“You should kiss me,” Stiles pouts. There’s a slur to his words. It’s his 21st birthday, and he’s a little drunk, maybe a lot drunk, cheeks a deep pink, eyes bright and shining, and going cross eyed from staring so hard.
“Why would I do that?” Derek asks, shoving the loft door open so Stiles can meander in, limbs loose and watery. He heads straight for the couch, falling down onto the cushions, groaning and rubbing his face against them like a cat.
He’s very cat like, Derek has noticed. It’s not just his almond eyes, or the mischievous look he gets on his face. It’s the way he rubs all over everything, begging for attention, but runs off when he gets too much, like he can’t handle the pressure of too much affection.
Derek rolls his eyes, grabbing a bottle of water for him and throwing it at his head before unlocking his phone to call Scott.
“Come get your boyfriend,” Derek snaps, when Scott picks up. “He’s rubbing himself all over my couch like a cat in heat.”
“Heat is the fucking thing, right?” Stiles asks, after Derek hangs up, making a thoughtful face before biting his lip and looking straight at Derek. His hand is doing – God knows what, Derek doesn’t know, because he’s looking at Stiles’ face, not his crotch. “That sounds like fun. Fucking.”
“Your boyfriend is coming,” Derek says, firmly, ignoring the way Stiles’ tongue darts out to wet his pink lips, making them shiny.
“God, I hope so,” Stiles says, hands coming up behind his head, dreamy smile on his face. At least he’s stopped palming himself. “It’s fun when Scott comes. He comes a lot. Is that a werewolf thing?”
“Is what a werewolf thing?” Derek asks, only half listening, trying very hard not to imagine Scott coming. It’s not working.
“Jizz,” Stiles says. He says it slow, draws out the syllable like it’s a fine wine that he’s tasting. “Lots of jizz.”
“Shut up, Stiles.”
“Why don’t you want to hear about Scott’s jizz, Derek?” Stiles asks, very seriously. He props himself up on his elbows, wobbles, and lies back down, slow blinking at the ceiling. “I like his jizz. I like sucking him off and making him come on my face.”
“Fuck,” Derek groans, going hot at the mental image that supplies, and the way his imagination readily spews out that mental image. Scott’s probably the kind of person to rub Stiles’ head, call him a good boy because he’s on his knees, covered in Scott’s come. Derek wonders if he licks it off Stiles’ face after, feeds it to Stiles with his tongue.
Derek is going to hell.
“He got really embarrassed the first time,” Stiles says, changing positions on the couch again. His legs are sprawled out wide, and he smells like arousal. It does nothing to help Derek’s quickly developing hard on. “But he loves it, I love it. God. I love blowing him, he’s got such a nice cock.”
“Me?” Scott asks, coming through the door. Derek’s attention snaps from Stiles then, because he didn’t even hear him approach. Heartbeat, the sound of his footsteps, nothing. He was too caught up in hearing about his and Stiles’ blowjob adventures.
“God, yes, you,” Stiles says, with a happy grin. He launches himself off the couch and into Scott’s arms. Scott catches him easily, mouth slotting with Stiles’ like he anticipated it. The kiss is messy, because Stiles is drunk, all tongues and teeth, lips slick with spit. Scott isn’t shy about exchanging kisses, apparently, and Derek can’t look away.
“Derek won’t kiss me,” Stiles says, when they break apart. He leans his forehead against Scott’s, and looks at Derek with an accusing expression. Derek attempts to swallow down the hot feeling of guilt about his response to what Stiles is saying, but it’s useless, his dick isn’t fully soft yet.
“You’re drunk,” Scott says, laughing. He doesn’t seem mad, but he can’t possibly just be okay with Stiles wanting to kiss Derek. He might not have been here, but Derek probably still smells turned on. “I barely want to kiss you when you’re drunk.”
“He probably won’t kiss me when I’m not-drunk,” Stiles pouts, slumping lower in Scott’s grasp so Scott has to catch him, hold him up.
“You have to ask when you’re not-drunk,” Scott says, rolling his eyes. He looks faintly embarrassed when he meets Derek’s eyes, but doesn’t say anything as he arranges Stiles so his arm is slung over Scott’s shoulders. “We talked about this remember?”
“Don’t scare the big bad wolf off,” Stiles snickers, nuzzling Scott’s cheek. “I’ll ask you when I’m not-drunk, Der – Derek. Sorry. Not-drunk, right.”
“Prepared yourself for apologies,” Scott says, smiling a little at Derek. Derek drags his eyes away from Stiles, mind whirling. It’s a lot to process, both of them looking at him so intensely.
“And propositions!” Stiles says, with a weak fist bump. They start towards the door, wrapped up in each other tight. “I’ma get a kiss. Then, a threesome!”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” Scott snorts, letting Stiles drag him along. Neither of them look back at Derek, just leave Derek feeling a little aroused and a lot lost.
Before bed, he gets a text from Stiles:
If you wanna threesome, I’ll let you come on my face too! Both of youu!!
(Then the next, early afternoon:
Fuck my fucking life.
I’m an embarrassment.
We need to talk. I’m coming over, maybe make me pancakes. It’s my birthday!)
(Stiles definitely gets his kiss.)