is standing over him, squinting. It’s possible he’s glaring, but it’s decidedly squints.

 

Derek waits for the shame to roll in. It will, like a thunderstorm most likely. “So.”

 

“So,” Stiles echos, making a face. “So. So ... what? So you probably owe my mattress dinner? She’s not that kind of lady -”

 

“She smells like that kind of lady,” Derek says back, stupid and sleep slurred. “She ... It smells like me.”

 

“Yeah. Duh.”

 

“No, I mean, that’s why I -” Attempted to impregnate your mattress, Derek doesn't say. “That’s why I came here.”

 

“Here being all over my bed.” Stiles’ voice rises hysterically as he speaks. “I mean Jesus Derek, what the fuck?”

 

Sitting up, Derek scratches at the back of his head. “I ignored it. It was a mistake.” Looking down, Derek stares at the front of his jeans. “You ... cleaned me up.”

 

“You passed out on my floor in a semen-covered heap.” Stiles blinks at him, mouth pulled into a flat line. “Derek, my dad checks on me every morning. Has since the nemeton. I had to tell him something. So yeah, I cleaned you up, and I told him you got shot and were sleeping it off. It seemed better than telling him you mounted my mattress and passed out into an orgasm coma.  I had to spray the entire can of Axe to cover the smell of your dick funk. ” He's very pointedly not mentioning the part where Derek pinned him down beside him.

 

Ah, and there it is. The first trickle of shame. He should really go before the guilt and self-flagellation kick in. “I’m going to go.”

 

Stiles glares. “You do that.”

 

Derek chances a glance at Stiles' bed. The sheets are fresh, but he suspects the smell will never really fade. “I’ll ... buy you a new mattress.”

 

Chapter Text

 

It’s like a damn breaks.  It’s almost trance-like, really. The world turns honey-colored, time moving like molasses. Derek had no idea things could feel this good.

 

In giving in to this urge, he finds himself riding a high he never knew existed. He feels hollowed out and refilled with undiluted post-orgasm haze, a wave that never seems to falter. He wants to hug his betas, maybe even fucking cuddle.  Definitely fucking cuddle. Currently though, he just wants rub his balls all over everything he owns. Maybe grunt out the words, ‘mine mine mine’ like the seagulls on Nemo.  It's weird.

 

The word rut comes to mind.  Heat, even. That isn’t really a thing for werewolves, but Peter’s words of the pull being a little stronger come spring time seemed to ring true.  He doesn’t really want to mate; Derek isn’t sure he’ll ever want that. But he definitely wants to fuck.

 

Everything. He wants to fuck everything.

 

It hits him at the strangest times. Folding laundry, making a sandwich, taking out the trash.  Derek hasn’t felt this crazy since his first puberty. This one, he thinks, is impossibly better. No cracking voice, lanky limbs, or baby fat. He never did grow into his teeth like his mom promised, but there were worse things in the world. And now, well. He’s an adult. He can jerk off as often as he wants in the comfort of his own home, and he does.

 

It isn’t always jerking off, though. He limits himself to only one debilitating orgasm a day; always in the shower because shit-god-damn, clean-up was a whole fucking process otherwise.

 

Jerking off aside, Derek’s dick does not calm down.  He can’t be sure it isn’t just a personal preference, or the wolf’s influence, but Derek finds himself humping things in a way that had never seemed all that inviting.  He just wants to put his dick on everything.

 

He gives into the desire to press his hips against the washing machine mid spin-cycle,  grumbling out a rumbled string of , “oh god oh god oh god”, and ruining the only pair of clean jeans he had until the current load of laundry finished drying.

 

He finds himself humping up against the arm of the recliner, his kitchen counter, and maybe he even rubs his dick against the steering wheel at a red light that seems to just take forever to turn green.

 

No one mentions it, when they came to the loft.  Derek isn’t sure what to make of it; it must reek of him.  But, like it feels right for him to do, maybe it feels right for them too? To him, it’s a happy smell; the smell of a happy alpha. Nothing wrong with that, right? Right.

 

Stiles doesn’t mention anything, though he stinks of lust more often than not these days. Derek doesn’t judge him. Can’t judge him, all things considered.   He feels a little bad at times, but that wasn’t anything new.  Stiles was ... not a adult, per se. But he wasn’t a child, and Derek trusted him enough to whip his dick out, to make himself vulnerable in both orgasm and sleep. That, if nothing else, speaks volumes to Derek about his own inner psyche.  Anyway, Stiles didn’t call Derek out, so Derek didn’t call Stiles out. The betas seemed to take their cue from that.

 

If, at times, Derek is struck with the desire to rub his balls all over Stiles like he has everything else in his loft, well no one needs to know.

 

But then, Derek’s desire to mark things with his happy scent suddenly shifts.  The urge to rut against his fine home furnishings fades, and he’s left itching and restless and confused.  He paces awkwardly outside the Stilinski home, and wonders why it feels like a den, like his den.  He comes here when he's hurt. He's slept here. It smells like his betas sometimes, and that's a good thing. This is, undeniably, a happy place.  “Shit,” Derek says allowed, unable to smother the thought. “Shit.”

 

Like his loft, Derek’s marked Stiles home with his happy, happy scent.  And it’s starting to fade.

 

***

 

“Is this going to be a thing?” Stiles asks, dropping his book bag on the floor near the door.

 

Derek’s not exactly doing anything embarrassing. At least on a scale of zero to mounting the mattress, he’s not.  He is on the bed, starfished out and hard. It’s a lazy sort of arousal. “Shut up,” he grumbles, sleepily. The room smells good now, with both of them in it. He’s not going to analyze it too deeply. That way lies madness.

 

“Is it just my mattress?” Stiles doesn’t shut up. He never does. “I mean, do you share a profound bond, or something? Because if not, I’ll have you know that Scott has a very attractive sofa. Curvy legs, lots of cushion for the pushing. It’s velveteen.”  He makes the mistake of nearing the bed, and gets pulled down into the nest Derek's made of the blankets and sheets, for his troubles.

 

“Shut up,” Derek says again, curling Stiles down on the bed.  He doesn’t protest so much as flail violently until Derek pins his limbs down too. “Shhh.”

 

Stiles reels back a little, blinking owlishly in Derek’s face.  His brows knit together suddenly. “Are you high? This is not normal behavior. You shushed me!”

 

A little, Derek thinks, on the mixed-up scent of them. It’s concerning, or it really should be, but he’s riding a happy high he refuses to come down from.  This reality is pretty; Derek wants to keep it.  “Maybe a little,” He admits finally, burying his face back into Stiles' pillow so it can smell like both of them. “My loft smells like me, but your room smells like us.” He can’t really explain it any better. “You don’t smell like us as much, anymore.” But he will, Derek thinks, not so subtly rubbing his arm pit on Stiles shoulder. 

 

Stiles doesn’t really relax, but he never struggles. Derek would let him go if he did. He’s pretty sure he would. “This is so unfair,” Stiles grunts, flopping down on the pillow. They’re really close now, and it’s all so unexpectedly un-violent. Derek had no idea how nice that was. “What is my life?”

 

Derek snorts, breathes so deep he can taste Stiles in the back of his throat. “I had a thought,” he explains, lifting up to squint at Stiles. “I sleep here.”

 

“Recent events prove this statement to be true,” Stiles agrees, nodding once. “And?”

 

“A wolf sleeps where he’s safe,” Derek tells him. He tries to sound grave, but it just comes out stupidly earnest. He can’t even muster up a fucking scowl. He feels too good.

 

The pinched look on Stiles face softens. “Well yeah buddy, of course you’re safe here. We’re bros. And bros let other bros hump their mattress and be wildly inappropriate and alarmingly weird with very little explanation. They look at each others junk too, if it's absolutely necessary.  It’s a thing. It’s in the bro-code. Ask Scott.”

 

Derek grumbles. Bros.  They are not bros. This is not the bro-zone. “We’re pack.”

 

Grinning a little, Stiles nods. “Goes without saying. So you want to let me up and explain why your pants are hanging off my computer chair?”

 

“Not really,” Derek admits. “I’m going back to sleep.” Here where it’s safe and it smells like us, he thinks.

 

Stiles must see the thought on his face though, because he lets himself relax. “I could ... uh. I could nap, I guess.”

 

And so they do.

 

**

 

When Derek wakes up, the sun has sank down enough to get lost in the trees and he’s humping Stiles with slow methodical thrusts of his hips.

 

Stiles isn’t awake.  Derek has him pinned down with the bulk of his own body, dick pressed hard against Stiles' left ass cheek.  He’s got his arms around and under the boy, hands digging into the collar of his shirt.  It’s nice. Smells good. Smells right.  It's his happy smell, and Stiles sleepy smell, and over all it just smells safe, and good, and warm like a den should. He doesn’t stop. He really should. Stiles is a person, not a washing machine.

 

“Um,” Stiles says, waking up beneath him like Derek summoned his consent with a thought. “Ummmm.”

 

“I can stop,” Derek tells him, and he means it. He can’t. He doesn’t want to. Stiles is all soft and giving, unlike the  kitchen cabinet, but not too giving, like the decorative throw pillows. “Want me to stop?”

 

He seems to think about it, twisting his head to side-squint at Derek. “On the subject of consent, are you even cognizant right now? A drunk yes is not really a yes.”

 

Derek forces his hips still. “I’d prefer this, over rubbing myself off on Scott's attractive sofa.”

 

“Better than a sofa, got it.” Stiles makes a face.

 

“You smell like me,” Derek tells him, thrusting just a little. Teeny-tiny. Barely there. It doesn't even count as a thrust really. More of like an intentional twitch.  “I really like it.”

 

Stiles seems to waffle for a moment, torn. “See, I really want to say yes. Because I’ve seen your dick, and I really like it. But at the same time, you’re being weird and if this is like, demonic possession, or you were drugged, or you’re in heat -”

 

“Werewolves don’t go into heat,” Derek tells him, hooking a leg over his thigh. “We go into a rut. I don’t want to rut anything more than I want to rut you.”

 

“See, that’s just a really weird and un-Derek thing to say,” Stiles groans, and moves to pull away. "But I still kind of like it, so what does that say about me?" 

 

Derek doesn’t let him. He doesn’t hump him anymore either, goes so far as to transfer the press of his erection from Stiles' ass, to the mattress. “I’m ... happy?” The words feel weird. It’s like speaking a foreign fucking language, really. “I just feel really happy. Everything is good. The pack is good. The den is good. The territory is good. That's why the knot popped up. Times of peace, contentment.”

 

Stiles rolls beneath him, looks up at him with narrowed, searching eyes. Whatever he’s looking for, he must find, because he smiles, and his smell goes all soft and lust-thick, like he was holding it back before.  Derek reminds himself quickly of what his father once told him so very long ago, 'conscent isn’t consent, humans say yes with their words'.  His hands clench where they’re still gripping Stiles. “So uh ... Can I?”

 

“Carry on,” Stiles says, nodding a touch more eagerly than he probably wants. "With the humping and what not. I'm all for it." 

 

Derek pours himself back over Stiles, and suddenly his dick isn’t alone. Stiles is hard beneath him, and wow. Derek wants to rub his balls on that too. And he can! Because he’s not wearing any pants and Stiles said yes. “Wait, wait,” he breathes, hands spasming a little at the thought of getting himself all over Stiles.

 

It’s easy to wriggle a hand between them and push at his boxers. “Oh god,” Stiles groans, scent shifting, lust-crazy and maybe a little panicked. “What are you doing? I don't think I'm---- Okay, look this is stupid, because I'm seventeen and sex, yay! But I don't want---”

 

“We're not going to fuck right now Stiles. My boxers are in the way.” Derek gets them to his knees, and kicks them the rest of the way off, until they’re hanging from his ankle. He rolls himself atop Stiles, settles himself between his thighs. “This is good. I just need...I  want ... I want -” He rolls his body, smooth like a wave, and really....dry humping a fully clothed teenager shouldn't feel so goddamn good

 

“Oh Jesus!” Stiles falls back on the mattress, and spreads his legs as wide as he can’t. He’s flushed, and sweating a little, and Derek’s going to come all over him. “Fuck, wow. This is really happening.” He grips the pillow behind his head, knuckles white with the force of it. "Oh fuck yes god, god fuck yes fuck god yes." 

 

He’s not quiet. Derek isn’t surprised. They’re not all words though, that spill out of Stiles' mouth. They’re noise, all pre-verbal and throaty, and they come like Derek's clawed them out, roughly, deeply. He moans and groans, and whimpers, and Derek finds he wants to taste those too.

 

So he does.

 

Stiles gasps in surprise, when their mouths touch. His breath is warm, his lips are wet. Derek doesn’t keep it chaste, just licks his way inside. He uses to much teeth, and his mouth is open to wide, but Stiles doesn't seem to mind.  Stiles simply lets him, hands scrambling to grab at Derek, bury into his hair.  He gets a little lost in the kiss, leading Stiles with nips and bites, until he’s moving with him, pushing up to meet the thrust of Derek's hips, and Jesus wow, so much better than a washing machine.

 

The rising tide of lust shifts between them, the scent turning sharp and promising. Derek wants Stiles' orgasm more than he wants his own, pushes for it, harder and faster until Stiles is curling up beneath him, their kiss breaking off into a surprise moan as he comes in his pants between them and wow.

 

Pushing up to his knees, Derek gets a hand on his own dick, and growls at how good it feels, how good everything smells, how much he wants. He's not use to wanting anymore, he gave it up a long time ago, but it's so good, to want things. Better when you can have them. 

 

Stiles blinks up at him, panting and red faced. “Are you ... are you gonna -”  Knot.

 

“Yes,” Derek grits out, fucking into his fist. He can already feel it, swelling beneath his palm. “Fuck, yes. Yes.”

 

Stiles scrambles a little beneath him, yanking at his shirt and huh, Derek didn’t know how much he wanted to come all over Stiles' bare skin until it was an option.  He doesn’t stop fucking into his hand, even as Stiles gets tangled in the fabric. Just waits it out, tension coiling, until he’s splayed out and half naked beneath Derek again.

 

“Kiss me,” he decides, curling down to get his mouth on Stiles. “I’m gonna -”  

 

Stiles does, eager and messy and just ... wow. Kissing. Huh. Who knew?

 

He’s rough with himself, like he always is, knuckles dragging across the soft skin of Stiles' stomach. He doesn’t come right away, not until Stiles gets a hand between them, quick fingers circling his -

 

“Fuck,” Derek yelps, when Stiles grips his knot in a brutal fist, clenching and unclenching; never letting go, even as Derek's rut turns a little frantic and too fast. Their skin turns slick between them as he comes, and comes, and comes.

Chapter Text

Derek doesn’t buy Stiles a new mattress.

 

No, instead, he kicks off his boxers and steals Stiles shirt. The one Stiles is wearing - Derek’s weirdly gentle as he pulls it off, too.

 

So yeah, he steals the shirt, pulls his jeans on from where he’d left them hanging off the computer chair, and gives Stiles a long, lingering look. “I’ll be back.”

 

“Whatever you say, Terminator.” Stiles is...kind of a mess.  There’s come drying in the trail of hair beneath his navel, and the state of his own boxers is...basically unspeakable. It’s good he does his own laundry.  “I should probably showe---”

 

“Don’t,” Derek bites out, the glow of the full moon high in the sky behind him as he steps up to Stiles’ window. “Don’t shower. I---” He twitches then, hands flexing on the window sill. “I’ll know.” And then he’s gone.

 

Stiles lays in bed for a long moment, panting through kiss-bruised lips.  He feels weighed down, as if the press of Derek’s body has yet to leave him. It’s a good feeling.  He curls himself up off the bed in a wobbly-legged roll and stumbles his way to the bathroom.

 

He doesn’t shower.

 

Instead, he stares at himself in the mirror - searches for something that’ll spell out the words Derek Hale Touched Me. Which..isn’t even right. He hadn’t touched Stiles. Except for how he had - he’d touched Stiles with his whole goddamn, beautiful naked body.  Touched him everywhere with his everything and it was good.  Stiles would have been completely happy with a handjob. He’d gotten a body job instead. Was that...was that even a thing?

 

 

He cleans the mess off his stomach, strips down and does the same to his junk. Dried come in your pubes is never okay. Just. Never.  Naked, he stares at himself some more in the water-spotty mirror behind the sink.  Nothing about his person screams I just had sex.

 

Sex-adjacent. Whatever.

 

That isn’t to say he went unmarked though. He’s got unmistakable beard burn reddening his neck, and a decent sized hickey above the dip of his left collarbone. His lips are puffy - is that normal? He’s never kissed anyone, at least not like Derek kissed him.

 

Derek kissed him.

 

 

Not even just that - he’d...he’d devoured him. He’d put his mouth all over Stiles, licked and bit and demanded Stiles kiss him back , kiss me he’d said, right before he’d---

 

 

Somehow, that’s almost more world-altering then the shared orgasms.  Derek’s own orgasms are becoming alarmingly common-place actually. Derek’s orgasms in Stiles room, even more so.

 

Kissing though...that’s new. Brilliant and scary and beautiful and new, and Stiles didn’t know. He’d spent so long thinking about the other stuff, he’d never given thought to kissing.

 

He stumbles his way back to his bedroom and pulls on the first pair of boxers he finds. They’re probably not clean, but neither is he so who cares?  It’s late - well past one in the morning. Tomorrow’s Monday, he’s got a chem exam and promised his dad he’d go grocery shoppingg after school. And the jeep needs an oil change.  Stiles Stilinski had sex-adjacent, and the world kept spinning.

 

***

 

“Aww, come on.”  Scott’s voice is low, almost mournful. He’s squinting at Stiles too, like he can’t bare to look at him. “Why?”

 

Stiles...doesn’t know what to say.  He gives Scott a long look, maybe squints a little himself. “Do you honestly want to know? I mean, really? Do you really, really want to know?”

 

“It smells like you didn’t even bother to shower this time,” Scott whines, nose wrinkling up. “You smell like Derek dragged his ba---”

 

“Unless you want me to confirm your suspicions, you won’t finish that,” Erica says, standing suddenly beside Stiles. “Not that you need me to confirm.” She’s...all up in his business, the soft round swell of her breasts crushed up against his arm, her hair tickling the back of his neck.  “The nose knows, Scotty.”  She reaches up and pets Stiles - pets him like a fucking dog - fingers raking through his hair, tugging gently.

 

And then she’s gone.

 

“Dude,” Scott says, low and accusatory. “Dude.”

 

“Derek Hale wants my bod,” Stiles says because Scott is the King of Over Share, and deserves the retribution.  Stiles knows more about Alison's’ downstairs situation than any person she is not boning should. He waves about himself. “He wants all up on this.”

 

Scott groans, face crumpling into an expression of true horror. “Ugh.”

 

The pups sit with him at lunch. This is not a common occurrence, and Stiles can feel the stares of Beacon Hills Highs’ lesser people - those not In the Know.

 

Boyde gives him a pudding cup. This is, Stiles knows, very significant. Boyde does not share food.  They don’t talk about it.

 

Isaac simply stares, his mouth pulled into a tight moeu. “You smell like Derek’s decorative throw pillows,” he says at length, before making a horrified face. “The pillows? But I sleep on that couch.”

 

Stiles pauses, spoonful of pudding hovering halfway to his mouth. “That’s...hilarious, actually. That’s hilarious. Thank you for that. Really.”

 

Erica snorts, snagging Stiles apple off his tray. “That’s nothing. You should see the dent he put in the washing machine.”

 

***

 

When he gets home, Peter is sitting on his porch.

 

“Nope,” Stiles says, shaking his housekey at the man. “Nope, nope, nope.”

 

“Stiles,” Peter greets, pushing up off the porch rail. “You look...well.”

 

“Nope!” Stiles repeats. “No. Go away. Shoo.” He waves his hands in a go-away motion, before opening the door. “Just. A world of no.”  He’s’ been waiting all day for the other shoe to drop. To wake up. For Derek to explain it was all a mistake, because really. Stiles life is not a fun and sexy rom-com where the two protagonists fuck under a full moon and live happily ever after. It’s not.

 

Maybe Derek sent Peter to explain it.

 

Peter follows him in, because Peter is Peter, and like a persistent fungal infection, he’s hard to get rid of. “I take it Derek took my advice.”

 

Stiles narrows his eyes at Peter over his shoulder before stepping into the kitchen. “Not that I know what you’re talking about, but doubtful.”

 

“You certainly smell like he took my advice,” Peter notes, letting his nostrils flair. Grossly, he almost looks like he likes the smell. God - the man is a walking, talking billboard for a Bad Touch Uncle. “I trust he didn’t explain about the kn---”

 

“Yeah I know all about the knot,” Stiles cuts him off. “And as much as I would love to talk about Derek’s dick with you, I think it’s time for you to go.”

 

Peter gives him a long, inscrutable look. “His parents weren’t entirely wrong,” he says at length.

 

Stiles isn’t really sure what to say about that, so he says nothing. Instead, he thinks about the mountain ash lining every door and window of the house. Thinks about how he wishes Peter would leave, thinks about how bad he wants it, will it to happen---

 

Peter flinches, shuddering so hard it makes his bones crack. “Point taken,” he says tightly, retreating for the door. “Save the party tricks for the real danger.”

 

Stiles smiles tightly, and wills it a little harder, until Peter confident walk to the door falters, the tread of his footsteps speeding minutely.

 

***

 

He finds Derek in his room when he goes upstairs - Peter can’t have even made it a block away yet. “You heard all that.”

 

“You scared him,” Derek says, but it’s answer enough. “With whatever you did.”

 

“I just wanted him to leave,” Stiles explains. “Which is how I basically always feel about Peter. What did he mean, anyway? About your parents?”

 

Derek looks away at that - at the bed, where Stiles has yet to change the sheets. “My parents think ---” he makes a face, gritting out the words between clenched teeth, “that knottings is about mates. Peter believes it’s more about breeding.”

 

“So which is it?” Stiles rubs his palms on the front of his jeans, nervously. There’s no rational reason why his hands should be sweaty. Breeding.  It feels like a dirty word. Derogatory. Offensive.

 

“I don’t know,” Derek breaths out, honest and open and weird. “But they were my parents. They...were romantics.  They might have lied....no not lied. But they might have sugar-coated things. Or they might have believed what they told us. I don’t know. Peter doesn’t lie often. He’s more like to say nothing at all.”

 

It makes Stiles hurt a little, Dereks’ spill of words. Because it’s not like Derek can ask. All he has is Peter. “Do you want---” Stiles stops, because he has no idea what he means to ask. But Derek is here, in his room, quiet and looming. “What did you want?”

 

Derek pulls his eyes away from the bed. “Are you alright?”

 

“Am I....” Stiles blinks. “Am I alright? Yes? I mean, why wouldn’t I be? Should I not be---”

 

“Last night---” He makes an abortive sound in the back of his throat. “I mean, what happened last night, I didn’t---”

 

“Oh.” He blinks, before dropping down into the computer chair and pointedly not looking at Derek because the crushing wave of pathetic disappointment crashing down on him is almost enough to make him cry.  Fifteen minutes of dry-humping does not a lasting relationship make - Stiles knows this. God Dammit.  It doesn’t stop the sudden urge to fly apart into a million sharp little pieces, all labeled things like rejection and embarrassment and violent mortification.“It was the full moon, right? No big. Shit happens. Instincts run wild.”

 

“Yes.” Derek stares at him for a long moment. “You’re wearing my underwear.”

 

It startles a laugh out of Stiles, because yeah. He is. He hadn’t realized it until Derek said it, but the pair he’d grabbed up off the floor in a rush had been the pair Derek had thrown there in a fit to get his naked body all over Stiles. “I guess I am.”

 

“....I’m wearing your shirt.” Derek says, sounding almost embarrassed about it. Stiles still can’t look at him. He’s...Look. He’s no stranger to rejection, but that doesn’t soothe the sting behind it. And Derek had...Well. No one had wanted Stiles like that before. No one had...Jesus. He feels stupid, it’s stupid, but it hurts. If Derek says it’s a mistake---- Stiles just wants him to leave, because his heart feels like it might---

 

I’m not going to fuck you yet, Derek had said. Stiles thought that meant---

 

“Fuck, Stiles. You smell like tears,” Derek says, and Stiles doesn’t know what to make of his voice now, the things behind it. He can’t read it. “If I pressured you---”

 

“You didn’t,” Stiles bites out because it’s not like that. “Dude, whatever. It’s...Whatever.”

 

Derek sits on the bed. Stiles really wishes he wouldn’t. “If my parents weren’t entirely wrong, that means they were maybe a little right.”

 

“Congratulations on that Sherlockian observation. I’d be more inclined to consider it’s merit if you weren’t basing it off Peter’s suggestion,” Stiles snaps, twirling in the computer chair until Derek’s completely out of his peripheral vision.  He has no idea what his face is doing right now, but it’s probably not pretty. He doesn’t want Derek to see him like this.

 

Derek takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. “Peter told me not to deny myself this. He said not to ignore it.”

 

“But you did” Stiles remembers Derek saying as much, when he woke up on the floor, cleaned and confused after humping Stiles’ mattress the night before.  Stiles mattress.

 

“I kept coming back here,” Derek blurts out. “After that first night. I thought it was because it smelled like us, because it smelled familiar, good. And maybe it was, in part. But I feel safe here, in your room. Safer than anywhere, maybe even my own fucking home Stiles---”

 

“A wolf sleeps where he feel safe.” Stiles looks up at Derek then, reluctant. “So what. No surprise. I’m not exactly a threat.”

 

Derek raises an eyebrow at that. “You really believe that? You just sent Peter running with his tail between his legs.”

 

Stiles can’t deny that. “I’m not a threat to you.”

 

“Exactly,” Derek agrees, eyes wide. He’s not smiling, but his mouth is open a little. Stiles can’t really stand to look at his adorable fucking bunny teeth right now. He really cannot. “You’d never hurt me, even though you could.”

 

Stiles doesn’t say anything. What could he say to that? There aren’t really words.

 

Derek pushes himself up off the bed, and stalks towards the window. Stiles thinks he’s going to leave, but...he doesn’t. He just leans against the window sill, like he’s too restless to be sitting.

 

“Peter can’t be one-hundred percent right anyways,” he says, almost to himself. “About it only being for breeding.”

 

Curiosity gets the better of Stiles. It always does.“Why?”

 

“I can’t breed you.” His voice goes a little high as he speaks. “But I still wanted to...Uh. Try.” He blinks, ears turning pink as he hurries to look away from Stiles. “I mean....If Peter was right, it would make more sense for my wolf to aim at something a little more...impregnable.”

 

“Yeah, I’m calling shenanigans on that theory,” Stiles rebutes. “My mattress, your couch pillows and washing machine all beg to differ. That’s right buddy - Isaac told me I smell like your pillows.”

 

Derek flashes a little deeper then but to Stiles surprise, he smiles. “All I’ve wanted to do this week is mark what's mine.”

 

“And my bed falls into that category?” Stiles squeaks out. Derek’s adorable pink ears have nothing on Stiles splotchy, red, full body flush.

 

“Your bed smells like you,” Derek says with a shrug. “Stiles, you’re the first person I knotted for. Completely. You’re the first person I showed. I’m pretty sure I don’t need to tell you it’s a highly personal thing to share.”

 

“Yeah but you didn’t even know, then. What it was.”  He doesn’t get why Derek needs to talk about this. Stiles gets it, he does. Stiles was the first person Derek knotted for.  Wolves always return to what's familiar. Derek jizzing all over Stiles’ face probably confused it or something. Whatever.

 

“My wolf did.” Derek shrugs. “And still, I let myself be vulnerable, in front of you. Look, all I know is...my parents said it was for mating, Peter says it’s for breeding, and you’re the only person I’ve ever knotted in front of. I can’t knock you up.” He pauses, frowning. “I’m not asking you to marry me, for fucks sake. I’m just saying, I think maybe I should stop ignor---”

 

And it clicks then, loud and solid. Derek’s not quietly rejecting him, passing it off as instincts to fuck whatever, and the pull of the moon. He’s trying to convince Stiles it’s the opposite.

 

Stiles is not ashamed to admit it. He throws himself at Derek.

 

Derek tumbles backwards - whether out of surprise or because he wants to, Stiles can’t say. They bounce on the bed, on the mussed up sheets, and Stiles does his best to climb Derek like a tree, lock his thighs tight on Dereks hips, fist his hands in Derek’s jacket---

 

Derek kisses him. Another one of those devouring, all consuming, wet, messing, biting kisses that makes Stiles kind of want to cry and come all at once.  He licks Stiles cheek which---weird, but then he’s talking.

 

“Jesus, don’t cry,” he says, and oh. Well. That’s embarrassing. “I don’t know what I did, but I’m fucking sorry---”

 

“Shut up,” Stiles murmurs, biting Derek’s jaw because he can, wow. “It’s been a really weird week, okay? You’re very pretty and I have issues.”

 

“You have issues? Stiles--- God. My girlfriend burnt my family alive,” Derek tells him, holding his face between two hands. “But I trust you. I trust you Stiles, please trust me--”

 

Stiles sucks in a sharp, aching breath because he knew, but Derek never said and it’s all...  Stiles doesn’t know what to do with everything he feels - he feels like he can’t contain it, like he might fly apart.  Derek really does trust him. “I trust you. This is uh...this is getting very deep and personal. You’re making my boner feel really inappropriate---”

 

Derek kisses him, laughs while he does it - he’s a multitasker too, apparently.

Chapter Text

Honestly, this isn’t why Derek came over here.

 

Not that it isn’t good. It’s.... really good. Derek’s not use to this, this constant overflow of good.  Whatever it is, it’s Stiles-shaped and smells like the both of them, and if Derek never had to leave this room, it might be okay.

 

But this isn’t why Derek came over.

 

He’d gone home. He’d gone home after rubbing himself off on Stiles Stilinski, after stealing the shirt off his body - stinking of him, of them, of sweat and skin and everything happy.  He’d pulled it on over his own naked torso, felt the stretch of cotton hug him and it was just so damnably good and that was the kicker, because.... Because.

 

How. How could he walk away from that?

On two feet or four, with his tail tucked probably.

 

But there it was again, that memory of he and Laura rolling all over their little house on Staten Island, curling up in a ball in front of the never-lit fireplace. Her hair had spilled over his face, and he’d spat it out, scowling. She’d put him in a headlock and tickled him like he wasn’t a grown ass man.  And that. That’s what Stiles feels like. Like everything good in Derek’s life.

 

How?

 

How can he walk away from that?

 

He can’t.

 

***

 

Stiles cried.  Derek didn’t think he knew it though. But Derek could smell it, even before it happened. Like salt and despair - sour and bitter and brutal. Had he fucked it up so quickly? In the course of a day? It wasn’t outside the realm of possibility- it was right on course for Derek’s life, really.

 

He thought they were on the same page though, he thought he had it right. That this was something he could have - something Stiles wanted. Stiles was wearing his underwear for fucks sake.  Derek was wearing his shirt. But....

 

“Fuck, Stiles. You smell like tears.”  Derek couldn’t ignore it, no matter how much he’d rather.  It was Derek’s fault he was near to crying after all. It was always Derek’s fucking fault. “If I pressured you----”

 

“You didn’t,” Stiles scoffed, looking away.  Derek didn’t like it. “Dude, whatever. It’s...Whatever.”

 

But... It wasn’t whatever. Not to Derek.  And the way Stiles was making himself small, making himself indifferent...Derek feels stupid. Stiles isn’t a child, but he is young. Derek wonders if this is what it feels like to break a heart. To watch someone hold it together, when they’re ten seconds from falling apart. He wonders if that’s how he looked like to Kate Argent.

 

It’s terrible. He hopes not.

 

But he’s not Kate Argent - he’s not, no matter how young Stiles is, no matter how bad Derek can be. And more importantly, Stiles is not Derek- he’s not a dumb little kid so starved for attention he’ll take it at any ones hand. Stiles can be rash, but he’s pragmatic too, and if he rushes into things it’s never without a little forethought.

 

So Derek explains it. Carefully. Stupidly. Explains how he’d wants this - how it feels right, how he was dumb to ever ignore it. How he’d never realized that Stiles was his safe-harbor, where he came when he was hurt, or confused, or just so fucking tired. He explains how he can’t possibly want anything more than he wants Stiles, and how Stiles makes him feel. He feels weird as he speaks, like everything inside him has been gutted, until he’s a hollow husk of possible rejection. Because Stiles could say no. He could say Hell No. He might weigh the risks and benefits here, and there’s no scale in the world that would tip in Derek’ favor. Stiles might say no.

He doesn't.

 

The weight of him crashing into Derek is both fantastic and terrifying. Derek goes down - Objects in motion should stay in motion unless they want their neck snapped - and takes Stiles with him. Stiles headbutts him, kisses him, cries on him --- and God. He looks like Derek feels.

 

Gutted and good, all at once.

 

Derek licks his tears away - it’s a weird thing to do, and Stiles might mock him, but he won’t judge him.  Derek holds him a little too tightly - Stiles lets him. “Jesus, don’t cry. I don’t know what I did, but I’m fucking sorry---”

 

“Shut up.” It’ said with a bite, right to the jaw, affectionate and wolf-like and Derek wonders if Stiles knows what those kind of bites mean. Derek wouldn’t put it past him to have researched it. “It’s been a really weird week, okay? You’re very pretty and I have issues.”

 

He grabs Stiles face, holds it in his palms and ignores the way Stiles lashes cling together with tears. No one should look so pretty when crying. It’s no fair. “You have issues? Stiles---” He stops himself, and the spill of self-deprecating vitriol threatening to pour out if his mouth. Derek has issues. He’s got abandonment issues, and power issues, and self-esteem issues. Some of his issues have issues. But, he doesn’t want to convince Stiles he’s a bad choice.  He wants to be someones good choice, wants to be someones good. He thinks he can. “God. My girlfriend burnt my family alive.” It’s true, and Derek has never said it, but Stiles won’t blame him, won’t hurt him with it later.  Stiles won’t use it like a weapon - a sharp bladed secret meant to bend and break. “But I trust you. I trust you Stiles, please trust me--”

 

Stiles heart is all over the place, but it settles when he speaks.  “I trust you.” And Derek knew that, he did. They’ve operated under a mutual trust for a year now. But to hear it is different. It settles in his chest like a living thing, and it’s good. It’s really good. “This is uh...this is getting very deep and personal. You’re making my boner feel really inappropriate---”

 

Derek kisses him, and laughs. Because he can. He can do that now. And it’s not weird and it’s not the moon, or a knot, or the influence of anything but Stiles mouth and the knowledge that things are good.

 

Really, really good.

 

****

 

An embarrassingly short time later, htey’re both sprawled out on Stiles bed, sticky and sweaty and panting hot breath against each others ski. Derek still didn’t get Stiles pants off. Hell, he hadn’t managed to get his own pants off this time, too distracted by everything else.

 

“Dammit,” Stiles says. Derek doesn’t look up from where his face is smashed against the sweaty curve of Stiles neck. “I wanted to touch your dick.”

 

“You’ve touched my dick before,” Derek reminds him, a shivery sort of pleasure tickling his spine a the memory of Stiles hand on his knot. “Like...Yesterday.” Was that really only yesterday?

 

“Barely,” Stiles argued, rolling in the curl of Derek’s arms, so that they’re chest to chest.  It’s disconcerting to be so close to him, to see the technicolor gold of his iris, the stardust speckle of freckles and moles. It’s a lot to take in at a distance of three inches.  Derek closes his eyes, and buries his face back into Stiles neck.

 

“You’re more upset you didn’t get to touch my dick again, then the fact that I still haven’t touched yours?” Derek can already feel it, damp and half-hard where Stiles is pressing it against his thigh.

 

“We all have our priorities,” Stiles tells him, hands skating down Derek’s abs. He’s inordinately fascinated by the hard dips and grooves there, and his touch tickles, but Derek keeps himself still. “You’re not cut.”

 

Derek...Flushes. It’s dumb. He’s pretty fucking certain that Stiles doesn’t care, considering his obvious interest, but Kate hadn’t been so keen. She’d made fun of his foreskin, pinched it between her sharp nails and pulled and Derek’s not exactly embarrassed by the state of his body, but no one wants to be found wanting. “Yeah.”

 

“I’m not.” Stiles thrusts against him, gently. Almost as if he’s testing the waters here. Derek’s boxerbriefs are a stick and horrible mess right now, but he pushes back anyway, and it’s worth it by the way Stiles shudders, as he speaks.  “Do you...Uh. I mean. Do you have a preference?”

 

It occurs to him then, that Stiles might feel just as self conscious about the state of his...Stuff. Like Derek might not like what he has to offer. Like Derek might judge him. Which is ridiculous - Derek as a fucking knot, and Stiles not only accepted it, he put his goddamn hand on it, like it wasn’t fucking weird.

 

“No,” Derek tells him, sliding his hands up the back of Stiles shirt, soaking in the long expanse of perfectly smooth skin. “You’re perfect.” It’s not something Derek is use to saying - complimenting others has always felt strange to him. Praise in general, never fell easily off his tongue. But he remembers wanting it. From his Alpha, from Kate, from anyone who looked at him long enough.

 

“Right.” Stiles snorts, but his scent is soft and pleased like Derek did something good and that---

 

Derek can’t possibly give that up.

He can’t.

 

Chapter Text

#sierra

 

“I want to touch your dick.”

 

Derek freezes beneath him,his mouth open and hot against Stiles neck. His stubble kind of hurts where it grates against the skin there, but it’s a good kind of hurt.  “Uh...What.”

 

“Like...” Stiles rolls against Derek, just hooks a leg over his hip and moves. He can do that now! That’s a thing he can totally do. How awesome is that? “Like, I want to put my mouth on it.” He wants to put his mouth all over Derek’s everything, if he’s honest. And he can!  He totally can. It’s a novelty sure to never wear off. “Okay?”

 

“Oh....kay,” Derek says, the last syllable breaking off as Stiles slides down his body.  It’s not graceful. Nothing Stiles does is graceful. He’s making peace with it. Horizontally, and on top of Derek, his lack of grace seems to matter very little. Derek’s into it.  “Um. Have....Have you done this before?”

 

Stiles looks up at him, from where he’s unbuttoning Derek’s pants. Part of him is vastly pleased that Derek seems to think he has any sort of game. That he thinks that there other people interested in letting Stiles touch their junk.. The other part of him is sort of worried for Derek’s mental capabilities, seeing as he thinks that Stiles has any sort of game. Because no; Derek is an anomaly in this. So few people are into Stiles, he probably qualifies as a kink.  

 

“Put my mouth on your dick?” Derek scowls, but then Stiles expected that. It’s less intimidating when Stiles can see his junk. “On any dick? No. That would be a no.” He pauses, frowning down at the swelling bulge, damp and intimidating, beneath Derek’s boxers and corrects himself. “Besides my own, I guess.”

 

That gets Derek’s attention. He curls up in surprise, propping himself on the bends of his elbow.  His teeth are pointed, butting into the slight swell of his bottom lip, and his eyes are ringed in red.  Still has his eyebrows though. Stiles makes it a personal challenge to fix that within the next thirty minutes. “Wait-- Are you saying you can---”

 

Ah well. Maybe, perhaps, possibly he should not have mentioned that he can - suck his own dick. On occasion! Not like--it’s not his go to method of getting off. It involves a lot of work, and warm-up exercises and one time he accidentally jizzed in his own eye.  “I mean, not all the time.”

 

“Oh.” Derek flops back down, throws an arm over his face.He breathes out loud, and harsh. He’s flushed though, Stiles can see the red on the back of his neck. So perhaps he’s not totally put off by the autofelatio. Actually, dogs lick there own--- but Derek’s not a dog. Stiles manfully does not verbalize that passing thought. It’s a close call. “You don’t have to.”

 

“Hahaha, that’s hilarious. I’m touching your dick and we’re both going to enjoy it immensely.” He hooks hands into the stretchy waistband of Derek’s boxer briefs, deep enough that his fingertips brush through the short coarse curls beneath, and tugs gently. thumbs brushing over the v-cut of his pelvic muscles. It’s like an arrow pointing down to al Stiles hopes and dreams. “I mean - I think I’m pretty good at it. And I would know, you know?”

 

“Yeah,” Derek agrees, sounding winded and wonderful and yeah, Stiles totally did that. He lifts his hips so Stiles can pull his boxers off. “I uh. I just...Don’t want to press---Oh God.”

 

Derek has foreskin. Stiles has always been fascinated by the concept. He hadn’t ever considered how it would feel on his tongue though. He pulls it back a little with his hand, and wriggles his tongue against the underside of Derek’s dick. Should he have hesitated? Should he have warned Derek? But Stiles rarely hesitates. He’s a dive-right-in sort of person. And honestly if Derek didn’t know what Stiles was about, that’s his own fault. Stiles spoke fairly plainly. I want to put my mouth on it.

 

Everything tastes like sweat and salt and come - Stiles isn’t a stranger to the taste, but usually it’s his own.  He slides his hand down, pulling at the skin, and the feel of Derek’s cock brushing the roof of his mouth almost tickles. Blowjobs are weird.  But it’s a good kind of weird, that makes his belly hot and his hips twitch.

 

He pushes Derek’s legs father apart, cups his balls and revels in the way that It’s not ideal; Derek’s legs are trapped at the knees by his boxers, his jeans. But it’s enough.  He’s a mess - they both are - but Derek’s thighs are come-sticky from their inability to get their clothes off before coming, and Stiles can’t really help but rub it into his skin further. Derek grunts and groans and fists the sheets beside him.  

 

Stiles is more hands than mouth, but Derek seems to like it. He can’t help the noises punched out of him, sometimes louder than Derek’s and twice as wet. It’s sloppy, what he’s doing, but God - he can’t help it. The smacking, sucking squelches of his own mouth on Derek makes his own dick ache and leak in his messy jeans.

 

He twists his palm around the shaft on every downward thrust, licking hard at the underside of Derek’s cock as he pulls his hand back up. He’d take more, but his jaw already aches, Jesus, it’s only been a few minutes; he thought it would be easier not upside down, but Derek’s dick is bigger, wider, curves a different way. It’s foreign and strange and wonderful.  He wants to work at it, open his throat up, swallow around it, work his way down---Stiles wants to fucking take it all---

 

“Fuck Stiles. I’m gonna---wait!” Derek grabs his wrist, and holds his hand still. The gentle press of claws makes his skin go hot and cold all at once. Not in fear - just. God. Stiles isn’t right.  Derek sucks in a shaky, spine-curling breath and his nails go blunt. “I’ll knot if you---”  

 

And Stiles can feel it - too hot, and too hard beneath his palm now. His hand clenched, and Derek wines, spurts of precome leaking from his dick in fast pulses. It’s too, much spills out the corner of Stiles mouth and wow, what he must look like right now. If it’s anything how he feels, he should probably be embarrassed. But it’s hard to be embarrassed with so much dick in your mouth, and Derek Hale looking come-struck and stupid at you, eyebrowless and half-shifted.

 

He pulls his mouth off with one final too-hard suck that makes Derek growl, and makes Stiles head spin. Stiles can feel come and spit drenching his chin. Everything feels sticky and wet. “Sorry I... Sorry--”

 

“Don’t be sorry,” Derek snarls, hauling him up.  His dick burns a hard wet line against Stiles stomach. “God--- I just didn’t want to knot your mouth---”

 

It shouldn’t make him hot, thinking about it, thinking about Derek's’ come spilling down his throat, too much for him to swallow. “I couldn’t take much,” he says out loud, cursing himself inwardly. “I mean, I couldn't....Fit. Much.”

 

To his surprise, Derek hooks a thumb into Stiles mouth, pulls it open by his bottom teeth. “Won’t stop you from trying though, will it?”

 

Stiles bites him. “You didn’t come.” Derek is half-naked beneath him; though given the last week, that’s not actually anything new. Stiles still hasn’t managed to get his pants off. It’s a tragedy, really.

 

Derek snorts, and presses his thumb back into Stiles mouth -which what the hell, rude! But Stiles likes it. He presses on Stiles tongue, and it makes him suck, on instinct more than anything. Derek’s grin fall soft, and openl. “I came twenty minutes ago.”

 

Stiles wants to argue that was twenty minutes ago but he can’t because Derek’s drawing him closer, by his mouth, into a kiss. Derek has a thing about kissing. Stiles is into it.

He kisses Stiles like he’s desperate to lick out every inch of his own taste from Stiles mouth. He kisses Stiles like he’s trying to crawl inside him and fucking live. He holds Stiles in place, kisses him breathless and stupid, until Stiles can’t help but hump up against him like the horny come-stained teenager he is. His dick is hard, tacky from before, and grating against the inside of his cotton boxers.  

 

Derek gets an arm over Stiles shoulder, a hand in his hair. His other arm pins Stiles in place, curled over the small of his back. Even his legs tangle them up, like Derek isn’t close enough, can’t be close enough until they’re one.  He kisses every goddamn coherent thought out of Stiles head, kisses him until he’s fucking limp. Kisses him until he can’t even kiss back, helpless to do anything but drown in what Derek is doing to him.

 

Derek kisses Stiles like he wants him to fucking die in wanting. Only then does he draw back long enough to deadpan, “I’m going to touch your junk, and we’re both going to enjoy it immensely.”



 

 

 


Chapter Text

#Walden

 

It occurs to Derek as he’s three knuckles deep in Stiles ass, that he’s never fucked a guy before.  That it did not occur to him when he had Stiles dick in his mouth,  or when he’d slotted his own dick between Stiles ass cheeks and came all over the small of his back is completely baffling.  That Stiles had not asked is even more baffling, being the endless chasm of perpetual questioning that he is. But Stiles didn’t. Derek had asked, but Stiles didn’t, and that’s just odd.

 

Does it stop Derek from working a third finger into Stiles ass? No. No it does not.  Only a cosmic shifting of the universe or Stiles telling him no could make Derek stop right now.  As the universe, for the time being, seems content to shift correctly on its axis, and the only thing coming out of Stiles mouth are soul-shattering moans - Derek has no inclination to stop. Ever. He sort of just wants to fall right into Stiles and never, ever stop.  

 

It occurs to him though, in the silent second between Stiles moans when he’s forced to suck in a breath, that Derek’s never been with a guy before.  And yet, there hasn’t been an iota of hesitation on his part, or Stiles really. Their shared lack of hesitation is a direct result of just doing what feels....good. They’re running on instinct, the both of them, and it’s perfect.  Derek doesn’t let the prospect of failing in inexperience ruin all the good that's built up between them. After all, Stiles hadn’t when he’d finally gotten between Derek’s legs. He hadn’t paused for even a moment, just dove right in and left Derek a fucking mess because of it. Derek owes him as much in return.

 

And so, he’s three knuckles deep, and everything is sticky with Stiles’ ridiculous cherry-flavored lube when he decides that in this instance, instinct has only ever done him any favors. It helps that everything Derek has wanted, Stiles has enjoyed too. And giving into his wants has lead him to this; Stiles, ass up and stinking of their shared mess. It makes him want to make Stiles feel even better; like a constant loop of orgasms and pleasure. A circle-jerk, of sorts. The idea that Stiles is probably going to let Derek fuck him is so brain meltingly good, that he wants to make Stiles come all over himself until he can’t even think. (That he might one day let Derek knot him can’t be thought about at all, lest things end too early.) So chasing the good a little further isn’t all that hard. Derek wants it. Stiles will probably be into it. He’s been into everything else so far, but still...Derek asks.

 

“How do you feel about rimming?”

 

Stiles, Derek learns, is into rimming.

 

Scott, Derek also learns, would rather not know that about his best friend.

 

***

Derek’s leaning against the jeep in the driveway and trying to silently support Stiles in what is growing to be a surprisingly pitchy vibrato of an argument. Scott looks...well. Scarred, for the lack of better word. And also maybe resigned. Derek’s unobtrusively trying to scrub the cherry lube from his beard onto the back of his hand, but it’s no go. He wonders vaguely if it looks as red on his face as it did on Stiles ass and desperately hopes the answer is no.

 

“Is this going to be a thing?” Scott’s gaze is shifty and accusatory, as he sets his mouth into a firm, grim line.

 

“If you mean you walking in on us, I fucking hope not,” Stiles replies, bluntly. “If you mean...Derek and I....” He looks at Derek, but Derek doesn’t know how to convey something so complex as I want to smell like you forever and something so simple as yes without words.  He must do okay, because Stiles smiles. No, he beams, all teeth and bright eyes. “Yeah. Derek and I are a thing.”

 

“Well obviously,” Scott grouches, as he hunches himself over his bike. “I mean, the smell is hard to miss. You guys smell....gross.”

 

“It’s not my fault you can sniff jizz from a mile---”

 

“No not that.” Scott gags a little, but he rolls his eyes too. “No, your....I don’t know. Together-smell. Combined scent! It’s just...really disgusting. Like the way Boyd and Erica smell. It’s....I don’t know. Happy.” He gags again, like just the thought of Derek being happy is offensive. “And the whole town literally stinks of it like Derek rubbed his balls up and down the goddamn street, except that his balls also smell like you.”

 

Derek snorts, but Stiles grins delightedly. “Well, if they didn’t before, they do now.”

 

Scott is not amused. “It’s not funny, Stiles.  It’s wafting. And I think I kind of like it!” He looks so horrified that Derek can’t help but grin a little. He ducks his chin and hides it behind his hand. Scott is delicate right now; laughing probably wouldn't help. But he wants too. Laugh, that is. And that’s new.

 

“Look buddy,” Stiles shrugs his broad shoulders. “Derek is my Allison, okay?” Derek doesn’t know what to think about that declaration. Everyone knows that Allison is Scott’s everything. Derek feels a little light headed. Stiles brings him back down to Earth. “Except that I hated his fucking face for the first half of our relationship. The important part here is that he’s my Allison now, and I’m kind of bent on keeping him around. So, you’re gonna have to deal. In the spirit of friendship, I won’t tell you about all the kinky things we do. You’ve seen enough, I’m sure. But...I want to keep him, and I’m not actually going to ask for your permission.”

 

Scott sighs, and his shoulders drop from their tensely coiled hunch. “Yeah I figured. I’d hug you but you smell like a testical and a concerningly large part of me doesn’t mind, and that’s actually more concerning so I’m just...gonna go.”

 

“We’re good, though?” Stiles asks, but there’s no anticipation in the words. He knows that they will be, Derek realizes, if not today.  Scott is a constant in Stiles life. Derek can deal.

 

Scott nods, but his grin turns sharp. “Yeah. I mean, if nothing else, this brought us closer together. I can’t say I’ve ever seen your asshole in the daylight before this moment, so there’s that.”

 

Stiles twitches. It’s slight, but the flush on his cheek and the sticky, candy-scent in the air tells Derek that he’s embarrassed. It shifts to something sharper, something that promises nothing good.  “I lied about not telling you the kinky shit. Derek has a knot and I kind of want to sit on it.”

 

Scotts smug grin falls like gravity possessed him. It’s almost enough to cool the burn staining the back of Derek’s own neck. “What? Whaa- No! What the hell, Stiles!”

 

“Never play the shame-game with me, Scotty.” Stiles reaches over Scott’s bike to grab him by the cheeks like a baby, and jiggle his face.  Using the hand that not-so-long ago had been on Derek’s dick. “My life has been a comedy of errors, beginning with my birth. I have very little shame left.”

 

“A knot,” Scott squawks. “Am I--- Is my---”

 

Derek steps in, if only to shut them both up jesus they’re in a driveway - and clears his throat. “Only if you somehow magically become an Alpha without killing anyone. So, you’re probably safe.”

 

“Okay,” Stiles claps his hands together, looking pleased with himself. “As fun as this little pow-wow has been, it’s time for you to go. My dad’s working a twelve hour shift and I need to lick the lube out of Derek’s beard for personal reasons.”

 

**

 

Stiles does lick the lube out of Derek’s beard, and it’s one of the most singularly odd erotic things he has ever experienced. There’s something strangely wolf-like about the drag of Stiles teeth over his jaw, and by the time he’s finished, Derek’s swimming in his own lazy arousal.

 

“Did you mean it?” He asks, as Stiles makes another valiant effort to suck a hickey over the hollow of Derek’s collarbone, only to watch it vanish.

 

“Hmmm?” Stiles hums, using his long fingers to manhandle Derek’s head further to the left, by his hair. “Mean what?”

 

“That you want to ...uh.” There’s no way to verbalize it without sounding porny or crass. “Sit on my knot.”

 

Stiles sits up in Derek’s lap and blinks down at him. “I have literally thought of nothing else since you came on my face.” He hesitates, and it’s a first. Derek doesn’t like it. “Are you ...like, not into doing that? Because it’s not a deal breaker.”

 

“I think....” Derek swallows, feeling his dick twitch beneath the weight of Stiles. “I think I’d....” He feels light headed at the prospect of getting in Stiles likes that. “I think that’d be....” He can’t verbalize the thought though, and his canines snag on his bottom lip as he half-shifts just thinking about it. “Oh, fuck. Stiles---”

 

Stiles is grinning over him, as he presses his weight back against Derek. “I’m guessing you’re into it.”

 

“Yes.” The word falls out between sharp teeth, but Stiles doesn’t seem to care. Derek forces himself to shift back, if only so that he can kiss Stiles properly. “Yeah, I want....” Again, his brain goes fuzzy and stupid trying to spit the words out. “Please.”

 

“So do I just....” Stiles scoots back, and Derek’s dick catches against his hole. “Do I just---” He wriggles again, and the words just the tip flitter through Derek’s mind, hysterical and not exactly inappropriate. “I mean, can I----”

 

He’s wet enough, loose enough. Derek had worked him over earlier, before Scott forgot the concept of ‘privacy’ and ‘smells like sex, shouldn’t go in there’.  He could push right in, just like that.

 

Stiles doesn’t give him the chance though. He pushes back an inch or so, and just like that, Derek’s in him. It’s easy - too easy, nothing has ever been easy for Derek- he’s in Stiles, if only a little bit.

 

“Oh,” Stiles says, quiet and a little breathless. “Oh.” He wriggles again, fingers clenching where they’re curled over Derek’s shoulders. It’s torture, Derek’s been electrocuted before, but this? This is torture. He wants to push the rest of the way in, but he wants to let Stiles work at his own pace too. He wants a lot. He can’t breath. It’s too good. And Stiles just keeps wriggling. “Should I just....”

 

“If you don’t stop moving,” Derek says tightly, with his eyes clamped shut because God, he can’t look, he’ll end everything. “I’m going to flip you over and fuck you stupid.” Without another word, Stiles sits back. Sits back and takes Derek in all at once. It has to hurt - Stiles winces- but that doesn’t stop him from rocking back hard once he’s fully seated. It makes Derek growl, and his fingers clench against the curve of Stiles ass. “Jesus Christ,” he hisses through pointed teeth. “Fuck, Stiles. Fuck.” As if to punctuate Derek’s bad language, Stiles bounces.

 

They don’t make it ten minutes in before Derek feels it, swelling on his dick, but burning in his gut.  He gets a hand on Stiles cock, and gets no warning when Stiles comes helplessly over both their stomachs.  It’s the sudden clench of Stiles orgasm that ruins Derek. He knots Stiles in the rush of after-shock shuddering, and comes so hard he curls with it, wrapping himself uselessly around Stiles as he pushes up into him, in a sick dizzy rush of mine-melting heat.

 

When he comes too - did he faint? - Stiles is looking down at him, smug  and flush-faced. “I always knew I’d rock at sex,” he tells Derek with perfect sincerity and Derek isn’t inclined to disagree.

 

They’re still tied. Everything feels tender and wonderful and wet. His own come is dripping down his balls. Stiles has his face buried in Derek’s neck, the hot pant of his breath burning the curve of his shoulder. It’s just so good. The smell of them, the sound of Stiles, the feel of their skin where it’s stuck together with sweat and more.  Balls deep, and stuck that way for however long, Derek realizes that good things do happen to him, and sometimes he can have what he wants..  It’s such a startling nice thought, that Derek falls asleep with it. Falls asleep belly-up under Stiles, in a bed that stinks of him, where he’s always been safe.

 

They wake before the sun, and though they’re not tied anymore, Derek is still both beneath and inside of Stiles. “Every part of my person hurts and it’s awesome,” Stiles mumbles sleepily, into the curve of Derek’s neck. “Seriously, I rock at the sex.” He pushes back against Derek’s dick, half-hard just by waking. “Want to go again?”

 

Derek does want to. And he can! How strange is that?



 

 

the end.