“Are we doing this?” Stiles asks.
“Yes,” Scott says firmly.
“But are we really doing this?”
“Yes!” Scott says. “Shut up, Stiles, you’re the one who wanted to do this, I’m not letting you do it alone.”
“You can totally let me do it alone,” Stiles says. “That would be fine.”
“You said you wanted to know what I thought,” Scott says.
“I do. I’m just afraid it’s going to be weird.”
“You should have thought of that before you told me you wanted to figure out whether being turned on by naked dudes makes you gay,” Scott says, and sticks in the dvd.
“Turned on yet?” Stiles asks again.
“Stop saying ‘yet’,” Scott says.
“It has to happen sometime.”
“It really, really doesn’t,” Scott says. “Also, I think the vanishingly small chance that was ever going to happen legit vanished once the ugly forest rangers started fucking.”
“Fine,” Stiles huffs.
Scott slides his eyes over to Stiles like he’s trying to be sneaky about it or something.
“Stop that,” Stiles scolds, over the loud moans coming from the tv. “You look like you’re stoned.”
Scott makes an exasperated noise and turns to face Stiles. “So, are you into it or what?”
“I don’t know,” Stiles says uncomfortably. “I might be, but it isn’t—it isn’t very—“
“It really isn’t,” Scott says. “And I noticed that as a totally straight dude. Want to try another?”
Stiles slots the next disc in, something without any pretence at a plot, so maybe it’ll be hotter or maybe it’ll just be gross.
They watch the quick setup in silence, and then watch some pretend-straight, pretend-college-guy getting fucked by a solid, hairless older guy for money, both fictionally and in reality.
“Whoa, meta,” Stiles says.
“What?” Scott asks.
“Nothing,” Stiles says. “This is better than the last one, right?”
Scott wrinkles his nose and looks back at the screen. “There’s nothing wrong with it,” he says. “I’m just not into it at all. It’s kind of gross.”
“You don’t have to watch it,” Stiles says, shifting a little. Scott can probably smell that he’s getting a little aroused, assuming he bothers to scent anybody besides Allison. This is weird.
“Nah, it’s fine,” Scott says. “I need to rack up some best-friend points for future use.”
“You’re in arrears,” Stiles says.
“But I’m going to come out ahead, right?”
“Fine,” Stiles agrees, because he does kind of deserve that a little bit.
“So,” Scott says.
“Kind of,” Stiles says, “yeah, kind of,” and, “Holy shit!”
“What?” Scott asks, as Stiles scrambles behind the sofa, eyes wide and transfixed by the screen. “What’s wrong?” His eyes flick back to the tv. “Holy shit! Holy fuck!” he says, because that’s Derek.
That’s Derek walking towards the couch on the screen; that’s Derek, their alpha, getting interviewed preparatory to getting fucked in gay porn.
“Oh my god,” Stiles says. “Oh my god, he’s going to kill us.”
Scott yelps and joins Stiles behind the sofa, but he’s squeezing his eyes shut while Stiles can’t tear his eyes away.
“—twenty,” Derek is saying, so this is what, four years ago, if that’s true.
“Not really,” Derek says, scratching lazily at his chest, “no, I haven’t ever been fucked,” and Stiles’ mouth goes dry and his cock goes suddenly, achingly hard.
“Dude!” Scott yells, diving back across the couch that’s separating him from one portion of the hell that Stiles’ quest for self-discovery has plunged him into. “Dude, stop!” He’s searching the sofa cushions for the remote. “Stop doing that, Stiles, stop doing that, I can smell—this isn’t happening, why is this happening—stop—where the fuck is the remote and why won’t this go away?”
And he takes the lead to the tv in his hands and snaps it in two so the screen goes dark just as the other participant appears.
“Oh,” Stiles says. “Good job. Good—“
Scott is staring at him, completely horrified.
“This never happened,” he says. “None of this ever happened.”
“Agreed,” Stiles says.
After a minute, Scott says, “Guess we know you’re gay, though.”
“Yeah,” Stiles says faintly. “Thanks, Derek.”
It’s late by the time Stiles makes it up to his bedroom, because even though Stiles told his dad it was Scott who broke the tv lead, tripping over it while he was trying to show Stiles this lindy-hop move Allison taught him, his dad still punished him for it, making him do the dishes by hand and clean the shower, and then worst of all, he forced Stiles to sit through a long lecture on the importance of responsibility, like Stiles couldn’t teach that class himself.
Not that this is very responsible, Stiles realises, freezing as he’s about to stick the disc into his computer, but then he realises he doesn’t actually care. He carefully angles the screen away from the door, and when the video player pops up he mutes it while he jumps forward through the first scene, trying to find Derek.
And there he is, pulling his black tshirt off, smiling out at Stiles.
Stiles has seen Derek shirtless before, but it was never anything like this, this is so different, a good, horrible kind of different. Stiles watches his mouth move, numbed by the cacophony clamouring inside; then two thoughts manage to make it through: one, that he can’t actually lip-read, and two, that he really wants to hear what Derek is saying.
He scrambles over to his bed to grab the headphones from his ipod, and when he finally manages to unmute Derek he’s saying, “—sure you would. I like that too.”
“What do you like, Brad?” the guy behind the camera asks.
“Same as everyone else,” Derek says.
“Hmm, yeah? Blowjobs?”
“No,” Derek says, grinning like he never does. “Not at all.”
“Well I don’t think that’s true,” the guy says, but Derek is distracted by the man sitting beside him on the couch, leaning into his space.
The man moves in to Derek’s neck, tries to bite at it, but Derek’s chin jerks down sharply. “Ticklish,” he says, and the man laughs, backing off, and when he rubs his hand over Derek’s cock through his jeans Derek lets his legs fall open.
“I don’t think Steve agrees with you either,” the guy says. “Do you, Steve?”
The man on the couch grins off to the side of the camera while he kneads Derek roughly and Derek’s eyes flutter—and Stiles thinks that’s probably an honest reaction, because Steve isn’t being very skilled, isn’t taking much care, but Stiles knows how strong Derek is, thinks he might like that.
“Hmm?” Derek asks, and the guy says, “You like blowjobs, right Brad?”
“Sure,” Derek says, “Who doesn’t?”
“You want Steve to give you a blowjob, Brad?” the guy says, voice low and caressing, like Derek is shy and needs to be talked into getting sucked off by a stranger in front of what’s probably a couple other guys and a camera.
Derek’s grin is wolfish. “I do,” he says, and his hands go to his jeans, but Steve tries to brush them away and the other guy hurriedly says, “Let Steve do it, let Steve take your clothes off, Brad,” voice turning teasing only at the end.
“You sound like Ghostface,” Stiles mutters uncharitably, and his eyes flick to his bedroom door, stay on it for a second to make sure the sound of his voice hasn’t attracted his dad somehow.
When he looks back at the screen, Steve is pulling Derek’s cock out.
“Oh, yeah,” Ghostface says. “You like that, huh?”
The look Derek throws Ghostface is a little like the look he sends Stiles when he thinks Stiles is too stupid to live but he doesn’t want to say that in front of Jackson, who is yet stupider.
“Yeah,” he says, and then Steve stops playing around with Derek’s thick, red cock and puts it in his mouth.
Stiles’ mouth falls open as he watches.
Steve is an older guy with a hard body getting soft around the edges and pleasant wrinkles around his eyes, probably twice Derek’s age back then, at least, but Derek seems comfortable with him, seems relaxed.
Stiles jumps when he feels his own hand touch his dick, and spreads his hands on either side of the keyboard, looking at them awkwardly, but then he needs to see Derek again.
He seems to be enjoying himself, hips giving contained little rocks towards Steve’s face, into his mouth. He’s moaning now and then, but Stiles thinks he’s doing it for Ghostface’s benefit, because Ghostface keeps saying, “Let me hear you, Brad, yeah, yeah, you’re so hot, you look so good, let me hear you,” or other stuff like it, and Derek is barely giving him what he wants.
“You’ve never been fucked, Brad?” Ghostface asks.
“No,” Derek says, brushing a hand over Steve’s close-cut graying hair. Steve pulls off to grin up at him lasciviously, and the saliva on Derek’s cock is shining under the studio lights.
Stiles scrambles to shove a chair under the handle of his door and when he’s back in front of the screen he gets his cock out and lets his hands rest on his own hot, hard skin, watching Derek speak silently to Steve before he puts his headphones back in.
“—you’d like it?” Ghostface is asking.
“I might,” Derek says, stretching his naked body out under Steve. Stiles watches the muscles in his thigh tense and tightens his hand on his cock, trying to hold off, just hold off for another little while, like that’s going to make this better, like it’s going to make any difference at all.
“I might like getting fucked,” Derek says, and Stiles closes his eyes and spurts precome all over his fingers. “But I don’t think I want to find out.”
Derek is smiling straight at Stiles when his eyes fly back open.
“De—Ste—Brad,” Ghostface says, as Steve lifts his head in surprise.
“Yeah,” Derek says, “I’m not really feeling it.”
“So I think I’m going to fuck Steve instead,” Derek says, smiling down at him, friendly and more open than Stiles has maybe ever seen him. “Okay, Steve?”
“Uh—“ Steve says, glancing towards Ghostface. “That isn’t—“
“You like it, right?” Derek asks. “I know you do.”
“No, but—“ Steve says. “I didn’t mean—“
There’s a weird silence, like some audio has been cut out, then Ghostface says, “This is what you want to do, Brad? Your first time on camera and you’re going to fuck Steve? It’s Steve’s first time getting fucked on camera too, right, Steve?”
“Uh,” Steve says, looking totally thrown, but then Derek wriggles out from under him and flips him effortlessly, even though Steve is actually kind of huge, taller and heavier than Derek; and when Steve is on his back on the couch, looking up at Derek in startlement, Derek steps between his legs like it’s his right and reaches between them, touches his ass.
Steve is moaning while Derek’s fingers move around, while Derek plays with his ass, and the camera zooms in on it while Ghostface says, “Yeah,” breathily, while Stiles shakes as he watches Derek’s fingers stroke over Steve’s exposed asshole.
“You like that Steve?” Ghostface asks, and Steve says, “Yeah,” high and jerkily, and then the camera cuts and when the scene comes back into focus Derek is already inside Steve, fucking him.
Stiles gasps out loud, cock pulsing helplessly in his hand, wondering what happened, what he missed, how Derek touched him to get him ready, how Derek worked him up to making those noises, whether Derek put the condom on himself or if Steve had to do it, Steve had to make him—Stiles doesn’t think Derek would like using a condom.
“You like that,” Derek says, sure, and Steve moans out, “Fuck, I love it,” and when Derek says, “You fucking love it, you’re such a fucking slut like this, you’re gorgeous,” Stiles comes all over himself.
“Shit,” Stiles says, yanking the buds out of his ears, and gross, now he’s going to have to disinfect those.
He grabs the box of tissues on the floor by his bed, and when he’s cleaned himself off he has to clean off his desk, which is disgusting, okay, and he dumps the tissues in the wastepaper basket and he’s thinking about going out to wash his hands when there’s a sound so loud he hears it through the headphones from halfway across the room, and then he’s back in his chair, watching Derek fuck and trying to get his earbuds back in.
Steve is making a steady stream of noise, reedy and lost, and Derek is slamming into him hard, deep, deep, deeper, and Stiles flinches in sympathy, but Steve just shouts.
“Yeah,” Derek says. “You’re going to fucking come, aren’t you? My cock’s going to make you come,” and that shouldn’t be sexy, but Steve is coming anyway, and Derek stops, looking undecided, looking between his cock and Steve’s face. And then he pulls out, pulls the condom off, holds Steve’s mouth open and jerks off above it, jerks off in its general direction, and poor Steve ends up with Derek’s come all over his face, in his eyelashes, sliding into his hair, but he seems to enjoy licking up the bits he can and then Derek reaches out to touch his face, gathers up more and pushes it into his mouth, and Stiles has to close his eyes so he doesn’t get hard again.
“Fuck,” Stiles says softly, and, “Fuck,” Steve sighs into his ears, happy and intimate.
Stiles listens to Derek speak to Steve, listens to the affectionate words, the affectionate sound of his voice, and Stiles knows he’s never seen that look on Derek’s face before, and he doesn’t want to, but the scene changes as he’s reaching out to stop the video, fading out on a lingering shot of Steve’s dirty, pleased face.
“Fuck!” Stiles says, loud.
And, “Stiles!” his dad grouches from across the hall, and Stiles curses quietly and gets up to take the chair away from the door, although he’d bet real money his dad knows exactly what just happened in here.
Like he needed a reason to feel worse.
God, next he’s going to be thinking about how this is going to be playing in his head the next time he sees Derek, the way his body flushes when he’s having sex, the way his face twists—fuck. Motherfuck.
He’s going to move to Los Angeles. He’s going to move to Alaska. He’s going to tell the pack he doesn’t believe in werewolves and thinks they all need psychiatric treatment, and Scott knows what’s happening here, Scott will back him up.
He’s going to call in dead to his life tomorrow, or maybe just jerk off until he dies of dehydration.
That would be a satisfying death, or at least more so than Derek tearing his throat out when he finds out about this.
Stiles goes to bed feeling frustrated and kind of turned on and weirdly unhappy, and when he thinks about it he thinks he should feel ashamed, knows he should feel ashamed, and he does, he does—or he would, if he could.
He still doesn’t feel ashamed the next day, and he can’t regret it either, but he feels really awkward about it, sitting in social studies, trying to listen to this will determine the entire course of your future! panicmongering while Scott keeps throwing him uncertain looks and then glancing away without saying anything.
He knows exactly what Stiles did, Stiles is sure of it.
Scott is as bad as his dad, except less embarrassing.
Anyway, Lydia is also present, and Stiles can get information on deadlines and the utmost importance of The Essay! from her later, which is fortunate, since the whole day is basically a wash. He doesn’t take much in, and anything he does he doesn’t retain; he spends most of his time trying to resist the encroaching fantasies about Derek’s ass, about Derek’s mouth moving around strings of words Stiles never thought he’d get to hear him say: you’re gorgeous and I might like getting fucked; and Stiles tries to stop remembering when he catches his mind lingering over the tone of Derek’s voice, trying to decide if it was real, if that was what he’d sound like, but he can’t.
He’s had worse days.
After the last bell, he stands in front of his locker trying to figure out if they were given any homework or if he has any tests on Monday, but while he can call up an image of Ms Robinson pointing to the words chapters 9-12 on her whiteboard, the audio his brain supplies is Derek saying you fucking love it, so he dumps his entire bookbag into his locker to keep until next week and turns around into Scott.
“I’ve had worse days,” Stiles tells him.
“You’ve had better, too,” Scott says. “I’ve definitely had better—“
“—but this can’t be my life.”
“Yeah, you need to do something about it,” Scott says. “Just not while I’m around. Wait until training’s over tonight and everyone else has left and do something about it then. And then never tell me.”
“I’m not doing something about it,” Stiles says.
“Do that! I mean, don’t!” Scott says enthusiastically, then, “Wait, have you seen yourself today?”
“It’s fine,” Stiles says. “It’ll be fine. I mean, Derek wouldn’t want to do anything about it anyway, so I’d just be telling him so he could laugh in my face and I could never look him in the eye again.” Scott opens his mouth, but, “No,” Stiles says. “Just no. If I ignore it it’ll go away.”
“I have no faith in your ability to make that happen,” Scott says, “having been present for the Great Lydia Martin Crush of oh-three til thirteen. Also, I’m telling Derek.”
“No you aren’t,” Stiles says, and Scott’s face falls.
“No, I’m not,” he says sadly.
“In theory, you could,” Stiles admits, “but you’re completely incapable of making things that uncomfortable for yourself. Never happen.”
Scott spends most of the walk to his car failing in his attempt at psychoanalysing himself, but Stiles spends it thinking about the ripple of Derek’s muscles as he strips his shirt off, so it’s a win for both of them.
Stiles means to go to training that night, he really does, but when he pulls up in front of Derek’s house all he can think about is how far Derek’s heightened senses extend, whether Derek can smell his presence from inside, whether Derek could smell that he’s half-hard, hear his heart starting to race, if he ever paid that much attention, if he could be bothered to find out that kind of thing about Stiles.
Stiles is pretty sure that Derek would definitely notice if Stiles walked inside and shoved it into his face, and he can’t picture Derek’s reaction, just the subtle change in his expression as he realised, the pity that would start to lurk, and the next thing Stiles knows he’s at the bottom of the road, on his way back home.
Stiles misses seven calls from Scott over the course of the evening, but he doesn’t really notice, because he’s busy spending his Friday night watching Derek have sex with other people.
He finds half a dozen videos of Derek fucking Steve. There’s more, but mostly it’s just Steve. Stiles watches them all despite himself, even when he runs out of videos of them fucking or sucking each other off and ends up watching the one where Derek just kisses Steve long and deep and then moves his restraining hand from Steve’s chest to his cock and spends ten minutes jerking him off on someone’s kitchen table.
He doesn’t know why he’s doing this to himself.
He goes back to the threesome in an attempt to cheer himself up, but it’s skincrawlingly weird watching Derek fuck someone while Steve watches like it’s his right. Steve doesn’t do much in that one; Derek doesn’t seem to like it when he tries.
Eventually, Stiles returns to the dvd, listens to Derek say, “I’d like to know what it’s like,” until the noise becomes meaningless and Stiles has to snap himself out of it so he can hear, “I might like getting fucked.” That’s his favourite, and he listens to it again and again and again, and he’d probably jerk off except he’s done it twice tonight already and he doesn’t think he’ll manage it again until he’s in bed.
He grabs his phone when it chimes, because he thinks he can probably read a text without Scott psychically divining exactly what’s going on in Stiles’ pants right now.
After all those missed calls, all Scott has to say is, I’m sorry. He sends a lonely sadface in a follow-up, and then another, he made it more uncomfortable not to, and Stiles drops the phone in a blind panic just as the wood of his windowframe shrieks as Derek forces his way inside.
The dvd is still playing, Derek’s voice turning into sex-noises that echo around Stiles’ bedroom while Derek stands by his bed, observing Stiles as he spends a frantic eternity wishing for death while trying to mute the volume or eject the dvd before pulling a Scott and going for the powercord.
“You missed pack,” Derek says into the emphatic silence, dry as dust.
“I did,” Stiles says. “I don’t know what Scott told you to get you to come over here, but I had other plans, my life doesn’t revolve around—“
“He said you two saw me having sex on camera yesterday and you were feeling strange about it.” Derek cuts his eyes towards the computer. “Clearly not that strange. Watching more?”
“No,” Stiles says. “Yes. Uh—“
“Is this going to be a problem?” Derek asks.
“No,” Stiles says. “I don’t have a problem with it, it’s just weird, that’s all. I wasn’t watching anything, I was just, uh, trying to acclimatise myself to this new world we’re living in. Exposure therapy, it works wonders.”
Stiles has to wet his lips before he can speak. “It looked like you were a couple,” he says abruptly, and although that isn’t what he meant to say it is the weirdest thing about this. “You and Steve.”
“Who?” Derek asks, and Stiles’ heart gives a little leap. “Oh, Ben? Yeah.”
“What?” Stiles asks, heart sinking into his stomach.
“We were. Before I had to come back.”
“You used to make gay porn with your boyfriend before you had to leave him because of your sister’s tragic death and ended up having to stay here because of family shit and you couldn’t go back to him because you had to take care of all of us instead?”
“Yeah,” Derek says. “Something like that. Not really.”
“What really?” Stiles asks.
“It wasn’t like you’re making it sound.”
“He wouldn’t come out here with you? He was too committed to his craft?” Stiles asks. “After putting all those years into honing his skills I suppose I can understand not wanting to let it all that effort and professionalism go to waste.”
Derek scowls at him, but he says, “It wasn’t like that. I didn’t ask him to come with me. I wouldn’t have.”
“I heard you ask him exactly that,” Stiles says crazily. “And he did.”
“I wouldn’t have asked him to come here,” Derek says. “We weren’t like that.”
“Oh,” Stiles says, and then, “What were you like?”
“I was bored,” Derek says. “I needed something to do and I enjoy having sex and I thought—I met him at work and I liked him. I was alone out there, and he was—he didn’t know anything about me but he was very understanding.”
“Because of all the kinky porn,” Stiles says knowledgably. “He thought your werewolf domination rituals were totally vanilla.”
“I don’t have werewolf domination rituals,” Derek says, irritated, and pauses before he says, “But yes. He didn’t see anything unusual.”
“And he didn’t want to come with you when you left?” Stiles asks, because he can’t ask if Derek wants to go back.
Derek shrugs. “He might have. I didn’t ask him to. I never told him anything.”
“Did you want to?”
“No,” Derek says.
“Really,” Stiles says disbelievingly. “You got into porn for kicks, to alleviate the boredom and meet-cute guys who’d put up with your freakiness and think you were a furry or something, and then you kept doing it because your boyfriend was into it.”
“He wasn’t—“ Derek says, before he stops himself short. “I didn’t need it, but it was his job, and we were never permanent.”
“Oh,” Stiles says.
“Why do you care?” Derek asks.
“I don’t,” Stiles says, but his voice slides to a squeak.
“Really,” Derek says, raising his eyebrows. “I would’ve said differently, with how much you’ve come all over yourself while watching me fuck my ex tonight.”
“I didn’t—“ Stiles says, but there’s no way to deny it.
“I can smell it all over you,” Derek says, stepping closer. “You wiped yourself off and washed your hands, but if I licked your skin I would taste it.”
Stiles’ eyes widen. “Are you—?” he asks ridiculously.
“I would,” Derek repeats, and Stiles can’t tell if that’s an answer.
“Look,” Stiles says shakily, “I’m not trying to make this any weirder than it already is. I’m not doing anything, I’m just—“
“No,” Derek interrupts, “you never do.”
“Never do what?” Stiles asks.
“You never do anything,” Derek says, and then Stiles has to watch Derek take a seat on Stiles’ messy bed while Stiles sits frozen in his desk chair. “Do you really think I’ve never noticed?”
“Never noticed what?” Stiles isn’t sure he wants to know.
“How much you want me to fuck you,” Derek says, and Stiles tries not to choke on his own spit, which shouldn’t be physically possible since his mouth is drier than the Sahara. “You smell like sex every time you’re around me.”
“That would be rude,” Derek says. “And Lydia thinks it’s her. But she’ll figure it out eventually, and you better hope you figure it out first, though I don’t think you’re actually capable of doing that.”
“Anything,” Derek says, leaning back on Stiles’ bed, weight on the heels of his hands. “You stink of arousal all the time, and your eyes get dark every time we’re alone and I get close to you, and I can make your heart skip by touching you. I do that on purpose sometimes.”
Derek’s ankle glances against Stiles’ knee, and Stiles desperately tries not to let that happen and fails. “You never do anything about it, though. You’ve been licking your lips constantly since I got here and you’re breathing too fast, but you’re not—“
“I ran out of lipbalm—“ Stiles interjects as Derek finishes, “—going to admit it.”
They stare at each other across Stiles’ bedroom, which feels really small right now, even if Stiles thinks he might be too far away from Derek, even if he thinks Derek might actually want him closer.
“That’s what you want, right?” Derek says when Stiles remains silent. “What you were watching. I could hear you down the street.”
Stiles blanches, he’s pretty sure, so he jerks upright like a marionette, hoping any movement will be enough to distract Derek, any sign that Stiles is going to do something, but Derek’s eyes are lighting up in realisation.
“Oh, it wasn’t seeing me fuck Ben, was it? It was just what I said.”
“I don’t—“ Stiles says, terrified, and he knows his heart is pounding and his cock is straining and he’d come if Derek brushed against him again and Derek knows it, knows it all, and Stiles knows that everything Derek has been saying about him is true.
“That I’d like getting fucked,” Derek says slowly.
“That you might,” Stiles’ mouth says without his permission, and Derek’s lips curl into a smile that shows his teeth.
Stiles doesn’t think he’s ever seen Derek’s teeth when he wasn’t snarling.
“That I might like it,” he says, delighted, and his body relaxes into a sprawl on Stiles’ bed, louche and wanton as he smiles up at Stiles.
“I might,” he says, lazily getting to his feet before Stiles can decide what he’s going to do about any of this.
“I can’t just—“ Stiles says, and he hates that he can hear the tremor in his voice, hates that he knows how much more Derek can hear.
“Yeah,” Derek says regretfully. “You’re too much of a pussy to find out.”
Derek climbs back out the window while Stiles is trying to decide if he’s going to let himself be double-dog-dared into making a move, and Stiles lets him go, proves him right.
He waits a few minutes until he gets into bed and quickly comes all over the sheets Derek lay on, but he feels like Derek knows anyway.
Stiles avoids Derek for a while after that, and Derek lets him, but after a few days things feel weird and distant, and Lydia is scowling suspiciously whenever she sees him and Scott is developing this constant sympathetic squint that makes him look mildly inbred, so Stiles mans up and talks to Derek.
He sends: need to see you, come over in an hour, curses stupid predictive and himself for using it and sends, coming.
Then he dicks around getting ready, because he gave himself time to get over to Derek’s so he could beat his nerves into submission, but when he finds himself wondering if he could maybe swing by the Argents’ instead, tell them about that thing with Allison and the blood and give everybody something else to concentrate on he decides it’s time to go and grabs his carkeys just as Derek comes through his window.
Stiles is mostly inured to Derek’s sudden appearances by now, so he just drops his keys and says, “Dude, what are you doing here?”
“You said to come over,” Derek says. “Why would I wait an hour to come over if you were coming without me right now?”
“Nnnh,” Stiles says. “Not what—never mind.”
“You haven’t been, though,” Derek says, raking his eyes over Stiles.
“Stop smelling me,” Stiles says, and Derek doesn’t even look guilty. “We need to talk, and I can’t do it if you’re going to—“
“I’m not doing anything,” Derek says, but he’s slouched on Stiles’ windowsill, looking at Stiles with darkening eyes and strong, curling hands and his body under his clothes and his stupid face, and that’s totally doing something.
Stiles opens his mouth to start this out right, say something cool and assertive about Derek’s presumption, but, “I thought you didn’t notice,” Stiles says in a small voice. “I thought you didn’t—“
“I know,” Derek says.
“But you do,” Stiles says, and if he still feels like he has to doublecheck, well, that’s between him and his ego.
Derek shifts slightly and looks towards Stiles’ bed, which is a bad idea, a really bad idea, because they need to talk, need to get this worked out, but Stiles is watching lazy lust creep across Derek’s face and saying, “That’s what you want? Okay.”
Derek looks up at him, startled. “What makes you think you know what I want?” he asks.
Stiles isn’t going to argue about it because he isn’t going to allow the possibility of losing. “You should take your clothes off,” he says, and adds, kindly, “Or did you want me to do it for you?”
And Derek is glaring at him, but it doesn’t matter, because he’s taking his shirt off too. He’s pulling it off in a deliberately provocative manner, not like Stiles has seen before, when he was asking Stiles to cut his arm off, when Jackson had soaked him down with the hose, short, practical motions; this teasing movement reminds Stiles of how Derek was in the video with Steve—Ben, but it’s so much better, because Derek is smiling at Stiles now, knows he’s here. He’s doing this for Stiles.
That does rock Stiles off balance a little bit, the thought of it, but Derek is waiting, whole body deceptively loose and relaxed apart from the fist he has clenched around his discarded shirt, the tension in his face he can’t hide.
“That’s good,” Stiles says, walking towards Derek, on the wrong end of the fishing hook. “That’s nice. You should—“ But his palms are on Derek’s chest and he’s reaching up to kiss Derek, wet and breathless and out of control, and it’s only when he feels Derek’s hands on his elbows, feels this slipping out of his grasp, that he puts his hands on Derek’s waist and tugs him over to the bed so he can send him sprawling, and Derek goes easy as anything, panting as he stares up at Stiles, face dark and wild.
“It isn’t fair,” Stiles murmurs as he strips out of his own clothes, heedless of the fact that this is the first time he’s ever been seen by another person like this, more important things to think about laid right out in front of him. “You can’t expect me to be like this, to know what—“
“Why not?” Derek asks, frayed. “Why shouldn’t I expect it? And you’re giving it to me—“
“Yeah,” Stiles says, coming down hard on Derek’s body because he knows how much weight Derek can take, and Derek’s legs just spread around him and hold him there. “I wanted this the first time I saw you on that couch with Ben, the first time you said you’d want it, you’d like it and I thought I was going to have to watch him fuck you right then—“ Maybe they can talk while they’re fucking; maybe that would work out better for them anyway. “—and I wanted to, I was so jealous but I wanted to see him do it because—“
Derek’s head is tilted back, throat bared, and Stiles puts his teeth in it because he has to. Derek’s entire body jumps, a cut-off noise of pleasure coming from his mouth, and Stiles can feel Derek hard against him, so he puts his hand on Derek’s cock through denim, rubs roughly through the heavy material and Derek moans.
“Off,” Stiles says desperately. “Get them off.” And he hardly has attention to spare for Derek’s skin as he peels his jeans away from it, cock red and slick and painful-looking, gorgeous, because Derek is doing it because Stiles asked.
“Yeah,” Stiles says, shaking hands on Derek’s flesh, too tight around his cock, but Derek is fucking up, wanting more, because that’s what he likes, not even approaching what he can take. “I wanted this before I saw any of that, but that was when I thought maybe I could have it, maybe you’d—“
“Yeah,” Derek slurs.
“—but I never actually thought I could,” Stiles finishes, pulling his fist off Derek when Derek’s eyes quiver underneath closed lids. “I never thought you would.”
Derek’s eyes are hazy and unfocussed when he opens them, drugged-looking. “Come on,” he says, with difficulty. “Fucking—“
“Yeah,” Stiles says, “okay.”
He tries to shoulder one of Derek’s legs, then drops it off to the side, wide, wide open for him, and he thinks about all that he could do, all that he wants to do, as he looks at Derek’s exposed pink skin, tiny shadowed little hole he’s going to fuck.
“I’ve never done this before,” he tells Derek, sucking on his own fingers and trying to remember where he threw the lotion the last time he used it.
“Yeah,” Derek agrees mindlessly.
Stiles rubs his wet fingers over Derek’s hole.
“Ah!” Derek says, body rippling, mouth dropping open and staying that way.
“But you like it, right?”
“Mmm,” Derek says. “Like it.”
Stiles cautiously pushes his finger inside Derek, into the warm, tight, clinging place, just a little, and Derek bucks, shoves his pelvis down towards Stiles’ hand, and Stiles blankly remembers, oh, yeah, and works another finger quickly inside, all the way inside, twists rough so he can shove a third in deep too.
Derek’s body is arched off the bed. Stiles watches his cock drip all over the place, getting everything messy already.
“Are you always like this?” he asks, “Are you always this easy?” and Derek makes a hurt sound, but he isn’t hurt, he isn’t, even though his face looks agonised.
“Did you miss this?” he asks quietly, watching Derek tremble as he works his fingers as deep as he can, palm grinding against Derek’s ass, and he thinks Derek probably doesn’t even want the lotion, would like it better without, but he’ll try and find it when Stiles asks. “Do you do this to yourself?”
“No,” Derek says, hips moving in helpless little rolls towards Stiles.
“No?” Stiles asks with a grin that’s almost amused. “But you like it so fucking much, I can see, it’s so obvious, you’re so fucking obvious, Derek. You don’t touch yourself like this in bed and wish you’d brought Ben with you?”
“No,” Derek chokes out. “Ben didn’t—Ben liked getting fucked, we didn’t—“
Stiles shouldn’t be getting off on hearing Derek talk about what his ex liked in bed while Stiles is fingering him, and he isn’t, really, except that he totally is.
“We didn’t do this.”
“Oh,” Stiles croons, and he’s really going to have to fuck Derek soon, or he’s just going to go off all over Derek’s cock and balls and ass and thighs, and that’s a nice thought too, but it would be a waste of all this build-up. Next time, Stiles thinks, and his dick drools a little, thinking of coming white all over Derek’s skin, getting him all dirty. “That’s a shame,” Stiles says, struggling for the words, one hand in Derek’s ass, one petting his own cock for a second, almost more than he can take. “You love this so much.”
“Yeah,” Derek gasps, tightening around Stiles’ fingers.
“How long has it been since you’ve done this? Did Ben just do it once, or would he do it for you sometimes because you wanted it so much?”
“No,” Derek says. “We never did this.”
“Oh,” Stiles says, and his hand curls inside Derek, and Derek bites off a wail as his cock jerks and his body spreads, begging for more.
“But I like it so far,” Derek pants.
“That is a tragedy,” Stiles says, and he means it, apart from how he really doesn’t, because it means he gets to be the one to do this, the only one to do this, to turn Derek into this—this—
Animal. A mindless animal, skewered and trapped and wanting more, whining for it.
“Come on,” Derek says, hand on Stiles’, slapping at it, trying to shove it further inside, and he makes a pained noise when Stiles pulls it out.
“Come on,” Stiles is the one saying now, searching his bed, tumbling onto the floor in his quest for his half-empty masturbation aid, because if he can’t even stand jerking off without some slick there’s no way he’d be able to withstand Derek without it, ass so tight and eager.
He finds it in the corner under his desk and he’s back on Derek before he even realises he has it in his hand.
“Stiles,” Derek says. “Stiles.”
“Yeah, just—“ Stiles says, “—just a second.”
He rubs a dripping hand perfunctorily over his cock, nothing more than he needs, and then he’s butting up against Derek’s ass, Derek’s legs strained wide, pelvis arched up to meet him, and then he’s sliding in rough and deep and good.
Derek is moaning, hands trying to pull at Stiles’ hair, mostly just ending up clenched around his skull.
“Yeah?” Stiles asks, “You like that?” and his fingers curl into Derek’s shoulders in embarrassment, because he sounds like Ghostface, but, “I love it,” Derek answers. “I fucking love your cock in me like that, just the way I want it, just—just fuck me already, fuck!”
And Stiles does, before he can think about it, hips snapping hard into Derek, both of them moaning, though Stiles’ sounds high and reedy as he desperately tries to hang on.
“Fuuuuck,” Derek moans. “Like that, yeah.”
Stiles can feel Derek’s ass against his hipbones, and then Derek coils his legs around Stiles’ hips so he can pull him in harder.
“Fuck,” Stiles gasps. “Fuck.”
He’s just slamming into Derek, too hard, too much for anyone else, but Derek’s heels are in Stiles’ ass and he’s moaning and moaning and moaning for more, and Stiles gives it to him, can’t do anything else.
“Yeah,” Derek grits out through sexnoises that are better in real life, so much better when they’re meant for Stiles, when Stiles is the one making him make them, “just like that, babe, you want it just like that, you want me to come because you’re fucking me, because your cock is inside me, and you’re going to come, I can smell it—“
“Come,” Stiles begs, body lost to its pleasure, racing beyond his control, too fast, almost beyond his ability to keep up or understand what it is he’s feeling.
“Yeah,” Derek says. “You think it’s too soon, but—“
And then Derek grunts like he’s been hit in the back of the head, a sound Stiles is unfortunately familiar with, and he bites down hard on Stiles’ shoulder and his ass squeezes around Stiles, and he’s writhing on Stiles’ cock while he comes between them, but Stiles barely notices, because he’s spilling inside Derek, long and deep and helpless.
It takes a while for Stiles to be able to move, longer for him to be able to pull his cock out of Derek, feeling an ache in his abused flesh that Derek probably isn’t physically capable of even though he was the one who’d—
Stiles gets distracted by the sight of his come slipping out of Derek’s ass, sliding down his skin, down to pool on Stiles’ wet sheets.
When Stiles looks away, Derek is watching him, and when Stiles meets his eyes he closes his legs.
Stiles thinks he’s hiding a smirk.
“Christ,” Stiles says, breathlessly happy. “You’re so fucking filthy.”
“Mm,” Derek grunts, touching a finger to the drying come all over his skin and swiping it on Stiles’ arm.
“Gross,” Stiles says, wrinkling his nose, and Derek laughs, which is reassuring enough that Stiles feels he can tentatively settle down next to Derek in his own bed.
“I’m kind of tired,” he says, blinking to stay awake.
“Mm,” Derek says again.
“It’s so comforting that you revert to caveman after you come,” Stiles says chattily. “You have a filthy fucking mouth when you’re getting fucked.”
“Mm,” Derek says, curling towards Stiles, chin settling on the teethmarks on Stiles’ shoulder.
“That’s going to bruise,” Stiles says, annoyed.
“That was the idea,” Derek says sleepily.
“You couldn’t have asked?”
“You never asked for a condom,” Derek says, throwing his leg over Stiles’ thighs, and Stiles is pretty sure more of his own come is going to dribble out onto him during the night. He’s too tired to get turned on again, but it’s a nice thought. “Humans always do. Ben always did.”
“Okay,” Stiles says, glad that he’s also too tired to be unsettled by that, to try and figure out what it means. “You can stop talking about your boyfriend, I don’t like it anymore.”
“Ex,” Derek says, nudging his head in under Stiles’ chin.
“Yeah,” Stiles sighs, “okay,” and when Derek kisses the bruise coming up on his shoulder he just sighs again.
“You’re tired,” Derek says, “go to sleep.”
“I know I’m tired,” Stiles says grumpily. “I don’t need you to tell me. And also, you’re not ever recording this. My dad knows how to use the internet.”
“Why is your dad searching for gay porn?”
“Because I’m starring in it,” Stiles says nonsensically, and Derek rumbles a laugh out into his skin.
And maybe Stiles hasn’t managed to get any of this figured out tonight, maybe he’s just given them more to wrangle over tomorrow, but he doesn’t mind arguing it out, he realises, as Derek’s fingers curl over the curve of his hip and pull him in closer as he slides recklessly into sleep. He’s pretty sure Derek isn’t going to let him lose.