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He really shouldn’t be here.
Partially because it’s freaking illegal but mostly because he just doesn’t want to be here.
Of all the places on earth this is the last place he wants to be in. Scott’s sock drawer included.
Okay, maybe not that, hello hyperbole! Because, yeah, Stiles has grown fond of his olfactory system over the years thank you very much. Also, he values his life.
More than his dignity obviously because this is the third dude that smiled creepily at him like Stiles was some sort of a particularly tasty M&M. M&M for creepy people. For creepy people in a very disreputable gay club.
Guess that answers his question – they DO find him attractive. Admittedly, that should be some sort of an ego boost (hey, he’s desperate okay) except it totally isn’t because he’s busy making his way through the horde of wasted people that are ritually screaming, dancing, jumping, puking, crying and falling off the stools; people with grabby hands and probably pocketfulls of basement keys where they keep all innocent, young boys they kidnap during the day. Or night. Or both. Basements are big, the capacity is…
And fuck, he could have sworn someone just pinched his butt!
“Seriously, dude!” he shouts over the music, mostly to the back of Derek’s stupid leather jacket. “If anyone sees me here, my dad’s so gonna kill me. And you’re going to have to stand there at my funeral, loom there in some dark corner, looking all menacingly devastated, because people should look devastated at a funeral, especially if they’re the ones responsible for it! Creepy werewolf mission or not! And I expect tears! Real, genuine tears. And flowers. Not the plastic ones, no, I want something that says ‘sorry, stiles, please forgive me, I was such a dick, I wish I was dead instead of you. ” He’s fairly certain Derek doesn’t hear him. Or he’s pretending really well not to hear him from where he’s leaning against the bar, pointedly glaring at the crowd and generally looking more out of place than vitamins in McDonald’s.
Great. Now Stiles is hungry. But mostly he’s just pissed and hating fucking werewolves and his own inability to send them straight to hell when they barge in through his window with their general aura of grumpiness (or puppy eye-ness in Scott’s case) and attitude and some ridiculous request. Like ‘could you please ask allison for me. I think she’s mad, bro’ or ‘mermaids, stiles. I need everything you can find. sometime this year‘ or ‘come on, stiles, get up, let’s go hunt some banshees in the shadiest gay club ever. You’ll be totally fine. I can’t guarantee for your ass tho. Fun!’ He thinks about barricading his window. That’s a thing he should totally do. If he lives to see another day.
And how is this his life?!
“That is unless he kills you first. My dad. The Sherriff, Derek, the Sherriff with guns and, and silver bullets,” A total lie since the economy of Beacon Hills isn’t exactly blooming enough to provide Sherriff’s department with silver bullets. Derek doesn’t need to know that. ”Which is very likely to happen, you know, since, well – you’re the one who is currently risking his only son’s well-being, dignity and quite possibly his virginity, which I’m not so opposed to losing, don’t get me wrong, but I kinda always imagined it to involve less creepiness and more consent.” he adds, frowning at his broody companion for good measure.
But Derek is apparently dedicated to ignoring Stiles and scanning the crowd surrounded by his general grey cloud of utter misery and anger and i-don’t-care-fuck-you-ness. It’s a good look on him, on most days, and it seems like the gangly looking dude in black shirt to his right thinks that too because he approaches Derek, wearing a smile that was probably designed for cueing over fat babies.
Stiles feels sorry for the guy. He really does. It’s not every day that you go out only to have some random werewolf dude bare his teeth at you like you just stepped on his puppy and not only offered to buy him a drink. Geez.
He totally understands if the guy pisses his pants which, yeah, it does happen.
“I don’t wanna hear a word.” Derek hisses through his teeth.
“I wasn’t.” Stiles says lifting his hands above his head in mock surrender. “I mean, I just wanted to say he should have offered to buy you flowers first. That is no way of winning over such a nice gal like yourself. Men today, huh?”
Yep, that’s a full on alpha growl so Stiles shuts up. He’s not done though. Not nearly.
Because Derek needs to work on his people skills. Sometimes Stiles thinks he’s a lost cause (and Stiles has been known to socially interact with Jackson so that’s saying something) and that the guy’s entire life energy went to practicing his martyring, lurking and looking like an insanely hot serial killer skills to perfection. To perfect.
Nothing is impossible though. What’s that thing that Mr.Harris always says? Dedication, Determination, Discipline. He should totally mention that to Derek, but definitely not now, some other day maybe…. preferably at least ten feet away with a concrete wall between them. No, silver wall. Sprinkled with mountain ash. Painted over with mistletoe. Wait…do they have silver walls? He makes a mental note to check with Allison’s dad.
“Stiles.”
“Sorry?” To be perfectly honest his mind is still preoccupied with silver walls to be feeling even remotely concerned by how pissed off Derek’s face looks. Then again, it’s his usual look. Pissed off or constipated, Stiles isn’t sure yet.
“For fuck’s sake, it’s like I’m talking to a four-year-old.”
Stiles rolls his eyes dramatically. “Well, why didn’t you bring one of your puppies then? Like Erica, I’m sure Erica would love this place. Or Boyd, Or Isaac. Y’know people you can growl into submission, because, hate to break it to you big guy, but this four-year-old has nothing in common with the canine kind except being able to piss standing up.” Oh, Stiles can play this game.
“They have other duties.” Derek says. And man, that sounds like they’re currently out saving the world, all capes and magic powers, except Stiles knows that those duties probably involve making out, partying, chasing rabbits, marking territory, intentionally defying Derek, whatever kids do these days.
“What duties?”
Derek looks like he’s swallowed something really nasty.
Oh. Oh. Stiles gets it.
It’s ‘I-have-a-hunch-which-might-turn-out-to-be-some-major-disaster-but-it-always-turns-out-to-be-nothing-also-im-terrible-at-this-alpha-stuff’ situation all over again. First eleven and a half times the pack obediently followed Derek but recently they’ve took to ignoring these hunches and Derek took to allowing them that. Obviously, it’s some new tactic in ‘being a good alpha and getting Scott to join your pack’ handbook. So, basically, Stiles is the last resort and that should piss him off but he’s read The Boy Who Cried Wolf enough times to just ignore it. Also, he does it from the goodness of his heart. That’s, it’s– he’s an altruist really.
“I’ve heard this on one episode of Teen Moms, and FYI I’m not watching that, it was totally accidental. Anyway, you can’t be your child’s friend, you need to be their alpha.” By the look on Derek’s face Stiles realizes he’ll need to explain further because, hello, he’s forgotten Derek’s like 100 years old. “Obviously, they didn’t say alpha, it was parent….also not child in this case but…um, cub. But, you know, discipline, iron first, stuff like that, you get the picture.”
He doesn’t, he looks like he wants to eat the picture, vomit the picture and squeeze it very violently into Stiles’s throat.
“I’m just saying, they’re teenagers, we’re like programmed to defy authority. According to Oprah we also crave boundaries in order to develop successfully. I mean, you can posture in front of them, threatening to rip their throats out with your teeth so many times before it gets old. Not’ that I’m saying you should actually rip their throats out, oh my god, that would be so wrong but-”
“I’m gonna rip yours out if you don’t stop talking.”
“That’s what I’m saying, dude. And, in case this escapes your oh-so-amazing perception, I’m trying to help here.” Also, he’s fighting for his future, the amount of ‘I-have-a-hunch-which-might-turn-out-to-be-some-major- disaster-but-it-always-turns-out-to-be-nothing-also-im-terrible-at-this-alpha-stuff-so-Im-gonna-hop-in-through-stiles-window-and-drag-him-with-me’ is exponentially increasing and he has a life, you know, outside of weird paranormal stuff. Okay?
Something Derek clearly doesn’t understand. “Don’t call me dude.” he hisses.
“I was hoping for something more along the lines of ‘Thank you, Stiles’. Contrary to popular opinion, you won’t actually pop some major blood vessel if you say those two words.”
“Oh for fuck’s sake. Just. Just wait here.” Derek says roughly, eyebrows doing that thing that conveys perfect message of just how much he finds this particular Stilinski man annoying. Totally unfair because all Stilinski men are a-mazing, Derek just lacks the proper qualities to appreciate that. To appreciate anything. Ever. No appreciating happening in his life whatsoever.
“Wait, where do you think you’re going?” he blinks. Without further explanation (really, it’s not like Stiles has been expecting it at all, considering Derek’s explanations usually involve glaring and shoving people into walls for emphasis) Derek turns around and disappears into the crowd leaving Stiles all alone.
“Thank you so much, Derek!” He shouts after him. “When you come back I’ll be in the back alley. Violated. And possibly dead. And not necessarily in that order.” He really fucking hates werewolves. Except Scott. Scott’s nice, he wouldn’t leave him like this. Only for Allison. When Allison is in grave peril. Or home alone. Or generally wants to hang out.
Maybe Scott isn’t that nice after all.
This is officially the shittiest situation he’s gotten himself into. Stiles takes a moment to lament over his destiny. He should have been doing homework now, which is totally a code name for jerking off to some random porn, or his mental spunk bank which seems to include Derek Hale shoving him into walls more often than he likes to admit (he so lost that place now, though, sorry Derek!). But nooo, he is standing here, in the middle of the shitty club, looking all sorts of out of place. He thinks it’s easier to find a brain cell in an internet bot than a sober, fairly normal, person here.
Could this possibly get any worse?!
“Hi.” there’s a tap on his shoulder and a smooth voice way too close to his ear. Stiles thanks his werewolves-and-kanimas-randomly-showing-up-from-dark-corners experience for not having a massive heart attack right there. He does crane his neck a little bit too fast.
The owner of the voice is a tall, slightly older but good looking guy. He looks a bit like Danny, if Danny was the sort of dude who creeped up on young, innocent boys smiling at them like they’re his next dinner.
“Oh. hi. hello.” He isn’t sure what he should do, Derek never said what the mission exactly was. There were banshees mentioned, accompanied by eyebrows and a glare…pretty much like every other explanation Derek ever gave in his entire miserable life.
The guy is still smiling at him. “I’m John.” Totally a fake name, Stiles’s mind unhelpfully supplies. He could have shown at least a little bit more imagination if he’s hoping to get into Stiles’s pants. Which ugh. No.
"Stiles.” he says too quickly. Fuck, he should have used a fake name. You’re an idiot, Stilinski.
“Stiles.” the guy smirks. “Relax, Stiles. I’m not going to bite you. Unless you want me to.”
Really, Stiles is a few seconds away from having a full-blown panic attack because this is how every horror movie starts. And he’s not some smoking blonde with ginormous boobs which totally means he’s not going to live to see the end of it.
“Can I buy you a drink then?” John offers, lips touching the shell of Stiles’s ear which almost makes him jump to the ceiling.
It occurs to Stiles that he should be acting like he belongs here, keeping the cover right? And it is definitely impossible to keep the cover, to reach that mystic-animalistic-emotional bond with the rest of the crowd without alcohol. So, out of pure dedication to the mission, whatever it is, he nods. “Um, sure, yeah, thank you?” Stiles squeaks and tries for casually leaning against the bar but it sort of comes out like he’s the one who pissed his pants tonight. Jesus!
“Beer?” John dude smiles widely, clearly not minding Stiles’s grace of an elephant in a porcelain shop. Even before Stiles nods, John gets the bartender’s attention and orders. It’s official - Stiles has never felt more underage in his entire life. He suspects he even looks more underage than ever in his life because John leans over, terribly close to his ear again, looking like he wants to either adopt him or eat him.
“Tell me, Stiles, how old are you?”
Stiles swallows. “Old enough.” he says defensively.
“Feisty.” Johns chuckles, leaning in even closer. “Old enough for what exactly? A drink? Or…” And yeah, there’s a hand creeping up Stiles’s thigh and he’s about to jump and hit the guy with the first thing he can grab (which is his cell phone and he doubts that will have a desired effect, even further it could piss off the guy and make things even worse…he’s seen how things work on Animal Planet). But before he can even react John is on the ground, whining (not very manly at all!), hands covering his, now apparently, broken nose and Stiles is being dragged out of the club by 185 pounds of a very-pissed off werewolf.
“Oh my god, dude!” he shouts, trying to break free before Derek crushes all his anatomy features to smithereens. He’s not even sure if Derek is aware of how essential those are to human beings! God, Stiles must have done something wrong, like ruined a whole mission and now he’s gonna die. His father will find his body in the back alley after all, and yes it will be mauled and very dead, disemboweled, with his throat cut and his thyroid in a dumpster few blocks away. He can already see the headlines ‘MOUNTAIN LION STRIKES AGAIN. Scandalous life of the Sherriff’s son – more on page 2.’
“Are you crazy, let me go!” Stiles hisses but Derek just keeps sort of dragging him out of the club, Superman style. “I’m not a sack of potatoes, you dick, and I bruise easily okay. Just, just let me go.”
It’s official – he hates his life.
Derek does let him go eventually. Only to pin him against the wall in the back alley. Actually he is pinned between the wall and Derek if you are of the precise sort. And the latter is all red eyes and flaring nostrils and jesus-fucking-christ-perfect-cheekbones and way too far in Stiles’s personal space than he ever thought possible. Fantasies not included.
“What the hell were you doing, Stiles?!” Derek practically snarls, hands more claws than anything else where they’re clutching at Stile’s arms.
Stiles is way too shaken to actually do something about it, like shove him away or whatever you’re supposed to do when someone’s crushing your rib cage, so he just stands there on wobbly legs, willing his body not to react to this kind of invasion of his personal space in a really embarrassing way. Which is, yeah, a possibility.
And they’ve been making progress in this relationship, from slamming Stiles into solid objects roughly to slamming Stiles into solid objects more gently, he would really hate to ruin that by popping an inappropriate boner. His dick will hopefully get the memo sometime soon. That’s sick, isn’t that sick, it must be suck. He’s some sort of a kinky weirdo apparently.
“Um, not blowing our cover?” he tries.
Derek’s right up in his face, breath hot and angry against Stiles’s cheek “What cover?”
“What - DUDE!” Stile’s lets out a sharp breath. He’s shaking, not entirely sure why. He’s either angry or terrified or incredibly turned on, or possibly all three. “You take me to a gay club, talking about banshees and then leaving me alone without any explanation. What was I supposed to do, Jesus Christ Derek, I didn’t appreciate that guy’s face in my neck either, I was just- What the-” he stops, suddenly, breath ripped out of him because, holy shit, Derek is nosing against his jaw, breathing hotly and very loudly right there, all over Stiles’s skin. There is an actual contact between Derek’s nose and Stiles’s skin. He doesn’t know what the hell to do with that. Except store it in his hippocampus for alone-sexy-times. Yeah, that’s happening alright.
“Derek?” Stiles gulps. It was supposed to be a question but his voice comes out broken and embarrassingly high-pitched. The answer he gets is a low, rumbling sound that vibrates through his own chest, and then – fuck - there are too-sharp-to-be-human teeth scraping against his pulse point.
“No banshee.” he hears Derek which is quite spectacular since yeah, there is drumming and buzzing and all kinds of noises in his head. “False alarm.”
Stiles swallows. “Oh.” Because that’s as intelligent as it gets.
When Derek tugs at his hair he can only tilt his head obediently. “You smell like alcohol.” Derek exhales through his nose.
“Yeah, duh.” Stiles also sounds like he’s breathing sand but he sure as hell won’t point that out.
“And him.” the grip on Stiles’s arms tightens, just the shy side of supernatural strength. “Fuck, Stiles, he touched you.”
It actually hurts a bit but before Stiles can stop himself he huffs a hysterical breath. “You wanna smell my thigh, he touched me there too?” He is totally joking but Derek sort of roars and latches on to some random point on Stiles’s neck and bites down.
Jesus fuck!
And that’s not in a scared way.
“Oh my god, fuck, I’m sorry.” Stiles breathes out. “It was just a joke, I was joking you know, I wasn’t implying anything. But you’d want to move away now because yeah, you’re um, you’re you and I’m a, just a teenage boy so there’s a great possibility that you’ll be able to smell something else really soon if you keep –Christ!
Sucking a mark on Stiles’s neck is apparently an argument above all arguments, vis major that apparently excuses every sort of psychotic behavior.
“Is this- are you like jealous? Is this a wolf thing, territory and pack and stuff. Because, still, you should move away, this is going to become mortally embarrassing in like, yeah ‘mortally embarrassing’ has already happened.” Honestly, Stiles is surprised he’s still able to form coherent sentences. “Look, I’m sorry man, it’s not like I control-”
Derek pulls away abruptly and Stiles almost embarrassingly lands on the ground. Almost.
“Get in the car.” he bites out.
“Hey, I don’t know what kind of impression you got but you don’t get to boss me around just because -” you make me happy in my pants luckily stays in the form of an inner monologue. Derek looks like he’s gonna murder him but really, Stiles talks when he’s nervous, it’s not like that is newsflash. God.
“In the car, Stiles!”
“Fine, Jesus. I’m sorry.” Willing his higher motor functions to work, Stiles gets in the car and waits until Derek settles in before deciding to explain things, throw in a joke or two, you know…casually, try to make things better. Something.
“Next time some guy is all up into this,” he makes a vague gesture to his chest. ”I’m gonna let you know so you can get all weird about it.” Stiles tries for a joke but the response he gets is Derek glaring at the road like it killed his entire family.
It’s a little unnerving actually.
”Look…um, let’s not make this weird since…No, you know what, this is totally your fault, I’m just an appreciator of nice things, people. Nice people that are invading my personal space. You’re nice, well not nice, that’s not very manly but you’re like insanely hot, man you’re like a freaking Greek god and if there was um, some involuntary appreciating on my part for a while there that’s totally not my fault, biology 101, mother nature. Oh my god, can we just pretend I didn’t say anything?”
“Shut up.”
“Yeah, I can do that.”
There’s a pause lasting approximately three seconds.
“I’m just saying that if-”
“Stiles, for the love of god, just stop talking.” Derek’s voice is impossibly strained. That can’t be good. Stiles has officially mentally scarred him in some way, it must be that.
“Right, okay.” he swallows, wishing for the ground to open up. It’s the least the universe could do for him. “I take it this is the wrong time to ask if we can stop for some curly fries? I’d rather die of humiliation with my stomach full.” he says pathetically, sinking deeper into his seat.
Derek looks like he has no intention of answering that.
Stiles doesn’t blame him. He does however keep his mouth shut all the way home.
-
It’s a new speed record, the time from the moment Derek pulls into Stiles’s driveway to the moment Stiles unbuckles his seat belt, mutters ‘well this was super awkward, we should do it again sometime. Or not. Yeah, definitely not. Later.’ and gets the hell out of the car.
He’s half way to the front door when he hears the driver’s door opening.
“Stiles.”
This is it then, goodbye cruel world, he’s gonna die and even worse he’s gonna die a virgin. It would be tragic if it wasn’t hilarious. Stiles sighs and prays to whatever deity is up there before turning around to look at Derek. “Is this the part where you kill me and dump my body somewhere really dark and smelly?”
Derek’s watching him, expression still fairly annoyed, but also kind of determined. “I am not going to kill you.”
“Maim me then?”
“No.”
“Glare at me until I spontaneously combust?”
“What? No.”
He does take a step forward.
Then, it’s just…nothing happens.
They’re both quiet for a few moments and it’s weird because the tension is almost tangible but somehow Stiles has a feeling that this isn’t the sort of tension you feel before someone yells ‘I am the demon wolf’ and claws your eyes out. No, this is a different kind of tension. So he’s going to ask, okay? He’ll claim temporal insanity if he needs to.
“Are you going to explain what that was then?” he says eventually because if he waited for Derek Hale to break the uncomfortable silence he’d be a hundred years old, with a plastic hip and Parkinson’s. At this point Stiles is hoping his brain knows what it’s doing because he sure as hell doesn’t.
“The smelling and the biting?” he adds when Derek just sort of glares threateningly at him.
“No.” It’s really remarkable how Derek makes that sound like Stiles just asked him if he was willing to cut his manhood off and feed it to the goats. Points for the Game Of Thrones reference under high-stress environment.
“Alright then.” He is well aware he sounds like a petulant four year old forced to share his toys but fuck if he cares. “Well, I really enjoyed this conversation. Sharing is always such a pleasant thing with you.“ Stiles bites out because, to hell with everything, this is not okay. So not okay. Stiles is sick and tired of trying to get Derek to actually communicate instead of treating words like they’re worse than Chinese water torture. Having conversation is in basic human nature for god’s sake! It shouldn’t be this difficult and he’s had it.
He’s officially done.
So over.
Stiles has every intention to dramatically walk away, maybe even throw in some door slamming, just for the hell of it but every possible thought in his mind disappears when he’s shoved against the nearest tree, pinned there by the heavy weight of Derek’s chest. Thanks to some sort of a miracle Stiles doesn’t scream.
So, this is the part where he gets maimed then.
“Look, Stiles,” Derek growls, hands gripping Stile’s arms a little bit too tight. “I’m sorry.” He says like it actually physically hurts him to say those words. Maybe it does. And-
Whoa. Wait. What?! Stiles is like a whole world of shocked. Like it isn’t bizarre enough to have Derek all over his personal space twice in one evening, Derek apologizing is…Perhaps someone did manage to slip something in Stiles’s drink after all? Some hallucinogens, LSD, B’s, angel dust, cat killer, whatever kids use these days, Stiles has spent most part of his puberty playing Call Of Duty instead of getting acquainted with the proper terminology but yeah. That’s the only reasonable explanation. Either that or Stiles is in great need of prompt medical assistance.
“Gimme a sec.” He manages, looking all sorts of dumbstruck. Which isn’t what he was going for. At all. He was going for sarcastic, witty, something along those lines. “I think I just had a stroke. Is one side of my mouth dropping? I think it is, oh shit, it is, isn’t it?” At this point, Stiles really does think that because really.
Derek, that shitfuck, obviously isn’t concerned for Stiles’s mental health though, his expression just turns from a painful one to a furious one.
“You’re-” he breathes angrily and – wow – when did his face manage to get all into Stiles’s neck again?! Not that he’s complaining but seriously, what is happening?! The quick rush of adrenaline is making it really hard for Stiles to rationalize things. Especially when Derek lets go of his arms only to attach his hands to Stiles's hips.
“You’re annoying, Stiles.” he continues, breath hot against Stiles’s skin, fingers twitching and relaxing, like he’s trying really hard not to do something. “You’re pissing me off, all the time.”
And that should really kill the beginnings of an impressive boner Stiles is growing inside his pants except it totally does the opposite. He huffs and puffs and desperately hopes he sounds genuinely pissed off. “Whoa, gee, thanks dude. Let’s just stick with the ‘sorry’ part okay? I think I liked you better when you didn’t voice your opinions. Whoever invented freedom of speech clearly hasn’t met you.”
Derek ignores him in favour of – holy mother of god – biting his jaw! Which is, yeah, that happened, that sound that just escaped Stiles’s throat definitely wasn’t designed for the proper suburban front yard. Even when said yard is in Beacon Fucking Supernatural Amusement Park Hills. It’s mostly something you hear in porn. Oh my god, Stiles’s really glad his neghbours are mostly elderly people with hearing problems.
And hopefully, sound-proof windows. Just in case.
Self-conscious is probably something Stiles should be feeling right now but it’s very distracting to think about the proper etiquette when there are abs and shoulders and chest and thighs occupying his personal space. This is as close as Stiles ever got to a real, live person, ever. Except that one time when he tripped during lacrosse practice and landed on Danny, all over Danny, technically Danny’s lower regions. That’s a bit sad, when you think about it, but Derek’s hands are painfully firm on his hips and he’s making these small, desperate growling noises that completely by-pass Stiles’s brain and go straight to his dick.
The tree is digging into his back and his whole body is kind of tight and hot and jittery so Stiles shifts a little in a way that makes Derek only bite harder.
“You’re stubborn, and persistent and loud and god, so infuriating. You never listen, never do what you’re told and you keep risking your life even when no one asks you, you keep getting in my way, just-” he pants, breathless and Stiles is sure he’s gonna have Derek’s fingers-shaped bruises on his hips tomorrow to match the mark on his neck.
That is if he wakes up tomorrow because his heart is slamming in his chest and – fuck - Derek smells like sweat and earth and something, something that makes Stiles want to jump out of his skin.
“You’re driving me crazy, Stiles, the way you smell, the way you talk… I just, fuck, I just wanna shut you up.”
He’s doing that very effectively, Stiles wants to point out but he’s too busy remembering how to breathe.
“I wanna see you when- Would you let me? You’d let me wouldn’t you, I can smell it all over you. You want it, Stiles, I can tell. My mouth, my-. God, fuck.” It’s terribly, terribly awful and he’s NOT that easy, but holy shit, Stiles is so beyond ready to get fucked and he’s not even sure if that’s what Derek is implying but his body totally thinks it is and is, apparently, on board with it. 100 percent on board.
Derek pulls away a bit now, only to look at Stiles, all red eyes and ragged breath. “And I shouldn’t be wanting that because you’re fucking seventeen years old. You’re too young Stiles to make me feel like this, to make me want the things I want.”
“W-what?” he stutters out. Every cell in Stiles’s body just wants now so the words are kind of sinking in slower than usual. I mean, it’s only natural when you’re trying not to come in your pants while pinned to a tree by an insanely hot werewolf. And then it hits him, like really hits him, like someone literally stabbed him in the stomach with one of those curved knives Argents dig so much.
“Wait.” Seriously, in what universe is this even possible? “Is this some werewolfy deranged way of telling me you’re like…into me?” It does sound insane when said out loud. “As in romantically, sexually?” he manages, stuttering a bit because if this is some kind of a werewolf-love-declaration or like-declaration then wow. Stiles always thought it would involve more dead rabbits.
Derek twitches. Just that. But Stiles has become fluent in gloomy-werewolf language and geez, how come he didn’t notice this before?! He’s so stupid. And screwed. He’s so screwed.
“Oh my god, it totally is! You’re into me. And it only took like one grabby guy to get you to admit that. Wow.” He half expects to see Ashton Kutcher jumping out of the bush with a whole Punk’d crew. Except it doesn’t happen. There’s just Derek, still watching him intently like a confused but also kind of a rabid puppy.
“How long?” Stiles asks.
“Stiles.”
“How long, Derek?” he feels bold. He’s entitled to feel bold, Derek Hale likes him. Jesus fuck.
Derek’s mouth is a tight line, a few inches from Stiles’s face, and the mere proximity makes Stiles feel strangely greedy.
“A while. Now shu-” There’s a terrible moment when he feels Derek trying to pull away and oh no mister, no way, na-ah, Stiles is having none of that. His hands fly up to catch Derek’s shoulders in a deathly grip and pull him right back. And, Jesus Christ, this must be like serious because Derek actually lets him. He lets himself be manhandled into Stiles’s personal space.
He’d totally grin victoriously if he wasn’t convinced he’d look like an idiot. “No, wait, let me enjoy this for a moment. Derek Hale wants a piece of this.” Stiles really wants to ask why. No one ever wanted a piece of Stiles. Except the neighbour’s chihuahua but that might be because Stiles had chicken sauce spilled all over his leg at the time of the incident.
“I’m starting to reconsider that.” Derek mutters, his thumb slipping shyly under Stiles’s shirt to trace circles against the pale skin of his abdomen. A total bluff, there.
Stiles has to swallow, throat a little bit too dry. “Really?” he asks though because it all still looks a bit surreal.
“No.”
Oh man.
“So,” Stiles licks his lips. “Are you going to kiss me?”
Derek’s hands totally twitch at that. “No.”
“Why not?” It did not sound pathetic. It did not.
“Because you’re seventeen years old.” Derek huffs. “And you’re Sherriff’s son. And I don’t have a death wish.”
Wow, yeah, this is so not the time for Derek to grow some morals. Scruples. Principles. Whatever you call those things. The things that certainly didn’t bother him when he dragged Stiles into that shady club. Except – oh- perhaps that was Derek’s idea of a date. Creepy, pointless, paranormal mission. Oh, he gets it now. He gets the lack of other pack members on said missions. It’s probably romantic in Derek’s mind. Also, it certainly needs discussing.
“Okay, points for an attempt to be a good citizen but that ship has sailed, my friend, when you demolished that graveyard, and the lake house, and the police car and got arrested like three times so, no, you don’t get to say shit like that and just…stop. Dude, so not cool. The kissing, Derek, the kissing needs to happen like right now.”
There’s no kissing involved but there is a low rumble in Derek’s chest before his teeth are back to sucking what would later prove to be a very spectacular hickey on Stiles’s neck. So no kissing but clearly biting and sucking hickies in the middle of a night, against a tree, are socially acceptable actions in Derek’s socially deviated mind. Stiles would totally point that out but it soon becomes irrelevant when Derek’s hands slip from Stiles’s hips to the hem of his shirt, and – fuck- and under, and Stiles is finally realizing what an expression ‘electrified’ actually means. He feels like he’s been tasered, from head to toe. It’s not really the best analogy but he’s forgiven.
Because frankly, this whole thing is a little bit overwhelming and if Stiles passes out, well, then, no one gets to judge because – Jesus – Derek nudges a knee between his legs and Stiles full on moans when his thigh presses against his own. Derek just slides there, right there, like he was made to fit.
And, oh my God, it shouldn’t come as a surprise but Derek’s hard. Enough to drill diamonds hard. Stiles can feel him, hot and thick through stupid, stupid layers of jeans. There needs to be more naked skin, he concludes franatically, hands wrapping around the nape of Derek’s neck trying to haul him closer.
Let it not be said that Stiles’s under-hard-circumstances decisions are bad because they are fucking brilliant okay. He realizes that as soon as he pushes. Holy hell, it instantly sets all his nerves on fire and rips out this almost inhuman noise from Derek’s throat which is both insanely hot and fucking terrifying.
So Stiles does it again.
And again.
And again.
He’s basically humping Derek’s leg but fucking hell, he can’t bring himself to care because he might just go blind from how amazing it feels. Also, he thinks he’s addicted to the sounds of Derek’s breathing, fractured and violent, against his ear. He never ever wants to stop.
“Oh god, fuck.” Stiles whimpers and it obviously does something to Derek because his mouth is suddenly on Stiles’s, wet and obscenely hot, kissing him like his whole life depends on it. It’s not soft or gentle or anything like a first kiss should be, no, it feels like they’re arguing, battling for something, furiously, it’s no different than their entire relationship. But it’s right. It’s good. It’s better than good and Stiles is so lost in sensations that he’s actually forgetting to breathe. His hands end up in Derek’s hair and if he pulls a little bit too strong, well fuck, it’s only because Derek’s tongue in practically mauling his mouth and Derek’s dick is –oh- sliding right there against his own through the fabric.
“Stiles.” Derek sounds like he’s breathing sand. His fingers are restlessly stroking Stiles’s skin, his teeth catch Stiles’s lower lip and he’s pushing, pushing right back until Stiles is incapable of any rational thought.
He thinks he wants Derek to fuck him, right there, he could ask, Derek probably would, he probably would because he’s too far gone. He could finger him open, push all the way in, and then fuck him, any way he wants, from the back, up, down, fast, slow, anyway, anywhere, however he wants, Stiles would let him. He’d let him do anything.
And that, that thought, is what tips him over the edge. With a suffocated whimper Stiles comes in his pants, messy and wet, and mind-blowingly awesome. Also mind-blowingly embarrassing but he’s a teenage boy, alright? Sort-of-not-a-virgin-anymore teenage boy. He’d totally do a little victory dance except standing is a terrible thing now and he just concentrates on clutching desperately at Derek, mouth open against his, just sort of breathing there.
He’s shaking a bit, and he’s not the only one. “Derek.” Stiles manages to say before the places where Derek’s fingers bruise his skin suddenly hurt a little bit and Derek pulls away abruptly, like he’s been burned or something. Really, it’s not really fair from the universe to expect from Stiles to understand what the fuck is happening now, he just wants to go back to kissing. Maybe return the favour first and then kiss some more.
Derek on the other hand, is looking like he’s been maimed, killed, resurrected then killed again. And, oh, Stiles gets why now, his hands are claws and his teeth are way sharper than normal human teeth, eyes flaming red and fixed on Stiles in a sort of way that clearly says there is so little of that carefully cultivated control in there. He swears and stumbles backwards (which for the record, makes Stiles the worst person in the world because he’s abnormally proud he’s made Derek stumble).
“Go to bed, Stiles.” he practically snarls, like it’s an inhuman effort to even breathe normally. Stiles makes some kind of an aborted movement with his hand, not entirely sure what he wants to do, to say, but Derek is already half way down the street in his Camaro, driving like he’s planning to reach China sometime in two hours.
Stiles inhales. Then exhales and then just because his brain’s mush and his jeans uncomfortably wet he laughs. Like a lunatic he is. But seriously, what the fuck?
He’s so screwed, his relationship with Derek is probably so screwed now in ways he can’t even begin to understand.
What the hell is he supposed to do now?
Text Scott. Yeah, because that sounds like a perfectly reasonable thing to do in the middle of a night after you just humped the hell out of a werewolf with whom your best friend shares a delightful love/hate relationship. Hey, it’s not like Stiles’s brain synapses are functioning now, thank you very much.
‘scott, i think I just got sexed up against a tree.’ He types, shaky fingers hitting send before fishing for his house keys. It takes him a while, due to bad brain-hand coordination but eventually he manages to get to his room and just sort of collapse onto the bed.
It’s not until the next morning, when Stiles is awake and fairly convinced that he was dreaming the whole thing, that he sees 3 missed calls and 5 messages. 4 from Scott.
u think?!
bro, are u on somethin?
stiles, answer me, r u serious.
omg, it was derek, wasn’t it.
And one from Isaac.
what the hell did you do, stiles? jesus. I so did not sign up for tolerating an insane alpha. just freaking talk to him.
Seriously, he might still be dreaming.