Stiles doesn’t wake up that morning thinking today I’m going to pretend to be a dog. In fact, the thought has never crossed his mind. It doesn’t even cross his mind when he starts sniffing Derek’s belly and panting little giggles between big, dramatic whuffs of breath. He’s just being a dick, acting like a big dumb housepet, goofing off because Derek’s half-asleep and Stiles is wound up and still wants to fool around. With Derek’s penis.
It’s not all that different than the time Stiles scrawled Scott’s name onto a dog bowl with a Sharpie, except back then he’d been super angry. Right now he’s not angry; he’s horny. But it’s still kind of irresistible to make dog jokes about the werewolves because if you can’t joke about the frankly terrifying supernatural elements of your life, what can you joke about?
“Stiles,” Derek says, low and sleepy, and not very discouraging.
Stiles nudges Derek’s sweaty skin with his nose and then bites with tiny, quick nibbles like he’s a teething puppy. Derek has negative body fat so it’s hard to get anything but pinches of skin between his teeth. It probably stings, but Derek isn't reacting, so he's not going to stop.
They already made out and jerked off together but that was twenty minutes ago and Stiles wants more. He wants to stay happy and turned on. He wants to beat away thoughts of anything but how much fun it is to fuck, and Derek’s being a giant, tired fun-killer.
Instead of sarcastically asking Derek what his problem is, or snorting and telling Derek that jeez, he’s acting like he fought off two alphas on his own (too soon, it was fucking scary actually, no more thoughts), Stiles barks. It’s the barking equivalent of Scott’s first, pathetic howl, and Derek’s eyes snap open, wide and surprised, as Stiles blushes. What the hell was that?
Stiles could mumble an excuse, some stupid reason for barking, but he doesn’t. He doesn't have an excuse. He lowers his eyes and gives a deep, embarrassed groan. Then he bathes Derek’s hip bone with his tongue.
It occurs to Stiles, with a sensation like the creeping tickle of goosebumps, that his posture has changed. He's sitting back on his haunches and he's propped on his forearms and if he had a tucked tail that's all it would take to complete the picture.
He's acting like a dog.
The thing is, none of the werewolves ever act like dogs. They act like people who are sometimes very scary and strong. They’re complicated and generally not playful.
Dogs are simple. They want to be loved.
“Stiles,” Derek says again. It’s a different tone. Hard to read without looking at his face, but Stiles is too busy working through a sailor’s knot of mortification and armchair psychology to investigate. He keeps licking Derek with small, cautious strokes, because that's easier than answering.
After a long silence, Derek sits up and curls his hand around the back of Stiles’s head, his fingers reaching, curving, and scratching behind Stiles’ ear.
“Don’t bite,” Derek says, something indulgent honeying his sleepy voice. “No biting.”
Stiles doesn’t nod; he noses at Derek's groin. Some of the embarrassment fades, like dissipating smoke, and what’s left is cautious contentment and a side of arousal, because sure, he’s acting like a dog for reasons he doesn’t want to fathom, but they’re still naked and he’s inches from Derek’s cock.
Derek’s cock is one of those things that makes Stiles' life more enjoyable. Stiles sneaks a glance at it. It’s soft now, the tip peeking from ruddy folds of foreskin. There’s a ribbony wetness glistening down from the pink head to a pool of moisture in the dark hair below Derek’s belly button. When Stiles inhales, he can smell the smears of come left over from earlier, when Derek cleaned himself with his fingers and then licked his fingers like it was no big thing.
Stiles’ mouth goes wet and hot.
“Don’t bite,” Derek repeats, breathier now. It’s permission. Or maybe a request. It’s—fuck, it’s hot. If Derek is into this too, it isn't so scary or weird. It's just good. It feels like playing, and Stiles hasn't played in years.
Stiles pushes up onto his hands and knees, feeling the air conditioner blast against his ass and sweaty thighs. He shudders and stretches his back slowly. His mind quiets, and his focus turns to Derek's body, and he plants his mouth onto the warm, pliant skin of Derek's soft cock.
He feels crazed by the taste of it. He licks and sniffs and touches Derek with his teeth, never biting, but not sucking either, because the game feels serious now, like there’s rules, like he has to do it right, has to be good. He gets Derek's cock all wet and feels it fill and harden against his lips. All of his impulses are easy; he wants to taste and smell and feel. And he does.
Derek sits up, his thighs spreading. He rubs Stiles’ head, scratching him gently, encouraging him with his fingers. The touch feels so good it makes Stiles gasp and nudge back into it, wanting to be petted as bad as he's ever wanted to be jerked off. He needs it.
Stiles feels himself whining as Derek’s cock bobs and bumps his face, slick with his own spit. He licks Derek’s balls and the crease where his thigh meets his groin. He makes it messy, and the more he licks, the hotter he feels.
“There,” Derek says, strained, as he shifts to lift one leg. “Good boy. Here.”
He’s giving Stiles access to the private, dark skin behind his balls.
They’ve never done that. There’s a hitch in Stiles’ breath, as he nearly breaks out of whatever this is, but then he’s surging forward, tongue first, pushing hard with his face because he can’t spread Derek with his hands. His hands are curled into paws in the sheets, scrabbling as he tries to get deeper, to lick harder, to lick his way to the part of Derek’s body he’s never touched.
Derek’s breath hisses. There’s a wet, slapping sound as he starts jerking off.
Stiles laps and grazes Derek with his teeth, finding Derek’s hole but not enough of it. He can’t get in. His movements become frantic. He tries one angle and another, tilting his head and whining and snuffling and stopping to lick Derek’s balls where they’re soaked with spit and tightening.
That’s when he makes the mistake of looking up. Derek’s eyes are dark with lust and he’s watching Stiles sharply. The skin at Derek's chest is flushed and splotchy and he looks like he wants, like he wants so bad it's hurting him. Stiles can feel it in his spine. His throat goes dry.
Please, Stiles thinks, backing up on his hands and knees and lowering his head. He arches. Humps at nothing, senselessly, please.
“You,” Derek says, following him. He pets Stiles’ back and shoulders, hands shaking.
They end up on the carpet beside the mattress on Derek’s floor, and Stiles doesn’t even know how they got there, he only knows the solid heat of Derek kneeling beside him, stroking him from shoulders to ass, firmer with each long slide of his hands. Derek pets him, molding the shape of his body, and Stiles closes his eyes and doesn’t know anything but that touch and the shivering struggle to hold still beneath it.
He feels weird and dizzy, all of his thoughts far away. It's quiet and his breathing is loud.
He jumps when Derek’s finger finds his hole and rubs it hard, spreading lube at the clench. Derek pets his ass, running his slippery fingers along his ass crack over and over.
“Is this what you want?” Derek asks, his fingers coming to rest at Stiles' hole.
Stiles pushes back against Derek's touch, his thighs parted and his head bowed and his arms trembling. Yes. That’s what his tight body language means; it’s something he must have read or seen or Googled. That doesn’t matter. It’s what he feels now. It what he is. He wants Derek to mount him. He wants Derek to fuck him.
Derek laughs. It’s a fond, hoarse sound. “Stiles,” he says.
He fingerfucks Stiles at first, with just one finger, playing. It’s torment, but Stiles holds still and pants, mouth open and dry. His words are gone, replaced with low moans and whines that catch in his chest. Panting. Panting. Derek has long fingers.
Stiles is in so deep he starts to feel an edge, like fear—fear that maybe Derek won’t understand what he wants, won’t give him what he wants. His breath quickens and his whines thin, close to hitching, close to sobbing, and then Derek’s patting his ass gently, hushing him.
“Easy,” Derek says, positioning himself behind Stiles. “Feel me?”
Yes. Stiles can feel him. He feels big and very blunt, like something that isn’t going to fit, but then there’s pressure, and Derek has him by the hips, and he’s leaning into it, and Stiles rocks forward and braces himself and there’s a stinging, too-tight moment and then Derek is in him, over him, exhaling a low moan.
Derek fucks into him slowly, draws out—almost like he’s going to leave him, until Stiles paws at the carpet in distress—and then thrusts again, hard enough that his balls swing and slap. Derek’s fingers play at Stiles’ lower back, at the divot above his tailbone, thumbs pressing circles as he fucks him tenderly.
Stiles’ arms and shoulders feel warm, the muscles overly tense. He’s hypersensitive, aware of every inch of Derek’s cock in him, aware of the texture of the carpet and the pressure from Derek’s fingertips and the beads of sweat rolling from the backs of his knees down his calves.
“Ah,” Derek says abruptly, a sharp sound like regret, before he doubles over Stiles’ back and shivers, his come pulsing hot and so much—a surprise that makes Stiles shudder and drop to his forearms. “I tried to last longer,” Derek is saying, the words too human, too normal, for how raw Stiles feels. “But you look so hot. Do you know how you look? God, Stiles.”
There’s silence as Derek pulls out, touches Stiles like he always does, feeling him like he’s worried he broke him. “Stiles?”
Stiles can’t find his words. He touches the carpet with his knuckles and doesn’t move. There’s come running down to his balls and he’s half hard. His cock feels heavy and foreign between his legs.
“Sit,” Derek says.
Stiles sits back, folding onto his heels. He drops his curled fingers to his thighs and keeps his head bowed and his eyes closed.
“Okay, good,” Derek says.
Stiles shudders, his whole body rocking with it. His next breath is loud, like Derek shoved it out of him, and then Derek’s close, knowing. He puts an arm around Stiles and reaches for Stiles’ cock and pulls it, tugs it until Stiles is full and tight.
“Good boy,” Derek says, the words different than the sex-soaked tone from before. There’s hesitance now, awkwardness that isn’t awkward enough to prevent it from feeling right, from being what Stiles has to hear now, needs to hear.
Stiles nuzzles Derek’s cheek, so grateful it makes his eyes go hot.
Derek strokes him off. It’s raw and quick, but Derek’s mouth is soft and his chin is bright-close and stubbly as he kisses Stiles’ eyelids. The scraping strokes burn as Stiles jerks up into them, fucking Derek's hot hand.
Stiles doesn’t feel it when he comes. He feels something else, like falling, and keeps falling long after he’s landed in Derek’s arms and Derek is stroking his forehead and rocking him. He is
After that, awareness returns to Stiles with each breath, and it’s only when he speaks that he knows he’s regained the ability to, and then it seems really weird that he didn’t—couldn’t—before.
“Derek," he says, smelling him and feeling him and hearing him breathe and fuck, he's glad Derek is wrapped around him like a life jacket.
“You there?” Derek asks, failing at nonchalance.
“Yeah,” Stiles says.
Derek exhales, sounding vaguely relieved, and holds him.
“Was that weird?” Stiles asks, his skin cool. “For you? Did I make it weird?” His thoughts are back, but they’re muffled. He can’t even muster the energy to freak out about licking Derek’s butt like a dog, because he feels like he just went on a ten mile run, dick-first. In a good way.
“Did I seem uncomfortable to you?”
“Not when you were, while we were... No. But you’re radiating weird now.”
Derek sighs, his breath warm at Stiles’ ear. “I don’t know if I know how to be what you need,” he says in a quiet rush.
Stiles has known Derek long enough to know that while Derek doesn’t particularly enjoy having no idea what he’s doing, he’s usually willing to admit it. It doesn't bother him that Derek is unsure. It’s comforting that Derek’s just as lost as he is when it comes to figuring out how they fit together in bed.
Everything else they do is so comfortable. It always has been. Bitching in the car. Setting alpha-traps in the woods. Discovering exactly how many species of plants are toxic to werewolves. Bitching in the car some more. Bonding over a helpless interest in Scott McCall’s well being. They have fun together. But the sex stuff is a different kind of fun, a kind of fun that sometimes makes Stiles feel like his lungs are imploding and like he wants to watch Derek sleep and like he wants wear Derek’s shirts to bed—and that shit is unsettling.
“It doesn’t mean I want to be a werewolf,” Stiles says.
“I figured that,” Derek says, his mouth an amused line against Stiles’ cheek. He’s clingier than usual, and normally Stiles might complain or tease him, but right now it feels good. Derek’s not a brute or anything, but he’s stronger than even a guy his size should be, and being held by him is like getting fifteen hugs at once. It’s awesome in a way Stiles is probably never going to admit.
Stiles shifts and finds Derek’s mouth, his belly giving a happy thrill as their lips meet. Derek kisses like an eager teenager, hesitant and hungry all at once, with a lot of tongue.
“So,” Stiles says, when they’re kissed-out again, and his mouth stings, and he’s finally ready to go home and sleep. “Just, you know, text me. If you think something is weird.”
“You want me to text you about sex?”
“Not sext me. Well, you could. My phone is sadly devoid of incriminating pictures that aren’t Scott’s full moon hanging out of the Jeep.” Stiles extracts himself from Derek’s arms and hunts for his clothes. He finds his wrinkled boxers and hops as he steps into him.
Derek snorts a soft sound of amusement, lounging like a gorgeous, naked statue on the mattress they managed to kick the sheets off of.
“So if you’re weirded out by me.” Stiles pauses, trying to untwist his shirt. His breath catches. There it is. That familiar knife-edge of worry, tucked just below his ribs. He’d almost forgotten it was there for ten minutes. “Text me.”
“I hate texting."
Stiles sits on the floor to put his socks and sneakers on. “Then tell me now.”
Derek rolls onto his stomach and reaches off the edge of the mattress to touch Stiles’ shoe. Stiles glances up at him. Derek is hesitating, his mouth hanging open like there are words caught in a traffic jam on his tongue. It’s foreboding. He’s probably trying to think of a nice way to tell Stiles he’s a total freak and a relative sex newbie and it’s a deal-killing combination, and they should stick to what they’re good at doing, which, luckily, is almost everything else.
“I liked it,” Derek says. “I’ve never...” He rolls his shoulders, stretches his neck. “Sex isn’t something... I’m. That I’ve done much of, Stiles.”
“But you look like... God’s wet dream, dude,” Stiles says, even though he knows.
Derek gives him a half-hearted glare.
“Sorry,” Stiles says. “Can we agree to both suck at this then, and also never talk about it again because this is terminally awkward?”
“We don’t suck at it,” Derek says, calm and a little flirty, which leaves Stiles blinking and feeling flushed and realizing that really? They don’t suck at it. They suck at talking about it, but they’re pretty fucking good at fucking, accidental roleplay and all.
“Yeah,” Stiles says, scratching his cheek to hide a grin. “Okay.”