Work Header

A Craze You'd Endorse

Work Text:

No one single thing gets Stiles so horny that afternoon. A few of the contributing factors include: being a 16-year-old guy, Lydia reapplying her lip gloss with deliberate, pornographic precision during lunch, being a 16-year-old guy, overhearing some dude in the locker room after gym class talking about how he finally got his girlfriend to lick his balls during blow jobs, being a 16-year-old guy, the worrying new shimmy in the Jeep's suspension that leads to the seat vibrating against his ass, and, of course, being a 16-year-old guy.

As the final bell approaches, he watches the second hand jerk toward 12 and prays that no wolf or Scott's-frigging-love-life-related drama will pop up in the final moments of the day and -- miracle of freaking miracles -- he actually manages to escape Beacon Hill High without risk to his life, limb, or lunch. Scott snuck out early with Allison, probably off to enjoy partnered sexual activities, and neither Derek nor any of his Derekettes show up to smack him around, demand help, or otherwise cockblock his right hand.

Dad isn't going to get home until after 7pm, so the way Stiles figures it, he can get one quick utilitarian orgasm to keep his brain from drowning in backed up come, then settle in for a nice, long, extended jerk off session, complete with lube (well, hand lotion at least), maybe a little quality time with his butt area, and some elaborate fantasy scenarios involving Lydia and Allison licking each other's breasts. Or the one where Danny finally gets annoyed at all the questions about whether gay guys find Stiles attractive and pushes Stiles down to his knees. Or the one where Derek, Issac and Boyd tie him up and make him watch while they take turns with Erica. Or even the really twisted one from that dream last night where Derek wolfs out and catches Stiles and instead of ripping his throat out, rips his pants off and.... then he woke up on his belly, tangled sheets binding his legs, heart pounding in his chest and a dick so hard it took about three thrusts before he was squirting into his sheets and humping the slick mess through the last of the aftershocks.

Stiles pulls up to a stop light and throws the jeep into park before grinding the heel of his hand against his boner. He seriously considers unzipping, but wrestling it back into this pants might be an issue, and this time of day, Mrs. Mancuso next door is usually out poking around in her garden. While he could just hold his bookbag in front of his crotch all the way to his front door, he decides to keep the beast in its cage and settle for another couple squeezes before the light turns green.

Finally, *finally* he gets home, no Mrs. Mancuso, and by the time his front door slams behind him, he has his jeans undone. Shoving them down as he runs up the stairs isn't his brightest move ever, because on the final few steps he trips and tumbles onto the carpeted hallway floor, getting rug burn on his knee. He takes advantage of his position, though, rolling to his back, kicking his sneakers then jeans off, then scrambling to his feet and heading into his dark room.

His shades are still down, so after driving home in the bright afternoon sunlight, he can barely see, but he can make out the fact that his mattress is still bare, sheets in a wad on the floor at the foot of his bed from when he hastily stripped it that morning. Stiles shoves off his shorts before flopping down onto the bed and rolling to his back, not even bothering to scoot up. One leg dangles off the side, toes skimming the floor. The other he bends, heel catching on the edge of the mattress, the better to thrust up into his fist. And then oh...

Oh it is so fucking good to take his poor, lonely, swollen, throbbing cock into his hand and just tug. He doesn't even bother to spit in his palm, just jerks rough and fast, cupping and twisting the head with his free hand, feeling the smear of pre-come on his palm and groaning at the too-sensitive spike of sensation. He can totally smell himself, and he wonders for a moment if it's this, or the nasty sheets from this morning. After another twist of his palm, he brings that hand to his face and draws in a long, dizzyingly sex-scented breath.

It's then that he hears it, a hiss from behind him. His first thought is that it's the Kanima, here to paralyze him then do something horrible to him. His next emotion isn't fear so much as humiliation and sadness that his dad won't just find his body, he'll find his body with no pants. His next is that while the Kanima has never shown up in his room unannounced, someone else has, and ... no. No, no, no.

The room remains silent, and Stiles wants to tell himself that he's just imagining things, that he should just keep going, but then he hears another barely there noise, like the shifting of a leather jacket, and...goddamnit. He sits up abruptly and twists around.

There, in the corner of his room, stands Derek freaking Hale, scowling away with his arms crossed over his chest.

"You have *got* to be kidding me," Stiles says.

Derek keeps right on scowling.

"How long were you planning on-- no, scratch that. I don't wanna know. Why are you even--no. Wait. You know what? Whatever it is could obviously wait long enough for you to lurk there while I did my thing, so you can just," he makes a shooing motion toward the door.

Derek (and his glare) remain motionless for the space of three or so of Stiles' admittedly shaky breaths because okay, fine, he's still a little jittery from his perfectly normal startle response. Then, Derek's gaze flicks down to Stiles' lap, lingers there for another couple breaths, then rolls away toward the ceiling.

"This is my room!" Stiles shouts.

Derek makes a long-suffering scoff, like *he* is the one being put out and no, oh no no no, he does not get to act like that.

"You know what? Fine. You wanna lurk around a teenage boy's room, you get what you deserve."

"Get dressed, we need to talk."

Stiles opens his mouth to complain, to argue, to curse Derek out, but no, he decides. No, fuck that noise. Instead, he glares right back at Derek as he climbs up the bed, and if Stiles didn't know better, he'd say Derek draws back in fear. He doesn't really move, but his posture shifts, and it's about then that Stiles realizes he's on his hands and knees -- pantsless -- so he continues with his brilliant plan to flop back down to his bed, head on the pillows.

"What are you doing?" Derek all but growls.

"Finishing what I started. Go make yourself a sandwich," he says, closing his eyes and grabbing his dick. "Or lick your balls or whatever while I finish jerking off *in my own freaking room*." He opens his eyes and pauses his strokes. "Wait, can you actually lick your own balls?"

"Get dressed right now," Derek commands, in a voice that perks up the hairs on the back of Stiles neck, and on his arms.

Stiles doesn't respond. Instead, he starts stroking again, slowly this time. It's hard, er, difficult, but at this point, even though a good portion of him is screaming *what are you DOING?*, a larger portion is reminding him of all the normal things in his life that he's missed out on ever since stupid freaking werewolves arrived in it. He's a 16-year-old guy. He has a *right* to jerk off.

"I won't ask you again." The creak of Derek's leather jacket says he's moving now.

Stiles rolls his head from side to side, then tips it back and takes a peek at Derek, who now has both his arms by his sides, palms pressed against the wall. Stiles cracks his lids to see a flash of red in Derek's eyes, and the automatic twitch of fear that always gives (no matter how much Stiles usually motormouths through it) hooks up with the pressure in his balls and belly, and he has to squeeze his dick to stop from coming. After clearing his throat, he says, "Well I'm not getting dressed until this is taken care of, so you're just gonna have to deal." He tacks on a bitchy little, "Hmmph," for good measure, then turns his face back toward the ceiling.

Not three strokes later, there's the noise of motion behind him, and he lets out a breath because he thinks that finally, *finally* Derek is taking a hint and leaving him to do what nature intended. Then, the mattress dips beside him and whoa. He sits up on his elbows and gapes, open-mouthed, at the fact that Derek is crawling across the bed toward him. "What the--"

He doesn't get a chance to finish the sentence because Derek places his curved hand on Stiles' chest, claws pricking Stiles' skin through his shirt. With the gentlest of pressure, he pushes Stiles down to his back. Stiles feels his erection bob and leak and he instinctively reaches for it, but Derek catches his wrist and clamps it down to the mattress.

With the hand that remains over Stiles' heart, Derek traces a slow, five point trail down over the shallow, rapid rise and fall of Stiles' chest, then further, past where his shirt has rucked up, and he doesn't think Derek's breaking the skin, but he holds his breath anyway. The claws pause over the soft flesh of his belly, and one nail tap, tap, taps in Stiles' belly button. He thinks about how Scott's claws can gouge metal, and how with a twitch of a hand, he could be in his own personal intestine party, a la Nightmare on Elm Street. But he also knows that if Derek were going to gut him, it would have happened ages ago, so he says, voice cracking, "Is this supposed to scare me?"

Derek's fang-laden grin makes Stiles' heart skip a beat or four. Then Derek shakes his head slowly.

"Is this supposed toooaaaaahhhh!" Stiles forgets what he was going to snark because Derek's claws are on the move again, down through the trail of hair that widens out into pubes. His wrist brushes the head of Stiles' cock and Stiles grits his teeth because he is not going to come all over Derek, he's really, really not, only then he's whimpering because yeah, he's gonna, his hips jerk up, and oh holy Christ, Derek's hand clamps around the base, tight as a vice, and he wants to say 'please don't rip my dick off', but then he's coming, or at least he's trying to, but Derek chokes off the exit and *fuck*, as his cock twitches uselessly in Derek's grip it kind of hurts, kind of feels wrong, and makes his whole body shiver in a way that is decidedly neither.

When it (not an orgasm exactly, but not anything he can describe either) passes, he becomes aware of a sharp prick at the tip of his cock, just below the hole and oh God, that is a claw. He looks down and sees Derek's fingers around his shaft, feels the grip easing, but his thumb - his thumb CLAW - presses against the underside of Stiles' dark pink erection. Derek's looming over him now and in the dark room, his eyes glow like coals. "Oh, oh-okay. Okay. Y-you win."

When Derek says, "You smell like a virgin," his voice rumbles through Stiles like a passing Harley.

"Like you need wolfy senses for that. People in Russia can tell I'm a virgin. You got a p-point?"

"A point?" Derek taps his claw tip against the head of Stiles' cock a few times, and Stiles' flinches each time, no matter how much he tries to stay very, very still. "Nah," Derek says.

"I'm sure at my age, you were banging all the bitches in Beacon Hill." Then, for alliteration's sake, he adds, "Bub."

Derek frowns, and then all at once, he's letting go of Stiles' dick and his wrist and sitting back on his heels. "At your age," he says, voice sliding back into a normal human tone, one tinged with regret. "Someone was using sex to control me."

Stiles lets out a shaky breath. "Better that than using it to try to scare the piss out of me. What the hell, Derek?"

Derek's frown softens, and he gives Stiles an appraising look. One that's almost scarier than his glowy eyes of doom. "You should be pissing yourself. I've seen grown men do it for far less."

"Yeah," Stiles says, giving his rock hard dick a playful swat, "Well, can't exactly do that when I'm like this, can I?"

"You can run your mouth, though," Derek says, sounding exasperated

"I can't not," Stiles says. Then, after a deep breath, he says, "Look, just give me my pants and we can talk about whatever it is that's so important you had to creep into my room like a great...big...why are you...what are you?" But it's pretty obvious. Derek is unbuckling his belt and digging a (oh look, clawless) hand down his underwear and pulling out his cock. "Ohmigod," Stiles squeaks, "Look, I'm fine being a virgin, okay? Love it! And I mean what if unicorns show up, right? They could be real, and then you'd need..."

But Derek isn't making a move toward Stiles. he's just kneeling there, tugging on his own half-hard cock.

"What are you *doing*?" Stiles squeaks.

"Relieving tension," Derek says casually. After a shrug, he adds, "C'mon. Time to finish up. I need your head in the game."

Stiles gapes at him.

"And close that mouth, unless you want something in it." Derek then groans, as if the idea of putting something in Stiles mouth does something for him.

Stiles snaps his mouth shut and bites his lips together, but the thought of it brings his ever so slightly flagging erection raging back to life. Derek's nostrils flare as he takes a deep sniff and Stiles freezes with way too many thoughts and possibilities and whatthefucknesses at once.

"I'm going to count to three," Derek says, voice developing a ragged edge. "And if you're not finishing yourself off by then--"

"You'll what?" Stiles' fingers curl against his mattress, sheer obstinance keeping him from giving himself the one and half strokes he'd need to blow his load.

"One," Derek says as his hand speeds up.

"Whatcha gonna do, huh?"

"Two." His free hand lands on Stiles' knee, perfectly human fingernails digging in for a moment, then he smacks the inside of Stiles' other thigh, hard.

Stiles finds himself spreading his legs, and oh God, oh God, you're crazy, he tells himself, what is wrong with you, but instead of taking hold of his dick, he slowly puts both hands behind his head, looks Derek in the eye, and says, "Three."

Derek growls, grabbing both Stiles' knees, shoving them apart and up to his chest, and then fuckfuckohfuck, Derek's face is between his legs, stubble scraping Stiles *everywhere* as he nuzzles roughly all over Stiles' crotch, his painfully tight balls, then heated breath, then oh, oh Jesus, his tongue. Derek's slippery hot *tongue* rubbing at Stiles' asshole. Not once but over and over and Stiles knows he's making noises but he can't hear them over the rush of blood in his ears.

Stiles clenches up and tries to twist away, but there are claws against his thighs and a rumbling growl he can feel in his *ass* and oh, it's so wet and so weird and so much better than he ever imagined. Derek slows, dragging longer licks over him, stopping every few to wriggle and press at the tight pucker, up, then down, then up again, over the tight skin of his balls and Stiles can't help it, he whimpers.

Derek looks up at him with human eyes. "You can tell me to stop," he says, voice hoarse.

Would you, though? Stiles thinks.

"I would," Derek adds.

"I don't--" Stiles bites at his lip. "I don't want you to fuck me, okay."

"I'm not going to put my cock in you today, Stiles." He's drawing a circle on the back of one of Stiles' thighs with the pad of his thumb. "So do you want me to stop? Hmm?"

Stiles shakes his head.

"No one has ever touched you like this, have they?" Derek asks, nuzzling Stiles' thighs again, sounding all fucking smug and pleased with himself.

"No one's even kissed me," Stiles says, "so yeah, the whole rimming thing is..." he trails off because Derek's head shoots up.

He stares like Stiles just said something unbelievable, then he lowers his forehead to Stiles' leg. After a few moments he lifts his head and fixes Stiles with an unreadable look. "Would you like it if I kissed you, Stiles?"

"I don't know."

"Would you like to find out?"


Derek's climbs up, pushing Stiles' legs down and kneeling between them, then dragging his sandpaper cheek over Stiles' neck hard enough that Stiles knows he'll be red there tomorrow.


Derek's mouth opens against his neck, and there's the scrape of teeth, human teeth, and the heat of a tongue that was just in his *ass*, but Stiles doesn't have time to think about that because that's Derek's hard on against his and Stiles' hips automatically rut up against the pressure. Derek's mouth is on his ear now, gently taunting as he says, "Poor Stiles, never been kissed. You want that fixed?"

"Yes!" Stiles scrabbles at Derek's arms and grabs for his head, but Derek's already moving, covering Stiles' mouth with his own and its so *wet* and hot, then his tongue is touching Derek's and he gasps around it, his whole body arching off the bed as Derek plants a soft, sucking kiss on his lower lip, then the corner of his mouth, then licks his way in with the same slow laps he used on Stiles' ass as he rocks his hips and then the hot slide of cock against tight, hard cock, that's it, that's about ten steps past it. Stiles comes helplessly, shaking and moaning beneath Derek as he continues to grind against the sloppy mess.

Derek waits until Stiles has stopped shooting and gets up on his knees, drags a palm through the jizz, then brings it up to his face and inhales sharply. Stiles would gasp if he weren't already panting like he'd just run a dozen suicides. Then, Derek wraps his come-laden hand around his own cock and leans forward, one hand planted on the pillow beside Stiles' head as he jerks himself fast and hard. "Keep your mouth open," Derek says. It's not a growl, but a soft plea.

Stiles does as he's told, not like he could shut his mouth right now to save his life anyway, and a couple seconds later, Derek is laying down stripe after warm wet stripe of come on Stiles' face. It should feel disgusting. He should want to shove Derek away and say what the fuck, but he doesn't. Instead, he just lies there, watching Derek's fist jerk to a stop, flushed cockhead disappearing, then poking out again to dribble over his knuckles a few more times before Derek lets go and plants his wet hand on the other side of Stiles' head. After a shaky breath, his eyes flutter open, then go wide as he takes in the mess he made.

For once, Stiles has no idea what to say. He has no idea what to think, and any thoughts that sprout in his head fade in light of the fact that Derek's come is on his tongue. It's slippery and slightly bitter as he presses it to the roof of his mouth, then swallows and smacks his lips. He can still taste it as he feels a wet slide down his cheek. He can't begin to form a sentence, all the words have gone bye-bye, but he can meet Derek's wary gaze. He can search for a clue as to what the hell just happened. He doesn't find one.

But that's okay because then Derek's lowering his mouth to Stiles' mouth, so Stiles closes his eyes and parts his lips, and is rewarded with a long lick from his chin, all the way to his nostrils. He snorts. Derek does it again and again, this time on each of Stiles' cheeks, then his temple, the side his neck, and the front of his shirt, and oh my God, Derek's licking up his come.

Then he's going lower, pressing his face to Stiles' stomach, and Stiles has to laugh because that tickles, then it doesn't, because Derek is efficiently swiping his tongue across Stiles' balls, his hip, and then for one brief, heavenly moment, Derek's got Stiles' half hard cock in his mouth, sucking and swiping, and coming back off with the pop before he flops down to the bed beside Stiles and lets out a long sigh.

"Ohhhh-kay," Stiles says, turning his head to look at Derek after a minute. "That was...."

"Wildly inappropriate."

"I was gonna say *awesome*, but yeah. That too."

"I'm sorry," Derek says, and holy crap, he actually sounds guilty.

"What? I mean, I'd ask if I was that bad, but all I really had to do was sit there and let you have your fairly nasty porno way with me, so I say again, what?"

"You're too young to know better. I'm not." He growls and smacks at the mattress.

"Do *not* shred my mattress, man. I'm a teenager. I can explain the jizzapalooza, well, actually, by this point I don't really have to explain, not that I ever did, thank God, I mean, my dad and I have a pretty good don't ask don't tell thing going when it comes to my crusty sock collection and urge to wash my own sheets, but--"

Derek props himself up on one elbow and presses a finger to Stiles' lips. "Shut up. I need to think."

"What is there to think about?" he says against Derek's finger.

"How we're going to keep Scott and my pack from smelling me all over you."

"It's called a shower, dude."

"You're all over my clothes."

"It's called a washing machine." He crawls to the edge of the bed and after lightheaded moment, he pushes himself to his feet. "Gimmee your stuff and I'll throw it in with my sheets and you'll be spring fresh." He looks back down to find Derek lying there, staring at the ceiling, lost in thought.

"Okay, fine," Stiles says, "That was weird. Hot and scary, but weird, and I'm probably going to have a freak out about it in about three minutes here, but right now, I'm still reveling in the fact that I just kinda got sorta laid for the first time."

"And kissed," Derek says softly, regretfully.

"Yeah," Stiles echoes, and okay, so he's a cliche. He touches his mouth, which is still tingling.

"Your first time should be with someone you care about."

"I don't *not* care about you," Stiles says, searching his floor for his boxers then tugging them on.

Derek gives him a look. "You've suggested killing me at least twice this week. That I know of."

"I also saved your life."

Derek blinks, slowly. "You did."

"So, you know, as first times go," Stiles takes a deep breath and pinches his nose because how is *he* the one reassuring Derek. "You know, it's not exactly the back of a Honda after prom, but at least the next time someone or something tries to kill me, I won't have to think, 'Oh my god, I'm gonna die without ever having someone beside me touch my penis.'"

Derek snorts.

"Anyway." He rubs his palm over his buzzcut as he heads to the door. "Get in the shower and I'll put your clothes in the wash and I don't know, microwave some Hot Pockets, and we can pretend this didn't happen," and oh my god, is that a *pout* on Derek's face, "for *now*, you giant girl, and then you can tell me whatever you lurked over here to tell me."

Derek stares at Stiles for a few seconds. Then, with a huff, he gets up and starts stripping right beside Stiles bed. Stiles tries to lean on his doorway, all suave, but he misses and stumbles, and by the time he's got his bearings, Derek is totally completely naked and brushing past him into the hallway because of course he knows where Stiles' bathroom is.

Stiles takes a moment to appreciate Derek's frankly ridiculously fine ass until it disappears out of view. Then he heads back into his room and scoops up Derek's jeans and t-shirt and underwear and heads towards the laundry room, totally fine until he gets a whiff of what even he can tell is the full strength scent of Derek.

Out in the hallway, he grabs the rest of his clothes from the floor and then leans back against the wall to hyperventilate just a little bit as he listens to the shower run. Crazy? Sure. But it didn't involve almost dying or watching someone else die or anything death related at all, really. Maybe Stiles is too used to this insanity, but all in all, this was not the worst afternoon he's ever had. Not even close. He grins and whistles to himself as he skips down the stairs on the way to the laundry room.

Which is of course when his doorbell rings and then before he can even shout, "Hold on!" the front door is opening, and Scott is there with Allison in tow. Stiles stumbles down the last couple stairs, then considers making a run for it, but he's still in his socks and the foyer is slippery, and Scott is staring at him, open-mouthed.

"Why do you have Derek's shirt?" Allison asks. "And...underwear? And bedsheets?" She glances over at Scott, who's still staring, but is at least trying to work his mouth now. She wrinkles her nose and sniffs. "Wait. Is that?"

Scott presses his lips together for a moment, nostrils flaring, eyes going Disney creature wide, and he nods.

"Wow, okay," Allison says. "I guess your dad's not home."

Stiles shakes his head.

She giggles, actually covers her mouth and giggles. "Right. Okay, well, good for you, I guess," she says, brows drawing together. "I'll just grab a soda."

"Yeahhh, sure." Stiles says. "Make yourself at home." He points in the direction of the kitchen.

"And you boys can just," she glances back and forth between them, then shakes her head and heads down the hall.

"Talk amongst ourselves," he calls after her. "Good idea."

"Stiles?" Scott asks slowly.

"Man," Stiles says, "I don't even know."

Scott claps his hand on Stiles back, then coughs, and takes a step back. "Congratulations and all, but go take a shower," he says, then turns and heads after Allison.

"What, no hug?" Stiles calls. He's dimly aware that the shower has stopped and he looks up the stairs to find Derek lurking at the top, a towel wrapped around his underwear model waist. He is, naturally, scowling.

"Tostinos," Scott yells from the kitchen. "Awesome."

Stiles smirks, then he shrugs at Derek and heads in the direction of the laundry room because this is his life now, washing his jizz out of some hot werewolf's boxer briefs while another one eats pizza rolls in his kitchen. He might end up regretting this. And at some point, he probably will. But for this moment right now, he thinks as he flips open the washer lid, his life is pretty freaking awesome.