Stiles should go home.
He's supposed to be staying at Scott's tonight, but, well. He glances up from his close examination of his cuticles to find the front office of the vet clinic just as dark and still as before.
He's getting cold, but he can't even bring himself to get up off the hood of his Jeep to at least sit inside it. He's frozen here, and he's not sure why. Derek said he'd text him with word on Scott. Stiles doesn't need to be here. He thinks about texting Erica or Issac, just to make sure they got back okay. His last text from dad was two hours ago, informing Stiles that he was checking out the crime scene. Stiles hasn't answered. He has no idea what he's supposed to say to that.
The bell over the door chimes, and Stiles sits up straighter as Derek appears. His face is lit by the harsh, bare bulb on the wall, and he looks... shaken. He looks scared, and he doesn't even bother to slide the mask back on when he makes eye contact with Stiles. The incongruity of it all chills Stiles to his bones.
"Is he--" Stiles starts, but he chokes, swallowing around a lump he didn't know was in his throat.
"He's going to be fine," Derek says, hoarse, lower and less steady than usual. "He's sleeping. Doc is watching him. I'm... he told me to go home. Get some rest." Derek makes a move away from the door, but stops, as if Stiles is the one pinning him to the wall for once.
Stiles feels helpless. He feels like he should say something else, like Derek is waiting for something, so he casts around. "Uh, do you uh... You don't have your car. I can..." he pushes himself off the Jeep, digging in his pocket for his keys. He fumbles, though, because apparently he's shaking, and they clatter to the asphalt. "Need a ride home?" he finishes, weakly.
"Why are you still here?" Derek asks, and at least having his questions answered with questions is something Stiles is used to in this arrangement.
"I told you I'd text you," Derek says, sounding a lot more exhausted than he does annoyed. "It's not safe for you to be alone, Stiles." he holds up a hand when Stiles opens his mouth to protest. "For any of us. If you're out, you need to be with the pack. The kanima is still killing people, and you know how fast it is."
Stiles has a dozen comebacks, but they die on his tongue as the words -- and their tone -- start to sink in. He's never seen Derek even remotely concerned about anyone's safety, but maybe he's just too tired to hide it tonight. Stiles is self-aware enough to admit that it gives him a quiet little thrill to imagine Derek actually caring about him.
"I can't go home right now," Stiles says finally, knowing Derek won't ask why. For all his faults, Derek knows how to back off when it counts.
"Okay," Derek nods, walking towards Stiles and scooping his keys off the ground. "Get in."
It's not even in him to argue right now, so Stiles crosses to the passenger side and lets Derek take the wheel.
Derek's apartment isn't that nice -- in fact, it's only two rooms, one of which is the bathroom -- but Stiles gets the impression he doesn't spend a lot of time in it, anyway. The kitchen is dusty, the blinds are drawn. The bed looks slept in, but that's about it. Stiles is pretty sure Derek has a lot of money, but other than the car, he doesn't seem to want to spend any of it. Maybe that's a wolf thing. Maybe he just needs a... a den to sleep in, and nothing else. He thinks better of asking where the chew toys are kept, only because he's tired enough right now for his brain to catch up with his mouth before it runs off.
Stiles is standing between the kitchen and the area containing the couch, waiting for instruction, while Derek rummages through a chest. (Is that where the Kong toys are? Shut up, Stiles.) Derek comes up with a blanket and a sad excuse for a pillow, and tosses them on the couch. Stiles feels his eyes widen, trying to get a handle on himself before he blurts out something stupid.
"I don't have a lot of guests," Derek says, sounding almost apologetic, gesturing at the pillow. "I'd offer my bed, but, I don't know if... your scent."
"I don't... What?" Stiles licks his lips, trying to work out how to convey the idea that he doesn't think he can sleep in the same room as a werewolf who is equal parts sexy and terrifying (particularly when those traits are worryingly intertwined in Stiles' head). And seriously, what? What about Stiles' scent? "I can go home."
"You don't want to go home."
He knows there's no point in lying to Derek, so he evades. "I can stay at Scott's, his mom is working the night shift, I have a key. Or I can get a motel, or, oh, hey, I could stay at Allison's, because her parents would probably be okay with sheltering a squishy human kid what with a kanima running around--"
"Stiles," Derek cuts in, and there's something in his expression that was there when he came to Stiles at the rave, holding Scott's dead weight in his arms. It's desperation, almost, and Stiles feels himself cracking, because he doesn't really want to go. He really doesn't want to go. "Just stay."
Stiles feels a little bit like he's looking at his dad, except ew, no, weird -- but he feels like he did in the months after mom, when dad cut his curfew by an hour and Stiles didn't complain because he knew dad just wanted him around, so he could know he was around. Stiles has never seen Derek scared the way he was when they were driving Scott to the vet clinic. So he gets it. And it's not really a bad feeling, being wanted, even in a father-son, alpha-packmate sort of way. Derek isn't liberal with his displays of affection; Stiles will take what he can get.
"Okay," he says softly, toeing off his sneakers, "I'll stay."
Derek's bed is in the far corner of the room, and there's a dividing screen leaning against the wall nearby, but he doesn't bother to use it. Stiles watches as Derek pulls his shirt over his head. Stiles has seen him shirtless a lot (a lot, okay, and he's inadvertently catalogued the instances in his head, because it's not a sight you forget), but it's really different now, in the soft light from the living room lamp.
Derek could be a sculpture, in the way he's not too huge but he's lean and he radiates strength, like he could pick a person (Stiles) up without so much as a grunt and oh, fuck, Stiles needs to stop thinking immediately. The term awkward boner doesn't even begin to adequately describe the situation he's about to find himself in.
He quickly averts his eyes when Derek's hands go to his waistband. It's one thing to know that Derek is lying in bed in nothing but his underwear a few feet away from him, but it's quite another to have a visual accompaniment to the knowledge. Awkwardest of the awkward boners.
Stiles doesn't want to sleep in his jeans, but he'll suck it up for his own dignity.
The room is deathly silent once Stiles settles, facing the back of the couch so his eyes can't flit around the apartment. He can't tell if Derek is actually asleep or if he's just doing that weird, unnaturally still thing that's all Derek, not wolf. The guy must be exhausted after tonight, and he probably got a hit of the wolfsbane, too, and shit, Stiles really should have asked if he was okay. The doc would have treated him if he was in any danger, but still, Stiles has a feeling that people don't ask Derek how he feels very often. Which is shitty, really, because yeah, the guy is fear itself, but he's also taking care of a bunch of idiots who keep getting themselves nearly killed, and despite all of it, he still actually cares about them, even Stiles, who isn't a wolf and is only really pack by default, but Derek let him stay, and wanted him to stay, just because--
Stiles nearly falls off the couch.
"Your heartbeat is deafening."
"That's not really under my conscious control, dude," Stiles says, doing an absolutely fruitless job of pretending his heart didn't just stop for a second.
"Of course it is," Derek says, "Just calm down. Go to sleep."
Stiles laughs, too drained to tone down the self deprecation. "That's a lot easier said than done, when you live up in my head."
There's a long silence where Stiles finds himself wondering if he could hear Derek thinking, if only he could shut his own thoughts up for just a second.
There's a rustling sound, a creaking of bedsprings.
"Stiles," Derek says.
When nothing else comes, Stiles looks over his shoulder, and the sight that greets him simply cannot be processed by his puny human brain.
"Come here," Derek says, impatient, like him lying there in his bed and holding up the covers and staring at Stiles expectantly is a signal that Stiles is supposed to just magically decode. Right.
Stiles props himself up on his elbows, willing some words to form. Any words.
"That is not going to slow my heartrate down." Good, that works.
Derek sighs like Stiles is the one being ridiculous here, then pushes up on one arm, moving back to make room. "Just come here."
It's not an order, not the way Derek normally gives them, but Stiles finds himself standing anyway, walking slowly towards Derek's bed. Is he going to do this? Is he actually going to do this, get into bed with Derek Hale? Stiles Stilinski, is this your life?
"Take off your jeans," Derek says, like that's such a casual fucking request.
"I'm sorry?" Stiles squeaks.
"Have you been within two feet of Scott? We produce heat like furnaces. Take your jeans off."
Stiles does, acutely aware of the fact that Derek's eyes don't leave him for a second. He hesitates for half a beat, then tugs his socks off, too, because no one should ever be pantsless in socks.
When he perches awkwardly on the edge of the bed, Derek growls, and Stiles is happy to let himself be taken by the shoulders and arranged to Derek's liking, because it takes the guesswork out. And because he maybe has a few fantasies about being manhandled around a bed, though if he's honest, he imagined Derek's mattress a little softer.
They end up with Derek's front pressed to Stiles' back, and Stiles' every muscle tensed.
"You can relax," Derek says, like it's so easy. He brings an arm around Stiles' middle, splaying his hand over Stiles' chest as if he thinks that's going to help.
"Dude, don't play dumb, I know you do not think I am capable of relaxing right now, your senses are sharper than that." Stiles knows Derek can feel his heart thumping, can smell his arousal. If Stiles had his faculties about him, he'd take a moment to feel cheated that the first time he's ever this close to another scantily-clad body, it has to be a body who has threatened to maim him on nine separate occasions.
"I know what you're feeling," Derek says, "But I know you can calm down."
Stiles swallows thickly, wishing away his erection, willing the blood to get back to his brain, because at least he can handle thoughts, even when they run too fast. "God, you just..." don't say it, don't say it, don't say it, "You just smell really fucking good." Idiot.
Derek's chest rumbles, or vibrates, something. Like he's trying to keep a noise inside it. "How do you think you smell to me right now? Do you think I'm just being a gracious host?"
Oh. Well, that's. "Just to clarify, because my brain has this natural tendency to exaggerate: you did just tell me that you like the way I smell, right? Like in a sexy kind of way? Right?"
"I've never had anyone else in this bed with me," Derek says, which isn't really an answer, but Stiles is extrapolating. Not to mention afraid to ask again. Derek starts rubbing his thumb in a slow, steady circle right over Stiles' heart. "You need to sleep," Derek says. "Breathe, Stiles. Get some sleep."
Stiles is about to point out that the touching is going to be counterproductive to that goal, when he feels himself relaxing, his cheeks flushing in a not-unpleasant way, warm and comfortable. He isn't sure if it's psychosomatic or if this is some sort of magic werewolf power of suggestion, but whatever Derek is doing, it really is helping. After a minute, Stiles' exhaustion is just plain sleepiness, the regular rhythm of Derek's breathing against his neck and the thumb stroking his chest lulling him. His arousal is still there, but it's a low, gentle hum, not nearly as pressing as his need for sleep.
"Thanks for letting me stay," he murmurs eventually. Derek's thumb stills, and his fingers curl a little, an aborted movement like he's trying not to grip Stiles' shirt.
"Scott could have died tonight, and it would have been my fault," Derek says, after a pause.
"What? It wasn't--"
"The safety of the betas is the responsibility of the alpha," he says, like it's that simple, and Stiles supposes that sometimes it is.
"He would have died without you," he says, then feels Derek's arm tighten. Stiles takes a breath. "I got my dad fired."
Derek doesn't say anything, doesn't say he's sorry, or press for details, but his hold gets tighter still.
"I mean, not directly, but... yeah, no, it was directly. My dad got fired because I can't stop fucking up."
"You're not fucking up," Derek says, so low that Stiles wouldn't even hear it if Derek's mouth wasn't pressed right behind his ear. Stiles shivers. "Your dad would be proud if he could know everything you've done for Scott. And the rest of us."
"I hate lying to him," Stiles whispers. Derek doesn't answer, but his thumb starts moving again, rubbing across Stiles' breastbone, and Stiles feels his eyelids drooping. He thinks he might hear Derek sigh against his neck; he thinks he hears the words, "I'm trying," but it could have been nothing at all.
It's still dark when he wakes up, but his muscles are stiff and he feels a little out of sorts, so he figures he must have slept for a few hours, at least. Derek's arm is still around him. He has a vague feeling like he woke suddenly, like maybe he was dreaming, but he doesn't remember.
"You okay?" Derek murmurs, and Stiles almost jumps.
"Are you watching me sleep?"
"I was awake. I felt you wake up."
Stiles doesn't bother wondering exactly what gave him away, because pressed as close as Derek is, werewolf senses probably weren't even necessary.
"So you're okay?" Derek asks again, "Your heart is racing."
"I'm fine," Stiles says, glancing down at Derek's arm. "You could probably try some of that werewolf voodoo touch thing you did before, that put me out like-- oh, okay." Stiles breathes, shivering as Derek's hand presses lower than before, big, warm palm flat against his belly.
"Your heartbeat is always so fast," Derek says, "Even when you're asleep."
"It's possible that that's being influenced by the large, warm, half naked body behind me right now." Stiles swallows, wriggling a little to loosen himself up as Derek starts stroking low on his stomach.
Derek hums, his breath running over Stiles' neck. It's hot under the covers, hot everywhere Derek touches him, and Stiles wants so badly. He keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop, because this is too easy.
"Sleep is overrated," he says, reaching back hesitantly, touching the hard muscle of Derek's shoulder. Derek makes a noise that Stiles assumes is assent, fingers working the hem of Stiles' shirt up to expose just an inch or two of skin. "This is a great alternative."
"Yeah?" Derek says, right against his ear, low and rough, dragging his fingers over Stiles' stomach and scratching lightly with blunt fingernails. "Relax."
"That's-- that's seriously not happening this time," Stiles says. Derek shifts his legs so one of them pushes between Stiles', and Derek is hard, fuck, how long has he been hard just lying here?
"Do you want this?" Derek asks, ridiculously, like he can't smell it all over Stiles, all over his bed.
"Are you kidding me?"
"I'm not kidding," Derek says. "Yes or no, Stiles. I need to hear you say it."
"Yes, holy shit, yes," Stiles breathes, figuring now is a good time to press back against Derek, show some appreciation. Derek groans, and Stiles feels it shudder through him, feels a spike of pleasure in his own spine. "Yes, I want it."
Derek's breath comes out on a sort of snarl, but not the kind Stiles hears when he's being shoved against a wall and seeing red (literally). It's deep, low, just for him, for Stiles, and fuck if that's not the last thought he expected to have tonight.
"God, come here," Derek says, rolling Stiles onto his back and tugging at his t-shirt, "Get this off," he orders, and Stiles does it as gracefully as he can, for all he doesn't want to take his eyes off Derek's chest and stomach and his face, which Stiles could swear is actually flushed.
Once his torso is bare, Stiles doesn't have time to feel self conscious or exposed. Derek is on him in an instant, zeroing in on a spot on his collar bone like he's just been waiting to get his teeth on it. Stiles squirms, bringing his hands up to Derek's shoulders to anchor himself, trying not to do something ridiculous and slutty like spread his legs just to let Derek get as close as he can, maybe just cover Stiles completely.
It occurs to Stiles that he's being marked, right now, and that he's going to have to be really careful with his clothes until it fades. The thought just makes him hotter, makes him inch his thighs apart to let Derek between them, because maybe ridiculous and slutty is a fucking amazing idea.
"Oh my god," Stiles says to the ceiling, his back arching as Derek presses him down, and Stiles realizes he's incredibly hard at the same moment he realizes that Derek's dick is just two thin layers of cotton away from his own. Derek bends a little more, finally releasing the spot he's sucked and bitten into Stiles' neck in favor of scraping those almost-too-sharp teeth against his nipple. "Oh my god."
Stiles can feel himself leaking into his boxers. He's actually fucking dripping precome, and he knew this wasn't going to last long, but he takes a second to chastise his body, because really? We couldn't savor this a little longer?
"Stiles," Derek mutters against his chest, moving over to suck at the other nipple, making Stiles' toes curl, "I wish I could -- I wish you knew how amazing you smell to me right now." and then he's working a hand between them, down Stiles' stomach and under the waistband of his boxers and--
"You don't know what you're doing," Stiles chokes out, his vision going grey at the edges as Derek's hand wraps around his cock, already slick.
"I'm making you come," Derek says, managing to sound condescending with Stiles' nipple between his teeth.
"Fair enough," Stiles says, and doesn't even feel bad about scoring Derek's shoulders with his nails. "Do you know how fast it's going to happen?"
Derek growls, thumbing over the slit of Stiles' cock like he's making a point. "I'm counting on it."
Stiles barely has time to let himself appreciate the fact that Derek Hale is about to make him come before, well. He's definitely never made that sound in his bedroom alone.
He's distantly aware of the fact that Derek is speaking to him, murmuring something against his throat while he strokes Stiles through the most intense orgasm of his sixteen years. It takes quite a few moments for the rushing in his ears to dissipate enough for him to register the words, "Good, good boy," like Derek is congratulating him, praising him for coming in his underwear. Which is insane, and ridiculous, but that doesn't stop Stiles from shivering with pleasure, tilting his face against Derek's so he can feel his stubble.
"I'll be good to go again... soon. Really soon," Stiles slurs, and Derek catches his mouth in a kiss -- their first, Stiles realizes, which is a little weird, right? But it's too good to focus too much on the proper sequence of events. Derek's lips are soft and coaxing, his teeth sharp, his chin rough and scratching Stiles' skin, and he'll have a mark there, too, and that one is going to be harder to hide or explain. Derek's tongue is in his mouth and Derek's fingers are pushing down between his legs, behind his balls, just touching the skin there that makes Stiles clench in all sorts of places.
Then the hand is gone, and so is the tongue, and Stiles finds himself squirming for both of them as Derek pushes himself up. "These should go, huh," he says, indicating Stiles' underwear.
"Yes, yes they should," Stiles scrambles to get rid of them, embarrassing himself only slightly when they get caught on his foot and sail halfway across the room as he tries to kick them off. Derek is smiling, though, and he's back on top of Stiles faster than he can blink, so Stiles figures he's earning some points somewhere.
He angles upward for another kiss, because it turns out that kissing is really fucking good when one of the people involved knows what they're doing. Derek keeps a few inches between them, though, looking down at Stiles like he's searching for something.
"You'll tell me if I do something you're not comfortable with." It's not a question, more a command.
Stiles blinks. "Right now, I can't think of a single thing that I wouldn't let you do to me, and I'm pretty sure that's only fifty percent excited virgin talking."
Derek eyes flash, like they were about to turn red but he caught himself. He leans down and catches Stiles' mouth in a kiss, faster and rougher than before.
"You can't say shit like that to me," he breathes into Stiles' mouth, in a tone that leaves no room for argument.
"Dude," Stiles says, bringing his hands up to feel Derek's shoulders where he scratched earlier, finding only smooth skin. "Of course I'll tell you, come on. You're not as scary as you think you are."
It's a testament to the moment that Derek doesn't call him on that lie.
This time, it's Derek who eases Stiles' legs apart, coaxing him to plant his feet on the bed. Stiles flushes, because Derek is just lying beside him now, and Stiles is exposed, really exposed. Not to say that he hasn't thought about this, both in general and with Derek in mind, when he let himself dare. But like everything else, reality is a little more stark, and now he looks down and sees skinny legs and knobby knees, and Derek next to him looking like a freaking GQ spread for basic black boxer briefs, and yeah, Stiles is a little self-conscious.
Derek's hand is between his legs again, and this time there's more room to move. This time his fingers play at that little stretch of skin with real purpose, and Stiles tries to keep his chest rising and falling in a rhythm, equal parts nervous and turned on and incredibly, painfully hard. Again.
Stiles lets out a breath when Derek's finger touches his hole, slick with -- fuck, that's Stiles' come.
"Have you done this at all before?" Derek asks, that finger touching and circling and teasing without pushing in.
"With someone else?" Stiles says dumbly, blinking at him.
Breathing hard through his nose, Derek leans down and steals a wet, open-mouthed kiss. "You've done this to yourself?" he says, the tip of his finger just barely pushing in, and Stiles has to tense his whole body to stop from squirming for more.
"A couple times," he says, his face burning though he's not sure why, since Derek seems to approve.
"... No complaints?" Stiles bites his lip, hoping that Derek can somehow read on his face that that actually means once I got the angle right, I came so hard I thought my dick would fall off.
Derek hums, his lips turning up in a smirk as he works his finger deeper, his eyes raking over Stiles' body as he does it. Stiles is used to the intrusion, that particular brand of pleasant discomfort, but Derek's finger reaches deeper than his own ever could, moving with a lot more confidence than Stiles' awkward hands. He bites his lip, muffling the sounds that want to come tumbling out of him as Derek starts to fuck him with one finger. It's not that Stiles has any problem with what they're doing, but, it's weird, isn't it, how Derek is just next to him, just watching, and Stiles is just naked and slowly losing his mind from one little (not so little) finger inside him.
"Stiles," Derek growls, vaguely threatening, "Talk."
"Ha," Stiles says weakly, unable to stop squirming, like his body is working independently of his brain. Which isn't that unusual for him. "Dude, you're like a fucking Greek god, and I'm just struggling to come up with a reason you'd want to stare at me like this."
Derek's hand doesn't stop moving, which is good, because Stiles might do something even more embarrassing if it did. Derek does lean over him, though, nosing along his jaw, inhaling deeply.
"Is it possible that you have some qualities that you're not fully aware of?"
"Not unless it's--" Stiles chokes as the tip of a second finger starts teasing around his hole, pressing carefully, testing. "Some kind of werewolf-specific pheromone, like something that betas can't smell, because... oh my god, that's it, isn't it? Am I alpha-bait?"
"Do you seriously think that's a thing," Derek deadpans, managing to keep a straight face even as he works another finger inside Stiles, and Stiles whines to the ceiling.
"Wouldn't be the weirdest thing to happen to me this year," Stiles draws his knee up further, trying to spread himself against the intrusion that's got just a little too much friction. "Top five, maybe, but definitely not number one."
"I think I'll leave you guessing on this one," Derek says, and before Stiles can respond, Derek is pulling his fingers out.
"What, no, where are you going," Stiles demands, scrabbling at Derek's arm as he reaches over to the nightstand. Which isn't so much a nightstand as it is a large Tupperware container. "You really don't have a lot of guests, do you?"
"Didn't think I needed to impress you," Derek says without heat, and oh, yeah, he's squeezing lube onto his fingers. It's safe to say that Stiles is already impressed. Derek sits back on his heels so Stiles can watch as he coats his fingers, three of them, which is a lot more than Stiles has ever had inside himself. The thought of Derek stretching him open has his dick leaking onto his stomach.
"Oh, fuck, oh god," Stiles gasps, arching as two of Derek's fingers press back inside him, only this time they're wet, and that alone feels amazing. Then Derek is skating them over a spot that makes Stiles cry out, makes his toes curl and his eyes clench tight. When he opens them, Derek is smiling at him without even a hint of disdain. "Definitely never felt like that when I did this to myself."
Derek looks down, and it takes Stiles a beat to realize that he's watching his fingers disappear into Stiles' body. Stiles wishes he could see.
The fingers draw out again, almost completely, then there's the third, slick and blunt and big. Stiles tries not to hold his breath, tries to focus on how good he feels, how amazing Derek looks. It's -- it's uncomfortable, first, and then it hurts, and Stiles is whining, reaching up to grasp the pillow above him. He doesn't realize he has his eyes closed tight until Derek is speaking, right above him.
"Look at me," he murmurs, and when Stiles does, Derek is leaning over him, close enough for Stiles to feel Derek's breath in puffs over his face. The fingers are still pushing inside him, slow but steady. "I wish I knew how to describe how fucking amazing you smell to me."
Stiles doesn't know what to say to that, and at any rate, he doesn't know if his voice would make much more than a squeaking sound right now.
"I could tell you all the reasons you're worth wanting, but I could never make you understand your own scent," Derek's brow is furrowed, like he's distressed by this, which Stiles would find amusing, or cute, if he wasn't so distracted by how the pain of the stretch is starting to morph into the pleasure of being worked open on Derek's fingers. "You smell like... the best things. Pack and home and sex, god, you always fucking smell like sex, it makes me want to wreck you."
"Oh my god," Stiles chokes out. That's the most he's ever heard Derek speak in his life. "You're going to do that, right? Because I really want you to do that. Just so we're clear."
Derek kisses him just as he crooks his fingers, sending shocks through Stiles' limbs. He can't coordinate his effort to kiss back, so he just lets Derek do the work this time, tongue slipping into Stiles' mouth like Derek wants to invade all of his spaces.
"Of course you do," Derek hisses against his lips, "You always want it."
"Oh, fuck, can you like, can you smell that on me or something? Like I'm-- receptive, or--" Stiles breaks off on a moan, his cheeks flaring with heat. "I don't even know why that's hot," he groans.
"Seriously?" Derek starts to work his fingers apart, stretching Stiles open in a slow, deliberate motion that makes his toes curl with pleasure-pain. "You don't know?"
God, god Stiles has never felt anything close to this good, and he's pretty sure he can attribute a lot of that to the way Derek is looking at him.
"Honestly," Stiles manages to croak out, "I'm having trouble comprehending any of this, because you're just-- fuck, oh fuck, that's so, fuck, Derek."
"You're so sensitive," Derek says, almost awed, like Stiles' hair trigger is an accomplishment. "I'm barely touching you there..." he crooks his fingers again and Stiles stiffens and cries out, begging his body to cooperate with his mind, just this once, don't come yet, don't come yet.
"Virginity is a powerful thing."
Derek's lips quirk, and he swoops down and catches Stiles' mouth in a quick kiss. "No," he says, pulling back and pulling his fingers free, "It's you."
"Oh." Stiles doesn't know how to respond to that sort of statement, but his head is swimming with this foreign, vaguely unpleasant feeling of emptiness at the loss of Derek's fingers. He cranes his neck up to see Derek shoving down his boxers, and oh yeah, Stiles has been thinking about this, unashamedly, because how could he not.
He licks his lips as he gazes down at Derek's cock, thick and hard and wet at the tip, wet for Stiles, and fuck, he wants his mouth on it, but no, focus. Focus, because Derek is pouring lube into his palm, spreading it over his length, looking terrifyingly intense, which is apparently a thing for Stiles, because his cock is straining, leaking against his belly, and he's pulling his knees up and spreading his legs further apart before he can even form the thought.
He's going to have sex. He's going to get fucked. He should be terrified, especially when Derek growls, rough hands sliding up the insides of his thighs, possessive, but -- it's good. Stiles doesn't have to think outside of want it want it need it fuck me. He can't pinpoint exactly when he started trusting Derek, but there's trust here. Who would've thought.
"Breathe," Derek says, and it takes that for Stiles to realize that he'd stopped. He takes a breath that hitches when the tip of Derek's cock touches his hole, slick, almost pressing inside. "Keep breathing."
The first push hurts, even though Stiles was expecting it, even though he's stretched from Derek's fingers and he's trying to relax, and he's bearing down like all his (yes, extensive) research told him he should. Derek's only given a small thrust, fingers at Stiles' entrance to open him up for it, but Stiles feels like he's being split open, which is probably not an entirely inaccurate description, and he really hopes this part is temporary.
And then he remembers, "Breathe, Stiles."
Yeah. Breathing definitely helps. So does Derek's hand stroking up and down his thigh; Derek's stare, somehow softer than Stiles has ever seen. Derek's breath on his chin when he leans down, pressing a kiss there.
"Don't go quiet on me now," Derek says, and Stiles gasps in a deep breath.
"Keep going," he says, his legs straining apart, because maybe that will ease the burn. "Fuck, you know it hurts, but keep going."
Stiles isn't very hard anymore, but he's still oversensitive from his last orgasm, so when Derek wraps his hand around Stiles' cock, all he can do is arch with it.
"You're okay, I know you can take it," Derek says, slowly stroking him, grip tight and warm and a little slick. "You smell incredible right now, you look fucking-- you were made for this, you're doing so good, Stiles."
Stiles knows, intellectually, that Derek is basically spewing bullshit, but his dick doesn't care. None of him cares. The words make him hot, make him shiver all over, and he's surprised when he feels Derek's hips flush against his ass.
The pain is still there, but it's not as bright as before, eclipsed by arousal and... and fullness. Derek feels huge inside him, and it's weird, but it's fucking great.
"Okay," he whispers, wriggling a little just to see how his body reacts. "Okay."
Stiles chews on his lip, screwing his eyes shut as he squirms and it send shocks of sensation through him. He's hard again.
"Okay fuck me," he clarifies, "Do it, move, fuck me, Derek."
Derek looks almost as drunk and dazed as Stiles feels when he starts to shift, giving a few short, experimental thrusts. Stiles knows he's being watched for reactions, and he can't do anything about the skip-jump of his heartbeat, but he can moan out his approval, curse and arch and dig his nails into Derek's shoulders.
That seems to have the desired effect, because Derek soon picks up the pace, building a rhythm that's not hard, but is demanding. Derek pulls Stiles' legs up around his hips so he can rest his weight on his hands as he thrusts. Stiles can't keep track of the noises they're both making, but he's pretty sure those high whimpers are his own, spilling from his mouth whenever Derek screws in at just the right angle and sends perfect little sparks up Stiles' spine.
"God, fuck, can you just, like, fuck, do it harder," Stiles says, babbling, "Like jesus, I knew I liked dick, right? But now I really get it, god, right there, yeah, yeah." His brain-to-mouth filter, defective at the best of times, has been utterly eradicated by Derek's cock.
Derek, for once, doesn't seem to mind the constant stream of words pouring out of him. He drops onto his elbows, which makes the angle a little shallower, but it lets him claim Stiles' mouth in a teeth clashing, tongues tangling kind of kiss.
"You really want it hard?" Derek asks him.
"Did I sound like I was lying?"
Derek ignores him, pushing himself up so he's on his knees and Stiles' ass is in his lap.
"Do you want me to fuck you hard, Stiles?"
"Yes," Stiles whines, clenching down on Derek's cock as the new position drives him deeper. "Please, Derek."
And then-- then Derek's eyes go red, not just a flash or a flicker, but they glow red, and he snarls, his fingernails (not his claws, thank god) dig into Stiles' hips as he thrusts hard enough to drag a sob out of Stiles and a groan from himself.
If Stiles had ever sat down and considered how, exactly, it would feel to be fucked by a werewolf, rather than somewhat more abstract fantasies about Derek's cock, this is probably what he would have imagined. He feels like he's being claimed, marked in so many ways, the least of which are the bright spots of pain on his hips from Derek's fingers.
It starts to feel a little slicker, the slide of Derek's cock inside him slippery, and Stiles realizes with a jolt of arousal that that's from Derek, precome easing the way. Do werewolves produce more precome, maybe? That would be really convenient for gay sex.
"Look at me," Derek says, so Stiles does, because yeah, focus, and yeah, Derek looks fucking hot above him, and he should really look as much as he possibly can. "You're ridiculous. You're so fucking sweet."
Before Stiles can even begin to parse that one, Derek's hand is wrapping around his cock and jerking him in time with his thrusts.
"Ah," Stiles says, writhing, helpless, "Ah, fuck, ah ah--"
There's a new feeling, and it takes Stiles a beat to realize it's Derek's finger rubbing over the stretched skin of his hole, feeling where they meet, almost pushing in. It's too much, it won't fit, but Stiles arches anyway, pressing up into Derek's fist and wailing.
Stiles comes harder than he ever has in his life, and Derek manages to catch most of it in his hand, rub it back over Stiles' cock while he keeps fucking him, keeps fucking him, and Stiles is crying out to the ceiling and he thinks Derek is growling, but he can't trust his senses.
Stiles feels like he could cry when it's over, because it's over, because he'll probably never come like that again, ever.
Derek leans over him again, panting like he's dying, his body going still. And Stiles is reeling, sure, still twitching with aftershocks, but.
"Don't stop, don't stop," he begs, trying to move under Derek, but he's weighed down, held down. "What are you doing, don't stop, we're not done, come on, come on."
"Shh, Stiles," Derek gasps into his neck, one hand petting clumsily through Stiles' hair, "I'm gonna come."
Stiles groans, hitching his legs up higher, squirming, "That's the point, isn't it? Come on, move, come on."
"When I come," Derek says, ignoring him and holding him still with little effort, "The base of my dick is going to swell."
Stiles tries to blink away the haze in his brain that is making it difficult for him to process that sentence. He opens his mouth to speak, then snaps it shut again. He's still clenching his muscles around Derek; he couldn't stop if he wanted to. Derek's hips are moving a little, too, though Stiles doesn't think he's aware of it.
"It's called a knot," Derek continues, "It's supposed to keep me inside you for as long as possible. Keep my come inside you."
Oh. "Fuck," Stiles breathes, "I--"
"I'm gonna pull out before it happens."
Stiles swallows hard. "I don't want you to pull out."
The way Derek's breath catches tells Stiles that he doesn't want to either, but Derek still shakes his head, "I don't need to do it, I'm not going to hurt you like that."
"I want you to do it," Stiles says, and he knows Derek won't detect a lie in that, there isn't one. He arches his back, rocking into the barely-there motion of Derek's hips.
"You're scared," Derek shuts his eyes, surging forward once, pushing in deep and making Stiles whine, his dick making itself known again, feebly, leaking a little in its best effort at appreciation.
"Of course I'm fucking scared, I skipped Werewolf Anatomy 101," Stiles grits out, "I can't be scared and still want it?"
"Please, Derek," Stiles knows his muscles will be screaming when the endorphins run out, but he uses all his strength to move under Derek, coax him back into a rhythm. He bites his lip, searching for the magic words. "I want it. I want -- give me your knot."
"Jesus Christ," Derek gasps, strangled, hitching Stiles' legs up to his shoulders and shoving him up the mattress with the force of his next thrust.
"Come on, come on," Stiles urges, "Just-- just, fuck, oh fuck."
Derek's cock is swelling inside him, and Stiles is for some reason surprised at how acutely he can feel it stretching him. Derek is still moving, but in little aborted thrusts, his muscles going rigid as he forces his knot into Stiles.
"Derek, holy fuck, it's big," and it hurts, of course it does, but Stiles focuses on Derek instead, the line between his eyebrows, the broken, rough-edged moans coming from his mouth. Stiles reaches up, pulls Derek down for a kiss even though it crushes his legs to his chest and makes it hard to breathe.
Their mouths barely meet before Derek stiffens, his teeth -- a little too long, too sharp to be completely human -- scraping Stiles' lower lip like he's trying not to bite down. He gives a groan, low and animal, and then Stiles feels it. A rush of wet heat inside him, Derek's come, that's Derek's come--
"Stiles," Derek growls, and Stiles can barely hear it over his own moaning, because who the fuck knew this would feel so good? And it feels like time is telescoping, because it's not stopping, Derek's still coming, and Stiles thought he felt full from the knot.
"Oh my god," Stiles says -- whines, really, squirming under Derek, taking a gasping breath as Derek lets his legs drop to the mattress.
"There's a lot of it," Derek breathes, petting Stiles hair, sounding wrecked, exhausted, even as he's still coming. "Is it good?"
Something in Derek's tone makes Stiles melt, something questioning, maybe worried, and Stiles has to wonder how many people Derek has done this with, how many he could have been this honest with.
"So fucking good," Stiles says, vehement with the last dregs of energy in his body. "It feels so good, Derek, I feel amazing," and Stiles isn't lying, not even a little.
Derek collapses then, like the orgasm took everything out of him, and Stiles takes his weight happily, hooking one ankle around his leg.
"We'll be tied together for a while," Derek says into his shoulder. Stiles is unsurprisingly okay with that detail.
Even when 'a while' turns out to be nearly thirty minutes. Derek never stops petting him, his hair, his face. He mouths at Stiles' neck, murmuring acknowledgements of Stiles' sleepy, rambling thoughts. When the knot goes down enough, Stiles starts to feel wet with come.
Stiles winces as Derek pulls out, drawn out of near-sleep by the feeling of emptiness followed by the foreign, not-unwelcome sensation of Derek's come trickling out of him. He'd apologize for making a mess of Derek's sheets, but really, whose fault is this?
Derek slides off him, but he doesn't go far, silently manhandling Stiles onto his side and cuddling up behind him, breathing heavily like that brief moment of separation was enough to agitate him. Stiles' thighs start to feel slick and sticky, and he squirms. Derek slides a hand between their bodies and Stiles feels two fingers teasing between his cheeks, pushing just a little ways in, where Stiles is sloppy and open. The fingers don't move, really, and Derek settles soon after that.
"So this is like another wolfy thing, huh," Stiles murmurs, so close to nodding off. "Like the knot isn't enough, you've gotta use your fingers too?"
Derek growls, a low rumble. "Go to sleep."
Stiles can do that.
When he opens his eyes, there's light streaming in through the apartment's single window. The first thought Stiles has is that he feels like he just ran a marathon, his muscles are so stiff. The second is that Derek isn't in bed with him.
He sits up and looks around. Derek is standing in the kitchen, wearing nothing but jeans and one of his more pensive scowls, leaning over a sink full of floating glasses and soapy water. Stiles could have sworn that sink was empty last night. Is Derek washing clean dishes?
"Hi," Stiles croaks, not one of his sexier voices. Derek doesn't startle, because of course he knew Stiles was awake, of course he did. He does go stiff, though, just for a split second, only enough for Stiles to notice because he's shirtless and that muscle flexing in his shoulder is hard for Stiles to ignore in any context.
"Morning," Derek says. He doesn't look up from the sink.
"So," Stiles starts, aiming for nonchalant and undoubtedly failing, "What uh... what was that? Last night, I mean. You know. The sex."
Derek looks up from the sink, looks at Stiles. Stiles tries not to blink, and Derek just stares, but not in the terrifying, intense way Stiles is used to. More like he's lost for words. Stiles clamps down on his nerves, suddenly vividly imagining Derek responding with Nothing, it was nothing.
"It-- it has to be something," Stiles rushes out before he has a chance to think, "I know you're not like, on the market exactly, or looking for a horny teenager to latch onto you, but..." Stiles trails off, hoping Derek will finish the sentence, or shoot him down, put him out of his misery.
Derek doesn't say anything, but he drops the mug he's holding, letting it splash into the sink, and walks over to the bed. It dips when he sits on the edge, with a creaking of old springs. He snakes a hand around Stiles' neck, pulling him in close. Stiles hears him take a deep breath through his nose, buried in Stiles' hair, and knows enough about these wolf types to know he's being scented.
"If I say it's something..." Derek starts, hesitant. Nervous. Even Stiles can read that emotion. "If-- if I promise you that, is that enough, right now? Until I figure out how to explain it?"
Stiles nods against Derek's chest, afraid to speak for what may be the first time in his life.
Derek kisses his temple, then his cheekbone. A lingering kiss on the tip of his nose, then a quick brush across Stiles' lips.
Stiles feels tension shudder out of him, winding his arms around Derek's middle. Something is enough. Something feels safe, and warm, and just the right amount of scary. It's so, so good.