It's quiet, in Beacon Hills. Too quiet.
Thinking that it's too quiet feels like an invitation for something bad to happen, but maybe that's what Stiles wants. Once it happens, he can stop waiting, right? Anticipation is like an itch right down to his bones, and he can't sleep at night because he dreams of a darkness creeping on the outskirts of the town, and a multitude of eyes glinting like jewels amidst the black as they wait for Beacon Hills to be engulfed. Wakes up tasting his own blood. Dreams of the sensation of watching someone else's life slip away and being powerless to stop it, wakes up wet-eyed and bleary with his phone telling him there's three hours to his alarm. Dreams of Derek fighting in fifteen inches of water and wakes up–
"Oh my holy god," yells Stiles, flailing his way up towards the headboard and nearly falling out of his narrow bed. He pulls the covers up after him, clutching them primly to his chest.
–To Derek Hale, silhouetted in front of his window, watching him sleep.
"Nothing," Stiles insists fervently, trembling, his eyes glassy in the blue light from his electronics. "Nothing is okay about this."
Derek heaves a sigh like Stiles' perfectly normal reaction to his pulling an Edward creepazoid Cullen is making his already hard life impossibly harder. "I tried waking you," he says, put upon.
"Tried and succeeded!" Stiles points out, since he's pretty sure he's awake. He doesn't usually dream of Derek showing up in his room after dark. Or, okay, not like this, not glowering on the other side of the room like they bumped into each other at the mall instead of breaking into Stiles' bedroom after being missing for three months. "Where the hell have you been?" Stiles adds, belatedly. "Where's Cora?"
"Brazil," says Derek, shortly. "It doesn't matter. I need you to find something out for me."
"Oh my god," Stiles breathes. "Do I look like Yahoo Answers? Google it, and let me sleep already."
Derek makes a grunting noise that could honestly be anything from an apology for waking Stiles up in the middle of the night to an annoyed demand that Stiles capitulate to his whims ASAP. Stiles ignores it, settles back down in his bed, tries not to feel self-conscious about basic facts of his life such as having a body and wearing pyjamas and sleeping horizontally. Fails, but that's not new.
"Can I use your computer?" Derek asks at last, reluctant. Stiles groans and rolls out of bed.
The clutter of his room is made into an eerie chiaroscuro by the street-light casting down Derek's shadow, his alarm clock app, the green light of his sleeping computer and the pinprick red light of his webcam and speakers. He stubs his bare toe on a hand-weight and curses, low and vicious, before smacking at his keyboard and letting the screen come to life, snapping in his password. "There, okay? Jeez, now let me sleep."
He stumbles back to bed while Derek's weight creaks into the computer chair. Stiles can hear him typing, a slow hen-peck interspersed by the occasional click. It shouldn't be distracting, but it is. He has too many questions, even as he doesn't want Derek to be here. Not here in his house in the dead of night, not here in Beacon Hills, like an omen of worse things to come.
He definitely shouldn't want to know what Derek's Googling.
"What are you Googling?" he asks, and sits up again, peering at the screen. Derek's shoulders stiffen, and he tabs away quickly, but not before Stiles sees.
"Are you?" he starts. His voice cracks, and he has to take a deep breath and try again, fingers fisting in the sheets. "Are you using my computer to look at porn? What the hell?"
Derek swings the chair 'round, and Stiles thinks he's trying for unembarrassed, with that level stare, but there seems to be tension in every muscle of his body. "Yeah."
Stiles' eyes flicker down, traitorously, to Derek's groin, but it's too dark and he can't see anything. His own dick just twitched, and if he thinks about the fact that Derek can probably smell his interest in Derek watching porn, he's going to swan-dive neatly out his own freaking window. "Uh," he says eloquently. "Why?"
Another patented Hale sick-of-your-bullshit sigh and Derek swings away again, to face the computer. "Research."
"Okay. Research. Great. And also, what the hell." Stiles knows his voice is climbing higher, but this whole situation is too surreal for him to be able to deal with. Though it occurs to him that this is actually heading further towards more familiar Derek-dream territory. "You'd better not start jacking off in my bedroom while I sleep, okay? Jesus."
"No," Derek grits out. "That's not– get your mind out of the gutter."
"You're looking at dick pics! On my computer! At three am! Where the hell else is my mind going to go?"
"Go back to sleep," says Derek, which doesn't help Stiles feel any less frantic. Adds, like it's a reassurance: "I'm not going to masturbate, Stiles."
"Oh my god," Stiles says unhappily, pulling his duvet over his head. "Oh my god."
He doesn't go back to sleep. Eventually Derek finds whatever it is he needed to know, because he closes down Stiles' computer. Stands, pauses: "I know you're awake."
"Fuck you," Stiles mumbles into his pillow. He's going to want to die in class tomorrow.
"Thanks," Derek adds, sounding awkward and kind of forced, and it takes Stiles' sleepy brain a moment to realize he's not thanking Stiles for swearing at him, but he's already going back out the window.
"You know," slurs Stiles. "If you ask during daylight hours, I can talk dicks at you all you want."
He's not sure that Derek hears him.
Or, he's not sure until the next afternoon, when he swings into his bedroom with six cans of fridge-fresh Coke stacked in the crook of his arm, a packet of Doritos in his mouth, texting Scott about nothing with his free hand.
"I want to talk about dicks," Derek says, from Stiles' bed, and Stiles drops literally everything he's carrying. The Doritos fall last as his mouth goes slack with confusion.
"Hi again," he manages. Derek is watching him with one eyebrow slightly raised in the way that screams judgement, barefoot and kicked back against the headboard. There's a library book in his lap. Stiles kneels and starts picking up the Coke, putting each can carefully on his desk – he won't be able to open any of them until he's given them a chance to settle, and he's irrationally annoyed about that. Annoyance is an easier emotion to deal with than any of the other possibilities right now. Like humiliation, or confusion, or an embarrassing amount of teenage want. "You know, most people text when they want to hang out. Just to, I dunno, make sure the other person doesn't have any important plans."
"Computer games aren't important plans," Derek says flatly. "And I'm pretty sure you only have a social life when people are in danger."
"Ouch." Stiles clutches his chest, mock-wounded. "Like you can talk. Or did you come back to Beacon Hills just to catch up?"
Derek looks frustrated, his mouth gone small, brows heavy. "I came back to talk to you," he says, like it should be obvious.
"About dicks." Stiles says slowly. He's being sarcastic, but Derek nods. "You want to talk about penii with me. Because…"
"Because she did something," Derek admits, finally. It's obviously not an easy admission for him, his jaw firmed up, his eyes on one of the stupid posters Stiles papered his walls with three years ago just to make it look less like a hospital room.
"She," Stiles clarifies. "I'm really hoping you're talking about Ms. Blake right now, and not Cora." That pulls Derek's attention back to him: with a glare. "Right. Yes. Okay. And so what, she – cut it off? Pierced it? Turned it blue? Gave you an STI? Can werewolves get STIs? I mean, shouldn't you heal?"
Derek stares at him, in the same way he always stares at Stiles these days: like he genuinely has no idea what to do with him. "No," he says. Stiles does this thing with his eyebrows that's all, well please go on (because seriously that "no" could answer any one of those questions, there's being taciturn and then there's just blatantly sucking at holding a conversation.) "It's not physical."
Well, that just clarifies everything. Except for how it, you know, completely doesn't. Stiles slumps in the computer chair, opens his Doritos. He's pretty sure he has to resign himself to the fact that he's not going to get any grinding done tonight. Not, uh, not in WoW, anyway.
"You're having emotional problems with your penis," says Stiles, trying to sound clinical around the chips, even though all this talk of Derek's junk is giving him the first warm tingles of his own dick's problems. He shifts in his seat, angles the chair so Derek hopefully won't notice. "Why do I have to deal with it? Can't you just repress and move on like the rest of us?"
"You're the emissary," says Derek, like it's obvious, and Stiles has an internal moment of hold the fuck up before realizing, yeah, okay, now that he's thinking about it, that is kind of obvious.
"Right, but not your emissary," Stiles says. Derek flinches, then goes all murderous and cold-eyed, and then gets up off the bed before Stiles can even process—
"Whoa, whoa, whoa, wait," he says, even though Derek's half-way to the window. "Dude, I didn't– I'll help you with your dick issues, okay? Don't make this about your stupid pack drama."
Because Derek isn't in Scott's pack. Even Stiles isn't sure he's in the pack, doesn't really get how it works for humans – like family, but more, Scott had said, and Stiles kind of got that, because Scott's been his brother since they met outside his mom's hospital room and shared a Reese's. But that didn't magically make him start liking Isaac, who was also in the pack. It didn't mean when Scott said, dude, don't eat all the curly-fries, that Stiles stopped pigging out and saved some. It basically didn't change anything, so he doesn't like, value it, particularly. Derek's different, obviously, but even he must know that leaving town for as long as he did, leaving Scott and the rest to the machinations of his uncle, was isolating himself from – whatever. Whatever bond it is werewolves get out of their stupid hierarchy. It's why Stiles hadn't been that bothered when Derek packed up and left without saying goodbye to anyone: he figured he was avoiding landing Scott for an Alpha (and if he's really honest with himself, he knows enough about the way grief works to believe he might have been avoiding the risk of letting anyone get pack-close ever again. It's like losing a limb, Peter said. Better if there's less limbs to lose.)
"Do you... want a Dorito?" Stiles offers tentatively, holding out the bag. Derek brings both legs back inside the room.
"You think this is easy for me?" He bitches, coming over to take a handful of chips, his next words crumb-muffled. "I'm not exactly thrilled about having to bring my personal issues to you. I just need you to make it stop."
Stiles chooses not to be offended by that. "Make what stop, exactly?" he asks, around his thumb, a finger, lapping away the cheese-powder stickiness absently, all wet smacks as he draws his index finger out from between his plush lips.
Derek makes a strangled noise and retreats to the bed.
"It keeps." Derek pulls in a loud breath, looking down at himself, and then making a gesture towards – there's definitely a bulge there. It's, Derek's pants are pretty tight, it's a clearly visible outline of the start of an erection. Stiles' throat clicks as he swallows. "It keeps doing that."
"Getting hard?" Stiles offers, a little breathless. He has to wipe his sweaty palms on the thighs of his jeans, not sure he's going to be able to keep his cool through this conversation.
"Yeah." Derek palms himself, looking angry.
"Oh my god," Stiles says, wishing he could hide under the covers again. "That's normal, dude. Spontaneous boners are a fact of life." But Derek just shakes his head.
"When I was a teenager, maybe."
"Wait," says Stiles, because he's a problem solver, he clicks all the little pieces into place. "Has this only started happening since you and Ms. Blake, uh..."
Derek stares at him. "Didn't I already say that?"
"But that's..." Stiles scrubs a hand over his face in despair. This is the most awkward situation he's been in since his dad sat him down for the sex talk. He really, really wishes Derek had gone to Deaton. "How do I put this, dude. Have you considered that whatever she quote-unquote did to you, it, uh. Fixed... you?"
He peers out from behind a hand, wincing, trying to judge how Derek's taking that idea. The answer is, not amazingly. He's standing with his arms straight by his sides and his fists clenched, fuming at the floor. "Fixed me," he echoes.
"Fixed you," Stiles confirms, gaining more confidence in it. "You know, showed you how to love again, woke up Little Derek, helped you realize there's plenty of other fish in the sea that won't murder people. I mean, obviously, she also turned out to be a murderer–" and wow, he's in fear for his life with the look Derek's giving him and not actually angry enough to take the conversation any further down this path. "My point is, so long as you're not trying to hump the furniture twenty-four/seven? This isn't really something you have to worry about."
Derek's scowl eases into confusion, a little line appearing between his brows. "So I shouldn't do anything about it?"
"Ohhh-hohoho I'm not saying that exactly," Stiles says, holding up a hand. "You can handle it solo or – find a partner. I really don't think you'd have problems finding a partner. Just, don't... speak." Derek's eyebrows are now creeping towards his hairline. Stiles just wants this to be over. He needs Derek to leave, so he can jerk off – pointedly not thinking about Derek doing the same – and get on with his freaking life. But instead of leaving, Derek's sitting back on the bed, swinging his legs up again, spread just a little.
"You," Derek says.
"Me?" replies Stiles, not getting it.
Derek rolls his eyes. "You. Don't make me come over there."
"...Me." Stiles blinks rapidly, trying to find the sane explanation, the one that doesn't involve Derek Hale, who barely tolerates him, offering sex.
"Stiles," says Derek, his long-suffering tone providing absolutely no elucidation.
"Yes," says Stiles, and then: "Oh my god, yes." He practically trips over himself getting across the room, throwing himself at the bed. Derek is an asshole with massive issues who likes to throw him around but he's insanely hot and they don't really have a friendship to ruin and Stiles is so, so done with being the last guy on the starting block when the gun goes off. He needs to have lost his virginity like, yesterday, but he'll settle for getting his hand on Derek's dick.
"Tell me I'm not totally misreading the situation here," he breathes, reaching for Derek's fly, but he doesn't really need words when Derek's already got one warm hand at the small of his back, pulling him in. He looks... vulnerable isn't a word that Stiles feels comfortable applying to the mountain of muscle and teeth that is Derek, but his grey-green eyes have a fragility to them.
"You make me hard," he tells Stiles, and he obviously means it to be factual but Stiles has to slump and press his forehead to Derek's shoulder as blood rushes through him.
"Shit," he whispers, like he's been wounded. "Shit."
Derek reaches between them and takes over from Stiles' useless fingers, opening his own jeans and stripping them off casually. He does his shirt, too, nudging Stiles out of the way, and then he's shamelessly naked and his cock is a dark throb between his thighs. Stiles stares at it. It's uncut, which he's really, really into. It's blood-thick and kind of on the huge side, which makes him reconsider his desire to do the sex thing. And:
"Do you shave your balls?" he asks, fascinated by the fact that for someone who's spent six years with no sex drive, Derek manscapes himself pretty freaking thoroughly.
"Yes," says Derek, irritable with impatience. "It feels good. Are we doing this?"
"Yeah, yes. Sorry." Stiles reaches for him, running a reverent hand up the shaft, petal-soft and so hot under his fingertips, a little sweaty from being trapped in Derek's painted-on jeans. He swipes a thumb over the slit, which is dryer than his own would be – than his own is, Stiles is pretty sure he's already leaking into his underwear. "Wow," he breathes, even though this level of slack-jawed interest in Derek's dick probably isn't that hot. He slides his thumb around the foreskin, fascinated. "Man, I kind of wanna suck it."
Derek pops his claws.
They both look at his hands for a moment, equally shocked, and Derek closes his eyes and puts them away again. "Just," he says, and his voice is hoarse, strained. Stiles squeezes and that sentence never gets finished, dies in Derek's throat with a groan.
"Okay," agrees Stiles, amiably smug. He has no idea what he's doing or why it's working for Derek, but since when does that stop him? He strokes Derek's dick slowly, a twisting, steady rhythm that fucks the head through his fist, pulls the skin back and forth. It's nothing like how he touches himself, but he feels like he has more to work with. More skin, more dick, more concentration, more space. Just, in general, this is more.
This is not how he imagined sex with Derek would go. (And boy has he ever imagined it, fucking chafed his dick remembering Derek pushing him into walls, Derek solid underneath or over him, hand fisting his shirt, throwing him around.) Derek is just staring at the place Stiles is touching him like he can't believe it's actually happening, his lips parted a little, his hair slightly mussed. His thighs and stomach are both twitching, but he doesn't move, just lies still and lets Stiles take care of it.
"Hang on," says Stiles, because the angle's wrong and his wrist gets tired of stroking pretty quickly. He pauses, indecisive. He could get lotion, but then he can't suck it. But it seems a little abrupt to just hop down there and start sucking. Derek's not exactly going to fit in his mouth, and the bed might be too small for him to really get comfortable, and he has even less experience with oral than he does with stroking.
Derek must be able to tell that his nerves have flared up, because he's back to looking at Stiles' face, now. He grits his teeth and takes Stiles wrist, tugs his hand away, and Stiles thinks well, that's it. He's fucked it up, now they'll both come to their senses and neither of them are going to–
Derek hauls him in and kisses him.
When it comes to kissing, Stiles is now three for three that have started with him wide-eyed and fish-mouthed and frozen. But Derek licks across his lower lip and Stiles surges into it with a hot little gasp, mashing their faces together with more enthusiasm than is strictly called for. Derek puts a hand in his hair and tilts his head to the angle he wants it, his other hand palming at Stiles' hip and ass, rucking up his shirts, and this is so much less awkwardly dysfunctional. It's hard to breathe, but whatever, Stiles doesn't need oxygen, not really.
Once Derek has ravaged his mouth until Stiles is dizzy with it, he pulls back. "Take your clothes off," he says, and Stiles watches his mouth form the shape of the words, fixated by the wet red of his lips, before he realizes what he's actually saying and snaps his gaze up.
"Aaaare... you sure?" he hedges, one of his shoulders hunched up, his eyes wary.
"Stiles," says Derek, annoyed, and then second-guesses himself, offers an apologetic: "Not if you don't want to." Like he's worried about forcing Stiles too far when Stiles has just had a hand around his plumped up dick. Like he's being chivalrous.
"Ugh," Stiles huffs, and starts undressing himself.
Derek's on him before he's even got his second shirt pulled over his head, and Stiles yelps at his hot mouth, licking at his ribs, mouthing over a mole and then up to his nipple. He flails his arms out of the constriction of the t-shirt, damn near elbowing the other guy in the face, before grabbing him by the hair and pulling him off his chest. "That feels weird," he complains, and he could swear Derek's eyes shade darker as he tweaks the nipple he was just sucking, making Stiles squirm.
"Are they sensitive?" he asks, twisting his fingers. Stiles' nipples are puffy, and Derek touching them makes him press his knees together like he needs to pee, his face flushing.
"Yeah," he admits, because they're definitely sensitive, he's just not sure yet if it's a good feeling. Derek ducks in for the other one, uses his teeth this time, dragging a high, shocked cry out of Stiles.
"Want me to stop?"
Stiles pushes a hand over his stupid smug face because he doesn't wanna see it any more, palm squishing Derek's nose. "Yes," he says fervently, and adds. "And don't use your fingers, I don't want a sudden piercing if you decide you can't control your claws again."
That makes Derek stop smiling. "I can control myself," he says, surly. Stiles snorts skeptically, and Derek kisses him again, annoyed, pulling Stiles limbs where he wants them, nudging his cock up against Stiles' thigh. "You're still wearing pants," he reminds Stiles, and Stiles is, he's very aware of that, actually. They're not tight, but he still feels constricted. But the thought of taking them off...
"Just give me a minute," Stiles says, like it's a retort and not a plea. He distracts Derek with his own hands, exploring the sensation of hard muscle under skin that has never held a scar, and the places Derek's soft, the places he gives to the too-hard press of Stiles fingers, urging him to grind. He distracts Derek with his mouth, first kissing and then at his throat, which makes Derek shiver and toss his head like he's anxious. Stiles bites over his pulse-point, softly, but the mark won't stay.
He realizes with a start that Derek's started touching himself, and bats his hand away, offended. "Give me that," he scolds, and Derek does, Derek unfurls and lets him, sprawling beautiful on the bed as Stiles curls himself upside-down and nuzzles his thighs, the heft of his ballsack, takes his cock in hand and kisses the head, licks up his stomach where a single drop of precum has smeared.
Derek snarls, shoves him away, and is out of the bed so fast Stiles doesn't know what just happened. He picks himself up off the mattress, looks at Derek, wolfed out, erection bobbing, staring back at Stiles with equal bemusement and no little horror.
"Uh," says Stiles, trying to reroute some of his blood back into his brain. "That's a no, then."
"It's–" Derek is worked up, breathing hard, right on the verge of leaving. "Don't do that."
"Don't blow you?" Stiles asks in disbelief.
"Don't lick my stomach," Derek replies. He takes a step forward, stops.
"Are you having a panic attack?" Stiles asks, genuinely concerned, the guilt twisting in him.
"No," says Derek. "You're just, really young."
Stiles rolls his eyes so hard it moves his whole head, sitting himself up, wishing he didn't feel perpetually awkward in his own skin. He has no idea how to help Derek with whatever the hell is broken in him that makes him look like he does right now, heartbroken. But he can distract him. "Is that gonna stop you putting your dick in my mouth?"
"No," says Derek again. "That's the problem."
It doesn't really seem like a problem to Stiles. Pretty much the moment Derek gets close enough, he tries again, smoothing his palms over strong thighs, bracketing his dick. He and Derek's penis have a momentary stare-off, before Stiles takes it in hand, leans in to suck the head into his mouth. This position works way better for him, and he likes the way Derek puts hands in his hair, delicate like he doesn't want to push but desperately needs something to hang onto. His thigh is trembling under Stiles' palm, his femoral artery pulsing hard as Stiles just takes him carefully in and then out again. Laps the tip, so Derek makes a noise. In again.
Sucking cock is actually pretty good. It tastes like skin, a little sour-bitter, musky. The weight of it hot on his tongue, the stretch of his jaw, the burn in his lips as he bobs his head again and again, they're nothing compared to the feeling of having Derek come apart, the way he can feel every twitch-pulse of his cock. Derek's getting noisy, rough-voiced, wordless encouragement. Stiles hopes his Dad doesn't come home.
He pops off with a wet smack, just as Derek ruts forward, his dick smearing over Stiles' cheek. He shifts his hips, slight but deliberate, and it taps Stiles on the face. They both make a similar sort of noise at the same time, Stiles' eyes fluttering shut.
"This is good, right?" Stiles asks tentatively, even though he's worried it's going to make Derek call him young again. But Derek just cups the back of his head, his hand hot, and takes his dick to feed it back into Stiles' waiting, willing mouth.
"Yeah, Stiles," Derek sighs, snubbing the head up against the roof of his mouth, starting to move his hips in needy little jerks, less fluid than Stiles would have expected. "You're so good."
Stiles flushes all over with the praise and lets Derek fuck his mouth shallowly, until it feels numb around his cock, disconnected from the rest of Stiles' body.
Eventually he taps out, smacks Derek's hip 'til he backs off. "I need a break," he explains, two fingers rubbing idly at his sore mouth. Also, he's so hard that it's actually hurting him, making him cramp up, and he needs to stretch out, maybe jerk off until it feels better. Now that he's actually sucked Derek, he's a little less shy about shimmying out of his jeans, laying back on the bed in his boxers, the tip of his pink dick jutting from the slit. He curls a hand over it, a little defensively, looking up at Derek, who just looks – shattered.
"Okay up there, big boy?" he teases, and Derek climbs carefully back into the bed with him and touches his face, and then his wrist, the one near his hip. It makes Stiles want to tease him more, or maybe crawl into a hole and hide, but Derek prevents either of those outcomes by kissing him, tongue merciless in Stiles' abused mouth, his hand pushing down Stiles' boxers.
"You taste like me," he tells Stiles, intent, and then brings his hand up and cups it under Stiles' saliva-wet chin. "Spit."
Stiles spits in his hand, which is disgusting, his mouth all wet from Derek's dick gagging him. Derek doesn't seem to think so, takes the handful and fists it over Stiles' dick, giving him a fast, firm, beautifully wet handjob. Stiles moans "Shiiiiiit," and bucks his hips, draws his bare feet along the sheets like he needs another sensation to focus on beyond Derek's hand on him, Derek's breath in his mouth. It doesn't work. He comes in record time, toes curling, back arching, his whole world narrowing down to the dirty slap of Derek fucking his fist over his dick in a punishing rhythm. He doesn't let up, not even when Stiles is shaking with overstimulation, shouting, pushing a little at Derek's wrist. He doesn't stop until there's nothing left, and Stiles goes boneless all over, done.
"Holy shit," he pants eloquently.
Derek seems pretty pleased with himself, kisses Stiles' slack mouth, then snuffles at his neck, nips. "I want to come on you," he murmurs there, using the hand Stiles just freaking jizzed into to stroke himself off.
"Go for it, buddy," Stiles says weakly, waving a hand. "Sow your wild oats all over my body."
That's probably not very sexy. He doesn't really feel sexy right now, just loose-limbed and fucked out, but apparently that's enough to do it for Derek, who kneels over him and touches himself in a way that is going straight into Stiles' mental spank bank. It doesn't take long for the blur of his violent tugging to halt as he cries out, low, and spatters thick, hot come over Stiles' stomach.
Stiles hums to himself as Derek collapses sweatily over him, feeling high on endorphins and the knowledge that that totally counted as losing his virginity. Probably soon that's going to go away, and so's Derek, and Stiles isn't looking forward to coming back to harsh reality (Is Derek back in Beacon Hills for good? Are they going to do that again or was this some one-off thing? Are the other werewolves gonna smell it? Should he risk breaking the moment to get something to wipe them up?) But for now, his whole body hums content, and Derek mouths possessively below his ear, and the anticipation of the next terrible thing to crash through their lives has dissipated enough that Stiles can finally sleep.