Stiles wakes in the early hours of the morning. He has a crick in his neck from Derek’s ratty old reclaimed sofa and he needs to pee. The downstairs bathroom is still waiting to be renovated; half the walls are still burnt wood and rubble, so Stiles creeps quietly up the stairs and along the landing in the direction of the only working bathroom in the Hale house. He shivers and wishes that he’d bothered to pull on a t-shirt before venturing upstairs.
Derek’s bedroom door is slightly ajar. Stiles hears the soft shift of movement as Derek stirs, but Stiles doesn’t pause. His bladder is uncomfortably full, and thinking about Derek sprawled out and tangled in his sheets will only make it harder--Stiles smirks at the double meaning--for Stiles to relieve himself.
He sighs with relief as the floodgates open and yawns as he waits, hoping he’ll be able to get back to sleep okay. He’s taken to crashing at Derek’s occasionally these days if his dad is on a night shift. Stiles doesn’t like being alone in his house, and Derek doesn’t seem to mind the company. Sometimes he even forgets himself and laughs at Stiles’ jokes these days. Stiles pretty much lives for those moments when Derek’s face splits in a smile that Stiles has put there, but he does his best to hide how it makes him feel.
On his way back along the corridor he hears the groaning creak of bed springs and a huff of breath. He stops, senses on alert. Derek’s often troubled by nightmares. Stiles knows this after being woken more than once by his cries. But Derek won’t talk about what haunts him in his sleep. Stiles can only look at the charred shell that was once Derek’s family home and imagine what horrors lurk in Derek’s subconscious, waiting to pounce on him when he lets down his guard.
Stiles listens, but instead of cries of distress he hears the soft murmur of speech, but can’t quite make out the words.
Assuming that Derek is awake, Stiles pushes the door open and steps inside, the floorboards of Derek’s bedroom rough beneath his bare feet. The dim blue light of the dawn through the uncurtained window allows Stiles to see Derek clearly. He’s stretched out on his back, the white sheets kicked aside and his body is taut with tension but his eyes are closed. Stiles frowns, stepping closer.
“Derek?” He whispers, unsure now whether Derek is awake or asleep.
Derek’s eyelids flicker but stay shut and a soft moan escapes his parted lips. He doesn’t sound distressed, so maybe it’s not a nightmare this time. Stiles’ gaze rakes lower as he approaches the bed. He can’t resist the chance to look at Derek like this. He’s only human. He’s had a crush on Derek for what feels like forever and Derek’s bare skin draws him in like a moth to a flame. He’s magnificent. Stiles takes in the smooth planes of pale skin stretched over muscle and bone, the powerful strength of Derek’s body evident even in sleep. His nipples are tight in the chill of the early morning and the rippled cut of his abs shift as Derek stirs again, hitching his hips restlessly. Stiles’ gaze moves lower still and oh, okay. Fuck. Derek’s definitely having a dream that’s more of the good variety than the scary.
He’s rock hard, his cock pushing out the skin tight grey fabric of his boxer briefs obscenely. The tight elastic at the waist is stopping the head from escaping, but as Derek’s hips rock again along with another pornographic moan, the tip thrusts up towards Derek’s belly, flexing in a way that makes Stiles’ dick ache in sympathy. Without thinking about what he’s doing, Stiles grips his rapidly filling erection through his own baggy boxers and gives himself a squeeze.
“Jesus Christ,” he whispers, backing towards the door. He really would have walked away; he’s not trying to be a creeper. But then Derek’s body arches again, and this time when he moans the word that falls from his lips is clear.
“Stiles.” It’s spoken softly, just a hoarse whisper, but is unmistakable.
Stiles’ knees turn to water as a pulse of blood rockets to his cock making it throb and jerk in his hand, because God. In all the times he’s ever heard Derek say his name, and the range of emotions that have colored the sound--anger, exasperation, sarcasm, amusement--Stiles has never heard anything close to this.
He stops, unable to tear himself away, because... well, at this point what the fuck are reasons? Derek Hale is having a sex dream about him and calling out his name. All Stiles’ powers of higher reasoning have fled his brain in the downwards rush of blood to his dick.
He moves closer again, desperate to see more. And yes, he knows it’s creepy and wrong and that Derek can’t control his unconscious. But frankly Stiles can’t control the movement of his hand on his cock right now because jerking off has suddenly become a biological necessity. Derek’s moving constantly now, tiny little hitches of his hips that drive his huge erection rhythmically up towards his belly in a hard thrusting motion. Stiles’ ass clenches as he imagines it moving inside him, spreading him, stretching him. Derek whimpers, and holy shit, there’s a damp patch blooming where the head of his cock keeps catching on the fabric.
Stiles is standing over Derek now, unable to tear his eyes away, and he has his cock out. The skin of it is hot and sticky under his hand as he works himself in a feverish grip. He knows that he can’t come, not here. If he does, then Derek will smell it in the morning and know. But he needs to see Derek come, in a deep burning way that’s completely non-negotiable. If he can hold off till Derek comes then he can hobble away and finish himself off in the bathroom, and Derek will never know that Stiles is a pervy creeper who jerks off over him while he sleeps.
It’s a good plan, and it almost works.
When Derek finally comes it’s every bit as spectacular as Stiles was expecting. His hands twist in the sheets and the muscles in his belly and groin contract visibly as his cock thrusts up and jerks, the wetness spreading out and staining the fabric dark around the head. Stiles’ balls draw up and he squeezes tight around the base of his dick to stop himself from shooting all over Derek and his bed. But a strangled moan escapes from Stiles’ throat before he can hold it in, and it’s way too loud and fuck! Derek’s going to kill him.
Derek’s eyes snap open and flare red as he looks right into Stiles’. He frowns and bares his teeth which glisten in the half-light of the room.
“Stiles!” And yes, that’s how Stiles is used to hearing his name. He knows he deserves the anger that’s in Derek’s voice now. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m sorry,” Stiles chokes out. His hand is still wrapped tight around his cock and you’d think it would be deflating at this point, but apparently his plumbing didn’t get the fight or flight memo--flight sounds really appealing right about now--and he’s as hard as ever, still on the brink of coming. “I... you were having a dream... I thought... I couldn’t...” He swallows and attempts to shove his rock hard dick back into his boxers. Wow, that was coherent.
Derek’s eyes drop to the movement of Stiles’ hands and his eyes glow again as his nostrils flare. “Fuck, Stiles.” His voice has a jagged edge to it and his gaze fixes on Stiles’ crotch.
“I’m really sorry. I know it’s totally inappropriate and creepy of me and I’ll just go away now, far away, and we can try and forget this ever--”
“Stiles!” It’s exasperation this time. Marginally better than the angry voice, Stiles supposes. But then Stiles’ thoughts are derailed entirely because Derek gets up off the bed in one swift movement and down on his knees in front of Stiles.
“Oh my God... what are you doing?” Stiles lurches backwards but Derek’s hands on his hips stop him from falling.
Derek doesn’t reply. He just curls his fingers--which are mercifully claw-free--into the waistband of Stiles’ boxers and tugs them down so that Stiles’ dick springs free and points hopefully at Derek’s parted lips. Stiles is relieved to see that the fang situation that Derek had going on before has now resolved itself. Then Derek looks up at Stiles and his eyes are all human and ridiculously beautiful as he growls. “Can I?”
“Fuck... yes, please. Jesus, anything you want...” Stiles knows he’s babbling, but when Derek’s hot, wet mouth closes around the tip of his cock it’s all he can do to remember to breathe, because he’s getting his first blow job and it’s fucking incredible and it’s Derek who’s giving it to him. “Oh my god, Derek, fuck!” Stiles hands have found their way into Derek’s thick hair and it’s soft where his fingers twist into it. “Fuck. I’m not going to last even a minute... this is going to be so humiliating, but in my defense you look really, really hot when you come.” When Stiles pulls on Derek’s hair, Derek’s eyes flash and he growls around Stiles’ cock in a way that should maybe be a little scary but is actually just really fucking sexy.
He pulls off, just enough to hiss. “Shut up, Stiles. You’re distracting me.” He licks around the crown of Stiles’ dick making Stiles cock twitch and blurt sticky wetness onto Derek’s tongue.
“Okay, shutting up. I can do that.” Stiles clutches at Derek’s hair reflexively as Derek’s mouth slides slowly down his shaft again. “But we need to talk about this later, because I have no idea what’s going on, but I’d really like to know if there’s going to be an option for a repeat performance, or some sort of reciprocation...”
The sound Derek makes is wordless and muffled, but the look he gives Stiles is pretty damned eloquent. Stiles shuts up, biting his lips to stop the nervous chatter that keeps spilling out of him. Derek is so amazingly good at this--Stiles fleetingly wonders where the hell Derek learned to suck cock like a pro--and the sight of him with his lips stretched around Stiles’ cock is almost more than Stiles’ poor overloaded brain and balls can handle.
Derek’s holding onto Stiles’ hip with one hand, fingers curling into the flesh of Stiles’ ass. Stiles suddenly realizes that Derek’s other arm is moving fast, the muscles flexing rapidly, and looks down. Derek’s underwear is pushed beneath his balls and the sight and sound of Derek’s hand, slick with his own come from before working a second load out of his dick is what finally tips Stiles over the edge.
He comes with a gasping moan, hips jerking forward, his cock deep in Derek’s throat as he shoots. Derek swallows around him, the pressure milking the last of Stiles’ come out of him as the bone-deep pleasure courses through him, weakening his knees and making his vision grainy. Stiles is dimly aware that Derek’s coming too, moaning around his cock as his huge frame tenses and shudders with it. Then Stiles’ knees give out and his softening prick slips from Derek’s lips as he collapses and Derek’s hand are firm on his hips, guiding him down to straddle Derek’s lap in an awkward, sprawly and not very comfortable embrace. Derek’s knees must be painful on the bare floorboards and one of Stiles’ legs is kind of twisted underneath himself, but Derek’s skin is warm and his musky scent wraps around Stiles as their breathing slows. Derek’s arms are the only thing keeping Stiles even vaguely upright, he’s limp and boneless, sex-dazed.
“Come on.” Derek lifts him, guiding him over the bed and pushing him down. Stiles flops happily, too exhausted to do anything other than let Derek manhandle him, or should it be wolfhandle? He wonders sleepily. Derek adjusts Stiles’ boxers and strips his own sodden ones off, utterly unselfconsciously. His soft cock hangs heavy and thick between his thighs in a nest of dark curls and Stiles’ gaze rests on it. He didn’t even get to touch it, he thinks.
“My eyes are up here Stiles.” Derek sounds amused as he moves to lie beside Stiles.
“Sorry, your dick is very distracting.”
“Apparently.” Derek pushes Stiles onto his side and curls in behind him. Well, that settles who gets to be the big spoon, but it feels perfect.
Stiles settles back into Derek’s arms, the warm skin of his chest flush against the curve of Stiles’ back. “Dude, it was like porn though. I’m sorry for watching, but seriously.” He pauses for a moment, smirking unseen, before asking. “So who were you dreaming about, do you remember?”
“Shut up, Stiles.” Derek’s voice is an amiable rumble against the nape of his neck. “Go to sleep.”
“I guess I’ve been promoted from the sofa then?”
“Not for long, unless you stop talking.”
Stiles stops and listens for a few minutes as Derek’s breathing slows and softens.
“Derek,” he whispers eventually. “Can I suck your cock in the morning?”
Derek’s arms tighten around Stiles and he snuffles quietly against Stiles’ skin, clearly already asleep. But Stiles has decided how he’s going to wake Derek up in a few hours. He’s pretty confident that Derek will be on board with the plan.