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Stiles has a guilty pleasure.

He doesn’t have much time for leisure between werewolves, the Monster of the Week, and keeping up with Lydia in the run for valedictorian. Netflix is out because, honestly, where would he find the time to watch a whole movie? And an actual series? Come on. Gaming is out, too, for similar reasons (save the occasional Halo-binge with Scott). Reading is limited to strictly research-focused stuff (though, okay, he’ll admit that he can’t always keep himself from going down the Wikipedia rabbit hole), and he hasn’t opened tumblr or reddit for months.

But this…

He staggers to his chair and collapses into it. It swivels away from him a bit, but he scoots it back around to where it should be. His legs feel wobbly after all the running and, for all that his hot shower stripped him of the muck and blood, it also seems to have washed his energy down the drain with it. His laptop stands open and on, still on the Wikipedia-page for Jinn. He groans at the mere sight of it, scrubs his hand through his still-damp hair and uses the other to mash the f6 button, the f-key, the right arrow, and enter in quick succession.

Facebook loads up.

Chrome has his usual account saved; all he need to do is click the little log in button. He doesn’t.

Instead, he deletes the yellow-marked text and starts typing.

The page for a Richard Grayson loads up. Because Stiles is, always, a nerd at heart. Also, first Robin is best Robin. And Stiles can live with the idea of never being Batman if that means he’ll eventually end up as Nightwing.

He doesn’t even scroll, just clicks on the first thing that comes up. The page it loads is full of click-bait along the sides, but adblocker deals with the worst of it and besides… it’s so wonderfully, wonderfully, familiar.

Create your perfect sandwich and we’ll tell you which Avenger you should marry!

Stiles snorts and starts creating.

He gets Steve, which is blatantly untrue when there’s a hot and dangerous red-head to compete with. Besides – Stiles and Tony would be BFF’s for life.

But apparently his cheddar-mayo-bacon-pickle-whatever sandwich disagrees. 

Stiles ignores the comments at the bottom – honestly, they make the monsters he fights daily seem calm and sophisticated – and instead clicks at something random that catches his eye in the sidebar.

Pick your favorite out of these desserts and we will tell you your ACTUAL age!

Stiles starts picking.

It puts him in some sort of meditative state, the mindless clicking. The images are bright and not seldom of a pixel-density that could be achieved with your average root vegetable, the font size is frankly absurd and he’s lucky if there’s only one spelling and/or grammatical mistake per page, and he’d be embarrassed to be associated with pretty much any of these things. But… he always comes back. Has found he needs it.

His ADHD is- well, not fine, but it’s less now that he’s older. Perhaps it’s all the monster hunting sucking the energy out of him, perhaps it’s some actual physiological thing, Stiles doesn’t know – doesn’t have the time to research it. These days, though, it’s the adrenaline that gets him.

When he was new to all this, he usually just collapsed into bed straight after dealing with whatever was the horror du jour. And, sure, sometimes it had sucked enough life out of him (literally even, occasionally) that he went straight to sleep.

But then there had been the nightmares to deal with.

And other nights, despite a weariness he could feel in his very bones, he just couldn’t manage to shut off his brain. It was during one of those nights he’d ended up at one of these sites for the very first time.

Stiles is, apparently, 54. Fair. Sometimes he does feel it.

Choose from these 90’s classics and we’ll tell you which Mean Girl you are!

At this stage, Stiles can’t even remember what that first quiz had been about. But then, that’s kind of the point of this whole thing; it’s an activity so mind numbing that it literally shuts down his whole brain. So he can sleep.

Stiles has found his drug of choice, and he isn't letting it go anytime soon.

Especially since it’s one of the few of his daily activities that is actually legal.

Stiles is Janis Ian. Stiles has no idea who Janis Ian is. He hasn’t watched Mean Girls in years. See: the amount of free time he has.

But then, again, that’s not the point.

Show us your weapons of choice and we’ll tell you which celebrity you’d have the best chance of surviving the zombie apocalypse with!

Stiles, as always, has neglected to read the title before he clicked on the close-up of the zombie’s face, but now that there are pictures of chains and bloody knives on his screen he backspaces out of there.

He’ll take small purple flowers and burnt tree any day, thanks.

Besides, he’d probably be more likely to survive the zombie apocalypse alone. He doubts Ryan Gosling has the same practical experience he has.

He pays a little more attention to his next click.

Pick from these gorgeous smiles and we’ll tell you how good you are in bed!

Good that someone knows, he thinks, and gets to picking.

It’s nearing one in the morning, but it’s Saturday his dad’s at work so that’s fine. He’s been a little bit more lenient now that the whole werewolf thing is out, but Stiles still tries to keep the actual amount of times he nearly gets murdered on a weekly basis on the down low. And he doesn’t want his dad to think that he can’t deal.

It seems that Stiles’ love-making needs work. He just needs to find someone willing to let him practice on them.

Because he can deal. Obviously. It’s all just a matter of… telling this site about how he likes his pancakes and it’ll plan his destination wedding for him. Yeah… right.

He shakes his head and starts picking syrups.

Sometimes he wonders who the hell creates these things. How their process of reasoning goes. Does chocolate get you closer, or further away from, Fiji?

Eventually though, as it always does, everything starts to fade into the background. His eyes begin to fall shut every so often, and the only sound in the room is the steady tapping of his finger against the trackpad and the gentle humming of his computer’s fan.

His bed starts to beckon.

Not… not quite yet though.

He knows he’ll eventually reach a stage where the coupling between his preferences in fruit and how many children he should have will start to make sense and then… then he’ll be able to sleep.

Answer these questions and discover which European city is the best for you!

Stiles is made for Stockholm, as it turns out.

Choose your perfect holiday and we’ll know what your Alternate Universe Self is doing right now!

Other-Stiles is an astronaut. This-Stiles is not surprised.  

Do you have what it takes to take the Iron Throne? Answer these fourteen questions and find out!

Stiles doesn’t. He’ll apparently get assassinated during his coronation. Somehow, this doesn’t surprise him either.

Stiles should pick caramel macchiato every time.

Stiles is Wonder Woman.

Stiles’ ex doesn’t miss him.

Stiles’ heart is 60% ice.

Stiles’ teen-movie-that-must-go is A Cinderella Story.

Stiles likes cheese.

Stiles should get married in May.

Stiles’ superhero ability is invisibility.

Stiles’ secret kink is spanking.

Stiles should go vegetarian.

Stiles is 100% gay.

Stiles is…

Wait, what?

He hits the backspace button.

YOU ARE 100% GAY! the site proclaims.

He semi-flashbacks to the olden days of online fps and x-box live. Absurdly, his hands to twitch towards the left to tab up the leaderboard to contest the issue. Which just goes to show how good these things are at shutting down his cognitive function, because these days Stiles wouldn’t even bother with someone that thinks an orientation qualifies as an insult.   


There’s a gif underneath. It’s of a man. He’s shirtless, tan, and oiled. A bit of dark stubble on his cheeks. He has a hand in his hair and as the gif plays, he looks up, biting his lip. His eyes meet the camera and one of his eyebrows cocks slightly upwards.

Heat explodes outwards from Stiles’ chest, blooming until his fingers are tingling and his cheeks burning. And his cock twitching.

Wait, what?

The gif loops and loops, and each time the man’s eyes meet Stiles’ the warmth pulses through him again. He can’t look away.

Stiles’ mouth is starting to feel dry. A slight buzz seems to have started up in his ears, in his brain, and as he watches the man bite his lip he finds himself thinking I’d like to do that.

Stiles is now hard. He palms the stretched cotton of his boxers absently, eyes not leaving the screen.


Stiles… actually haven’t thought about it. His sexuality – for longer than the word has meant anything to him – has always been Lydia. There hasn’t been any reason to wonder because she’s always been there; brilliant and beautiful, if slightly unattainable.

And more recently… well, it’s not like he’s had much time to philosophize about his orientation, is it?

Sure, Stiles has noted that Derek’s kind of staggeringly hot, but the only conclusion that can be drawn from that is that he has functioning eyesight. And, okay, maybe he’s porn habits has been a bit more equal opportunity of late, but that’s porn. It’s not like he’d actually like to do everything he watches, anyway.

The gif loops again.

I’d like to do him, though, Stiles thinks, and his hand twitches over his cock.

And then: I’d like him to do me.

The image of the man over him, Stiles pinned under his muscled body, one hand tracing a light finger over his hole, flashes before his eyes. Suddenly he’s so turned-on he’s dizzy with it.


Stiles has tried, like, you know, a bit of fingering here and there. He’s got a curious mind, okay, and he won’t diss anything before he’s tried it. But he knows enough that he isn’t going to draw immediate parallels between a bit of ass-play and homosexuality.

However… getting so hard that a wet patch has started to form on his underwear just thinking about another man doing it to him… maybe that is a little bit gay.

It’s not like it bothers him, really, like it ranks anywhere near even the middle of the scale of shit that is his life. It’s just that… well, he’s never made the connection between some of his preferences and any labels. But maybe that’s down to how preoccupied he used to be with Lydia? Or, maybe the idea of his superhuman friends sniffing it out on him before he’s gotten the chance to straighten it out himself (ha!) has been sufficient enough – even subconsciously – to merit complete suppression of any thought relating to the subject?

It doesn’t seem entirely out of the realm of possibility.

Being gay is fine, the pack knowing is fine, the pack noticing that the any of them gets him worked up… soooo not fine. 

A shudder runs down his spine even thinking about it.

But now he’s been exposed. To himself. By a fucking click-bait quiz and a gif of a hot dude.

Stiles looks at it again.

A very hot dude, admittedly. His eyes are strikingly blue, brought out either by the similarly colored background or the powers of photoshop. A little bit of both, maybe.

His lips look… like they’d be nice to kiss. Stiles wonders how the stubble would feel.


Stiles startles so bad he almost jumps off his chair, grabs a ruler off the table and swings around with it held in front of him like a makeshift sword. His fight or flight reflexes leans overwhelmingly towards fight, these days.

Derek raises an unimpressed eyebrow.

Dude!” Stiles exclaims, dropping his arm. “How many times do I have to tell you, if you refuse to use the door, at least knock!”

Derek stands in the middle of his room, the window still slightly open to his side. He crosses his arms over his chest, biceps bulging and stretching the fabric of his green Henley.

Stiles abruptly remembers what he was doing before he was scared half to death and slams his laptop shut. He uses his other hand to cover his crotch, ruler still in hand, extremely aware that all that he’s wearing is his too-tight boxers. He blushes so hard it’s almost painful.

“What do you want?” he snaps, hoping desperately Derek will only breathe through his mouth.

“The Jinn,” Derek says. “It rose from the grave.”

Stiles mind was on such fundamentally different things that he almost doesn’t get it.

“What?!” he says when he finally does. “But it was purple! The bestiary said it’s like an 80% chance that the purple ones could be trapped with the salt!”

“It couldn’t,” Derek says, apparently not swayed by the powers of statistics. “The salt didn’t hold it.”

“Ugh,” Stiles says, throwing the ruler back onto his desk and then dragging his hands over his face. “No, of course it didn’t. Because that would mean that the odds worked out in our favor, and that’s probably the final sign of the apocalypse or something. I should have just started with the assumption that everything would go to shit.”

 “Probably,” Derek agrees.

“Just- okay, fine. How far did it go? It’s not like iron chains are hard to get a hold of. Do you think we should try to get it tonight? Or…” He cuts himself off, pinching the bridge of his nose, as a thought suddenly strikes him. “Shit, it’s going to be pissed, isn’t it? Wow, isn’t that just wonderful, not only did we completely fail at containing it; we’ve made the powerful flesh-eating spirit angry.

And he’d counted on having tomorrow to finish his essay on Machiavelli, too. 

“It was,” Derek confirms.

“Was?” Stiles asks, looking back at Derek, eyebrows shooting up.

Derek nods slightly. “I heard it moving just as I was about to go. I had a chain in my trunk.”

He shrugs slightly, as if to say and that was that.

“Oh,” Stiles says. “Oh. Dude, that’s great. Good job!”

Derek shrugs again, brushing off praise as effectively as always. “It was still weak from… the…”

Stiles sees the moment Derek’s eyes suddenly slip from his face and down to his… down. And then Derek trails off and his eyebrows pull together slightly, and Stiles know with alarming clarity that he is fucked.  

Then he suddenly realizes he’s moved his hand away from hiding his junk. He moves them both back so quickly he probably would have impaled himself had he still been holding the ruler.

And then another realization strikes him: Stiles can’t remember what underwear he grabbed when he got out of the shower.

He takes a second to pray it’s one of the black ones. Then he glances down, lifting his hands slightly so he can see.

Nope, it’s the light blue ones and the wet spot is plainly visible to even Stiles’ inferior eyes.

He looks back up. Derek stares back. And through the terror, a thought strikes Stiles: the guy in the gif looks like Derek.

Oh sweet lord Jesus help.

Derek’s arms are slipping out of their firm hold and dropping to his sides, his eyebrows drawing steadily closer together. And then Stiles sees Derek’s chest expand as he draws in a deep breath through his nose.

If self-combustion is at all possible for humans, it’s going to happen to Stiles within seconds. The open window looks suddenly tempting.

Stiles,” says Derek.

“Ahaha,” says Stiles, shaky and uncertain, taking half a step back.

Derek’s eyes flash red and, welp, hello, looks like that’s his secret kink, actually.

“No, okay, look,” Stiles says. “I told you you should have knocked. I always tell you you should knock!”

Derek growls and Stiles is very determined not to find it appealing. It… sorta works. Except not really.

 “Look,” he says, again, hoping that maybe sheer panic will overwhelm his newfound appreciation of the male form – Derek’s male form. “Just, thank you for stopping by, Jinn dealt with, everything noted, we should totally part ways right now.”

He’s walking towards Derek now, making shooing motions with his hands, because Derek has always responded better to physical encouragement than words.


Don’t think about that. Too much. Right now.

He’s reached Derek now though, so he grabs his arm and starts pushing him towards the window.

“Stiles,” Derek growls.

And yes, hello, now we have growling of Stiles name, red eyes, and Derek’s muscled arms under Stiles’ hands at once. He learned the gayness about himself, like, ten minutes ago. He’s not prepared.

He- maybe he shudders. A little.

And Derek’s not moving.

You walked in on me, dude!” Stiles points out, taking half a step away for his sanity’s sake. “You don’t get to be all upset and growly at me!”

“You could have said something.”

And, okay, Derek’s looming now.

“You have freaking superpowers,” Stiles points out, swallowing and backing away. “I kind of assumed it would be obvious.”

“Your room always smells like you’ve just jerked off,” Derek says, still moving closer. “I couldn’t tell the difference.”

“Oh, well, great, that’s not completely mortifying at all,” Stiles says, and now he’s backed away so far that his back bumps against the wall. “Really appreciate that literally none of my superpowered friends has cared to share that little piece of information with me over the years.”

Derek’s still closing in, and Stiles’ hands abandon their task of hiding his traitorous erection to push back against Derek’s chest. Except that does not work out at all the way Stiles had expected. Stiles must have done this dozens of times, but he’s never quite appreciated the sheer bulk of Derek’s pecs, how firm they are in his hands and… Stiles can practically feel his eyes glaze over.

He shakes his head slightly and forces himself to focus.

“Wow, okay, enough there, pal,” Stiles says, slightly breathlessly. “I know this is kinda your- your thing or whatever, but I think you’ll find that it’ll have-“

Derek’s buries his face against Stiles’ neck, and Stiles’ voice goes very high as he finishes his sentence.

“-unintended consequences!”

Derek rumbles against his neck and Stiles’ breath hitches. He can feel the soft scrape of Derek’s stubble against his skin, the warm-then-cold of his breathing.

“You smell like you want me,” Derek says, voice deep and quiet, and Stiles is so focused on the sensation of Derek’s lips touching his neck as they move that he doesn’t even hear it at first.

And then the words sink in.

It’s like a bucket of cold water over his head.

“There’s a very good explanation for that!” Stiles promises, not at all squeakily, going up on his toes in an attempt to spare himself the humiliation of Derek having a closer sniff.

Derek, surprisingly, pulls away.

“There is?” he asks.

He’s staring into Stiles' eyes. Derek’s are tinged with red, but are mostly his human green-blue-gray combination.

Stiles swallows.

“Well,” he says, pulling up a smile, “you shouldn’t have let me see that sense of humor of yours.”

Stiles realizes his mistake as soon as the words are out of his mouth: they are true. Not at all the joke he meant it to be; Derek’s dry-as-a-desert humor is totally something he finds hot, though he’s never ever made the thought explicit before. He feels his heartbeat pick up as if it's retroactively trying to mask the words as a lie.

“Oh God,” Stiles blurts. “Please just ignore me, I’ve clearly gone insane, I’m rambling, you need to-“

The rest of his words disappear on a sharp inhale, because Derek’s hands are tentatively closing around his hips.

Stiles’ has always considered Lydia’s hands to be beautiful, perfect. They are dainty, soft, and long-fingered, and always well-manicured. Derek’s hands are wide, and broad, and large.

Stiles didn’t know he had a thing for that. But apparently he does.

Derek’s thumb brushes along the curve of Stiles’ hipbone, and Stiles’ feels a little bit like he’s going to both explode and implode from everything that’s going on.

He’s achingly hard.  

“You want me…” Derek says, “because you think I’m funny?”

Stiles mind has completely disconnected from whatever they were talking about. Conversation, what is that even? All he knows is the blazingly hot touch along the hem of his boxers.

“What? What- I, ah- hm… no?” Stiles tries.

He makes an attempt to look up and meet Derek’s eyes, but he kind of gets stuck where his hands are still resting against Derek’s chest. It really is a very nice chest. Muscled. Derek’s nipples must be somewhere beneath his palms.

“You’re lying, Stiles,” Derek says. It’s very softly spoken, considering the words.

“Er, what?” Stiles has lost the thread of the conversation again.

“I can tell you’re lying.” Stiles now has enough presence of mind to actually properly listen to what Derek is saying, how he’s saying it. And Stiles… is fairly certain there’s a note of wonder in his voice.

He doesn’t know what to make of that.

“Er, ah, right.”

Stiles is reaching all sorts of extremes he didn’t know were possible, setting unbeatable high-scores in embarrassment and arousal both.

Stiles,” Derek says again, and moves the slightest bit closer.

The thing is, though, they are already standing absurdly close, so Derek’s tiny movement actually eats up a large percentage of the space between them. Stiles cock brushes briefly against Derek’s jeans and, even through the fabric of his boxers, it’s enough that a small and high-pitched noise slips out of him.

“A part of it,” Stiles blurts, not even knowing if Derek had been urging him to talk. “It’s a part, a part, just- just one part!”

Derek’s forward movement has resulted in there being too little room for Stiles’ hands to keep resting against his pecs, so they’ve kind of slipped upwards on their own. They’ve ended up on Derek’s shoulders. And… they’re really wide apart. Stiles might, accidentally, press his fingers in slightly, and they’re so firm and broad and… nice.

“So tell me about the other parts,” Derek says, voice dark and smooth.

His eyes though, when Stiles finally manages to look up at his face, are blazing red.

And also a lot closer than he expected them to be.

A soft exhale slips past his lips out of sheer surprise. And Derek is so close that he thinks, half hysterically, that it’s good he brushed his teeth while he was in the bathroom.

“I- what?” Stiles says.

The back of his head is now pressed against the wall. It feels like Derek is looming over him, even though he’s cognitively aware that they’re pretty much the same height.

“You said it’s one part of why you want me. Tell me the others.”

Derek still hasn’t grasped the concept of question marks. He poses it almost like an order. A soft growl has crept back into his voice now, too, and Stiles would likely have more luck trying to stop a hurricane than the shiver that rocks through his body.

“I don’t-…” he wants to say that he doesn’t know, that he didn’t even know anything himself when he woke up this morning, but then the words start tumbling out of his mouth. “You always give the hardest physical work to Erica like it’s no big deal. You’ve always tried to make sure Isaac never feels like he’s not welcome. Make sure everyone else shut up so Boyd can speak.”

The red winks out of Derek’s eyes. Stiles thinks it makes him look suddenly vulnerable.

“You’ve… noticed?” Derek asks, and his voice is just hoarse now.

A slightly hysterical breath of laughter slips out of him, because he’s starting to think there isn’t anything that he hasn’t noticed. “You give Scott shit about Allison, but always make sure you stop before going too far, you’ve never- ah!”

There are pointed tips of claws against his skin now, and if the resulting wave of arousal was even half as strong to Derek’s nose as it was to Stiles’ insides, he feels like he should apologize. He doesn’t know how to ask though, wouldn’t know where to begin with the apology. Can’t even continue speaking.

He finds himself tipping his head backward, instead, exposing his neck to Derek. He doesn’t know if it’s an attempt at apologizing, or a sex thing, or a werewolf thing, or a Stiles-has-clearly-lost-his-mind thing, but he does. And then the growl is back, full on.

And the next thing Stiles knows is that there are teeth sinking into the flesh where his neck meets his shoulder. Stiles whimpers, hips jutting forwards all on their own and colliding with Derek’s. The sudden friction is delicious and mortifying both, but before he can withdraw the clawed hands on his hips holds him still, holds him close.

“What do you have-“ Stiles actually does manage to stop himself from saying in your pocket, but it’s a very near thing. And it's a genuine question. Because the length of Derek’s hard cock is pressing against the side of his own, and in what world does that actually happen? In what world can Stiles make Derek hard?

The mere thought of it almost makes his knees buckle, because in this world, apparently.

His breath is coming in small pants, his hands gripping Derek’s shoulders so hard that it would have surely bruised an ordinary human, and the bite on Stile’s neck hurts but it’s also the best thing he’s ever felt so he can’t-… Then Derek’s teeth are easing off, but they’re replaced with tongue and lips instead, so any complaints that Stiles might have had are blown away by a small gasp. He thinks he might be feeling the light scrape of fangs against his skin, and the mere possibility of it makes him grind his hips into Derek’s.

And Derek moans.

Stiles doesn’t actually come, but it almost feels like it for a moment. The rushing noise in his ears reaches a roaring crescendo and his world tilts sharply to the left, and it’s all he can do to keep hanging on to Derek’s shoulders to stay upright.

Derek wants this.

Stiles doesn’t know why this realization feels like it’s bowled him over. Derek’s the one who’s done everything so far. Who pushed him up against the wall, who kissed his neck, who gripped his hips and held him close.

But Derek wants this.

“Fuck, Stiles,” Derek breathes against his neck. “You smell so-…”

He cuts himself off and bites down ever so softly on the skin below Stiles’ ear and, yeah, that’s fangs he’s feeling.

Stiles right hand flies to Derek’s neck to- to keep him close, or pull him away, Stiles don’t know. It’s good, but almost frighteningly, overwhelmingly, so. He just ends up gripping Derek’s hair. And it’s soft. So soft, and Stiles doesn’t know if he’s actually ever touched Derek’s hair before. Both his hands are in it now, fingertips pressing against his scalp as the smooth stands run between his fingers.

“I want to kiss you.” Stiles hears his own voice but hardly recognizes it. He didn’t intend to speak.

And Derek freezes, fangs still on Stiles’ skin.

And then they ease off.

Oh god I fucked it up, Stiles thinks as Derek retreats enough that he can see his face. He licks his lips, and when his tongue retreats his fangs are gone. Stiles feels like he should say something, attempt to ease his screw up somehow, but his head feels empty save a lone voice screaming hysterically in the distance.

And then Derek kisses him.

Stiles – stupidly – doesn’t even get what’s going on at first. Derek’s face keeps coming closer and closer, his eyes flicking between Stiles’ eyes and his mouth. And then their lips touch and Stiles is thinking soft. And then Derek’s lips move against Stiles’ and his beard scrape across his, and Stiles’ feel like he’s been lit on fire.

A truly pathetic noise escapes him, mercifully muffled by Derek’s mouth, and his hands make fists in Derek’s dark hair, keeping him still, keeping him close. And then Derek makes a noise back, a gruff sort of groan, and then the kiss is suddenly intense and hungry, their tongues meeting.

Derek Hale has his tongue in my mouth, Stiles thinks and tries to somehow kiss him even deeper.

Derek kisses like he’s forgotten what moderation is, how to hold himself back, that something could ever be considered too much. Stiles loves it. Loses himself in giving back as good as he’s getting. Derek pushes closer and closer, pinning Stiles against the wall, fingers digging into his skin while claws are kept carefully out of the way. And then Derek’s entire body is flush with Stiles’. And then Stiles’ feet aren’t even touching the floor anymore.

“Bed,” Derek breathes, and Stiles can’t help but make a displeased noise at having distance between their lips. “Bed-… let me take you to-… please.”

Stiles’ more effective than Derek, because he doesn’t need to stop their kiss to nod vigorously. He wraps his arms around Derek’s neck and his legs around his waist, and Derek doesn’t so much as stagger. His hands shift down to Stiles’ ass to support him, and then he steps away from the wall and Stiles is suddenly only held up by his arms.

He’s seen Derek carry things five times his weight, but there’s still something about this that is almost unbearably hot.

Stiles tears away from Derek’s mouth to watch him. He gets caught on Derek’s eyes, darker than he’s ever seen them. He eases his grip around Derek’s neck slowly, just to make sure he won’t suddenly overwhelm him. The muscles in Derek’s arms bunch slightly as they take nearly all of his weight. Stiles’ move one of his hands from Derek’s neck to run down the length of one.

He follows the movement with his eyes until he reaches an elbow. Then he looks back up at Derek’s face. There’s something in it that tells him he isn’t alone in finding this more arousing than he expected.

“You’re sure?” Derek asks quietly, meeting his eyes unwaveringly.

“Yes,” Stiles says, looking back.

Derek holds still for a moment. Stiles lets him.

Then Derek is putting his knees on the bed and tipping them over. Stiles hits the mattress harder than he would have expected and bounces. But then Derek’s hands are pinning him down by the hips. He puts some weight behind it this time, pressing him down into the sheets.

A small moan escapes past Stiles’ lips and he can’t quite keep himself from writhing. Derek doesn’t let him move an inch. Stiles’ moan twists into something slightly desperate, eyes squeezing shut as his cock throbs.

“God, Stiles,” Derek says, voice almost reverential. “I don’t- you look…”

Derek trails off and Stiles’ opens his eyes to look at him. And Derek looks… it’s almost absurd. His cheeks are flushed and his lips kissed red and he must be the hottest person Stiles has ever seen, hands down. And he looks at Stiles like he’s thinking the same thing.

Stiles' chest feels tight, and he doesn’t think he could produce words right now to save his life.

Their eye contact lasts a few moments longer, and then Derek is bending down to kiss his neck.

“Do you know what you smell like, Stiles?” he says between kisses and nips. He sounds almost drunk. “Do you know how often I’ve had to stop myself from doing this?”

Stiles doesn’t, hadn’t even had the slightest idea, but hearing Derek talking about it places the image of it in his mind and he clutches at the fabric of Derek’s shirt.

“Oh my god, Derek, why do you have clothes?” he whines. “Get it off, get it off, please, I need to…”

He can’t quite put into words what he needs but he pulls at Derek’s shirt nevertheless, and then Derek gets with the program and then it’s suddenly off.

It’s not a new sight. And yet it is.

Stiles lifts his hand to touch his muscled chest, down to his abs, back up and playing over his ribs. There’s a… broadness, to him, that is slightly intimidating and such an unbelievable turn on that Stiles can barely string together coherent thoughts.

His eyes flick back up to Derek’s.

“I think I’d really like you to fuck me,” Stiles says.

Stiles hadn’t been aware that Derek’s claws had retreated until they’re suddenly there again, pressing hard into his skin. A half-startled, half-aroused little ah! slips out of him, and he automatically tries to flinch away from them. He’d have better luck prying himself out of iron bars though, and it seems like Stiles is discovering a lot of secret new kinks tonight.

And Derek is just staring down at him, eyes wide and red.

“Derek?” Stiles means to sound composed, wants to recover some of his dignity in case he’s asked for too much, but it comes out kind of breathy and pleading instead.

But at least Derek startles out of his frozen state, a small noise escaping his throat that Stiles has a hard time putting a name to, and one of his hands travels from Stiles’ hip to his throat. Where Derek then buries his face.

Stiles,” he says, and maybe Derek’s not even aware of it, but he’s covered Stiles’ body with his own and slowly allowing more and more of his weight to press against him. “You can’t just- your voice- I’ll never be able to unhear that.”

Stiles wants to ask if he wants to, but Derek is pressing his lips against Stiles’ neck, his collarbones, the top of his chest, and Stiles’ has a hard time finding the words. His hands go around to Derek’s back and it’s as hard and muscled as his front and Stiles can’t get enough of touching it.

And then Derek’s other hand closes hard and firm around his ass and his fingers are almost, almost-

Stiles loses his mind a little bit. He bucks helplessly upwards, the rough denim simultaneously too hard and perfect, and then down again because he doesn’t want it to stop, wants more, wants closer.

“Do you mean it?” Derek asks, breathy, fingers still tight, nose against his cheek. “Are you sure?”

Stiles has gone past the point of caring about dignity, and the words just come flying out of him. “Oh God, yes, yes, I swear, please, I want it, I want you-!”

That punches another sound out of Derek, and suddenly there are teeth closing around the edge of his jaw.  And this time it’s Derek who rolls his hips against Stiles. The fly and button of his jeans are too hard to be pleasant, but the fact that he can feel Derek’s dick against his own is by far enough to compensate for that, for anything.

And then Derek’s pressing his lips against his chest again, moving down, across. He stops briefly over Stiles’ right nipple, lips parted, and then his tongue presses against it and Stiles isn’t really sensitive there, but there’s still something about it, the sight of it, that pushes the breath from his chest. And then Derek’s continuing downwards. Over his ribs, over his stomach. Stiles’ back arches under the attention, half-unconsciously offering himself up to Derek, giving him easier access. But a small tingle of embarrassment has also reawakened. He feels like he wants this too much, like he’s too needy and obvious, and he can see where Derek’s headed, and Stiles is so desperate for it that he almost feels like he’s making Derek.

His protests though, only come out in the shape of panted little breaths of: “Derek, Derek, Derek…!”

And then Derek stops. His face is not even an inch from Stiles’ hard cock. Both his hands are back at Stiles’ hips.

Stiles stares down at him, at himself.

The wet spot has, unsurprisingly, grown since the time when there was only Stiles and a gif. He’s always had the vague impression that there’s generally more precome for him than there is for most dudes, and the thought makes him embarrassed now that Derek’s nose is half an inch in front of some very plain evidence backing that suspicion. He wonders if he smells. He moves his hips again, but this time it’s away, down.

Derek’s eyes flick up to his.

“Stiles,” he says and licks his lips, and Stiles almost comes, embarrassment or not. “Stiles, can I- can I?”

It’s almost frighteningly clear what he means, and yet Stiles feels like he doesn’t understand.

“Yeah,” he says anyway, because he can’t think of anything he’d actually say no to.

Derek holds his eyes for a moment longer, and then they slip down to his dick, almost like he can’t help himself. Stiles watches him, whole body tense.

Then Derek’s tongue comes out, and he presses it to the cotton over the head of Stiles’ cock, where it’s already wet. Stiles’ breath catches at the heat of it, and then Derek’s groaning and burying his nose against Stiles’ pelvis.

“Oh god,” Stiles says.

Then there are teeth, scraping softly, still through the barrier of cotton. And then Derek’s mouth is closing around him, fabric catching and spreading moisture and heat, and it feels like it reaches Stiles’ whole body.

“Oh god,” Stiles chokes out again.

Derek groans, fingers flexing against Stiles’ hips.

And then Stiles’ underwear is coming off, and Derek’s suddenly face to face with Stiles’ naked cock.

The vague idea that he should be embarrassed to let Derek see it, especially so hard and flushed and leaking after only a few touches, passes through his mind. But he can feel Derek’s breath against his skin, and he’s too turned on to actually pay attention to it.

But then Derek just stares, breathing heavily through his nose.

“Derek…” It slips out, and Stiles doesn’t know if it’s a protest or a plea, but Derek’s eyes flick up to meet his.

And then his tongue drags along the entire length of Stiles cock.

A startled noise escapes his lips, and then it twists into a moan when Derek’s hand closes around his base and he takes him deep into his mouth.

Stiles usually doesn’t find it at all difficult to shut up when he masturbates, but now it’s Derek and he can’t keep the noises from spilling out.

“Oh- fuck, Jesus, please-!”

Derek shows no mercy. Through tears Stiles watches him move up and down, feels him, and it’s probably only sheer disbelief that keeps him from coming immediately. He’s always sort of wondered if the awesomeness of blowjobs isn’t just the slightest bit overstated – like bacon; bacon’s good, but not that good – but it clearly fucking isn’t, not when Derek Hale is the one giving them. If anything, Stiles is having trouble getting his head around how fucking magical it feels.

And then a light finger traces over his hole.

The sound that escapes him is just short of an actual shout, and his hips jut upwards, half to escape half to seek more friction.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry-!” he babbles, arms shooting out to grab the sheets, Derek, anything, to keep himself still. But Derek just hums around him, and Stiles’ hips twitch again at the sensation and Derek… Derek does not look like he minds.

Stiles swallows, untangles his fingers from the sheets, and tentatively reaches for Derek’s head. He moans a bit when Stiles’ fingers tangle in his hair, and Stiles’ breath goes unsteady from the feel – the sight – of it.

And then the finger is back again.

There’s only spit on it, but it’s enough to make the sensation of it gliding smoothly against him perfect, around and around, with just the slightest bit of pressure, and maddeningly short of actually pushing inside. In minutes, he goes from being on the brink of coming to feeling like he’s never going to, because he knows what he wants, wants it so bad he’s nearly sobbing with it, but he isn’t getting it.

“Derek, Derek, please, just- please!”

And then Derek lifts his head from Stiles’ cock, lets it slip out of his mouth agonizingly slowly, and that wasn’t at all what Stiles was begging for.

But then Derek says, short and gruff: “Lube.”

The word, his voice, sends Stiles’ head spinning and him scrambling upwards to he can slam open the drawer on the nightstand and grab the bottle and-

When he turns around, Derek’s laying as Stiles left him. He’s tilted slightly to the side, holding himself up on his elbow, and his jeans are open and his hand is in his underwear fisted around his cock.

Stiles’ knees would probably give out if he wasn’t already half laying down.

Had he… while he was… to Stiles…?

“Stiles,” Derek says, not moving his hand, not moving anything.

“Yeah,” Stiles breathes, still staring.

And while Stiles is staring, Derek’s hand starts shifting. It’s slow, deliberate, and completely covered by the dark fabric of his underwear. But they are tight, and every outline is deliciously clear. Stiles can’t breathe.

Stiles,” Derek says again, and it’s half a command and half… half just a moan. Like that’s something Derek says while he’s touching himself.

Feeling like he’s in a trance, Stiles scoots back down, reinserts himself into the void Derek’s left for him. The tip of his cock ends up right in front of Derek’s mouth. Derek doesn’t break eye-contact. He leans down and licks of the precome that’s gathered on the tip of it. Then he licks where it’s gathered and pooled on his stomach. And Stiles can still see his hand moving.

He clenches his teeth down on a whimper, but his breathing still comes out ragged and hard.

“Give me the bottle,” Derek says, and Stiles can feel the words against the wetness on his skin.

Stiles holds out the bottle and Derek reaches out to take it. With the hand that was just wrapped around his cock. Stiles gets almost overwhelmed by the desire to touch it, to lick it. He wants to ask if he can touch it, but it feels almost presumptuous – even though they should be way past that point – and also he sort of… doesn’t. He wants to know what Derek will do without his questions.

And so, he stays silent as Derek takes the lube from his hand.  Only watches him.

Derek pushes himself up slowly from his reclined position, maintains eye-contact with Stiles throughout it all until he’s sitting back on his knees. His jeans stretch over his thick thighs, and Stiles’ eyes get caught there for a moment.

They snap back up at the sound of the bottle being popped open.

“Put your legs on either side of me,” Derek tells him, squeezing out clear lube into his hand.

Stiles does as he’s told, bends his knee upwards to move it in front of Derek rather than over him. It feels-… oh god, it feels so dirty spreading himself like this. Derek’s so broad, is sitting so close, that Stiles needs to put his legs wide apart to make room for him. His thighs rest against Derek’s and they look almost milky white against the dark of his jeans, only the birthmarks scattered across his skin marring the image.

And then Derek places a broad hand on his stomach, fingers spread wide.

Stiles stares at it. It covers up an almost absurd amount of him, he feels. Have Derek’s hands always been this large? And… has his fingers always been that thick?

Just as he’s thinking it, just as his cheeks are heating up from the implication, Derek’s other hand touches carefully against his rim.

Stiles sucks in a startled breath, his eyes flying up to meet Derek’s.

“You haven’t changed your mind?” he asks, voice so deep that it sends a shiver down Stiles’ spine.

Stiles would laugh at the absurdity of the question. He must reek of want, of need, all of it oozing out of his every pore. Except he feels like he’s on the verge of falling apart and Derek’s words are only bringing him closer.

“No,” he promises, voice so rough he can barely recognize it. “Never. You?”

A growl escapes Derek at the question, and then the tip of one finger is suddenly inside Stiles. A sound escapes him, and then Derek is leaning over his body and burying his face in his neck.

Fuck, Stiles, I- I want-“ his teeth scrape across the skin on Stiles’ neck, but Stiles is so entirely consumed by the sensation of Derek sliding steadily deeper that he hardly even feels it. “I still- I can’t wait to be inside of-“

Derek doesn’t seem able to complete the sentence, any sentence, and a groan escapes them both at the same time.

Then Derek’s lips are on his.

He kisses him while his finger continues moving, swallows the helpless noises that keep spilling out of Stiles’ mouth, mumbles nonsense right back.

Amazing, you feel- perfect- I wish- I want-“

The words slip out in the moments where they pull back, the moments they both need to get enough air, in the sliver of a space that opens between their lips. And Derek sounds wrecked, like the words are spilling out through cracks in him, cracks that Stiles put there. Like he’s feeling so much it needs to get out somehow.

Stiles doesn’t get to reflect much on it because a second finger is pushing inside along the first one.

Another gasp escapes him and, for the first time, it's partly due to pain. But Derek is careful, slow, and the hurt only last for that one first push, smooth and slick thanks to the lube. And Stiles is starting to feel… full.

“Oh god, Derek, fuck, you- ah!”

Stiles doesn’t have the best filter to his mouth at the best of times, but this is different, something more. It’s as though he’s physically unable to stop the ramblings, like his mouth is suddenly responding to the sensations instead of being controlled by his brain.

He needs to shut up before anything truly embarrassing slips out, but Derek has moved on to his neck again, and his mouth isn’t there as a convenient obstruction.

Stiles twists, tries to find something he can bite down on, but he has to turn too far for it to work. He ends up with his own hand in front of his face, alternating between pushing it down against his lips and pulling the skin between his teeth as Derek’s fingers move deeper, deeper…  

And then suddenly his arm is gone.

Derek’s grip is hard around his wrist as he pins it to the mattress, fingers still working inside him. He has leaned back to maintain the position.

“No,” he says, almost a growl, red eyes glowing down at Stiles. “I want to hear you.”

Stiles keens at that, feels simultaneously delighted and mortified, and completely, completely, overwhelmed.

And then Derek’s fingers brush against his prostate.

He shouts. He twists up, and then immediately tries to push himself back down again, tries to chase that sensation. He doesn’t manage, nearly sobs, but then Derek’s fingers are back again.

“Stiles,” Derek says, staring down at him and he moans. “Stiles.”

And suddenly he’s achingly, painfully, aware that there’s nothing touching his cock. He can feel where it’s leaked, the cold where the precome has smeared against his stomach.

Only one of his hands are restrained, but somehow it doesn’t even occur to him to move the other.

He doesn’t get any further before Derek’s fingers whites out his brain again.

Stiles hears the noises he’s making as though they’re coming from someone else.

And then Derek is speaking. “God, Stiles, you should see yourself, you look- your scent- you-“

Stiles can imagine. Flushed and legs spread over Derek’s thighs, lips kissed raw and stubble-burn down his neck, head thrown back and mouth slightly open. The reminder that Derek is watching him, seeing him like this, makes him feel vulnerable. But it’s also good, because he wants Derek to know how much he wants him, even if it’s embarrassing, wants him to know how fucking wonderful he’s making him feel.

And Derek’s still in his jeans. God.

“More, Derek, fuck, I need more-!”

He doesn’t know what he means, even as he begs. For Derek to touch his neglected dick, for him to move faster or harder, for him to add another finger, for him to remove his fingers and push his cock inside-

The thought of it shakes another moan out of him, and then it twists because there are three fingers pushing against him now. Derek presses inside slow and steady and firm, but it hurts now, and Stiles bites down hard on his lips to stop the whimpers, squeezes his eyes shut.

Then Derek holds still, and Stiles is grateful because moving sounds like the worst idea right now. The pain is a strange one, feels wrong, makes his stomach tie itself in knots, and punches a hole in the almost delirious pleasure that’s been drowning him.

What the hell am I doing, Stiles thinks.

And then he feels the scratch of Derek’s beard under his palm.

His eyes fly open.

Derek has lifted the hand he was pinning down to the mattress to his face, is cradling it to his cheek, pressing his lips to Stiles’ wrists. Stiles stares at him, and Derek looks back. His eyes are red, still, but his pupils are so wide and dark there’s almost no glow to them. And Derek looks… beautiful.

“Stiles,” he says.

And then there’s a small movement, Derek beginning oh-so-carefully to pull his fingers out. His eyes never leave Stiles’ face, and Stiles can’t bring himself to look away either. It still twinges slightly, the movement of Derek’s fingers, but something has sapped the tension from Stiles body and it feels… okay.

And then Derek’s fingers are almost out, and begins to push inside again. It hurts, still, the same twisting sort, but there’s something underneath it, something else.

“Fuck…” Stiles breathes, still staring wide-eyed at Derek’s face.

A low rumble emanates from Derek’s chest, and he presses Stiles’ hand closer to his face.

In and out, in and out, in and out, and Derek is so steady and slow that Stiles begins to grow impatient with him, tries to flex his body to get it deeper, harder.

“Derek,” he pleads. “Derek.”

“Just a bit more,” Derek answers, eyes fixed on his fingers.

Stiles whines, shuts his eyes and feels a blush burn his face. So many conflicting feelings.

Derek eventually picks up the pace, a steady increase that Stiles barely notices until he’s rocking with every thrust, clinging to Derek’s arm instead of Derek holding him. It feels like it goes on for hours, and, god knows, maybe it does, but eventually Derek slows, stops. Pulls his fingers out. Stiles mewls in protest.

But then Derek asks. “Do you think- I mean, could I-“

“Yes,” Stiles interrupts. “Yes, god yes, please, now, I want you now.”

Perhaps Stiles would feel embarrassed for his desperation, but not when Derek makes that low noise deep in his throat and squeezes his eyes shut like he needs everything to stop for a moment so he can control himself.

Then he suddenly pulls away, moves off the bed, and terror flashes through Stiles, blinding for a moment, until Derek begins to push down his pants.

And Stiles stares. The muscles in Derek’s thighs bunch visibly as be bends to get them off, ass flexing and dimpling. He looks like someone has sculpted him, each long line flowing perfectly into the next And Stiles want to touch, to lick, to bite, and it’s a fucking tragedy that his jeans didn’t come off until now.

And then Derek turns around.

The v of his hips frames his cock perfectly, where it juts up against the protrusion of his abs.

And Stiles’ eyes are stuck, he can’t peel them away from the sight off it. His brain is stuck. He feels his mouth go dry, that it’s open and won’t shut, but he can’t do anything about it. Can only keep staring, even as Derek’s hand wraps around his cock; not like he needs to touch it, but like he wants to hide it.

Stiles’ eyes flick up to Derek’, and it feels like a plea.

For a moment, he’s genuinely uncertain whether he’d rather have it in his ass or in his mouth.

And then Derek is climbing back into bed, on his knees and situating himself between Stiles’ still spread legs, and the decision is made for him.

Derek reaches out and grabs the bottle of lube, squeezes a generous amount of it into his hand. Stiles wants to say that he can do it, wants to do it, needs to do it, but then Derek’s hand is closing around his cock and the sight of it strikes Stiles mute. Derek’s hand glides up and down until his whole length is slick and glistening. Perfect.  

“Now,” Stiles finds himself saying, still unable to move his eyes away. “Please, now.”

Derek makes a low noise, something between a sigh and a groan, but he stops stroking and places his hand on Stiles' thigh. He moves closer and Stiles can feel, can see, his chest heaving. God, his heart must sound like a fucking drum in Derek’s ears. Then Derek’s hands are on his hips, pulling him down and closer and-

Stiles moans as Derek’s cock brushes against his hole.

“Oh god fuck.”

Derek’s thumb brushes along the protrusion of his hipbone. “Ready?”

“Yes, yes, goddamnit, yes already!” Stiles wraps his legs around Derek the best he can, tries to pull him in. But, of course, he might as well have tried to move a fucking mountain.

“Don’t be impatient,” Derek chastises.

“Oh my god,” Stiles breathes. “Are you teasing me right now?”

“Maybe,” Derek replies, increasing the pressure oh-so-slightly.

Stiles sobs, writhes, tries to bring himself down, but Derek’s holding him firm again. And fuck if that doesn’t turn him on even more, drives him almost senseless with need. His back arches, head tipping back, and his hands are twisting in the sheets again.

Please, Derek, just give it to me,” he begs. “I’ll do anything, just-“

There’s another incremental push, and then the head of Derek’s cock is suddenly inside him.

He shuts up with a surprised gasp and pain shoots through him. It feels like too much, like he can’t handle it. His breath comes short and shallow, his eyes squeezing shut, and for a moment he almost wants to ask for it to stop.

Then Derek says: “Stiles.”

He sounds wrecked as he’s saying it, wrecked and pleading, and Stiles has to open his eyes so he can see him.

He doesn’t look much better than he sounds, sweat gleaming on his body and chest rising and falling massively with every gulping breath he takes. His hair is tousled and messy, hanging down over his eyes, lips bitten and red. He’s looking at Stiles like he’s hung the fucking moon.

“Stiles. You’re okay, it’s okay, you’re- fuck, you’re wonderful.”

And Stiles can’t help the weak laugh that escapes him. It’s… joy, mixed with amusement at Derek’s sweet attempt at soothing, mixed with the ridiculousness of their situation.

Derek smiles back, wide and helpless, eyes crinkling.

And he’s so fucking beautiful.

Stiles moves his hand feebly downwards until he can pry Derek’s fingers off his hips and twine them together with his own.

“More,” he demands, still smiling up at Derek.

“You’re always so greedy,” Derek says, breathily, allowing Stiles to pull him forward until he’s leaning over him.

The small movement is enough to reawaken the pain, but Stiles does his best to ignore it and replies: “Only for you.”

He means for it to sound silly and cheesy, but it comes out on a gasp instead, dirty, and the smile slips off Derek’s face as he groans.

“You can’t just-“ Derek protests, but doesn’t seem able to finish, and then he’s pushing in deeper.

It wrings a little cry out of Stiles, but it’s not only pain, now. It hurts, sure, but he also feels so full, and it’s Derek, and everything seems to have narrowed down until it’s just this. And then Derek’s hips are flush with his, his cock all the way inside. And just the thought, just the knowledge, pushes another sob out of him.

Derek’s hand – the one Stiles isn’t holding – has found its way up to his neck, thumb stroking unevenly, shaking, across his throat, along his jaw.

“Stiles,” Derek says, almost a plea. “Stiles.”

Stiles bites down on his lower lip to keep any more undignified noises from escaping him. His free hand finds Derek’s neck, grabs tight – and maybe that isn’t the smartest thing Stiles has ever done, going straight for an alpha werewolf’s neck, but Derek only lets out a small punched-out noise and squeezes his eyes shut, and so Stiles doesn’t ever even know to reflect on it.

”I think maybe… you should move?” Stiles says, and just suggesting it makes his head spin, his heart thump in his chest.

“Was that a question?” Derek groans, turning his head slightly to nuzzle along the inside of Stiles’ forearm.

“It was a statement,” Stiles decides, watching Derek, “which you can use your good judgment to- ah!”

Derek’s moving back, out, in that infuriatingly slow and steady and precise way he suddenly seems to do fucking everything.

“Oh god oh god oh god…” Stiles chants, and it’s a bit painful again, strange and weird, but there’s also something about it that makes his head spin so bad that it feels like he’s losing control of his himself, like he’s floating away.

Derek’s hands on his body, his on Derek’s, keeps him anchored.

Then the outward movement stops, stills. Stiles’ eyes have slipped shut again.

“Still okay?” Derek’s raspy voice asks.

Stiles can’t help but laugh. “’Okay’ does not come anywhere near close to covering it, Derek.”

This time, when Stiles uses his legs to try to pull Derek close, back in again, he obliges.

The rhythm Derek sets is slow, to start with. He doesn’t pull out very far, doesn’t go in very deep. It suits Stiles, gives him time to adjust to the very new sensation, gives him time to appreciate all the little noises Derek makes. Gives Derek’s gentleness times to do strange things to his heart.

The pain had put a bit of a damper on his arousal, but now it comes creeping back, steadily climbing in urgency until little moans are slipping out of him each time Derek pushes inside.

“I- Derek- please- can you- harder.”

He clamps down a little bit on Derek’s neck as he begs. He doesn’t mean to, but he does.

Derek moans, and it’s almost straight in his ear. “Stiles.”

And then it’s harder, faster too, and Stiles’ moans go up in pitch, gets an edge of desperation that wasn’t there before. Derek’s mouth finds his and they’re kissing again, sloppily, more breathing in each other’s mouths than anything more coordinated.

And then Derek hits that fucking magical spot and Stiles feels like he’s burning.

“Oh my god, Derek, shit, fuck, again, please, again, more-!”

Derek’s grip at the juncture of Stiles’ neck goes hard, almost like he’s bracing himself, and then he does exactly what Stiles asked him to. Again and again and again he pounds inside, until Stiles is breathless with sobs and moans, his skin itching with the fire burning just beneath, his cock throbbing and leaking against his stomach.

He’s so fucking close.

And then Derek breathes, voice deep and heavy in his ear: “Stiles, I’m going to- I can’t-“

And Stiles can feel it, that build-up in the pit of his stomach, at the base of his spine, that point of no return.

“Oh god yes, Derek,” he pants, grabbing tighter on his hand, around his neck, “yes, please, I want you to- inside, inside please-!”

The sound that Derek makes is almost a whine, and then his hand is moving from Stiles’ neck down to his cock and just as his hand – hot, so hot – is closing around it and he slams back inside and-

Stiles can feel it. A gasp slips past Derek’s lips and then Stiles feels his cock twitching, inside of him, and then Derek is coming, shuddering and pulsating and-

It feels like a supernova going off. The blinding white light first, just like a real explosion, and then the thundering shockwave that sends his whole world trembling, convulsing. He can feel himself tightening around Derek – and knows Derek can too because he moans – and it just makes everything more intense, makes it the best kind of unbearable.

He comes down slowly. Becomes aware of Derek’s cheek against his, of the cooling wetness on his stomach. It’s warm and close and the whole world smells like Derek and sex. But then…

“Legs,” Stiles says, voice croaking so much that he has to clear his throat. “My legs, it’s starting to hurt.”

Derek's lips press briefly against his skin as he withdraws, straightens. Stiles feels his face twitch into a grimace at the sensation of Derek pulling out, but it’s nothing too bad, really.

Derek moves back enough that Stiles has no trouble getting his leg around him, and then he can finally stretch them out. He does so with a pleased little sigh, closing his eyes.

He opens them again when he feels the mattress shift.

Derek has moved to the edge of the bed, put his feet on the floor. He pushes off, gets up, slowly, gratifyingly a little unsteady, and then goes over to the dresser where Stiles threw his towel when he entered the room. Derek drags it quickly and efficiently down his body, and then he comes back to bed and hands it to Stiles, collapsing back down beside him.

“Thanks,” Stiles says, touched by the gesture even though it’s his towel.

“You’re welcome,” Derek says and lays down beside him.

Stiles wipes off his stomach quickly, and then lifts himself slightly off the mattress and shoves the towel underneath his ass. Because wet spot, no thanks. It’s rough compared to his sheets, a little cold where the dampness from his shower hasn’t quite dried yet, but still somehow… nice.

He wonders if he’s sappy enough to think so just because it’s Derek who gave it to him.

Derek’s always a werewolf-shaped furnace, and Stiles isn’t feeling particularly cold now either, so they lay naked beside each other, getting their breath back, covers pushed to the corner of the bed. Derek’s arm is pressed against his, back of their hands touching.

“So…” Stiles says because he’s physically unable to shut up any longer. “That happened.”

Immediately he wants to take it back, because Derek tenses.

“It was a very nice thing, in my opinion,” he hurries to add, getting up on his elbow. “And, hey, I’m 18 now, so we didn’t even break any laws!”

It’s not the right thing to say – fucking obviously – because if Derek was tense before, his rigid now.

“Stiles,” he says, quiet and tense, and Stiles feels like crying because it’s so different from how he was saying it not five minutes ago.

Derek’s arm comes up, hand rubbing his eyes, and Stiles just looks down at him. Derek has his leg slightly pulled up, foot flat against the mattress, and he has the same casual air about his nudity that he always seems to possess. And Stiles will probably never get used to the sight of him. He just looks… awesome. In the literal sense. As in, even with worry gnawing at his every fiber, Stiles still feels a small spark of awe deep inside him, growing steadily larger the longer he looks.

Then Derek puts a stop to it all by saying, with bone-deep weariness: “I didn’t want it like this.”

Stiles feel like he’s been punched, like he’s been cut open and all his blood is pouring out, hot and cold and nauseated at the same time. His breath wheezes and he knows that a panic attack is only a few short moments from inevitable.

What?” he manages to croak. “You didn’t-“

I wanted it, Stiles,” Derek says, removing his hand from his face, and Stiles is so relieved that the strange inflection, the bitterness, doesn’t even immediately register.

“No,” Stiles says, when it does, a new sort of despair setting in. “No, you don’t get to do that. I was not coerced into anything here. You checked in with me a thousand times, Derek, I wanted this. You know I did.”

“Not like I did.”

Stop saying things like that. I wanted everything, precisely as it happened!”

“But do you want more?” Derek asks bitterly.

It feels a little bit like everything in the world suddenly stops when the words register. Stiles’ breathing stops, Stiles’ heart stops, Stiles’ thoughts stop. And then, small and uncertain…what?

“Do you want more?”

And, yes, in retrospect that tone of incredulity perhaps wasn’t the best to use, to say those words.

Derek’s out of the bed so quickly that Stiles barely even sees him move.

“I need to go.”

Stiles is up on his knees before he even knows what he’s doing, scrambling towards Derek and diving after him and-

Stiles catches Derek’s wrist just before he’s out of reach. Stiles’ knows there’s no way to hold him here if he’s truly set on going, knows that he’s too weak to stop him even for a moment. He despairs suddenly that they’re having this conversation while naked. Derek’s going to take one look at him and wonder what the hell he’s thinking, whereas Stiles…

Derek glares at him and Stiles drops his hand, flushing. He sits back on the bed and pulls the sheets onto his lap and tries to swallow the thickness in his throat.

“What do you want, Stiles?” Derek asks, and suddenly he just sounds tired.

Stiles pulls in a deep breath, tries to push away the fear and the hope and the desperation enough to feel like a fucking adult.

“I want to know,” he says. “What I asked. Do you really- want more? I wasn’t saying that I don’t.”

Derek just looks at him. Eyes searching, for so long that Stiles’ skin starts crawling.

Then he finally says: “You can’t tell me that it’s something you’ve thought of before.”

And it doesn’t even sound like a question, just sounds like he’s asking for confirmation of some terrible forgone conclusion.

“I didn’t know it was an option!” Stiles protests, hopes that Derek can understand how absolutely ludicrous it would be for Stiles to seriously consider that Derek would want him.

But Derek just stares at him, firm line of his mouth demanding a different answer.

“No,” Stiles admits, because lying to Derek about this is a bad idea for so many reasons. “But I am now, and I know want it.”

“Oh, you are now, are you?” Derek says, contemptuously. “And that’s supposed to be enough, is it?” 

He speaks in a way that makes Stiles horribly aware that Derek’s older than him, that Derek’s more experienced, that Stiles is still in high school. That Derek’s the alpha, and Stiles isn’t even a freaking werewolf. 

“Do I seem like the type to rush into these things?” Stiles asks, swallowing.

Derek raises an eyebrow, flicks his eyes down to Stiles’ naked body.

No,” Stiles says, angry now, embarrassed, because that isn’t fair. “Think before you give me that look, you asshole, how many relationships have I had while you’ve known me?”

Derek has the decency to pull his eyebrow back down, but his face still has a stubborn set about it.

“It’s none, in case you’re actually stupid enough that I’ve managed to keep anything from the pack. And you know that I’ve been mooning over Lydia since fucking preschool!”

“This isn’t the same as-“

“I know it isn’t the same!” Stiles interrupts. “I had Lydia on some pedestal that I wouldn’t let her get down from for even a minute! I didn’t know her! We’d have been shit for each other!”

Stiles feels the anger go out of him as he hears the echo of his own words, realizes the implication: Derek would be different. Derek is different.

“Look, I know your track record with these things is about as shitty as it can get, but this is me we’re talking about,” Stiles says. “You know me. I’m- I’m your friend, Derek, whether you like to acknowledge it or not.”

Stiles feels his cheeks burn, because it sounds so childish. And it feels pathetic, to beg for it like this, to have to persuade, and a small part of him starts to worry as soon as the F-word is out of his mouth, that Derek will start to protest. He starts speaking again before Derek gets the chance to.

“I’m not- I wouldn’t… I wouldn’t risk what we already have if I didn’t think it could lead somewhere good, okay?”

Derek looks at him, face as unreadable as Stiles has ever seen it.

And then he says, quietly: “Haven’t we already risked it?”

Stiles’ shoulders fall and he closes his eyes, suddenly not willing to see either of their naked bodies.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “Probably.”

Stiles just wants this to end. For Derek to take his massive guilt and imperviousness to anything remotely good and climb out the bloody window and not come back until Stiles doesn’t feel like yelling when he sees him. He doesn’t even really understand what they’re really arguing about. Can’t figure out where the disagreement is.

“You should be with someone else,” Derek says.

“Tough luck.” Stiles shrugs. “I don’t want anyone else.”

“You should want someone else.”

Stiles barks a humorless laugh and looks up. “I’m pretty sure Lydia tried that, like, twice a month. Why don’t you wait a decade or so and see where that gets you?”

“You got over her, didn’t you?” Derek insists, stubborn as ever.

“Like you said, this is different,” Stiles replies.

“Stiles…” Derek sighs, annoyed. “You can’t just… you can’t know these things, not just like this. You’re too-… You can’t know what you want.

“Maybe, but I probably have a better idea than you do, though.”

Derek looks at him, and it’s that firm and unyielding look that Stiles only knows too well. 

Stiles sighs.

“Look, Derek, I’m not asking you to promise me forever, alright? I just want-…” he shrugs slightly. “I want to hang out with you. I want to do what we already do. I want to- to watch shitty werewolf movies, and hunt stupid monsters, and I want to help you build the pack, and for you to snark at my stupid jokes, and- and I want to keep making them until you can’t help but laugh.”

Stiles feels the prickling at the corners of his eyes and realizes even as he’s speaking how desperately he really wants it. How the want has probably been there for a while, even though he hasn't seen it for what it was.

He swallows, keeps his eyes on Derek.

“And I want to do this some more.” He gestures vaguely towards the bed behind him, blushing slightly. “I want to get to kiss you. I want you to kiss me.”

“Stiles…” Derek says, and a bit of fight seems to have gone out of him, but Stiles isn’t done yet.  

“And I’d like to see how far we can come. That’s what I want. That’s what I know.”

Derek – in an entirely unsurprising turn of events – says nothing. His hands form fists at his sides and his eyes are aimed somewhere to Stiles’ left, but nothing except his posture gives away that he’s even heard Stiles speak.

Resignation starts to creep in, and Stiles is having a hard time understanding how he could have gone from that wonderful to this shitty in such a short span of time. He pulls the covers around himself more fully, wraps them properly around his body. The sweat has cooled enough on his skin that he’s starting to feel cold but, more than that, he feels so awfully exposed.

Soft cotton and polyester make for a fairly poor shield against that, though.

And, god, everything smells like Derek.

He feels like he needs a shower. Again.

“Look,” Stiles says, for what feels like the thousandth time this night, because he would actually like to be left alone to wallow in his misery sometime soon, rather than it being a spectator sport. “Just go ahead and say ‘no’. You’re just not allowed to use me not wanting it as an excuse, that’s all.”

Silence is, once more, his only reply for a long while, and Stiles is half a second away from getting the wolfsbane from his bedside drawer and flinging it in Derek’s face when-

“I don’t want to say no.”

Stiles’ eyes snap up at this and, going by Derek’s expression, one could be forgiven for thinking he’d managed to ingest some anyhow.

Stiles almost grits his teeth. “Something’s obviously holding you back. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be here, begging.”

Derek looks at him like he’s gone insane.

“I’m scared, Stiles. That’s what’s holding me back.”

Stiles feels the anger go out of him in a rush. He’s never heard Derek make an admission like this. Is unsure if he’s ever even heard Derek mention his own feelings voluntarily before.

“What would you be scared of?” he asks, staring.

Derek shrugs. Scoffs, humourlessly. “A lot.”

 “I’m not Kate,” Stiles says, carefully.

Derek’s eyes flash red and he’s suddenly a lot closer. “I know.”

“Then what?” Stiles presses, because he’s never been much for letting Derek off the hook.

Again, Derek is quiet, but this time it seems he’s looking for words.

“That I want this more than you do,” he says, finally, and it seems to take a lot out of him.

And Stiles remembers suddenly that Derek told him. That Derek said that he’d been wanting for a long time.

The corner of Stiles’ mouth twitches briefly upwards. “I was a bit slow on the uptake, dude. Doesn’t mean I’m not already invested.”

Derek presses his lips together, shakes his head briefly, but it doesn’t seem to be in actual protest.

“And what if I mess it up, then?” Derek asks, and he sounds half fragile, half like this is the final, winning argument.

“We fix it,” Stiles says.

“It isn’t that easy, Stiles,” Derek protests.

“I never say anything about easy,” Stiles replies.

Derek sits down heavily on the bed beside Stiles. He puts his elbows on his knees and rubs his hands across his face.

“I honestly think you’re overthinking this, Derek,” Stiles says, watching him. “We don’t have to figure out everything now, we just-…”

Derek looks up at his abrupt pause. “Just, what?”

Stiles stares back at him. Licks his lips. He’s had an idea. And it’s either the best or the worst one that’s ever come to him.

“Would you like to go on a date with me?” He kind of blurts out the question, irrationally nervous now for all that he bared his fucking soul earlier.

“A date?” Derek sounds confused but... not necessarily averse to the idea.

“Yeah, a date,” Stiles repeats. “Dinner. Tomorrow. I want curly fries and a milkshake. And then we can go home to your place and you can help me with my essay.”

That last part probably isn’t the height of irresistible temptation, but Stiles has kind of lost all control of his mouth at this point.

“Curly fries,” Derek says carefully, like the words are suddenly foreign to him. “And a milkshake.”

“Make that a burger, too,” Stiles says. “I’ve already put out, so…”

Derek looks a bit like he’s worrying that he’s going to have to have Stiles committed.

But then, suddenly, he snorts. A grin spreads across his face. He turns away from Stiles, looks down at the floor. He shoves a hand in his hair like that is going to help him come to a decision, but the smile doesn’t disappear.

And Stiles feels hope growing like a balloon in his chest, a grin spreading across his own lips.

Derek looks up at him, raising one eyebrow. “A burger too?”

“Yep,” Stiles says, popping the p, “I drive a hard bargain. But I’ve heard the sex is good. With, you know, a little practice.”

Derek’s hand finally slips out of his hair, and it leaves it in a state of artful dishevelment that Stiles couldn’t achieve if he tried. “A little practice?”

“A lot of practice,” Stiles quickly amends. “Lots and lots. In fact, we should probably get started on that as soon as possible.”

Derek looks at him. Then he covers his face with his hands and laughs, a little hopeless and a lot beautiful.

“Stiles,” he says finally, looking up.

“Yes?” Stiles asks.

“I’ll pick you up at seven.”