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Stiles probably should have known better than to accept Facebook friend requests from drag queens. The ubiquitous social network is entirely to blame for why he’s now sitting, freshly-minted eighteen and legally in a club for the first time in his life, mesmerized by an obscene amount of sequins flickering across a male set of hips. Phoenix, always up for a celebration, had pounced when she had seen it was his birthday, and Stiles, not a werewolf but no less involved in werewolf drama for it, had impulsively agreed. This isn’t how he ever expected to spend his eighteenth birthday, but it’s nice for a little while to forget the stress and horrors waiting outside and to indulge, if only briefly, in a world oblivious to anything not bright or beautiful.

Stiles hasn’t had much of either of those things for quite awhile now.

Technically, he isn’t supposed to have been drinking, but there have been enough not-so-covert sips provided from cheerfully-offered cocktails that he’s got a pretty decent buzz going by the time it’s pointed out that the cute guy two tables down has been cruising him all night. At first Stiles doesn’t quite know what to do with that information, having, to his knowledge, never been cruised before by anyone ever. By the time Phoenix bumps him out of his seat to get him moving, though, he’s come to the conclusion that losing his virginity would be a pretty decent birthday present, even if it’s to a total stranger he met in the glittery glow of a drag club. His social circle consists almost entirely of creatures of the night and men who dress as women; if he ever wants to pop his cherry he’s going to have to make some concessions somewhere.

Earlier, he’d been presented with a gold plastic birthday crown, and it’s still seated at a jaunty angle atop his head when Anonymous Cute Guy presses Stiles up against the side of the Jeep with all due enthusiasm. The ensuing kiss is extraordinarily sloppy and not particularly sexy, but Stiles’ entire sexual experience has been previously limited to a single awkward junior high make-out, so he thinks he’s probably not one to judge. Still, it’s cold out and it feels more than a little to Stiles like his face is being devoured, which really isn’t what he was hoping to get out of this whole sordid parking lot encounter. He opens his mouth to say something, anything, that might at least move them inside of the vehicle if not to an actual bed, but then he’s riding a muscled thigh and there are teeth scraping across his throat and thinking has become instantly overrated.

A whimper catches and strangles in the back of Stiles’ throat, and it sounds so damned tender and broken that he knows he’s just given himself away as woefully inexperienced even if the unrelenting pulse of his hips hasn’t already done the job for him. He can’t quite seem to rein himself in, thinks he’s probably going to end up rubbing one off right here with his pants still on, when he tips his head back up, open-mouthed and panting opaque into the cold air, and spies the figure standing in the light of a street lamp two rows over.

“Shit,” he says, without thinking, “shit, shit,” with enough urgency that Anonymous Cute Guy, who happens to actually be more of an Anonymous Average Guy outside the smoky light of the club, draws back swollen-lipped and confused.

“I—” Stiles begins and falters, because he can see that it’s Derek now, stolid and frowny and watching them like the creeper he is, and that can’t mean anything good. “It’s my— Uh. My parole officer,” Stiles blurts, and then laughs helplessly, the sound high and tinny in the cold air.

“What?” Anonymous Guy says, clearly skeptical, but Stiles doesn’t have time to explain and elbows the guy out of the way as gently as he can under the circumstances.

“I have to go, sorry,” Stiles says, more bitter than genuinely apologetic, and then startles when he feels a suddenly oppressive and annoyingly familiar presence at his back.

“You need to leave now,” Derek rumbles someplace from over Stiles’ right shoulder, and it takes every ounce of Stiles’ restraint to not elbow the werewolf as hard as he can. Anonymous Guy blanches and beats a hasty, if angry retreat, bitching like a wet cat about possessive boyfriends as he goes.

“I hate you so much right now,” Stiles bites out, and he really means it this time, feels full up with it, enough that he turns and shoves Derek’s chest with both hands as hard as he can despite knowing that it’ll have absolutely no impact. Derek sways once in place and frowns.

“WHAT DO YOU WANT?” Stiles yells, flushed with anger and profound embarrassment, practically vibrating with emotion. His crown has fallen down over one eye and he shoves it back. “What do you need from me that couldn’t have waited until the morning? WHAT?”

Derek has the good grace to look startled for all of two seconds, but then reaches a hand out to jerk Stiles’ chin around to inspect the damage on the side of his neck. Keyed up and shaking, Stiles wrenches the fingers away in an explosion of slapping hands.

“F-fuck you!” he stutters out, the curse awkward on his tongue. His mother had hated that word. “What do you want, Derek? Did you show up here with an agenda other than ruining my night?”

“What are you doing?” Derek’s voice is quiet, the words carefully measured, but still this somehow sounds like a demand.

“Seriously?” Stiles blurts, and flings both arms out with a terse little swivel of his head, only to be immediately forced back up against the Jeep with a low thump as his ass meets the driver’s side door. Derek is mere inches away, one hand braced against the roll bar, and gives an exaggerated, imperious sniff in Stiles’ direction.

“You stink,” he says, and Stiles wants to punch him in the nose.

“Guess I should have used Dial,” Stiles snaps back, and ducks beneath the werewolf’s arm to get at the door handle with his keys.

“You shouldn’t drive,” Derek says, and pushes the door closed the moment Stiles begins to pull it open.

“I’m not drunk!” Stiles exclaims, annoyed that he can feel the more potent anger from earlier giving way to the low burn of frustration typical to his interactions with Derek Hale. He turns, shoulders falling with a heavy sigh. “Is that why you’re here? Is this some kind of aggressive werewolf designated driver program you’re a part of?”

“I can smell it on you,” Derek replies with an arch of his eyebrows.

“Oh my GOD, a few sips does not mean I’m drunk!” Stiles blurts, flourishing his hands in the little space between them, keys jingling. “If I wasn’t sober, I would have broken your nose by now.”

Derek looks unconvinced by this.

“Okay, fine, I would have tried to break your nose by now,” Stiles corrects with a roll of his eyes. “What? Do I need to walk a line or something? Juggle? Recite poetry?”

“You need to let me drive you home.”

“Right, and leave my Jeep here in the gay bar parking lot so that I can pick it up later with the tires slashed. Not happening.”

“Stiles.”

Derek,” Stiles nasally sings back, and then heaves another sigh. He’s been out in the cold long enough that his nose has gone numb. “Dude. I’m not part of your pack. You don’t have to police everything I do. I just want to get in my car and go home so that I can fall asleep and try to forget that I’m eighteen and still a virgin, thanks to you.”

Emotion flickers briefly across Derek’s otherwise stoic expression, and for that brief moment he looks almost wounded, although Stiles can’t imagine over what. Probably the pack bit, which hadn’t exactly been fair. It gets results, though, so Stiles doesn’t feel especially sorry, although he does make a point of murmuring a thank you when Derek removes his hand from the door and takes a step back.

“Seriously, dude, I’m fine,” Stiles continues once he’s settled in the driver’s seat and has rolled the window down. Derek could have heard him regardless, but talking to him through the impersonal filter of a window seems beyond rude, especially when the guy was apparently just trying to make sure Stiles doesn’t get in an accident. He could have done it in a less annoying way, but Stiles can give him points for the thought. “Thanks for the concern and all, but my dad is the sheriff. I know enough to not drive drunk.”

“Your dad being sheriff hasn’t stopped you from being reckless in the past,” Derek points out, frowning again.

“Ah, but most of that was for your sake,” Stiles chirps in reply as he cranks the Jeep to life.

“Just be careful,” Derek adds, apparently going for the cliche award of the night.

“Sure thing, Dad,” Stiles calls back, and pulls out of the lot before the furrow in Derek’s brow gets any deeper and he decides to jump on the hood or something.

 

Derek follows him home, and Stiles doesn’t know whether to be baffled or touched by the sudden concern for his well-being. By the time they pull up in front of the little two-story cottage Stiles shares with his dad, the annoyance from the parking lot has tapered to a trickle. This is, Stiles decides, probably due to the alcohol he just told Derek he hadn’t imbibed.

When he climbs out of the Jeep, he saunters down to the Camaro and waits for the mechanical hum of the window being lowered before he speaks.

“You didn’t need to follow me, dude.”

“You swerved once,” says Derek, as implacable as ever, although he looms a bit less large when he’s slung low in the cradle of his sports car. His green eyes are bright in the golden glow from the stereo.

“I didn’t want to get roadkill on my tires,” Stiles replies with an unimpressed tilt of his head, and then takes two halting backward steps when Derek abruptly pushes open his car door. Alarmingly, Derek follows him right out into the street, up into Stiles’ space like they aren’t in the middle of the suburbs where anyone could see them.

“What the hell, dude,” Stiles says, alternately gaping at Derek and side-eying his neighbors’ windows. “What now?”

“You shouldn’t have been out there with him,” Derek says, the words snapping out of him like he’s so pissed he can’t contain it.

What?” Stiles exclaims, then winces when a dog starts barking down the street in answer. “Are you freaking serious?” he continues in a hiss. “I’m eighteen today, Derek, I am officially allowed to have as many ill-advised sexual encounters in parking lots as I want now.” He flips an annoyed hand up with a forward thrust of his chin.

“He bit you,” Derek grits out, gaze constantly drifting down to what Stiles assumes is a hickey blooming across his neck.

“Why do you even care?” Stiles asks, and slaps both hands over the offending side of his neck so that Derek will look him in the eye. “The guy wasn’t a werewolf, was he?”

“No. That isn’t the point.”

“What exactly is the point then, Captain Semantics?”

When Stiles removes his hands from his neck to gesture into his shrug, Derek’s eyes snap right back to the area he’d been covering up. “Dude,” Stiles says, increasingly irritated, and swivels his head to try and catch Derek’s gaze. “Is this some kind of hickey fetish you have orrrrrooooohhhhhkaaaayyy.”

The last word shudders out of him as Derek abruptly grabs hold of him, right there in the middle of the street, and fastens his mouth over the mark on Stiles’ neck.

For a handful of terrifying seconds, Stiles assumes that Derek, in his clear insanity, has decided to turn him right then and there, consent be damned. Stiles stands there rigid, breath held tight in his lungs, but the pain he’s bracing for never comes. There’s only the drag of blunt, very human teeth across his skin, and the delicious pass of a warm and greedy tongue immediately after. Despite that all this is about fifty shades of NOT OKAY, Stiles can’t quite help the wavering little noise that sounds in the depths of his throat, or the way that he practically melts when the tension goes out of his muscles, Derek’s hands holding him firmly up as his Converse sneakers squeak gracelessly against the pavement.

As abruptly as he started, Derek stops, lifting his head and staring into the darkness, every bit the picture of the wolf he is. “We should get out of the street,” he says, like he’s not the one who put them there. Stiles sways in place and and blinks up at him, mouth caught in the same startled O it formed when Derek first grabbed hold of him.

“Stiles,” Derek prompts, brow furrowing with concern. “We really should get out of the street.”

“Oh my god,” Stiles finally says, still gaping. He can feel the bite of the cold air against the wet spot on his neck. “Oh my god,” he repeats, sounding more affronted this time. “Oh my GOD.”

“You’re going to wake your neighbors,” Derek warns.

“Good, maybe one of them can tell me how I ended up in the Twilight Zone!”

“Stop exaggerating.”

“How am I exaggerating? You hate me, Derek! You have hated me from the moment we first met, when you were all, Ooo, I’m a big scary wolf, get off my lawn. Ringing any bells?”

“That was two years ago, Stiles,” Derek says, employing a surprising amount of patience. “And I never hated you.”

“Dude, you have physically accosted me more times than I can count. You’re telling me that was some kind of werewolf show of affection?”

Derek lifts a shoulder in an insouciant shrug.

“What are you, five?” Stiles blurts, and this time it’s loud enough that two more dogs join the yapping of the first.

“We really should get out of the street,” Derek repeats, and glances over his shoulder to the house. “Your dad’s not home?”

“No, he’s working third tonight,” Stiles answers automatically, but then rears back, holding up a hand palm-forward. “Hold up. Why? Nobody invited you in, Cujo.”

Derek glowers. “I am not a dog.” He hates the dog cracks. Stiles knows he hates the dog cracks. It was a low blow.

“You’re freaking me out, okay?” Stiles admits with a stilted little gesture of his hands. “This is completely out of nowhere.”

“You don’t pay enough attention,” Derek remarks, and, having apparently grown tired of waiting, hooks an arm around Stiles’ torso and physically drags him from the street and up onto the porch.

“You’re so pushy,” Stiles complains, and only manages to flap his way out of Derek’s grip once they’re at the front door. This lasts perhaps fifteen seconds before Derek has pushed his very warm, very solid werewolf body up against Stiles’ back while Stiles attempts to fumble the key into the lock.

“Stop sniffing my hair, you creeper,” Stiles huffs out on a thin and utterly unconvincing laugh. When Derek calls his bluff by leaning in to nuzzle at the back of his ear, it shoots a shiver straight down to Stiles’ fingers and toes, and he clanks the keys gracelessly against the door knob before he manages to finally turn the tumbler and let them inside.

“Slow your roll there, Wolfeo,” he says once the door is closed behind them, both hands held up before him as he sidesteps Derek’s attempt to rock him back up against the wall. “You can’t just molest me in the middle of the street and then drag me off like a caveman. I know I’m not exactly the picture of masculinity, but a little warning, maybe? One minute you hate me, the next you’re sucking on my neck like Edward Cullen.”

“I told you I don’t hate you,” Derek says, and sounds predictably exasperated. It’s dark in the hall and he’s painted in patches of light slanting through the window: Tense shoulders, terse mouth, pale eyes.

“Okay, fine- Fine,” Stiles concedes. “Acted like you hate me. How about that? Accurate enough for you?”

“No,” Derek says, lips in a thin line, and for a few seconds Stiles is back to wanting to punch him.

“So you’ve, what? Wanted to bone me this entire time and decided, hey, it’s a good night for it? Is this a freaky alpha possessive thing, or—” A hand lifted to his neck, Stiles halts. When the comprehension dawns through the alcoholic muddle of his brain, he feels profoundly idiotic. It’s maybe fortunate that Derek chooses that moment to completely disregard Stiles’ earlier request and pushes him up against the wall anyway.

“No,” Derek repeats, and then he’s batting Stiles’ hand away and right back at his neck, settling in with a satisfied hum.

“Oh my god, why don’t you just write ‘Property of Derek Hale’ across my forehead?” Stiles moans, but his body is just as traitorous as ever, rising up to fit into the arch of Derek’s torso.

“This is more fun,” says Derek, and Stiles chokes on an astonished laugh.

“Derek Hale made a joke, I really am in the Twilight Zone,” Stiles titters, but then Derek’s hands are clamped over his ass and hiking him forward until their hips clash, and the ability to be more than monosyllabic utterly dissipates.

This still doesn’t make any kind of sense to Stiles, but maybe Derek’s right, maybe he really hasn’t been paying attention. The werewolf doesn’t exactly give off cute and cuddly vibes to anyone, even the people he likes. If Stiles had been planning to lose his virginity to a completely random guy in a parking lot, this can’t be any worse, right? That guy had only been okay-looking, and Derek’s pretty hot. Painfully hot, actually, and oh god, has his hands inside the back of Stiles’ jeans.

Breathless, Stiles gives up any pretense of resistance and lets his head fall back against the wall with a thump, sending the forgotten crown slipping over his eye again. He laughs, unable to help it, and when Derek leans back with that typical worried frown of his, Stiles dissolves into an outright giggle fit. He tries to stop, he really does, but it’s no good.

“You’re the werewolf king and I’m your queen!” he wheezes out, crown tilting precariously now and nearly sliding completely off.

“I can’t believe you tried to tell me you weren’t drunk,” Derek deadpans, which sends Stiles into another peal of laughter. Derek still has his hands down Stiles’ pants, so they’re both shaking with it. This goes on for at least a full minute.

“Done?” Derek asks once Stiles has mostly wound down.

Stiles heaves a final musical sigh and then nods. He feels all flushed and happy now. It’s nice, and when he arches catlike back against the wall, crown askew and bottom lip between his teeth, he has absolutely no idea of how debauched he looks.

In a flash, Derek’s hands have left his pants and Stiles has been thrown over the werewolf’s shoulder in a fireman’s carry.

“Holy shit!” Stiles exclaims as he flops clumsily against Derek’s back and watches his crown roll away across the floor. “Are you serious with this- You’re serious with this. Me sex you now, unngh,” he adds in his best caveman impression as they go bouncing up the stairs. For good measure, he gives Derek’s ass a solid smack. “I am so glad I don’t have a ponytail right now, you troglodyte.”

When Derek deposits him in the middle of the bathroom, it isn’t what Stiles is expecting.

“Uhhh,” Stiles begins, voice echoing off the tile. “Pretty sure water sports would be a bit much for a first time, dude, so maybe the bedroom would be a better choice.”

“You stink,” Derek says again, and jabs a finger toward the shower.

Stiles balks and throws an arm up so that he can sniff underneath it. “I do not!”

“You do,” Derek stubbornly insists with a little nod and points to the tub again. “Get in the shower.”

“I didn’t even have that much to drink!”

“I’m not talking about that. Get in the shower.”

“Then what?” Stiles demands, flinging his arms out. “You didn’t seem to mind my stink when you had your hands down my pants!”

“Stiles,” Derek bites out, “I’m not going to fuck you when you smell like some other guy.”

There is so much about that sentence that Stiles is unequipped to handle right now.

This is happening. It’s really happening. Stiles’ brain snags and screeches to a halt, and that’s before Derek begins to get undressed in front of him. His inexperience is a sudden and oppressive weight, and he feels terribly young and terribly small, and his fingers shake a little when he pulls the drag queen-provided condom and lube packets out of his coat pocket to deposit them on the counter.

Derek is standing in front of him all golden and exquisite like a god, and Stiles cannot imagine why this man would ever, ever want him enough to be jealous.

The coat slides from Stiles’ shoulders and lands on the tile floor with the heavy slap of wool, but getting his hoodie off is more difficult, requires more coordination than Stiles can summon up right now. He gets caught in the thick red fabric until Derek calmly takes over.

“I won’t hurt you, you know,” Derek says once Stiles is free, voice more gentle than Stiles has probably ever heard him. He looks really concerned in the artificial glow from the light over the sink.

“I’m not scared,” Stiles insists, feeling so very skinny and pale beneath the thin cotton of his t-shirt. “I’m just confused. Why me?”

Derek’s eyebrows draw together in clear confusion. “Why you what?”

“Why me?” Stiles asks more emphatically. “Of all the people you could freak out over and follow home, why would you ever choose me?”

“Stiles-” Derek begins, and falters with a slight shake of his head. “You really are horrible at paying attention.”

“That’s not an answer,” Stiles says, glad to be a little annoyed. He feels steadier, less vulnerable this way.

“Because you never shut your mouth,” Derek says, and it sounds flippant enough that Stiles dismisses it until Derek continues. “Even when you are scared, you never let me or anyone else get away with anything. Why you? Because you’re gorgeous and you drive me completely up the wall.”

Stiles scoffs. “I am not gorgeous. I’m like, maybe above average cute on a good day. You’re gorgeous.”

“You are,” Derek asserts. “And I really, really need you to get into the shower now, because smelling that guy on you is making me crazy.”

“Could always rub your stink all over me instead,” Stiles suggests with a cheeky little smirk he hopes distracts from his blush.

“I fully intend to. Shower first.”

“Oh my GOD, you’re killing me, here,” Stiles moans, but obediently does as told, unabashedly watching Derek’s naked ass in the mirror as the werewolf turns on the shower and adjusts the water temperature to his liking. The view is incredible enough that Stiles can momentarily forget that he himself is 150 pounds of naked nothing with an erection waving out in front of him like it’s trying to hitch a ride.

Amazingly enough, the situation is even more awkward inside the shower.

The water’s too hot at first, and they argue about that until Stiles points out that he’s not a werewolf and would like to not have his skin seared off, thanks. Then Derek snatches the bar of Ivory from his hands and proceeds to scrub him down with all the rough efficiency you’d afford a kitchen floor.

“Dude,” Stiles says, enduring this with a beleaguered expression. Against the odds, his erection hasn’t flagged a bit. “I’m not a little kid, I am capable of washing myself— DUDE!” He sputters as suds wash down over his face, and then sluices them away with an annoyed hand. “Shower together, they said. It’s really sexy, they said,” he deadpans, and glares at Derek through the mist.

“Turn around,” Derek says, but then takes hold of Stiles by the shoulders and spins him around before there’s any time to react.

“Why did you even ask?” Stiles wonders aloud, and is in the midst of heaving an incredibly put-upon sigh that he feels will perfectly convey exactly how ridiculous this entire ordeal has become, when he’s suddenly pinned between cold tile and a warm body, and Derek’s slipped a finger into the cleft of his ass.

An urgent little sound catches in Stiles’ throat and then pushes past his lips as a full-blown moan when Derek bites him on the shoulder. There is absolutely no way that Stiles is going to be able to keep all these marks covered, not even with the excuse to wear a scarf, and he couldn’t care less.

“Stiles.” Derek half-growls it against his ear, all low velvet rumble that makes Stiles’ cock jump. “No more strangers in parking lots.”

“Okay, yeah- Totally,” Stiles pants, his cheek pressed against the shower wall as he tries to rock his hips back against Derek’s finger. “I’m 100% on the Derek Hale train of werewolf seduction.”

Stiles.”

“I mean it! I- Oooookay,” Stiles shudders out as Derek works the tip of his finger past the tight ring of muscle. “If you don’t fuck me soon, though—” Another whimper bubbles from Stiles’ throat as his shoulders hitch up.

“Not yet,” Derek says, and then he’s gone—Mouth, finger, body, the whole works—and Stiles thinks maybe that’s his cue to exit Phase One: Shower and enter Phase Two: Bedroom. He levers himself unsteadily from the tile only to have a splayed hand at his back push him forward again and Derek’s tongue licking eagerly into the vacancy left by his finger.

Stiles squeaks in the most undignified manner possible and scrabbles to keep himself upright against the slippery tile. Derek spreads him with both hands and uses tongue and fingers to work him open with an efficiency that can only speak to having done this frequently before. Later, Stiles is determined to ask if this jealousy is allowed to go both ways, but right now he’s pretty sure he’s going to come without so much as a finger being laid on his cock.

Derek licks a warm stripe from balls all the way back up to his hole and proves that instinct entirely correct.

When Derek stands, he keeps two fingers hooked inside of Stiles, who is still in an inelegant, trembling slump against the wall and thinking in his hormonal haze that he could be led around like this all day and probably be pretty okay with it. They stay like that for what feels like a long time, until Stiles’ shivers have subsided and Derek has worked the hickey all the way around to the back of his neck.

When Derek extracts his fingers to turn off the spigot, Stiles actually pouts and makes a disgruntled little sound with a wag of his ass. For the first time all night, Derek’s mouth curves into something approaching a smile.

“The water was getting cold,” he explains, and flings back the curtain with predictable finality before he steps out. Stiles whines again and bites against his lower lip, top half of his body still pressed against the wall and bottom thrust greedily out.

“You look ridiculous,” Derek says, and throws a towel at him.

“Whatever, you want this sweet ass,” Stiles counters as he pulls the terry cloth from over his head and begins to dry off. This is not giving up, it’s a strategic concession.

“I do,” Derek agrees with a matter-of-fact nod.

“You want it so badly you can’t stand to see me with anyone else,” Stiles continues as he steps out onto the bath mat.

“Also true.”

“How long were you standing there watching us?” Stiles asks, looking entirely too impish to pass for coy. “Were you getting off on it? I almost came, you know.”

“I know what you’re doing,” Derek says, but that same thunderous look from the street has started to creep back over his expression.

“He had a great mouth,” Stiles lies, and turns to wipe the fog from the mirror as he cranes his neck to better see the mottling across his skin. There’s a lot of it. “Which one is the mark he left?”

With an abrupt thump, Stiles is pushed down over the counter with his ass hitched roughly back. There’s barely time to huff out a laugh before Derek’s tongue spreads him open again, and Stiles is bent, stoop-shouldered and gasping into the bowl of the sink as his toes curl under against the bathroom floor.

He comes again five minutes later, still exactly like that, and then has to clean the semen out of all the little crevices in the cabinet door while Derek waits impatiently in the doorway.

“For someone so desperate to be fucked, you sure are taking your sweet time,” Derek grumbles, but Stiles can’t take a single word seriously because the guy is standing there naked with a massive boner tenting the pink fluffy towel swathed around his waist.

“Look,” Stiles begins, “if I don’t do it now, I might get distracted and forget, and I really don’t need for my dad to come away with a handful of jizz next time he goes for the Comet.”

“I’ll be in your bedroom jerking off,” Derek announces and strides off, leaving Stiles crouched nude in the middle of the bathroom floor.

“Wha—” Stiles sputters, gives the cabinet a final exasperated glance and then scrambles to his feet. He runs from the room and then darts immediately back to scoop up the condom and lube packets. When he bursts into the bedroom three seconds later, Derek’s stretched leisurely across his bed, both hands behind his head and smug as hell.

Stiles’ mouth works silently a moment before he lifts an index finger and gives a conceding nod. “Touché.”

When Derek smiles but doesn’t immediately move, Stiles seizes the opportunity to take in the the view of his— Holy shit, does he have a boyfriend? He thinks maybe he does. A really hot, pissy boyfriend who becomes way less hot and way more pissy on the full moon. Happy birthday to him.

Stiles tilts his head appreciatively. “My, what a big—”

“Get over here,” Derek cuts him off as he sits up with a roll of his eyes.

“I’ve decided I find your exasperation adorable,” Stiles announces as he bounces over and presses the supplies into Derek’s open palm. “Welcome to monogamy.”

“Get on the damned bed, Stiles,” Derek ejects. “In case you didn’t notice, I still haven’t come the first time and you’ve come twice already.”

“That’s why they call me the birthday boy,” Stiles sings as he flings himself prone across the duvet next to Derek. He looks coquettishly over his shoulder and wiggles his ass again. “What are you waiting for, cowboy?”

What Stiles expects is third verse, nearly same as the first, but before he quite knows what’s happening, Derek has flipped him over onto his back and pushed his knees all the way up against his chest so that he’s spread out like a meal. The breath catches hard and hot in Stiles’ lungs, and when Derek looms over him like a shadow, there is no more joking.

Even after sitting in the steam-filled bathroom, the lubricant is somehow still cold. Stiles writhes briefly against it, and then more urgently against the sleek slide of Derek’s fingers pressing him open again. It doesn’t take much, and by the time Derek drags his fingers free, Stiles reaches hasty hands to position Derek’s cock as quickly as he can, he’s that desperate to have something back inside of him.

“Slow down,” Derek gently says, and licks warm and languid into Stiles’ panting mouth. It isn’t until Derek is half-buried inside of him that Stiles realizes this is their first kiss.

The pain isn’t nearly as bad as Stiles expected, the initial sharp shock melting into the sweetest friction, and Stiles must really be some kind of cock-hungry slut, because he’s pretty damned sure there’s nothing he wants more than Derek Hale inside of him as often as possible, stretching him open and filling him up.

“Oh fuck,” Stiles gasps, the curse tripping naturally off his tongue for the first time in his life, and his head falls back in perfect invitation so that Derek immediately resumes expanding the mark across Stiles’ neck as his hips begin a slow but steady rhythm.

“Ohhhh fuck,” Stiles repeats, like he’s amazed to have the power of speech and is compelled to use it. “Fuck you, fuck- Fucking fuck you for not putting your amazing fucking cock in me before now, you fucking asshole!”

Derek’s hips never falter, but he stifles a genuine laugh against Stiles’ inflamed neck, and when he leans up to smile down at Stiles, his grin is the singular most adoring thing Stiles has ever seen. It’s like he’s a completely different person.

“That was impressive,” Derek says, still laughing, and leans in to brush another kiss across Stiles’ lips at the same moment he snaps his hips forward once, hard.

“Ohhhhhhh I hate you so much right now,” Stiles keens out through grit teeth, and Derek shakes his head.

“No you don’t.”

“Don’t laugh at me, you asshole,” Stiles protests, but he’s laughing now, too, and this is, hands down, the most surreal moment of his life, which is saying a whole hell of a lot when you consider the last two years. “Just because I love your cock doesn’t mean I can’t hate you for withholding it.”

“I’m not withholding it anymore,” Derek points out, and levers himself up to find a different angle. The perfect angle, as it turns out.

“Noooo,” Stiles moans, shaking his head fitfully as he leans up enough to watch Derek disappearing inside of him. “No, you’re not. You’re definitely not, oh fuck me,” he exclaims, collapsing back onto the pillow again.

“You really never do stop talking,” Derek remarks, and he sounds fond enough that Stiles would be suspicious if he wasn’t busy being fucked into the mattress.

“I’m gonna come again,” Stiles whimpers, and it hits him all at once how completely fucking gone he is on this man when not two hours ago he sincerely believed that Derek hated him.

Derek seizes him by the back of the neck and lifts him up just enough that their mouths are nearly touching again, his breath hot over Stiles’ lips when he speaks.

“Come,” he says, urgent like he can will it out of Stiles, and hell, looking like he does, maybe he can. “Come for me.”

This orgasm shakes harder out of Stiles than the last two, like he’s being broken apart and made utterly delirious with it. His fingers clench white-knuckled in the duvet and he squeezes his eyes tightly shut like he might be able to ride the shudders out more easily if he doesn’t look. He doesn’t even realize that Derek has followed him until the pulse of the other man’s hips slows to erratic, lazy thrusts and Derek slumps down with his face buried into that same, familiar side of Stiles’ neck. They lay like that a long time, until Stiles’ legs begin to cramp and his weak noises of protest prompt Derek to roll bonelessly over onto his back.

Sighing, Stiles slides his feet down the blanket and stares blankly at the ceiling as he waits for the rapid thump of his heart to slow. He didn’t know it was possible to feel this empty, and if he wasn’t sure before, he can tell now that this is going to become a habit.

“Happy fucking birthday to me,” he exhales.

“It’s the gift that keeps on giving,” Derek says between pants, not a hint of sarcasm in his voice. Stiles swivels his head around and grins drunkenly at him.

“Guess good things come in large packages, too,” he says, and then they’re both laughing again, and Stiles wouldn’t have it any other way.