It began, unsurprisingly, with a challenge.
Stiles can’t recall now whether it was Erica or Isaac who leveled it, but one thing he does know is that he should never be allowed to hang out alone with those two ever, ever again, especially if alcohol is involved. One minute they’d all been talking in deeply nostalgic tones about graduation and the next, Stiles had somehow been expounding on the details of his sex life and defending his ability to top his alpha boyfriend. Hours later, he’s still trying to figure out how one bridged to the other.
By the time Stiles pulls his Jeep into the farmhouse’s gravel driveway, Derek is already stepping down off the front porch, shirtless as he slips from the shadows like a ghost. Even through the haze of the windshield, Stiles can see that Derek’s expression is curious but tentative, braced as he perpetually is for bad news. The rumpled state of his jeans means he threw them on in a hurry, probably the moment he caught the telltale sound of the Jeep from down the street.
“You’ve been drinking,” Derek announces the moment Stiles has killed the motor and trundled out of the driver’s seat. He’s in Stiles’ personal space in a matter of seconds, immediately manhandling Stiles’ face as if inspecting it for injury.
“Not much,” Stiles replies, enduring this treatment with a fond, if beleaguered patience. “Isaac spilled half his drink on me. I swear I only had two beers, Dad, and that was like four hours ago. Scout’s honor.” He holds up his right hand, index and middle finger pressed together in salute, and tries to crane a look around Derek’s considerable bulk. “Anybody else home?”
Derek stills, and then drops his hands as he rears back his head. “Is this a booty call?”
“I would have climbed through your window, but I lost the element of surprise,” Stiles blithely replies. “Also, your bedroom is on the second floor and I am pretty fond of my neck not being broken.”
This close, Stiles can feel the tension slipping from Derek’s shoulders as much as see it, but that doesn’t prepare him for the smile Derek turns on him immediately after. It’s small but perfectly intimate, the sweetest little curl of lips, and it belongs to no one but Stiles.
Stiles, who is almost completely sure that his stomach has dropped right out of his body, just now. Seriously, if he glances at his feet, he’ll probably see it down there, quivering in a traitorous heap next to his All Stars.
“I feel so used,” Derek says, the smile lingering at the corners of his mouth.
“I know, it must be difficult being a sex object,” Stiles solemnly replies, and heaves a sigh. “I struggle with the burden myself constantly. But seriously.” He swings a pointed glance to the dark windows of the house, and then looks back to Derek. “Who else is here? Because I have a serious need to objectify you as soon as possible.”
“Peter,” Derek says, “who, like me, was trying to sleep before you showed up.”
“Oh,” Stiles replies, feigning polite surprise. “Did I wake you? I can-” He motions to the Jeep and takes half a step back toward the driver’s side door. “I can just go, then—”
“—find someone else to objectify—”
“—or just objectify myself instead. Repeatedly. With both hands—Oh my god, you are so easy,” Stiles says, laughing out the last words as Derek literally springs forward and rocks him up against the side of the Jeep with a hollow thump.
“With both hands?” Derek echoes, one eyebrow arching as his fingers slide up under the hem of Stiles’ t-shirt to splay hot across the skin beneath. The motion is so seamless, so casually done, and Jesus if that doesn’t scare the crap out of Stiles on the primal level dedicated to his emotional self-preservation.
He doesn’t think about it. He focuses on Derek’s lips instead.
“Could just use your hands,” Stiles says, angling his hips forward until they clash with Derek’s. “Unless you wanted to get back to sleep.”
“Stiles,” Derek repeats, and levels him with a firm stare. Stiles arches back against the Jeep in reply and bites against his bottom lip.
“What? I’m just saying,” he says with a deliberate wiggle of his hips.
What Stiles expects then is a kiss. They’ve never been a long, leisurely kissing sort of couple, partially because Stiles doesn’t have the attention span for it and partially because Derek is perpetually drawn to Stiles’ neck like a compass pointing north. But a kiss would make sense, here, insofar as it has the ability to shut Stiles up while being sufficiently on the erotic theme. Derek even sways in, and Stiles parts his lips, expectant, only to find his shirt rucked up and Derek licking a path from waistband to navel.
As it turns out, this is not a horrible way of shutting Stiles up, either.
“…and that, ladies and gentlemen, is why it’s called a happy trail,” Stiles manages in a breathless little warble, fingers instinctively slipping into dark hair as Derek fastidiously unbuckles and unzips. This is far from the first time they’ve been in this particular position, but when Stiles looks down the length of his body he can’t help but be astonished at how fucking perfect Derek looks there, settling onto his knees, green eyes shaded by inky lashes as he drags Stiles’ jeans and boxers down skinny hips. It’s like he was made for this, bred in a lab for maximum arousal in minimal time.
“Doesn’t the gravel hurt your—” Stiles starts.
“Stiles,” Derek says again, eyes flicking up, and the stop talking is implicit when he takes Stiles immediately into his mouth, eager and smooth, all the way down to the hilt. Later, when Stiles has regained the ability to form complete sentences, he’s definitely going to ask whether Derek has been an exhibitionist all this time or if he’s just that impatient.
“Fuck me,” Stiles sighs, grateful for the solid support of the Jeep at his back as his sneakered feet twist fitfully against gravel. He should look away. He really, really should look away if he wants this to last more than thirty seconds, because that’s approximately how long he thinks he can stand to watch Derek Hale’s slick, pink lips fastened over his cock before it’s game over.
“Later,” Derek distractedly replies before going immediately right back to business with an obscene amount of enthusiasm. He nuzzles against the wiry hair at the base of Stiles’ dick and then swallows before he tips up a dark glance and pins Stiles in place with it.
“Derek,” Stiles whimpers, trembling and bowed forward and unable to look away. He feels scattered, desperate, and he wants, wants, wants so much that it isn’t even part of the plan when he adds, breathless and unguarded, “God, I want to fuck the shit out of you.”
He stumbles half a step and has to catch himself when Derek jerks abruptly back.
“What?” Derek asks, and he looks so fucking obscene, kneeling there with lips swollen and saliva-wet, that for a moment Stiles just stares at him open-mouthed and tries to recall what planet he’s on.
“I, um,” Stiles begins, and instinctively licks his own lips. “I want to…fuck the shit out of you?”
Derek looks confused, which, like most of his expressions, comes off as semi-hostile. Stiles can’t blame him, really; all the time they’ve been together, Stiles has never so much as hinted at wanting to top, and his enthusiasm for having Derek’s cock in him is fairly legendary.
“Are you serious?” Derek asks, and Stiles can’t blame him for that, either, when he realizes how he must look right now, half hunched over with his dick out.
"Is there a problem with my wanting to fuck you?” Stiles asks. Derek isn’t giving any sign that he might resume trying to suck Stiles’ brain out through his dick, so Stiles carefully hitches his boxers and jeans back up. “You are my boyfriend, right? We have established that.”
“And by fuck, you mean…”
“Playing canasta, Derek, what the hell do you think it means?”
Derek frowns. Even through his sexual frustration, Stiles knows this isn’t a good sign.
“I want to be in you,” he tries again, wistfulness replacing the bite in his voice, and when Derek’s scowl falters, Stiles presses relentlessly on, never looking away. “I want to spread you out on our bed and make you delirious. I want you wrapped around me so I can feel it when you come.”
It won’t be until much, much later that he’ll realize he used the word ‘our.’
“Now get up out of the gravel and come inside with me so that I can objectify your unbelievable body,” Stiles continues with an impatient little motion to the house. “Please.”
Frozen in place there on his knees, Derek just watches him, vulnerability in the soft confusion of his eyes like he just stepped off a curb he didn’t know was there. “You never mentioned it before,” he says, and Stiles has to look briefly away, rubbing against the back of his neck, because the juxtaposition is just a little too much for him right now.
“I know,” he says, and swings his gaze back. “That doesn’t mean I haven’t thought about it. Do you have any idea of how much of my day is dedicated to picturing you naked? It’s like 97%, easy. Statistically, it was only a matter of time. Can we…” He looks down to his crotch, pulls a face, and then looks back up again. “Can we maybe do something about this?”
Rolling his eyes, Derek finally pushes himself to his feet and brushes the dust from his knees. “I thought you were supposed to be using your days to get ready to graduate.”
“It’s called multi-tasking,” Stiles replies with a little swivel of his head, and swings both hands toward the porch. “After you and your fabulous ass.”
As Stiles follows Derek inside, he doesn’t bother with whispering, despite the late hour; if Peter is awake, he’ll hear it all regardless, and Stiles would really rather pretend that the Sassmaster General isn’t eavesdropping on his and Derek’s sexual escapades. Unsurprisingly, being oblivious isn’t that difficult when he’s watching Derek climb the stairs in front of him.
“Remind me after we’re done to write an effusive thank you note to whoever made those jeans,” he says, and reaches out to squeeze one cheek before Derek swats his hand away.
Stiles pounces once they’re closed up inside Derek’s bedroom, relying on the element of semi-surprise to tumble them both down onto the rumpled bed. Unsurprisingly, he ends up pinned beneath Derek’s imploring mouth and hips, chin tipped instinctively back to allow for a fresh application of love bites to his neck.
“Derek,” he breathes, like he’s amazed by the name, and his body wants so many different things that for a slender moment he almost gives in and begs to be fucked. It wouldn’t be the first time, not by a long shot, and Stiles fully intends to go there later with all due enthusiasm, but he can sense, too, that Derek may be distracting him on purpose.
“Derek,” he repeats, warm and breathless against the shell of Derek’s ear, down-turned eyelashes tickling Derek’s temple. He slips fingers up the nape of Derek’s neck and into the thick hair at the back of his head and tugs back, gentle but insistent. The wet warmth of Derek’s mouth leaves his skin and a cool huff of breath sweeps in after.
Derek pushes up, looks him in the eye.
“I want to be in you,” Stiles says again, unflinching like he’s not being held down, fingers still tight in Derek’s hair. “Let me. Let me be in you. Let me fuck you.” On impulse, he jerks Derek’s head back and arches up to drag swift, blunt teeth across the tender expanse of revealed throat.
Derek stills, but doesn’t fight, doesn’t protest, and the sound that vibrates up from his throat is so guttural, so gloriously raw that it startles Stiles into freezing, too.
It’s the hottest thing that Stiles has heard in his entire fucking life.
“Oh, you are so getting fucked,” Stiles ejects, and lets go of Derek’s hair to push up on his shoulders. Derek weighs at least twice what Stiles does, but he goes with the motion, rolling over onto his back and pulling Stiles with him, hips instantly lifted off the mattress.
“And I thought I was a cock-hungry slut,” Stiles says, clearly delighted.
“You are,” Derek replies, and reaches hasty fingers to pull up on Stiles’ t-shirt. “Why are you still dressed?”
“Because you’re bad at your job,” Stiles scoffs, flinging the shirt away with a graceless flap of his arms.
“It’s my job to undress you now?”
“Yeah, sorry, I thought you knew that. It was in the contract, right under let Stiles fuck the shit out of you, which…wow. You are clearly on board with,” Stiles says, pausing in divesting Derek of his ass-enhancing jeans. “Congratulations on your magnificent bottom boner, sir.”
Derek drops his head down onto the pillow with a sigh and stares at the ceiling, probably wondering how in the hell he finds Stiles attractive, ever. This is something Stiles frequently wonders himself.
“Oh, cheer up, little camper,” Stiles chirps, and gives the side of Derek’s newly-bared ass a swat. “You’re going to have a good time, promise.”
“Is that going to start anytime soon?” Derek pulls his gaze from the ceiling to shoot Stiles an unimpressed glance.
“Oh-ho-ho, somebody’s got their sassy pants on tonight!” Stiles replies on a laugh, and all but leaps back atop Derek now that he’s shaken his own jeans off. “You don’t fool me, you know,” he murmurs, and leans in to ghost a kiss across Derek’s lips, breath catching at the slide of their bare cocks. Derek hums lows in response, and it isn’t precisely a concession, but it’s close enough, and when Stiles slips down Derek’s body, peppering kisses across the landscape of golden-warm skin as he goes, he never breaks his gaze, never once looks away from those green eyes even as he’s pushing up on the backs of Derek’s muscled thighs.
“I can roll over,” Derek says, a fine tremble fluttering at the edge of his syllables like he’s trying desperately to sound unaffected.
“No,” Stiles quietly insists with a slight shake of his head as he rocks Derek’s hips further up. “I want to see you.”
Without pretense, Stiles ducks his head. He can feel the sharp intake of Derek’s breath as he settles in, thumbs spreading him wide, and then the rush of the exhalation as Derek relaxes beneath his tongue. From fingertips to toes, Stiles’ body is humming, electric, as he eases Derek open not with finesse but with pointed intent, and it takes him awhile to recognize that it isn’t desire vibrating through him but power. He’s looking at Derek arched back on the mattress with lips parted and eyes closed, hair a mess, wholly unguarded, and for the first time Stiles feels like he really possesses this man, like he is owning as much as owned, and for a few seconds he has to stop because he can’t breathe from the weight of that revelation.
He arches up, lips flushed and wet, presses both hands firm against Derek’s hips and pulls Derek’s erection into his mouth, sloppy and hot and fast. Derek shudders beneath him from thighs to chest, fists pulling hard at the sheets, and chokes on a broken sound that reverberates all the way down to Stiles’ cock.
“Please tell me you’re ready,” Stiles ejects when he pulls back, and then leans up, clumsy and eager, to crush his mouth against Derek’s. There’s a clatter to his right and he startles, only to find Derek with a well-loved bottle of lube in hand, appropriated from the nightstand.
“Condom?” Stiles asks, because he doesn’t know where his jeans are and it’s dark, and he hadn’t planned for this as well as he should have. Derek shakes his head, don’t worry about it, and Stiles sucks in a tremulous breath as the bottle is pressed imploringly into his palm.
“…are you serious?” Stiles asks.
“Werewolf,” Derek hastily reminds him, like Stiles has been with anyone else anyway. STDs hadn’t exactly been the crux of his question, but Derek doesn’t seem to care regardless, catching hold of the backs of his knees like a porn star ready for his close up, and holy shit, oh fucking Christ, this is really Stiles’ life right now, this is really happening.
“Oh god,” Stiles exhales as he leans back again, eyes darting from Derek’s glassy-eyed gaze to the wide-open feast between his trembling thighs, and Stiles’ hands shake as he opens the lube, sticky-slick liquid dripping off of fingertips and the smooth curve of Derek’s ass. He tries to slide a finger in, to press Derek open more just in case, but finds a hand clamped around his wrist like a vise, pulling it away.
“Are you going to fuck me or not?” Derek growls, all challenge, and Stiles jerks his wrist away, jaw flexing as he grinds his teeth.
“Oh, fuck you,” he pants as he takes hold of his cock. Knees splayed wide on either side of Derek’s hips, he lets bravado guide the forward swing of his own.
Stiles has never done this, not in the entirety of his life, not with anyone. He’s never penetrated, violated, pushed into, and there’s nothing tentative about the way he slides into Derek, but only because his body takes over and he can’t help himself once he’s started. When he’s buried fully inside, Derek wrapped impossibly hot and tight around him, Stiles can’t move for a long moment, hunched over and panting open-mouthed onto Derek’s chest, and it’s Derek who forces him into motion, pulling up on his chin and directing his mouth up into a careless, shivering kiss.
“I wish you were in me right now,” Stiles says, and it’s crazy, he knows this, but it’s all he can think, that he wants Derek inside of him all the time, even now, filling him up hot and hard and relentless. Miraculously, Derek doesn’t laugh at this but instead clasps a hand against Stiles’ ass, draws him in to the hilt and kick-starts the rhythm Stiles’ hips are desperate to begin.
Bravado can’t replace experience, though, and the pulse of Stiles’ thrusts is halting, awkward, difficult to rein in. His knees slip constantly on the sheets and he can’t seem to slow down despite the guiding tug of Derek’s hands. Frustrated, he stops entirely, panting into the space between Derek’s neck and shoulder with eyes closed, pulse hammering in his ears. Fuck, why can’t he just put his dick in his boyfriend without screwing it up? Is he not even capable of this? Derek fucks him all the time, sometimes multiple times a day, with an honestly terrifying degree of aplomb, it can’t be that difficult.
Derek fucks him all the time.
Derek fucks him all the time.
Oh god. Is he really… Yes, he really is. Stiles really is contemplating What Would Derek Hale Do? If the topic were anything but sex, this would probably be the worst idea in the history of forever.
“Stiles?” Derek’s voice is a whisper at his ear, and Stiles startles.
“Yeah, just-” Stiles begins, and pulls in a deep, wavering breath. “Just a second. Give me just a second.”
“Don’t you dare tell me it’s okay,” Stiles growls as he rears back. When he focuses on Derek’s face in the dark, he can see that even that little bit of aggression has sent him breathless again, and for the first legitimate time all night, Stiles wants to fuck his boyfriend so hard he can’t walk at the end of it.
He clasps one hand atop the headboard and braces the other behind Derek’s upturned knee, and when he glances down again, there’s a particular glint to Derek’s eyes, like Stiles has just brought home his first A. Stiles stares.
“Are you seriously looking at me all proud papa right now?” Derek Hale is lying in bed with Stiles’ cock buried in his ass, pressing his lips together in an attempt not to laugh. Now this? This is definitely Stiles’ life. “If you laugh at me right now, Derek, I fucking swear—”
“I’m just glad you’ve been paying attention,” Derek replies, and beams up that bright smile he reserves for when he’s torturing Stiles in bed or attempting to woo hapless desk officers.
“You’re not my alpha,” Stiles says. “Not right now.”
“You sure about that?”
“Oh yeah, I’m really fucking sure,” Stiles replies, and leans in to bite hard against Derek’s shoulder at the same moment he snaps his hips forward. The sound Derek makes is unreal, keening and needful, and so Stiles does it again. And again. And again.
By the time he levers himself up, Derek looks well past unraveled, writhing on the sheets and panting like the combination of Stiles’ teeth and cock has set him on the road to ruin. “You’re going to come for me,” Stiles says, low and dangerous. “You’re going to come so hard you can’t remember your name.”
Derek can’t speak, can’t even nod, just reaches for his dick with trembling fingers as the rhythmic squeaking of the bed echoes in the darkness. Stiles bites against the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood, but he doesn’t come; not yet, not yet.
The pulse of Stiles’ hips have just begun to turn erratic when Derek seizes up beneath him, his orgasm shaking ruthlessly out of him as his head tips back to expose the long, glorious line of his throat. Stiles follows so quickly after it’s as if Derek’s reeled it out of him, wrung him dry until he’s left in a sweaty, panting heap between trembling thighs.
Derek doesn’t ask Stiles to move, and so he stays, quietly breathing in the scent of Derek’s skin and the thick, cloying musk of their sex until their pulses slow and his cock goes soft. He licks the salty tendon from Derek’s collarbone to jaw in preamble and then slides back down the length of Derek’s body to lick past the red and delicate rim of his ass. Derek startles and then lets go a throaty moan, sinking bonelessly into the mattress with a full-body shiver as Stiles opens him gently up one more time.
Satisfied, Stiles climbs back up to press his tongue past Derek’s lips, and Derek kisses him back reckless and hard, clashing teeth and biting into the soft flesh of Stiles’ lower lip.
“That you didn’t learn from me,” Derek says on a shallow breath when Stiles draws away, and Stiles hitches up a lop-sided smile as he flops happily down beside him.
“That I learned on the internet.”
“It really is a modern miracle.” Derek cants his head to the side and fixes Stiles in a long, contemplative gaze.
“Pondering the many merits of my cock?” Stiles asks.
“Wondering if I can get you to order me a laptop.”
Stiles laughs, wild and breathless, and leans in to press a drowsy kiss to Derek’s lips. “Or I could just do all the research and then teach you what I’ve learned.”
“I think I could probably live with that.”