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“This is bad, this is so, so bad.”
Granted, no one’s killed or kidnapped or eaten, it’s not bad in a there’s-10 feet-of-bowels-missing-from-its-owner kind of way but it still is bad. Very. Very bad.
Stiles sighs dramatically, pacing up and down his room like some sort of a deranged alcoholic trapped in a supermarket between the aisles of fruit juices. If deranged alcoholics were the sort of people who went from barely-tolerating to humping-the-hell-out-of-an-older-werewolf-publicly-against-a-tree in like one night. Oh. Great, now he’s deranged, on top of everything else! And really, Stiles should stop comparing things because it never ends well for his ego.
“What’s bad?”
Stiles has two seconds to have a heart attack before he realizes it’s his father. The Sheriff is leaning against the doorframe of Stiles’s bedroom, ‘Cop by day, Ninja by Night’ coffee mug in his hands, the one Stiles bought him for his birthday a year ago.
It’s funny, the mug – the mug is funny as long as it doesn't come with half-worried-half-suspicious-but-mostly-suspicious-look behind it. Like that one right now. Oh man.
Stiles grins as innocently as possible and scratches his neck in a casual attempt to hide a gigantic hickey, which is actually twisting the word to encompass that thing Stiles has on his skin. It mostly looks like his neck has been a victim of domestic violence.
He also suspects the said attempt looks a lot less casual than he was aiming for.
“Son?”
“Uh...global warming?” he tries. It’s…whoa, wait, does sex like mess up your cognitive skills? Because, hello, that is the kind of thing that should be highlighted in basic biology books! But then no one would be having sex and there wouldn’t be babies and the whole human species would be like…extinct.
Seriously, what is his mind made of?!
Oh, and now it’s one hundred percent suspicious.
“What did you and Scott do now?” His dad sighs and seriously, this is so unfair, why does he always have to assume it’s something bad? That they do bad things all the time. I mean, they did help find the neighbour’s cat once. That’s good, a good deed, isn’t it? Except the only reason they found it was because they’ve kidnapped it in the first place. But hey, let’s not split hairs here, okay?
“Oh my god, dad, nothing. We did nothing. Zero. Zip. Zilch. Nada.”
Sheriff shifts uneasily. “I am going to find a dead body somewhere today, aren’t I?”
Stiles thinks about answering with ‘yes’ because there sure as hell is going to be dead bodies, a shitload of dead bodies! First of all - his, when Derek realizes what he did in the moment of insanity and does some terrible violence to make it all go away (it’s an equivalent to healthy communication in Derek’s mind) Then Scott’s. If Stiles gets his hands on him because, seriously, Scott knows something. Stiles doesn’t have weird werewolf senses but he can smell that Scott knows something. Which he didn’t tell him. Because how could he have guessed? ‘I got sexed up against a tree’ doesn’t exactly tell you everything, it could have been like a variety of different people doing the sexing up with Stiles, okay? Fine maybe not variety but how did Scott know it was Derek?!
Scott’s so dead.
“Ugh. no. No dead bodies.” Stiles says with all the subtlety of a teenage boy dealing with a major personal crisis and murderous sentiments directed towards his best friend.
Which, yeah, it doesn’t fool anybody.
His dad is still eyeing him suspiciously, adding a quirk of an eyebrow to the whole expression. “You’re expelled?”
Stiles rolls his eyes. “No.”
“Using?”
“What, no!”
“I’m going to become a grandfather?”
“Really, dad?” Stiles retorts. He thinks the last one might have been a joke.
Sheriff seems to think about it for a few seconds before shrugging his shoulders. “Then it can wait until I get back from work.” he says, like there’s nothing weird at all about Stiles scratching his neck for the past five minutes vehemently like a puppy with fleas.
He makes a step backwards then stops as if he’s reconsidering something. “Stiles?”
“Hmm?”
“Stay out of trouble.”
Stiles doesn’t know whether to laugh or roll his eyes. “Define trouble.”
“At least refrain from putting yourself in mortal peril.” His father says in that stern, fatherly voice that tells Stiles there’s gonna be veto on the internet if he attempts to respond in a sarcastic manner.
So he salutes, military style, with all the seriousness he can muster. “You have no idea how hard that it sometimes.” he mutters anyway because yeah, Stiles has no filter whatsoever.
The Sheriff quirks an eyebrow. “Sorry?”
Stiles shakes his head. “Nothing Dad, okay, yeah, definitely, no trouble. No mortal peril, scout’s honor. See ya later. Have fun at work.”
Judging by the look on John’s face, he’s not quite believing Stiles, which Stiles totally understands because mortal peril is like his daily routine, right after brushing teeth, but he does wave goodbye and leaves muttering something about ‘kids’ and ‘trouble’ and possibly ‘doughnuts’.
Which leaves Stiles totally free to feel like he’s gonna die, maybe bury his head under the pillow and then die because this is all messed up and he’s tired and confused and dying looks really tempting at the moment.
----
He spends most of the day angsting around the house, passionately ignoring messages from Scott (he does hit delete when the number reaches 43) and generally hating werewolves. Hey, at least the paranormal entities seem to have sympathy for him because there haven’t been any banshees, demon wolves or various reptile-monsters wreaking havoc in Beacon Hills today.
He guesses he should be grateful for that.
Life is still shit though.
Deep, utter shit.
----
After a failed attempt at making pancakes (apparently it’s very distracting to contemplate sticking your head in the oven while flipping a pancake), Superman 1 and 2, some bizarre documentary about mating habits of armadillos and approximately 35 funny cat videos Stiles decides he has had it. He’s genetically incapable of keeping still, doing nothing all day.
So he grabs his phone off the desk, finds Scott in his phone book and types a message.
you knew.
It sounds accusing enough.
Judging by the fact it takes Scott like one second to reply, Stiles assumes he has spent the whole day next to his phone, feeling utterly miserable with the guilt slowly gnawing at his insides. Stiles doesn’t feel sorry at all.
um I guessed? yes, I did, sry bro, I meant to tell u but it was weird. it still is. im coming over so we can talk, k?
Stiles exhales and types back.
im officially firing you as a friend. and don’t bother coming over, you're gonna get mountain ash in unspeakable places.
There are five more messages Stiles doesn’t read.
-----
Stiles doesn’t think Derek’s going to do anything about this whole problem. Honestly, considering how messed up he is and how epically terrible his people skills are Stiles isn’t going to waste any time hoping. He knows how Derek is like when it comes to having serious talks and fixing things. He generally fixes things by growling at them, wringing their necks and burying them six feet under.
Stiles, on the other hand, prefers to ignore the problem until eventually it goes away. Except, in this case that’s not happening. In this case the problem is going to keep inflicting mental anguish on him until he explodes in all sorts of psychopathically creative ways. Peter style. And that's - that's just disturbing.
By 9 p.m. Stiles realizes he’s going to have to be an adult here. Which is so very unfair because he’s a teenager, it’s like in his job description to be irresponsible and immature. Also to have a wild sex life but look how well that turned out for him.
He’s officially going to file a warranty claim on his teenagehood.
Stiles picks up his phone again and stares at it for a few minutes before typing another message to Scott.
- you’re still not my friend but answer me this – I’m gonna have to be the mature one here, aren’t I?
He counts three seconds before his phone vibrates.
I think yes, sorry bro. isaac told me he’s like killing them with the grumpiness.
Even Scott thinks so because Scott knows Derek. Of course Derek’s not going to be mature about this. About anything. Ever.
- i can’t just put some mistletoe in his coffee?
Scott’s very concise about this - nope.
- how about yours? He entertains the thought for a few seconds.
i drink chocolate milk. and no.
Stiles sighs - life is so fundamentally unfair.
it is.
Wow, how very supportive. He’s also going to file a warranty claim on the best friend. Stiles shoves his phone into the pocket, grabs his jacket and his car keys and heads out.
----
Half an hour later he’s in front of Derek’s loft contemplating all the ways this could go wrong. He starts with the least terrifying one – Derek heard him coming and he’s already ninja-maneuvered himself through the window – and ends at the most troubling – he’s looming behind the door, in the most sinister fashion possible, sharping his claws so he could slice Stiles’s throat in one clean cut.
Maybe it would be wise to get the hell out of here, screw the responsible adult stuff.
But Stiles doesn’t have a sense of self-preservation. Like at all. It’s common knowledge by now. So he grabs the door handle, takes one deep breath, heartbeat thumping panic and opens the door.
Derek’s there.
He’s there, not at all surprised that Stiles has just barged in without so much as a knock. He’s not very welcoming either.
“Get out, Stiles.” he says sternly, not looking at him at all. It almost sounds like a death threat. And seriously, Stiles really has disturbing taste in men.
“Hello to you too, Derek.” Stiles says, which, granted, comes out a little less sarcastic than he was planning and a lot more nervous.
Derek’s mouth presses into a thin line, Stiles can only see his profile since he’s mostly facing the kitchen counter, but Stiles knows this face, it’s Derek’s ‘I’m terribly pissed off- level: I may or may not smash something into microscopic pieces.’ Which should be terrifying because Stiles is 152 pounds of fragile skin and human bones which he suspects are pretty convenient for smashing into microscopic pieces. Like a werewolf version of popping bubble wrap. Which is, yeah, a bit scary.
Except Stiles is not scared…well, not in like wetting-pants kind of way, at least.
“So.” he clears his throat. There is so much he’s saying with that and judging by the way Derek’s shoulders tense, he can hear that too.
“I said out.” Derek growls, still not looking at him. So this is one of those things they’re clearly going to ignore until it comes back to bite them in the ass. Well, Derek is going to ignore it and Stiles thinks he’d rather want the ass biting part, but in a sexy kind of way.
“Whoa. That’s rude, dude.” he puffs. “Do you have like…manners? At all? And, no, that is not a code name for some exotic disease.”
“Get. Out.” Apparently Derek has a problem not only with manners but with vocabulary range too, and not in a good way. Someone should point that out to him.
“Would you not growl at me like that?” Stiles says and awkwardly makes a few steps towards the kitchen. Derek tilts his head a bit, not much but enough to glare murderously at Stiles. “And stop with the eyebrows? And the glaring. Jesus, one would think I deserve better after all these years of saving your life, breaking the law for you and generally tolerating your charming attitude. I should have gotten like a reward, or a medal. Yes, a medal for inhumanly efforts. Yet, all I’m asking is a little less murderousness. Also a smile, once in a while, it does not make you spontaneously melt into a puddle of rainbow unicorn poop. Scientifically proved, you know.”
Derek sighs, like he thinks unicorns are a bad thing, mortally offending to his grumpy werewolf reputation, or something. “What do you want, Stiles?” he asks, picking up a mug from the counter, back turned to Stiles. It’s sounds like an interrogation, demanding and evil, which is exactly why people don’t like him.
“Oh gee, I don’t know. Thought I drop by for a cup of chocolate-sprinkled tea and a heart-to-heart. We could even do each other’s nails or bake a cake or two if you’re not busy killing random supernatural things crawling out from dark holes - Oh my god, Derek, what the fuck do you think I want?!” Stiles bites out.
Derek might not know what Stiles wants but Stiles is fairly sure that Derek wants him to jump through the window. Closed window. If his expression in anything to go by. His fingers tighten around the porcelain to the point Stiles is sure that the mug in his hands is going to became a casualty. He’s not looking at Stiles, he’s doing the staring contest with the sink apparently.
“You know," Stiles tries, deciding to jump straight to the point before he does something embarrassing like maybe trip while running cowardly out of here. "The fact you made me come in my pants not 18 hours ago won’t just disappear if you glare pointedly at the sink.”
So, there we go.
It's out there.
“That was a mistake.” He hears Derek saying through his teeth. Stiles gives a shaky little laugh because, he can’t do this okay, he thought he could but if Derek is going to pin everything to the temporal insanity and take it all back, he’s just- it sucks, he’s just a teenager for fuck’s sake! And god help him, but he likes Derek. A lot. And…Stiles realizes he has never felt more like a kid in his life. Like an insecure kid who’s apparently nothing but a mistake and whoa- it feels like shit. He feels like shit.
His tongue though, doesn’t get the memo.
“Mistake? Totally agreed, the pants should have been gone at that point. The stain will be a bitch to get rid of.” he blurts out. Stiles talks non-sense when he’s nervous. Apparently he also talks non-sense when he’s on the verge of having a full-blown panic attack. “I’m thinking that next time should involve less clothes and more horizontal position. Though, you know, I’m like open for experiments, position wise, I’m not sure how exactly flexible I am in that department since yeah, zero experience, but I read, stuff, on the Internet, so I know a thing or two, I am informed so to say. So positions – I’m cool with different things but less clothes I where I have to put my foot down.”
Derek exhales loudly through his nose (Stiles suspects he can smell waves of misery leaking off him) and turns around to face Stiles. He’s trying to control himself, Stiles can tell because he has his teeth clenched. “Jesus, stop talking Stiles. ” he hisses.
“I’m just saying-“
“I swear to god, I will gag you!” Derek practically snarls.
“Kinky. Not that I’m judging, it’s all cool man, so cool, to tell you the truth I’m not surprised- you have that kinky, shady, loomy, leather thing going on. But we’re gonna need like a safe word, that is how this works right? The sex thing. Though, wait, if I can't talk then...No, wait-”
“Stiles. Stop. Listen to me. I shouldn’t have done that. That shouldn’t have happened.” Derek says, obviously trying to be a grown-up here, a voice of reason, whatever, but the whole thing is kind of ruined by the fact that it was him who pushed Stiles against a tree and made him come in his pants. This is all so much his fault.
Also Stiles’s first sex experience shall not be dubbed a mistake. He absolutely vetoes that.
“No, man, you don’t get to that that. Okay? You said you like me. Jesus. Do you? You said it, was that a lie, were you like lying to me? I, uh, I do realize you’re having some sort of a crisis here, and I’m more than sympathetic but has it ever occurred to you that this is confusing for me too, that I might be going through something too because…because, god, I’ve been analyzing this for the past 18 hours and I can’t wrap my head around it, why would you say that if you don’t mean it.” Really what is his life? He couldn’t sound more like that chick from Twilight even if he tried to, well maybe if he started crying. “If you wanted uh you know, I would have, without the whole ‘like’ thing. I mean, it’s not like that's a newsflash, you could have smelled that embarrassingly often. I would, would have...”
“Stiles.”
Derek grits through his teeth, sounding pained.
“But no, just no, you don’t get to call me a mistake. I’d rather be murdered, please.” Stiles snaps, which kind of sounds awful when said out loud. Jesus, no one’s life should be like this. You’d think that hunting down monsters, saving the day on a well…daily bases, would have earned him like a free-pass on all other aspects of life. Karma is an unfair bitch indeed.
Derek’s officially upgraded from looking ‘pained’ to ‘tragically tormented’. “I wasn’t lying.” he says, eyes following the edges of a mark on Stiles's neck.
Stiles then glares at him, hands flying up in some sort of a‘are you insane’ gesture. “Then...then what the hell man?! Are you like satisfying your inner martyring compulsion or something? You like me, I like you. Why are you making that an issue?.”
That does it for Derek apparently, he growls, low and frustrated, and looks at Stiles like he can’t believe what comes out of his mouth sometimes. “Because, Stiles, you’re a kid, you’re still a fucking kid and I don’t think I can trust myself. Around you.”
Whoa. That confession must have been like painful. Derek might be having an internal bleeding somewhere inside that terribly-distracting body of his. Normally Stiles would be worried but his brain's busy short-circuiting because Derek Hale can't trust himself. Around Stiles.
“That is totally a code name for some deviantly kinky sex, isn’t it? It most definitely is.” Stiles says. “Because I’m down with that. One hundred percent.” He’s not picturing things. Nah-ah. Because that would be sooo inappropriate right now.
There is a flicker of something, surprise, guilt maybe on Derek's face, but it quickly turns into annoyance. “Oh for gods sake, did you hear a word I said? Stop pushing it, it is not going to happen.”
Stiles can’t help but snort because - really. They're so past this.
“Why not? You’re worried you’re going to, like, corrupt the Sherrif’s little virginal son? Jesus Christ, Derek, trust me, there’s nothing virginal in my mind, personally I blame the internet, but the point is I’d really like to have a body that goes with that okay? I’m totally fine with the corrupting. Especially if it’s you doing it. The corrupting. Also don’t worry, I’m not insane I am not going to tell my dad, hello, he barely tolerates you as it is.”
That is obviously the wrong thing to say because Derek’s expression looks kind of hurt. Oh god, Stiles wants to kick himself in the face.
“Okay, sorry, uh, he might learn to tolerate you?” Stiles tries, although he thinks his father would rather tolerate a heart attack than Derek. “Eventually? If you crossed ‘getting arrested’ off your hobby list? Also if you stopped looming in dark corners, looking like you want to murder everyone and peel their skin off.”
He tries to make his best reassuring face but Derek just ignores it until it becomes weird. He’s just sort of glaring at the kitchen counter like this is all its fault.
“Oh my god,” Stiles says, genuinely afraid for the safety of Derek’s furniture. “You’re amazing, really amazing, beneath all the murderous…charm, he’ll get that. I’m sure he will. He's like going to threaten you with guns for a while but eventually he's, uh, he's gonna accept it, and he's gonna like you, I guarantee." Stiles really doesn't know what else to say, what tops Derek's list of Stiles-related problems - his age or Sheriff with guns. He decides to address the first problem again, just in case. "The point of this whole rambling is that age is just a number. I know I’m seventeen and you’re like what 23? 24? But seventeen or not, I think once you drive a stake through a dead vampire's heart at four am in the morning you’re pretty much ready to have sex. And that your father will accept that, and respect that. Respect the hell out of that. Yes, I realize how wrong that sounds but I’m talking about maturity here, the whole mature thing…Just- Age is just a number, age difference is just a number.”
“No, Stiles, no it isn’t!” Derek snaps suddenly, his face going through some difficult inner struggle. Apparently, according to Derek’s moral code it is totally okay to wring a few necks a day but kissing a minor is like a major catastrophe. “And it’s not just that, fuck, I don’t know what the hell I was thinking when I told you this. I should have known better. Of course you’re going to push it, to be a pain in the ass about it.”
Stiles should probably be offended by that but he’s mostly just curious now - if it isn’t the jailbait thing and the protective-father-beating-Derek-into-the-fine-pulp-for-getting-frisky-with-his-only-son thing then what the hell is it?!
“Then what else, Derek, what, why is it so bad that you want me?”
Derek could maybe look a little less horrified about that. Stiles will begin to take it personally.
“Because, Stiles, you’re-“
“I’m what?” He’s fairly certain there’s no good way to finish that sentence.
“You’re…human.” Derek says stiffly, like that’s some terrible insult.
“Okay, would you like me to be an abominable snowman? Is that more up to your standards? ” Stiles begins and then shuts up because wow. He gets it. He gets it now. The world turns upside down for a moment.
“I’m human.” Stiles says slowly.
“Yes.”
“I’m not…I’m not a wolf.”
“No, you’re not.” Derek says quietly.
'Kate was human' is on the tip of Stiles tongue but he decides that perhaps that is not the best argument considering the whole deep-fried-your-entire-family thing. Besides he’s not going to add fuel to the general crappines that is Derek’s life. And perhaps that is not the best metaphor.
He thinks he kinda gets it though – it’s inconvenient - a werewolf and a human - and Derek’s experience in that department has been quite traumatic, Stiles can’t really blame him for not wanting to test those waters again. Then you add trust issues and intimacy issues and commitment issues and people skills issues and a whole lot of issues Derek has into the equation and it's just - it's complicated. Also, there’s um, the restrictions, there probably are restrictions, and repressions, he knows that Scott has some with Allison and, ugh, he’s not thinking about Scott and Allison right now.
Basically it’s a whole universe of fucked up.
Except Stiles is stubborn. Oh so amazingly stubborn. There are like odes to his stubbornness.
He also never really understood the meaning of the word ‘restrictions’. His dad can vouch for that.
Stiles sighs and takes a step forward until he’s very close to Derek, close enough to touch. So he does exactly that and Derek – Derek doesn’t stop him, he doesn’t bite his fingers off or thump him or anything terribly violent like that, no, he’s mostly stiff and sort of aggressively miserable and as always, insanely good looking.
He’s definitely the sexiest miserable, murderous wreck that Stiles has ever seen. Granted, he’s the only sexy, miserable, murderous wreck he’s ever seen but really, what would his life be if he actually had a list? It’s crazy enough as it is.
Stiles twists his hands into the fabric of Derek’s shirt, and it’s super weird, in a tingly sort of way, because this is the same shirt the kanima bled on, the same shirt he wore when Stiles rolled his eyes at him because god-you-can’t-just-punch-through-the-wall-Derek-you’re-such-an-idiot-sometimes but now it’s clean, smelling like bleach and detergent and now all Stiles wants, all he can think about it how much he needs to put his mouth all over him.
And that - that leads straight down the road paved with a multitude of terribly depraved thoughts.
Hey, it’s not like Stiles can help it okay.
He’s fairly sure he’s shaking, hands clenching and releasing in Derek’s shirt as he watches the way Derek’s chest goes up and down, a little bit too fast, watches the way his hand moves to trap Stiles’s own, stopping it effectively, and Stiles knows he's really not getting that back until Derek decides he can have it.
“Don’t.” Derek says quietly.
Stiles tugs at it, nonetheless.
“I am not going to do this, Stiles. We’re not going to do this.” Derek hisses, but it does not sound very determined. It’s edgy and fractured, like Derek is scared of him which is, wow, so many levels of messed up.
“Derek, come on. Just, I won’t, I just wanna feel, okay. I’m not going to do anything, I just wanna see you.” Stiles says breathlessly, defiantly. He knows he’s pushing it, pushing Derek’s boundaries as well as his own, reckless and relentless like a teenager should be but he doesn’t care. He’s waited his entire life to be wanted like this, in this way and Stiles wants to feel that. He just wants. “Just this once. Please.”
Derek doesn’t say anything. The muscles in his jaw work in a way Stiles has grown personally familiar with and Stiles can only wait and hope Derek’s response won’t be amputating his fingers. He’d really like to put those to a better use. Uh oh, there’s that road again.
Finally, after what seems like a hundred years, Derek exhales and reluctantly lets go of Stiles’s hand.
And Stiles doesn’t waste any time, his fingers slip under Derek’s shirt, clumsy with lust and anxious inexperience, quick before Derek decides to change his mind. Not even aware he’s holding his breath Stiles drags his fingers tentatively over every possible inch of skin he can reach, that he dares to reach. He can feel the hard muscle of Derek’s abdomen, the way it twitches under his fingertips every time he inhales and exhales, which is happening a bit without rhythm and Stiles thinks he’s gonna laugh hysterically because, Jesus fuck, he’s not the only one affected by this. He does things to Derek’s breathing apparently. He, Stiles Stilinski. How insane is that?
“Oh my god.” he breathes out, shaky fingers working the hem of Derek’s shirt up to expose a few inches of skin, eyes immediately flickering down from Derek's face so he can see. “Can-can I?”
Derek makes a noise that Stiles decides is assent so he fumbles with the shirt, getting it open and pushing it off Derek's shoulders and - fuck - who the hell invented buttons and why is Derek wearing things with buttons?! Derek shouldn’t be wearing anything, ever, it’s just – it’s, clothes is generally offending to a body like this, there should be a law about it. It should be like illegal.
It sort of is illegal. Because Stiles is seventeen.
He should care more about that, he thinks, but the shirt is gone and. just. wow.
In all these years of dealing with a variety of supernatural emergencies, Stiles has seen Derek’s bare chest a grand total of sixty two and a half times, and those experiences have been mostly ruined by requests to chop his limb off or things such as blood, cuts, knives, arrows, glass, teeth and miscellaneous other stuff buried deep inside his flesh.
So it isn’t like Stiles didn’t know what to expect, except it totally is because nothing could have prepared him for this, for seeing Derek like this - in front of him, for him, strong and broad, all rough edges and sharp corners and perfect skin and fuck.
Stiles is gonna die. He’s so gonna die.
He really, really hopes that Derek allowing him this means they’re progressing from ‘I won’t fuck you stiles, get out’ to ‘oh, god, yes, there.’ Because he needs that to happen, like yesterday.
Oh boy.
“Do you ever think about me, like this?” Stiles manages, which is quite spectacular since his tongue feels like it’s tied in knots. “Without the shirt…and the rest of um, clothes. About, about touching me?”
Derek’s mouth is a tight, frustrated line.
“Stiles.”
“Please, Derek.” Stiles doesn’t mean to sound quite so pathetic but something in his voice makes Derek’s frustrated expression soften a bit. “Please.”
Derek narrows his eyes at him, pupils incredibly dark. “Yes.” he says finally. It’s one third heat and two thirds guilty. “I’ve been thinking about it.”
“Yeah?” Stiles echoes raggedly, voice heavy with arousal and relief and some bizarre happy feeling. He should hate himself for making Derek feel guilty on top of all the shit that is his life but, seriously, it’s not like it’s the end of the world that Stiles is a seventeen year-old- human. Jesus.
“Yes.”
“Do you think about-about sex?” he continues, hands just sort of hovering over the hot skin of Derek’s abdomen. He’s afraid to touch now that he can see everything, splayed out in front of him so openly. “Because I do, it’s all I can think about sometimes, well, all the time, but the combination of sex and you and the things I want you to do to me.” he has to take a shaky breath. “It feels like I’m going to explode sometimes. Jesus, I, I never thought you’d want that too. That’d you want...What, what exactly do you want, Derek?”
There’s a low, warning noise vibrating through Derek’s chest. Stiles is fairly sure Derek wants a lot of things and that somehow he thinks he’s gonna burn in hell for wanting them. Which is, god, so wrong. Because Stiles is cool with the wanting. So cool. Whatever that means in Derek’s deviated mind. And he wants to hear him say it.
“Derek, you have to answer, okay. Say something. What do you want?”
Stiles swallows, shifts a little, carefully pressing the tips of his fingers to Derek’s sides, feather-light. He feels like if he presses a bit too hard he could crush him as if he’s made of paper and how weird is that feeling? Utterly bizarre, that he's fairly sure he can make Derek weak, vulnerable. Stiles has no idea what to do with that.
“Stop it, Stiles.” Derek says stiffly, all tension and self-control. “Shut up.”
Stiles doesn’t listen, he just moves his face closer to the junction between Derek’s collarbone and shoulder, not quite touching, just sort of breathing there. It’s freaky, and a little dizzying actually, how acutely he can feel Derek’s scent there. How it makes him hot all over, makes him want to claw out of his clothes, spread his legs and beg.
“Yes, yeah you could do that.” he whispers, his own words sounding way too loud to his ears. “You could shut me up, I’d let you. You could shut me up with your mouth, or your hand, your fingers. Or even your- I mean I don’t know how to do that, virgin duh, but hopefully I wouldn’t choke. Is it too big to fit into my mouth, I think it is, isn’t it?” Stiles makes a shaken little noise. It’s unbelievably uncomfortable in his jeans, too tight, too hot. ”But I can learn, you’d tell me how to do it wouldn’t you? What you like, you could tell me so I could learn.”
“Jesus!” Derek says on a groan. It occurs to Stiles he should be feeling a bit embarrassed, because a) he’s talking about blow jobs with an enthusiasm of a five year old talking about candy and b) He’s been lying.
He’s been lying when he said he’s only going to watch, to feel. Stiles wants so much more than that. He wants to put his mouth all over Derek, he wants to touch him where he’s weak, to wring the noises out of him, he wants it hard and brutal and uncontrolled and everything Derek is obviously afraid off. He wants it so much that it scares him.
“Are you thinking about it right now?” he asks feverishly, torn between the need to touch himself and the need to push forward to close the distance between their bodies, to get some sort of friction. Any kind of friction. Because dying feels a lot less hypothetical now.
“Yes.” Derek says, it’s not a word as much as a strangled kind of a hiss.
“Me too. I think I’d like that. Is that something you’d like?”
Derek huffs a sarcastic breath like that was the stupidest question in the whole world. It probably was.
“What the fuck do you think?” he snarls, hands suddenly on Stiles’s arms, pushing him against the wall none too gently, claws pricking warningly against Stiles’s shoulder. And yeah, manhandling might be the very top of his list of Weird Things Derek Hale Turned From Terrifying To Nngh. He has to take a second just to breathe.
“Tell me.” Stiles demands stubbornly, mouth not an inch away from Derek’s.
“Tell you what?”
“What you want to do to me,” he breathes, dizzy. “Tell me.”
He half-expects Derek not the answer but Derek does. His hand comes up to tug at Stiles’s hair, to pull him back so he can look at him. “I’ve thought about it, about you like that, on your knees, not being able to say a word. Quiet, finally, fuck, you’d finally stop talking, Stiles.” Derek hisses, breath hot and damp on Stiles’s face, voice breaking between the words, like this is all too much for him.
By this point Stiles is incapable of standing, he’s certain Derek supports at least half of his weight. He seems to have lost control over his body totally, useless hands just sort of desperately holding on to Derek.
“I’ve thought about the way you’d look, the way you’d smell, the noises you’d make.” Derek bites out, mouth travelling to Stiles’s ear now, and it sounds dark and frustrated in a way that makes Stiles’s skin go tight, and his insides boil. He shivers at the thought of Derek thinking about him like that…he wonders if Derek ever spent a sleepless night fantasizing about him, imagining, touching himself the way Stiles had been while thinking about Derek.
“Oh my god, dude, are you trying to kill me here?” his voice cracks, rough around the edges.
Derek hums, brings his hands to Stiles's waist, all warm fingers and raw strength, and - oh- presses their hips flush, letting Stiles feel how hard he is. It doesn’t last long though, he pulls away almost momentarily. “I’m trying not to fuck your brains out right here.” he says, hot and guilty at the same time, licking the shell of Stiles’s ear making him whimper. “And, Jesus Christ Stiles, you have no idea how hard that is, you have no idea what you do to me, the way you get under my skin.”
Stiles wants to say something along the lines of ‘What the fuck is wrong with you, Derek, stop fucking trying already and do it.’ but alarmingly large part of his brain is shut down and when he opens his mouth all that comes out is low and needy ‘Derek.’
He manages to tilt his head back when Derek moves down to mouth at his neck. To be embarrassingly honest all Stiles can think about is how good he smells but he sure as hell is not that pathetic to say that out loud. “You smell awesome.” he mumbles.
Yeah, so that happened.
“How the hell do you think you smell to me right now?” Derek says, low and gravelly, against his neck.
“Good?” Stiles guesses.
“Your scent.” Derek sounds pained. “It makes me want things, Stiles. Things that might scare you, things that are not-”
“Is it - You think a lot about fucking me?” Stiles whispers, aiming to sound teasing but achieving something closer to desperately turned on. Or just desperate.
Derek stiffens at that, grip on Stiles’s hips tightening almost painfully.
Stiles swallows. “How?”
“Stiles.”
“Against the wall? From behind?”
For one long moment Derek just breathes against Stiles neck, fingers twitching and relaxing.
“Yes.” Derek whispers finally. He bites down on a spot low on Stiles's neck, groaning when Stiles whimpers. Oh, god, Stiles is so fucked, he’s one word away from coming in his pants. Again. And Derek’s barely touching him. He hopes that won't become a tradition.
“You want me on my back?”
Derek groans. Yes, that’s a yes then.
“On my hands and – and knees?” Because he has been thinking about it. A lot.
Another noise against his neck, low, dangerous, hot, and Derek is trailing his hands up and down Stiles’s hips, over his thighs and up, stroking his stomach through the worn fabric, but never touching where Stiles needs him to.
Oh my god, he’s such an asshole. But Stiles can play that game too.
“On the floor? Against this kitchen counter right here?
Warm fingers bite into Stiles’s skin and Derek positively vibrates, sucking harder on Stiles's neck in response.
“Or you could bend me over the table? The couch? Your, your bed maybe, tie me up so I couldn’t touch myself? Because I think I’d try to, you know. Like right now, I really need to.”
And Stiles will have to do something monumental, like tell his dad everything about how the lady that does their taxes is actually a banshee with a law degree, in order to distract him from wide collection of bruises he’s sporting down his neck, but he can’t bring himself to care because Derek is thumbing over his hipbones now, hands so very close to Stiles’s dick that he squirms, arching off the wall.
But Derek’s grip is still tight enough to hold Stiles in place, to keep him just pinned there. Pinned and dying of sexual frustration.
“You could you know, everything I’ve said, everything you’d want, I’d let you do anything, Derek.” Stiles does realize how insane it is to say that he’d let Derek do something because, duh, it’s Derek, no one lets him, he just does, but the words just tumble out. His, at best damaged, brain-to-mouth filter is totally ruined now.
Derek has officially ruined him.
“God, you could even you know, bite me, not in make me a werewolf kind of way but um, mark me. In some way, I don’t know how that works, but something that’d make me smell like you. Like I’m yours. That sounds hot. You’d like that?” he says, grateful that his voice comes out fairly steady, like maybe he's still got some composure left.
“Your god damn mouth, Stiles.” Derek says, voice barely above whisper, rasping, and Stiles isn’ sure if that’s a compliment or a curse.
Compliment, he decides, because Derek’s hips are totally stuttering and he’s mostly just panting into Stiles’s neck than actually biting. He looks positively wrecked and Stiles would make a witty comment about it if he didn’t look the same, or even worse because Derek is wrecked in a sexy kind of way (Stiles suspects Derek’s talent is looking sexy even in a trash bag), while Stiles is probably just blotchy and pathetic and flushed all over.
“Come on, Derek. Please. Just.” Stiles thinks he’s going to beg soon.
Derek makes some incoherent noise, fingers tightening around Stiles’s hips which is - wow - a little painful since they’re mostly claws now. Stiles would bet Derek’s eyes are totally red, he can’t see them like this but he thinks Derek sees red, and not only like a flash or something but full on red.
And, Jesus, that’s hot.
That’s. Oh.
“You could fuck me while…while you’re wolfed up, is that, is that something you’d want?” Stiles stutters. He thinks he really wants that. “Basically, there is not a thing you couldn’t do, okay, you just, you can just take it, take everything. I won’t break and I’m not scared. This is me saying yes and please. Yes.”
Derek bares his teeth at him, positively animalistic sort of noise ripped out of his throat and, oh, Stiles gets it. The whole restrictions, repressions thing. He’s hit the jackpot.
“Fuck, Stiles.” he says, raw, terrifying, barely human, letting go of Stiles’s hips and digging his nails into the wall on both sides of Stiles’s head.
And yep, that’ll need some drywall-patch alright.
Stiles stays still, chokes on his breath, and not because of fear. Jesus, this is so not fear. He thinks people are right when they say you build character through perversity.
Or was that adversity?
Never mind.
Derek just sort of breathes there, raggedly, like it physically hurts him to breathe and Stiles isn’t sure how long they stay like that since he’s mostly concentrated on not collapsing on the floor, but when he opens his mouth to say something Derek stops him.
“Your heartbeat is deafening.” he says quietly like he just realized that Stiles has that thing between the 3d and the 5th rib that pumps blood through his system. Although it has kind of migrated to his throat now.
“Yeah.” Stiles manages to say.
Then Derek is pulling away and suddenly Stiles’s personal space is way too empty. Derek’s backlit by the window, his face a shadow when he glances at Stiles then turns away quickly like Stiles is some sort of plague you might catch if you look at it for too long.
“Go home.”
Stiles feels his stomach clench at the words, he really really isn’t in the right state of mind for this fucking discussion. Again.
“What? Why? Is my deafening heartbeat insulting your fragile werewolf hearing?” he says, voice dripping with sarcasm but hey, he’s trying to keep his frustration in check, okay. He’s trying.
Apparently, Derek isn’t.
“That’s it, Stiles! That’s enough!” Derek snarls, turns around, hands clenched into fists and now Stiles can see his face. He doesn’t like this expression. At all. “Why can’t you just fucking listen for once in your life?! Go home or I’ll throw you out myself and I swear to god, it won’t be pleasant.”
Stiles exhales, long and shaky and terribly pissed off. “Jesus, you’re such a dick. You can’t-”
“Yes, I can! Fuck, I can! I’ve told you Stiles that this isn’t happening.” Derek is marching to the door and opening it with such strength that he might as well have yanked it from the wall. “It is never going to happen so just, just stop pushing. Do us both a favour and go back to pining after the Martin girl.”
And that does it, Stiles is vibrating with so much energy which he thinks will either end up with him exploding all over the place or viciously murdering Derek, stupid werewolf strength or not.
“Go fuck yourself, Derek.” he bites out, storming out of the loft because he sure as hell won’t get into any good college with an attempted murder in his file.
But, god, does Derek deserve it.