Two weeks before Stiles’ eighteenth birthday, his dad gives him an early gift—he goes away for the entire weekend and leaves Stiles alone in the house.
“Now, I’m trusting you,” he tells Stiles the morning he leaves. “Stay out of the liquor cabinet. No driving after midnight. And Derek isn’t allowed to spend the night.”
“I promise I won’t get in trouble, Dad,” Stiles says. Which in no way means he’s not already planning on making out with Derek all weekend, 24/7. Fuck curfew. He’s nearly an adult, he’s been dating the same gorgeous guy for almost six months, and he just really needs to spend some quality time getting all up on it.
The plan goes off without a hitch, in that Stiles has Derek on the couch about twelve minutes after John drives away.
“You’re purring again,” Stiles accuses, swinging his leg over Derek’s lap so he can reach his other earlobe with his mouth.
“‘Mm not,” Derek says, and then goes right back to rumbling happily in his chest when Stiles smooths his palms down Derek’s arms and scrapes his teeth gently behind his ear (which is, for the moment, all pointy and wolf-ified).
“My ideas are the best,” Stiles says, sing-song, and starts brushing tender, barely-there kisses all over Derek’s face—his furry jaw, the edges of his stupid werewolf sideburns, the inhuman bump at the bridge of his nose. “Admit it.” He ducks down and licks Derek’s bottom lip, quick and light, right at the divot where one of his fangs is pressing in. “Say you won’t argue with me the next time I suggest this.”
“I’m never going to stop arguing with you,” Derek sighs, and Stiles grins against his neck because that sounds like a promise. “I want to touch you.”
“So do it,” Stiles dares him, pressing his fingers into Derek’s throat a little bit before swooping in and sucking hard enough to leave a vivid (albeit temporary) mark. Derek makes a sound that’s mostly air and lifts his hips, straining for contact.
It’s possible that Stiles has never been so hard in his entire life.
“Why are you constantly undermining—fuck—my attempts to be responsible?” Derek whines. He’s got his arms held out to the side, resting on the back of the Stilinskis’ ratty old couch so that he can bury his claws in the threadbare fabric. Stiles slides his hands all the way down to Derek’s fists and strokes between his fingers gently, coaxing him to let go.
“Put your hands on me, come on,” Stiles murmurs against Derek’s ear. Before he can chicken out over it, he rocks back abruptly and pulls his shirt off in one awkward motion. “Otherwise I’m just gonna sit here and reflect light at you with my preternatural paleness.” He forces a laugh, flushing hot at Derek’s intense red-eyed regard. “None of us want that to happen. Especially with your eyes all alpha-sensitive, right, you could go blind—oh fuck, ooooookay.”
Derek’s running his hands down Stiles’ bare sides, letting just the very tips of his claws rake the skin, and Stiles is just trying not to shudder too much because if Derek accidentally gores him he’ll never agree to do this again. “Your skin is beautiful,” Derek says, muffled against Stiles’ chest, and Stiles suddenly feels like there’s not enough air in the room.
“Oh… oh yeah?” Derek’s arms pull him in closer, one hand spread out wide across the wings of his shoulder-blades and the other low on his back, inching inside his jeans.
“Yeah,” Derek confirms, and his claws accidentally catch at the waistband of Stiles’ boxers, which, jesus christ. “Soft, everywhere... kind of makes me want to bite it.” Then he freezes and pulls back, looking completely alarmed at himself. “I didn’t… I wouldn’t hurt—”
“Oh my god, oh my god, shut up,” Stiles says, frantic. He’s sweating and trembling and he keeps inching closer, clutching Derek’s arms and full-on grinding his hips without even meaning to. He wants to be kissed and grabbed and scratched; he needs to tear off Derek’s shirt and take him apart and make him scream—
“Stiles,” Derek pants, moving his hands up to grip the backs of his shoulders, pull him down harder. Stiles can feel the points of his claws, little pinpricks of awareness along his collarbone that don’t even register as pain right now. Derek’s face shifts back to full-human, and Stiles realizes why when he’s hauled in for a hard, searing kiss. “We usually, we…” Derek pauses to groan and kiss a line down the side of Stiles’ neck, and then across his shoulder, open-mouthed and desperate. “We usually stop before it gets like… before we…”
“I don’t want to,” Stiles growls, feeling simultaneously completely lucid and out of his fucking mind. “Let’s, please, now, I want you, I—”
“Yes,” Derek says brokenly—and then he catches Stiles up in his arms and twists, just fucking throws him down on the couch and settles on top. He tucks his face in next to Stiles’ cheek, the drag of his stubble sending sparks to his freaking fingertips, and for the first time ever just rolls his whole entire body against Stiles’ with serious intent.
“Ah, god.” Stiles holds Derek tight around the chest, grinning stupidly into his hair, because finally, finally, he’s totally ready for this, why was he ever nervous, this is going to be fantastic—
And then Derek’s cell phone rings on the coffee table, and Derek goes tense and still.
“That’s your Scott ringtone,” Stiles says, his heart sinking. He knows this because he programmed it himself (“I Hate Everything About You” by Three Days Grace, which Stiles thought was hilarious and Derek had to put up with because he never learned how to change it).
“Scott doesn’t call me…” Derek says, glancing between the phone and Stiles with a pained expression.
“Unless it’s an emergency,” Stiles finishes, taking his hands off Derek and pushing them both upright. He feels cold without his shirt all of a sudden, and also like he wants to cry or something. “Pick it up, go on. Oh my god, no one better be dead.”
It turns out Isaac is missing.
“He turned eighteen the other day,” Derek explains, pacing back and forth across the living room while Stiles tugs his shirt back on and tries to de-sexify his hair. “And his foster parents, they just… he didn’t tell me. He just left.”
“I always thought Isaac would move in with you, when that happened.” Stiles pulls his knees up to his chest, feeling helpless against the palpable panic coming off Derek in waves. “You always told him he could. That the loft has a pull-out in the living room, and—”
“Well that clearly wasn’t a good enough offer for him, was it?” Derek barks, and Stiles flinches, still unsteady from being so recently underneath Derek’s hands and body. He’s gone toe-to-toe with Derek at his worst before—snappish, unreasonable, impossible—but he feels too raw now, like Derek just peeled him open and then forgot to put him back together.
“Call Scott back,” Stiles says, making his voice gentle because he understands, he gets why Derek is melting down over this. “Have him round up Erica and Boyd; we’ll find him. We’ll search the whole city if we have to.”
Derek stops pacing and looks at him, considering. “Your dad will be back on Sunday.”
“Dude, I know. It won’t be my first time being grounded for a good cause.”
“No, I mean…” Derek sits back down, looking away from Stiles to stare down at his folded hands. “We could use the help. The full moon is in just a few days, and Isaac… he could be in the next state by now. Your dad has connections; he could put out a search.”
Stiles gapes. “You have connections! You’re an alpha.”
“Of a tiny pack, part of which is missing and vulnerable,” Derek says. “If I called on the wolves in neighboring territories to help… let’s just say they’d be more likely to kidnap Isaac for leverage than to bring him home.”
“Well, okay, so what, then,” Stiles prods, dragging his hands through his hair. “Say my dad makes the report, puts out an APB, calls in some favors in Oregon and Nevada maybe—how do we explain the rush? He hasn’t even been missing for 48 hours. We can’t exactly tell my dad that in three days he’s gonna turn into a mindless ragemonster without the pack to anchor him, so—”
Derek bites his lip, looking guilty, and Stiles’ eyes widen.
“No,” he says.
“It makes sense,” says Derek, reaching for his hand. Stiles pulls away. “Stiles. It makes sense. I’ve been meaning to bring the sheriff in for a while. He should know about us. Having him on our side, it would just make everything—”
“Make everything what?” Stiles shoots to his feet, anger hot and hollow in the pit of his stomach. “Make everything easier? For you, maybe. Meanwhile, my father gets disemboweled by some random omega just for associating with you and your startlingly unlucky band of incompetents—”
“I’d protect him!” Derek says, eyebrows furrowing. He lurches to his feet and starts pacing again. “Why would you think… I’ll keep him safe, I’d never let anything happen to him!”
“Bullshit. I just watched you throw him on the fire because one of your precious wolves is in the wind.” Stiles knows he’s out of line. He can’t bring himself to stop. “Did you even care what I had to say about this? Did you even think to ask? They mean everything to you, right? The pack? Even Scott, who… Scott barely tolerates you, Derek. But you’d tear the world apart to save him, wouldn’t you.”
“But not my family, oohhh no. Just keep us on the back burner until we’re useful, that’s the Stilinski men for you. We’re good for Google and mountain ash and the keys to the Beacon Hills Sheriff Department—god, oh my god.” He gulps around a sudden horrified lump in his throat. “Is this why you let me… is that why we’re dating? Because you wanted—”
“What.” Derek stares at him, eyes simmering red, fangs out. “What.”
“I didn’t.” Stiles takes a step back. “No. I didn’t mean that.”
“You did.” Derek has never looked so angry. His hands are clenched in fists, and they’re shaking. “You think I’d do that. You think I’d pretend… that I’d use you.”
“No! Not really, not actually, I just—” Stiles exhales, long and heavy, and sinks back down to the couch with his face in his hands. “What am I supposed to think, Derek? The one thing, the most important thing for me is to keep my father safe, and you’d just throw that away? Because it’s convenient for you and your pack?”
“My… my pack.” Derek’s fangs retract abruptly as his whole body slumps, like he wants to sink all the way down to the ground. “I’m leaving now. I’ll call in a couple other alphas, just the ones I trust. We’ll spread out, track him down. You’ll stay here.”
“Derek.” Stiles reaches out, and then lets his hand drop uselessly back to the couch cushion. “Look, can’t we just—”
“Surround your whole house in mountain ash and don’t leave the circle until we’re back,” Derek continues, already on his way out. “The territory will be undefended in the meantime; one of my rivals might know enough to come after you. Or your father.”
“Please.” Stiles follows him to the door, lost. “I’m sorry.”
“Text Scott every night so we—so he knows you’re safe,” Derek says flatly.
And then he’s gone.
They find Isaac the evening before the full moon—barely any time to spare. Turns out he made it about fifty miles into Washington and then holed up deep in the forest, as far away from people as he could get. Erica’s the one who gets to him first, and she ends up having to knock him around a little before he calms down enough to even recognize who she is.
“It was kind of awesome, though,” Scott says, when he’s relating the story to Stiles on the phone later that night. “We all met up in Oregon and Derek hugged everyone and bought us all beer at one of those hippie microbreweries. It was surreal.”
Stiles smiles a little bit, even though his heart hurts and he feels a little like he just swallowed a handful of gravel. “Everyone holding up okay now? Did Erica break any of Isaac’s bones?”
“Naw, she was gentle. Or as gentle as Erica ever gets—hey, ow!” Scott yelps, from what Stiles can only assume is Erica socking him in the chest. “Things okay on your end? You wanna come to the loft and hang with us? Derek’s getting like fourteen pizzas.”
“Nah, dude, it’s… you guys should do your werewolf thing. Help Isaac settle in. My dad’ll be home in like, five hours. I should clean the kitchen.”
“You’ve never cleaned a kitchen in your life,” Scott points out. “What’s going on? Why aren’t you here? You and Derek have been practically joined at the mouth since—”
“Leave it,” Stiles snaps.
After a long pause, Scott says: “I’ll eat every single slice of meatball pizza before Derek gets to have any, okay?” and then hangs up without making Stiles talk about his feelings at all.
Sometimes, there are no words in the whole English language to express Stiles’ love for Scott.
A rumble of thunder makes Stiles jump, and he rolls his eyes. Great. Of course it’s going to start raining, just to cap off this utterly delightful evening of feeling entirely, tragically alone.
He goes down to the kitchen to start cleaning, but ends up sitting at the counter and eating a whole row of Thin Mints out of the freezer instead.
Stiles’ phone rings just when he’s starting in on the Samoas. He picks it up without looking at the screen.
“I told you I’m not coming over, Scott,” he says, spinning one of the cookies on the table like a top.
“I need to talk to you,” says a voice that’s definitely not Scott’s.
“Derek.” Stiles loses control of the cookie, and it slides across the table and knocks over the pepper shaker. “I thought you might want some space tonight.”
“We’re not finished,” Derek insists—and the words are demanding, but his tone… Stiles thinks he isn’t the only one nursing some serious regret tonight.
“I’ll come over, hold on.”
“Uh.” Derek coughs. “I’m outside your front door.”
Seriously? “You are one creepy motherfucker, Derek Hale,” Stiles says when he throws the door open. Derek is standing at the bottom of his front steps, soaked to the skin and clutching his balled-up leather jacket like a shield.
“I need to explain something to you,” Derek says, grimly determined. “And I need you to shut the fuck up until I’m done.”
“I’ll have you know that I—right, okay,” Stiles says when Derek glares him down.
“I would never let anything happen to your dad.” Derek’s eyes are bright and intense under his sopping-wet bangs, and he’s looking at Stiles like this is the most important conversation he’ll ever have. “I wouldn’t. Do you understand that?”
“I get it, Derek,” Stiles sighs. “I know. You’d try your best, you always do—”
“You don’t get it! I couldn’t let anything happen to him. He’s mine. You’re both—” Derek groans into his jacket, and then looks back at Stiles, cracked-open and wild. “You called it my pack, but you’re part of it. You and John. You’re part of—you’re family. I just wanted to make it official. Make it real. He’d be safe, I swear, and you wouldn’t have to lie.”
“You…” Stiles sags back against the door, breathless. “You want my dad in your pack?”
“Our pack!” Derek says, exasperated. “Stop saying it like you’re not—like you don’t—I know you’re young. I forget sometimes because you’re so… but you’re young. You never promised me anything and I know I can’t just take that from you. The kind of commitment that I…” He takes a deep breath, tips his face into the rain for a moment. “But Stiles, your father, in my pack, it doesn’t have to mean anything you don’t want it to mean. I care about him, too; I want him safe. I want us all to keep him safe together. Okay? Can you agree to that?”
“Can I…” Stiles can’t even move. “Are you fucking kidding me?!”
Derek hugs the jacket to his chest. “Look, I know it’s a lot—”
“No, be quiet, you massive lunatic, it’s my turn. I’ve been wondering, over and over in the back of my mind for months when the expiration date on this thing was. Because you’d get all hedge-y if I talked too much about the future and you’d look blatantly scared when I made little comments about marriage and kids and a house in the suburbs.”
“Those aren’t things you joke about, Stiles,” Derek says, petulant.
“I know!” Stiles throws out his arms. “I’m aware. That’s why they weren’t jokes, you idiot. I wanna marry you. I want to live together. I sat for an hour in my AP History review the other day thinking about names for our future child, like a crazy person—Owen if it’s a boy and Deanna if it’s a girl, by the way.”
“I have… I had a cousin named Deanna,” Derek says, blinking rain out of his eyelashes.
“Well fucking great,” Stiles yells, jumping down the steps so he can get right in Dereks’ face. “We’re gonna have a daughter named Deanna then, somehow, in a house with a picket fence and a front yard that you’ll mow every week with your shirt off, and maybe a cat because I know you like cats don’t even front with me, and it’s gonna be perfect and amazing whether you like it or not, buddy, because you’re it for me.” Stiles shoves him in the chest, breathing raggedly. “You’re fucking it. You’re the one. And if you’d just told me you were in love with me earlier, instead of waiting until after we’ve already had a massive pointless fight—”
“But I didn’t…” Derek drops his jacket on the ground and cups his hands around Stiles’ face, sweeping away raindrops with his thumbs, impossibly gentle. “I didn’t tell you that.”
“So tell me now,” Stiles orders, wrapping his fingers around Derek’s wrists and holding on for dear life. “If you need to get all technical about it, jesus.”
“I love you,” Derek says, breathes it out in the shrinking space between their mouths. “I’m in love with you. But I’m not going to mow our lawn shirtless.”
“Yeah, we’ll see,” Stiles says scornfully, and then they’re kissing wildly, Stiles’ legs hitched up around Derek’s hips and his fingers tangled in Derek’s wet hair, and he’s not exactly sure who’s making those frantic high-pitched noises but he thinks it’s definitely time for them to get off of his front porch.
Derek ends up carrying him inside. It’s not as romantic or graceful as one might wish for, ideally—they get bounced back by the mountain ash line when they try to kiss against the door, and then Derek gets impatient while Stiles has to kneel down to break the circle, and he finally ends up just hoisting him up over his shoulder and making a beeline for the bedroom.
“We don’t have to do anything,” Derek says, even as he’s dropping Stiles down onto the bed and peeling his rain-soaked henley off.
“Oh my god,” Stiles groans, scrambling over to the edge of the bed so he can grab Derek by the hips and nuzzle right into his chest, where a few beads of rainwater soaked through. “Oh my god, what the hell, you smell even better wet, this is ridiculous, take off your pants.”
“You too. You…” Derek dips in to kiss him, their smiles fitting together awkwardly, perfectly.
“Me too, like, I smell good in the rain, or.” Stiles swallows, watching as Derek’s jeans get tugged by inches down past his hips. “Or like, I should take my pants off too?”
“Both,” Derek says, hopping on one foot as he tries to force his sneakers off without unlacing them first. “Fuck, damn it.”
“Slow down, you’ll hurt yourself,” Stiles teases, even as he almost dislocates both shoulders trying to take off all his clothes at once.
Derek finishes undressing first, pushing his underwear down and off without ever taking his eyes off of Stiles. It’s a little intimidating—and a lot distracting, fuck—but Stiles manages to finally kick off his own boxers without injuring himself or knocking anything off his headboard (which is pretty impressive, he thinks).
“So,” Stiles says, scooting up the bed a little bit and trying to resist the urge to cover his already-straining erection with his hands. Derek is standing at the foot of the bed, beautiful and naked and looking at Stiles like he can’t believe how lucky he is. It’s a lot to take in.
“Can I…” Derek puts a knee on the bed, carefully. Stiles’ gaze catches on Derek’s thickening cock, just for a second, before he has to cover his eyes with his hands and laugh.
“I’m sorry, I’m, I—” He takes his hands off his eyes, and then puts them over his mouth to stifle a powerful fit of giggles. “Just. This is happening. Wow. That’s your dick.”
Derek stares at him for a minute, and then ducks his head and grins. His ears do that blushy thing they do, and Stiles is so charmed he doesn’t know what to do with himself. “Do you need a minute to adjust your worldview?” Derek asks drily. “I can put my pants back on, if you—”
“Fuck you, come down here!” Stiles says, making grabby-hands while he snuggles down into the pillows. Derek, bless him, doesn’t need to be told twice.
Having Derek on him, skin against skin, is enough to short out Stiles’ whole brain for a few seconds. They’re touching everywhere, legs tangled together, hips aligned, chests connecting whenever they breathe in together, and lips, well. Stiles has been kissing Derek for almost half a year, and he didn’t know Derek could kiss like this—with abandon, like nothing in the world matters outside of Stiles. Like nothing else will ever matter again.
Stiles gains the presence of mind to wrap his legs around Derek and arch up, getting his dick to slide right up against Derek’s, and Derek moans sharply and accidentally bites Stiles’ tongue.
“Ow!” Stiles laughs through the pain, because honestly. “Get it together, Lothario, I wanna… I need… oh, shit.”
“Mmmm,” Derek says, moving in to kiss him again—more gently, this time. He has, in fact, gotten it together, and is guiding their hips in a rhythm that has Stiles making high, shocked noises and rolling his eyes back.
“Noooo no no no,” he mumbles against Derek’s lips. He throws his arms around Derek’s neck and crosses his ankles at the small of his back, pushing up against him at a more desperate pace. “This is, this is awful, I can’t come already, it’s been like twelve seconds, you have to stop—”
Derek makes a sound in his throat, something between a laugh and a groan, and nuzzles Stiles’ forehead. “Think of it as payback. Remember the jeep?”
“Not my fault,” Stiles moans, digging his fingers into Derek’s neck just to watch his eyelids droop with pleasure a little bit more.
“All your fault,” Derek says, rough and soft, and then he drops his head suddenly and sucks hard on one of Stiles’ nipples.
“Jesus fucking—” Stiles comes so hard his bones hurt a little, holding back a yell when Derek gets a hand around him and strokes him all the way through the aftershocks. “Holy. I mean. Holy fuck, Derek.”
“Yeah,” Derek croaks, kissing Stiles’ heaving chest with this expression on his face like he just got brained with a two-by-four. “I just need… I’m just gonna…”
“Literally whatever you want, dude, oh my god.” Stiles kisses his cheek and hugs him hard around the middle, grinning wide. “I love you. Did I say that already? I’m pretty sure I did. You’re amazing. Like possibly too great for me to handle.”
“Tell me about it,” Derek says, voice tight and strained. He grabs both of Stiles hands and just holds him down and rubs on him, right into the groove of his hip where he’s slick with sweat and come, and Stiles would complain about not getting to help except that he gets to watch.
“Wow,” Stiles breathes, watching appreciatively as Derek’s eyelids flutter and his mouth drops open. “Let go of my hands, would you? I need to touch you some more.”
Derek huffs out a weak laugh and lets him go, dropping down onto his forearms and shoving his face into Stiles’ neck. “Ngh, I like your hands,” he says, arching into them when Stiles strokes down his back all the way to his ass.
“I like your everything,” Stiles says, squeezing, and Derek moans and shudders against him. “God. You just. You need to be naked all the time, okay?”
“Kiss me,” Derek says, apropos of nothing except that, whoa, he’s shivering hard and coming right on Stiles’ stomach, and apparently he wants to be sucking on Stiles’ tongue while that happens, and just—it’s actually too much. Stiles needs a break.
But what Stiles actually needs is to do the whole thing again right now.
“You’re hard again,” Derek observes breathlessly, biting him gently on the chin. He sounds pleased, almost exactly the way he did when Stiles got a 2280 on his SATs. “What do you want to do? Anything you want.”
“Oh my god, what, seriously?” Stiles squirms happily under Derek, tilting his head back so he can be kissed under his jaw. “No, okay, hold on, I can do this. I have a list. Number one—”
Number one on the list is sixty-nining, which Stiles always thought seemed wildly sexy and intriguingly dirty.
He never actually counted on it being freaking impossible.
“How am I supposed to do anything at all while you’re—god, but don’t stop, okay, just, wow, yes.”
Derek is straddling his face, leaning down over Stiles’ hips while he sucks him off. So far, Stiles hasn’t managed to get more than a few licks in; Derek’s dick is right there though, half-hard and uncut and inviting and weirdly endearing, actually, except his mouth is also around Stiles cock and his gorgeous ass is flexing in Stiles’ hands and maybe it’s because he hangs out with werewolves all the time but even the smell of him is intoxicating this close… it’s just a lot of stimuli, is all.
Derek pulls off for a second, jacking Stiles slowly while he rubs his face into his groin. Weirdo. “I don’t know. I’ve never done this before, either. It’s kind of like trying to fill out tax forms while watching television?”
“How romantic,” Stiles says, and then his limbs jerk really ungracefully when Derek sucks firmly around the head of his dick, moaning against him a little like he knows the vibrations are going to mess with Stiles’ concentration.
“Oh you fucker.” He gathers his will and cups Derek’s balls out of the way so he can get in one long suck, pressing hard with his tongue as he moves and then dipping it into the foreskin a bit when he comes back up, and he’s heartened when he can feel Derek’s muscles jump and shake under his palms. But then Derek does a swirly thing with his tongue, and Stiles has to pull off or risk biting something. “Aaah, I’m sorry. I surrender. I don’t want to multitask. Porn is full of lies.”
Derek laughs, right up against the base of Stiles’ dick, and Stiles just gives up and falls back against the pillows. “It’s okay,” Derek tells him, moving up the length of his cock in slow, open-mouthed kisses. “We’ll just keep taking turns. Should I swing back around, or—”
“No!” Stiles grips his hips and grazes a quick bite to the back of his thigh, smoothing a hand over the warm curve of Derek’s lower back. “You’re good there. Stay there.”
By the time Stiles comes, gripping Derek’s sides and trying not to thrust right up into his throat, his limbs feel liquid and boneless and Derek is so hard it’s painful-looking. Once he gets his wits back, Stiles leans up on his elbows and mouths at Derek’s balls; they’re right there, and Stiles is fascinated by the soft, velvet look of them when they’re pulled up tight like that.
“Oh, yeah,” Derek says, dropping his forehead down to Stiles’ thigh and grabbing him just above his knee, like he needs to hold on. “Can you just… for a little while?”
Stiles feels the same sharp thrill that he gets whenever Derek outright asks him for something, and he strokes his hips with his thumbs as a reward. “No problem at all, man. Scoot up a little.”
He keeps waiting for Derek to lose patience, to ask him to stop and try something else. Derek doesn’t. He lets Stiles nuzzle in and lick and then actually pull his balls into his mouth when he gets braver, one at a time, closing his eyes and hooking his hands around Derek’s thighs just to ground himself.
“Do you, uhhm,” Stiles tries, getting distracted when he tries dragging his tongue up a little further, almost all the way back to Derek’s ass, and Derek’s whole body sort of melts and surges toward him like a wave. “Do you want me to jerk you off, because I could—”
“Just keep, oh god.” Derek rolls his face on Stiles’ thigh, restless. “Just do what you’re doing, I got it.”
“I feel like I’m not being allowed to demonstrate the full range of my abilities here,” Stiles complains, but then Derek growls a little in his throat and wiggles his hips, which Stiles thinks is supposed to signal that he should put his mouth back where it was. Derek’s stripping his own cock by now, anyway, quick rough pulls that have Stiles humming with satisfaction as he gets back to work. He’s already decided that there’s nothing hotter on the entire earth than Derek straining toward orgasm, making soft, vulnerable noises on each exhale and even laughing a little, like he still can’t believe it—like being with Stiles is literally unbelievable.
It turns out that feeling someone come while your mouth is around their balls is seriously cool, from a scientific standpoint. It’s also ridiculously fucking hot, but that’s a given, with Derek.
They’re both pretty gross after that, so they crowd into the shower and make out for so long that Stiles starts to feel guilty about wasting the water. Stiles has to be propped up so he doesn’t slide down the shower wall, which he would be more embarrassed about if not for the blissful, drugged-out vacancy in Derek’s half-lidded eyes.
They dry each other off and lie down together, because it’s not quite late enough to go to bed yet, but it’s dark and quiet and the thought of returning to reality is really unattractive. Stiles strips off the quilt and the ruined sheets and pulls Derek down with him straight onto the mattress pad, grateful that it’s a warm night and that his dad makes him do his own laundry.
“You’re staring at me,” Derek says with his eyes closed, hauling Stiles’ thigh up over his hip so they can settle closer together. “Stop it. I’m trying to sleep.”
“I can’t sleep,” Stiles says, appalled. “I had sex.”
“Me too,” Derek yawns. Stiles watches the movement of his eyebrows and the stretch of his neck, still feeling fluttery all over.
“Yeah, but it was, like, amazing.”
“Me too,” says Derek, and Stiles scoffs and snuggles up under his chin.
“No, I’m talking about life-changing, though,” Stiles insists, resting his hand on the side of Derek’s neck so he can feel the skin turn a little warmer with embarrassment.
“Me too, I said.” Derek glares at him, kisses him on the nose, and then rolls over on his stomach and buries his face in the pillow. “No more staring. It’s creepy.”
“You’re calling me creepy?!” Stiles is still staring, though, running his eyes slowly up and down the sheer artistry of Derek’s back, so maybe Derek’s got a point. “Hey, are you actually planning on sleeping, or…”
“I’m planning on resting,” Derek clarifies, turning his head to the side so Stiles can see the corner of his smile. “Why, what are you planning?”
“It’s a surprise,” Stiles says, and then leans up and presses a lush kiss into the dip of Derek’s spine. “Don’t move.”
He shuffles over, moving in so his forearms are bracketing Derek’s hips, and then kisses him again—lower this time, at the cleft of his ass.
“Um,” Derek says, shifting. He doesn’t seem like he’s trying to wriggle away, but Stiles figures he’d better check.
“Can I try?” He cups both cheeks with his hands, pulling them apart a little with his thumbs. “I mean, I think I know how, in theory, and…”
“If… if you want,” Derek says, half-muffled by the pillow and completely failing to sound casual.
“You like it, right?” Stiles contemplates Derek’s newly-exposed hole, and then breathes over it gently just to see what will happen.
Derek shivers minutely, arching up toward Stiles’ mouth just like he did during the semi-failed sixty-nine experiment. “Yeah, probably,” Derek agrees, not even trying to hide the anticipation in his voice now. “Let’s find out.”
“I thought you wanted to rest,” Stiles says, darting in quick with the point of his tongue and grinning when Derek grunts in shock. “I can leave you alone if you want. It’s actually not even your turn, technically.”
“Stiles, I swear to g—uuhh.” Derek’s hands shoot out to grip at the edges of the mattress pad when Stiles moves in again to lick him roughly, once just to test things out and again, slower, because Derek makes a truly spectacular noise. The whole sheet comes loose from the bed when Derek grabs on tight and writhes, and Stiles gets so sidetracked by the obscene, sinuous motion that he nearly forgets what he’s supposed to be doing.
He figures it’s best to start simple—which is fine, because it only takes a half-dozen purposeful thrusts of his tongue before Derek lets out a fervent string of swear words and ducks his face back into the pillow. After a small eternity of that—because Derek’s adorable when he’s trying not to be loud—Stiles pulls back a little to try swirling his tongue in little circles, right around the edge of Derek’s opening. There’s some actual whining after that, very poorly muffled by the pillow, and Stiles tries hard not to smile because he’s got important work to do, damn it.
“I want…” Derek says eventually, sliding restlessly against the mattress. “Would you, please—”
“I could never, ever have predicted that I would be so fucking turned on by you being polite during sex,” Stiles says giddily, sitting back on his heels and nudging his thumb up against Derek’s hole, to give him something to press back against. “Tell me, come on. I’m open to instruction.”
“Put your fingers in me,” Derek says. “Hurry, here, you’ve got…” He stretches up and reaches behind the tissue box, which is where Stiles hides his lube.
Stiles blushes everywhere. “How did you even know that was there? No, wait, don’t answer that. The answer’s probably gross. Give it here.”
He slides his middle finger in first, carefully testing angles and moving a lot slower than Derek probably needs him to, given his overall durability. Derek hums when he pushes all the way in, and his breath catches audibly when Stiles works in another finger and starts to move steadily, fucking in as deep as he can get.
“I knew this would be perfect, with you,” Derek sighs. He sounds satisfied and smug, shifting his hips along with Stiles’ rhythm and pressing his fists into the mattress. “Your fingers are just—unh, right there.”
“Yeah,” Stiles confirms, dazed and euphoric and suddenly deadly serious about getting Derek off again, a lot, forever. He’s focusing hard on hitting that same spot, over and over, helping Derek angle into it with a firm grip at the bend of his waist, listening to his rising gasps, occasionally glancing down to watch his toes curl every time Stiles lingers inside and presses.
With all that going on, it’s no wonder Stiles doesn’t notice what’s happening until he hears the ripping sound.
“Do not say a word,” Derek says, and when Stiles looks up he sees long, symmetrical gashes, torn right through the mattress on both sides of Derek’s head. Derek won’t look at him, but the ears poking up from where he’s hiding in the pillow are unmistakably pointy.
“Oh my god, I win,” Stiles crows, jubilant. “This round to me!”
“Sex isn’t a contest,” Derek grumbles, flexing his claws self-consciously in the ruins of the mattress. “Stop gloating. It’s unattractive.”
“Oh, please—you don’t find anything about me unattractive, buddy.” Stiles leans down, ignoring the chemical taste of the lube so he can lick messily around his fingers, where Derek is opened up for him. Derek says his name, and Stiles mindlessly reaches over, lacing the fingers of his other hand carefully between Derek’s claws. He starts pushing in harder, faster, twisting his wrist so he can press a thumb against Derek’s perineum.
“Gonna come,” Derek grits out, squeezing Stiles’ hand—without hurting him even a little bit, even though his claws can rend metal, and god, Stiles loves him so fucking much.
“I win,” Stiles whispers, just so he can hear what Derek sounds like when he’s coming and laughing at the same time.
Derek needs a few minutes to recover afterwards, stretching and sighing and moaning to himself, rolling over and half-smiling up at Stiles like he still can’t get over how good he feels. Then he grabs Stiles around the middle and jerks him off until he comes, kissing him sweetly the whole time.
(Stiles tries to goad him into keeping his claws out while he does it, but Derek just licks his ear and calls him an idiot.)
When Stiles pulls on pajama pants and ambles down the stairs on shaky legs to get them both a late-night snack, he can’t shake the feeling that there’s something he’s forgetting. Everything is beautiful, wonderful, fantastic—except his utterly destroyed mattress, of course—so he can’t imagine what’s making his brain spin nervously as he assembles two giant bacon and peanut-butter sandwiches.
Then he hears someone unlocking the front door, and he remembers.
“I’m home!” his dad calls out—unnecessarily, since Stiles is already frozen by the kitchen counter, awaiting his fate with wide-eyed unadulterated dread. “Oh,” says the sheriff, finding Stiles in the kitchen. “Did you make that sandwich for me?”
“Yes!” Stiles says, pointing at him. “Exactly! This other sandwich is for you!”
“Are you…” His dad peers at him, concerned. “Did you have an allergic reaction to something? Your face is a little blotchy and… swollen.”
The toilet flushes in the upstairs bathroom, and they both freeze. His dad stares him down, slowly narrowing his eyes, and Stiles winces. “I can explain that?”
“Stiles, come on,” his dad says, sinking down into a chair and pinching the bridge of his nose.
“I’m sorry!” Stiles scrambles over to the fridge and grabs the bottle of bourbon off the top, holding it out to his dad like an offering. His dad swigs it straight from the bottle.
“Ten days, Stiles,” he says, wearily. “You would have been eighteen in ten days. What could possibly have been the rush?!”
“It was an emergency!” Stiles bursts out, slapping his hands down on the table for emphasis. “We had a huge fight, and we sort of broke up, but he’s in love with me, and then we were in the rain. In the rain, dad!”
“Fucking hell,” his dad says, dropping his forehead hard against the table.
“It was like being in a movie,” Stiles insists. “Like The Notebook, except nobody has dementia! Well, probably not. Derek might. He’s in love with me, so he can’t be completely sane.”
“I’m taking one of those sandwiches as reparations for the pain this is causing me,” his dad says, drawing the plate close to himself and huddling over it protectively. “Just... tell me you’re okay.”
“I’m not okay, I’m amazing,” Stiles says. “Oh, uh, that’s probably not helpful. For you.”
“Go to bed,” says his dad, mumbling around a huge mouthful of the completely unhealthy sandwich that he’s already started eating. “Wait, hold on. You not only disobeyed my rules, but you broke an actual law tonight, Stiles.”
“Yeah.” Stiles feels a harsh sting of shame at having disappointed his father, but then he hears the sound of the washing machine switching over to the spin cycle upstairs, and he can’t not smile when he thinks about what’s in there and why. “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, I can see that,” his dad snorts. “But the other stuff. With the rain, and the… it’s good to know you’re both so serious about each other, at least.” Stiles beams, and his dad groans into his hands. “Nope, never mind, that’s it. Go upstairs. Stop glowing at me.”
“I’m not glowing,” Stiles yells as he leaves. (Even though he probably is, a little bit.)
Derek’s waiting for him in bed, stretched out over the clean fitted sheet he’s put down over the shredded mattress, and Stiles glows some more because damn.
“I’m glowing, apparently,” he tells Derek, snuggling down next to him. “Isn’t that gross? Next we’ll be like, butterfly-kissing each other’s faces and whispering torrid secrets in the dark.”
Derek huffs and leans in close, fluttering his eyelashes against Stiles’ cheek until they both crack up. “I do have a secret, though,” Derek says, pulling back with a soft, sad-looking smile. “A serious one. But I don’t think I want to talk about that, right now.”
“Later,” Stiles decides easily, throwing an arm over Derek’s chest. “Or never. Your choice.”
“…thank you.” He hears Derek take a shuddering breath, and feels a hand close gently around his wrist. “Really. Stiles. Thank you.”
“Shhh. Glow with me, Derek,” Stiles murmurs, and Derek kicks him in the shins for ruining the moment.