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What Good Are Rules (If You Can't Break Them)

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  1.       Both parties are to meet in the locker room every Wednesday. If location or other party is unavailable, no rescheduling. The Calendar will offer other various, agreed-upon dates.
  2.       Swapping is necessary. Equal play.
  3.       Party on the receiving end of penetration has the offer of a blowjob oral sex from other party.
  4.       Either party is always at liberty to walk away without retaliation of any kind (i.e. rumors, any kind of “revenge”)
  5.       No one knows. Discussion occurs before either party tells someone else about the arrangement.
  6.       Full discussion is held before trying something new.
  7.       No judgment from either party about sexual interests.
  8.       No. Strings. Attached.

The whole thing about their relationship is that it only exists on the lacrosse field.  They don’t have any classes together, they don’t even really speak to each other (and when they do, they definitely don’t have anything nice to say), and to be honest, neither of them spends that much time even thinking about the other.

At least, that’s what everyone at Beacon Hills High thinks.

“You’re such a little shit,” Derek says, storming into the locker room.  He knows Stiles is already there.  It’s a Wednesday, they ran drills for an hour, and everybody else is already gone.  As per usual, Derek stayed on the field for twenty-three full minutes, talking to Coach and trying to perfect some movements that were actually already flawless.  Stiles used that time to bother Jackson Whittemore and sneak around Coach’s office until everybody else left.

I’m the little shit?” Stiles’ voice asks.  “Think again, asshole.  You were the one who fucking body tackled me!”

“We could’ve gotten detention,” Derek complains, moving through the rows of lockers with purpose.  “You didn’t have to turn it into an actual fight.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I was supposed to let you lie on top of me for a full five minutes and have everybody suddenly incredible aware that we’re—”

“Nobody knew anything.”  Derek rounds a corner, then another one, but Stiles is moving.  He’s playing cat and mouse, the fucking moron.  “And it wasn’t five minutes.  It was a tackle drill, and you didn’t move out of the way like you were supposed to—”

“Not my fault you apparently feel so comfortable in my lap, Hale.”

Derek is trying to come up with something witty to say in return when he realizes that he’s smiling.  He purposefully turns the corners of his mouth down into a dramatic frown.  “Fuck you, Stilinski.”

“Wow, you have a way with words.”

Derek turns then, because that was said from right behind him, and there Stiles is, leaning against a locker, smiling, arms crossed over his chest.  He’s in his lacrosse shorts still, but he’s shirtless and wearing his post-practice leather sandals, and Derek moves forward before he can stop himself, shoving Stiles flat against the locker, locking his fingers around Stiles’ wrists, and kissing the shit out of him.

Stiles laughs into his mouth, rolling his hips.  “C’mon, it’s a Wednesday.  You know what that means.”

Derek shudders, kissing him harder.  He releases Stiles’ hands, but it’s only so that he can start taking off his clothes too.  He drags his shirt off over his head, kicks off his shoes, and Stiles does the same.  Then Derek finds himself pressed against the lockers instead, and Stiles is plastered all up against his front, hot and sticky in the best way.

“You up for it today?”

“When am I not up to fucking you?” Derek rasps, dragging his hands down Stiles’ stomach.

“Just thought your arms might need a break today,” Stiles mutters.  “You were fumbling a lot out there.”

“I fumbled,” Derek says harshly, “because you smacked me.”

“Yes, I did.”  He seems almost proud about it.  “On the ass.”  Yeah, definitely proud.


Stiles rolls his eyes.  “I don’t need the judgmental tone, Mom.  C’mon, I’ve been thinking about it all day.  I brought the ribbed condoms and I started prepping myself as soon as Scott took off.”

“Please don’t mention Scott and fingering yourself in the same sentence.”

“You know the rules,” Stiles sing-songs, apparently ignoring him now.  “The party getting fucked has the offer of a blowjob.”

It’s fucking awful, Derek thinks, the way his mouth immediately starts to water, his cock throbbing in his shorts.  “I take that to mean you’d like to collect,” he says dryly.  It’s a miracle his voice doesn’t crack.

“You know it,” Stiles says pleasantly, and he kisses Derek again, dirty this time, until Derek feels like he’s going to slip to the floor in a mess of want.  “I want you on your knees, and I’ll sit on the bench so I can pet your hair.  You have great hair.”

Derek licks his lips.  “Take off your shorts.  I’ll shove the trash can in front of the door.”

They’ve been fucking for about...six months by now.  They started with sloppy handjobs and fairly respectable groping in June, when hopefuls for the team started coming to trials and last year’s returning first line had to teach them stuff.  They’ve been going for so long that they have a pattern, a real list of rules, and a calendar.

Derek will never admit it out loud, but all of those were Stiles’ ideas and he actually thinks they’re great.  The rules make sense, the calendar is one-third funny and two-thirds hot as fuck, and the pattern makes him feel like he has something to look forward to, no matter what he’s doing, because there’s always a possibility Stiles is gonna want to do him that day.

Stiles is naked on the bench, knees spread wide, when Derek returns.  He looks devastatingly confident, which is impressive considering the fact that he had been a nervous, shaky mess with all of this stuff six months ago.  Although, to be fair, so had Derek.

“C’mon,” he says, and as Derek gets closer, he can see that he’s already wearing a condom, and he has lube standing by, for whenever Derek is ready.

Technically, the rule is that the party receiving the blowjob gets to decide if they want to come before any penetration occurs, but it’s usually a give-and-take decision.  Stiles, more often than not, refuses to come before Derek is inside of him, and it’s the hottest thing Derek has ever seen in his life, Stiles groaning and scooting away from Derek’s mouth, so close to coming that it hurts.  He always looks so sad for the first few seconds, but then he’s elated once Derek is fucking him.

“Jesus, you’re hard,” Stiles says, hand rubbing over the outline of Derek’s dick in his shorts.

“You too,” Derek points out, already getting on his knees.

Stiles grins, hand moving into Derek’s hair, running his fingers through it.  “Yeah.  Who doesn’t get hard for a blowjob?”

“Most girls,” Derek says.

“Don’t try to argue with me right now, Der,” Stiles says lazily.  “I’ve been thinking about your mouth all day and I still have to make dinner tonight.  C’mon.”

There’s an efficient way to go about this.  Derek knows enough about Stiles’ body now, understands the way he likes to be touched and kissed and fucked.  Derek especially knows the way Stiles likes to be blown, fast and sloppy with little technique and lots of spit.  He likes knowing that Derek likes it, and when Derek gets really into it, he doesn’t want to stop for anything.  Derek knows that’s the best way to get Stiles off, or at least to get him close enough to coming that they can get on to the other stuff.

That’s not the way he does it.  No, he’s—tense today.  And he’s bored with the same-old-same-old.  Two weeks ago he did the same thing, pressed Stiles against the wall in the showers, went down on him for a few messy minutes before Stiles faced the showerhead and Derek fucked into him.  That was two weeks ago.  And a similar experience two weeks before that, and two weeks before that.  And now Derek wants something different.  Now Derek wants to take his time.

He starts at Stiles’ thighs, hands clenching behind Stiles’ knees.  He nuzzles at the surprisingly soft skin, licking lazily and digging his teeth into the muscle.  Stiles yelps, nearly jumping, but Derek keeps him down, shoves his legs further apart so he can suck Stiles’ balls into his mouth, one at a time.

“Derek,” Stiles says.  Not moan or groan or anything else, just—says.  But it’s through panted breath, and that’s good enough for Derek.

He keeps a hand around the base of Stiles’ dick.  It’s easier that way, if he decides he can’t deep throat today, or if he decides he wants to keep teasing him.  So he gives Stiles a couple easy tugs and starts exploring.

They never do this without condoms.  Honestly, at this point, Derek has come over Stiles’ face and Stiles has come over his and if there were any issues at all, it would be moot, but it makes Derek feel a little safer in some ways.  It keeps him distanced.

Still, Derek has basically memorized what Stiles’ dick looks like.  He knows where the important vein is, knows just how to suck on the head to make Stiles moan like he’s been shot, knows all the stupid tricks to have Stiles losing his mind within seconds, and he likes that, he really does.  He likes having that kind of power over Stiles in what would seem like such a powerless position.  He loves it.

Never having been allowed to take his time like this before, Derek is almost unsure where teasing ends and torture begins.  He knows he would be pissed if Stiles did this to him for too long, especially if he were promised a simple suck and tug before getting down to the dirty stuff, but Stiles doesn’t really seem that upset.  Derek has been licking and sucking and petting along Stiles’ cock for long, slow minutes, and Stiles only pets and tugs at Derek’s hair, makes soft, breathy noises and sometimes rolls his hips, trying to push further into Derek’s mouth.

“Fuck,” Stiles croaks as Derek takes as much of him in as he can.  “Oh, fuck, Derek, I’m close.  God, your fucking mouth—”

Derek pulls off, wiping his lips with the back of his hand.  “Want to come?”

Stiles tugs on his lower lip with his teeth.  “Here,” he says, and he stands.  “Stay there.  Use the—prep me more.”

“What’s the magic word?”


Derek nips at the delicate skin of Stiles’ inner thigh, but he does as he’s asked, slicking up two fingers to start because Stiles is already slightly open.  Like this, he’s more worried about his fingers than his mouth and he’s fairly certain Stiles is similarly oriented.  He mostly just holds Stiles’ cock on his tongue, giving little sucks and moving back and forth idly.  Stretching Stiles open is his priority, and it’s everything he loves about doing this, the slick, hot grasp, the noise Stiles makes, completely incapable of shutting up.  Derek has to wonder how he does this at home, how he keeps from embarrassing himself when he’s not alone in the house.

“Another,” Stiles demands.  “C’mon, I’m getting old here.  I was up to three before you even got here.”

Derek hums around Stiles’ dick, just to see what he does.  He doesn’t double over, but it’s a close thing, and Derek feels a moment of pride, pushing three fingers inside of Stiles and thrusting them slowly in and out, just exploring.

Eventually, Derek has a condom on, Stiles is practically shaking, and Derek does his solemn duty and lifts Stiles by the backs of his thighs, making sure Stiles’ legs are wrapped tightly around him.

“God,” Stiles says, and he slams his head against the back of the locker as Derek slides inside.

Derek leans his forehead against Stiles’ collarbone.  “Fuck,” he says lowly.

“That’s the idea, man.”  He keens, sweet and delirious.  “God, Derek, this is the longest—there’s no fucking way I can hold out through this; I’m gonna come in like two seconds.”

“That’s okay,” Derek tells him, but his brain is all sorts of screwed up right now.  All he can think about is how hot Stiles is on the inside, warm and slick and perfect, just for him, and he thinks he might be saying all of this out loud because Stiles gives a hysterical little laugh and kisses him to shut him up.

It’s not like this.  Not usually.  Usually it’s more like a competition, them just trying to get the best of each other like they always do.  Even when they’re sweet with each other in their own ways, they’re kind of dicks about it, and the sex is mostly short and sweet.  They only have an hour in the locker room after practice anyway, until the janitors come to clean up.

“We’re gonna run out of time,” Stiles whines, hand on his dick.  “Fuck, your stamina’s gotten so much better.”

“Shut up,” Derek says, closing his eyes tight.  “God, shut up, I can’t with your voice right now.”

“Deal with it.  You love my stupid voice.”

It’s a matter of pride that Derek makes sure Stiles comes before he does.  The condoms mean there’s no mess and Derek has had enough practice at this to not completely lose it when he comes, keeps Stiles where he is so they don’t go sprawling onto the floor.

When the white dots are gone from his vision and Stiles is mumbling quietly to himself, Derek manages to set him on his feet, still leaning heavily into him.

“Hey,” Stiles says quietly, and he presses a kiss to Derek’s hairline.

Derek feels his face heat at the affectionate touch, even though he’s not sure Stiles can tell, since they’re both already flushed red with exertion.  Derek is embarrassingly into the fact that Stiles is an inch or two taller than him.

“You back with us, Hale?”

Derek nods, licks his lips while he ties off the condom.  They can’t afford to leave their trash behind for someone to find, so they always have plastic bags to put them in.  It’s Stiles’ turn to bring them this week.

They took too much time today, so they dress without making it to the showers.  Derek can hear the janitor and his cart coming down the hall.

“Laura dropped you off today,” Stiles says, grabbing his backpack.  “Cora was telling me.  I’ll give you a ride home.”

Derek grabs his hand, tugs him out the door that connects to Coach’s office so the janitor doesn’t see them.  “I’ll walk,” he says, releasing Stiles’ hand quickly, as soon as they’re outside.

“Dude.”  Stiles is smirking.  “C’mon.  You really hate me so much you can’t stand a five-minute drive?”

Derek bites down on the words, I don’t hate you.  Instead, he tosses his backpack in the back of Stiles’ Jeep and follows him in, feeling, not for the first time, that he’s made a terrible mistake.


Nobody knows.  They travel in separate groups and the only time they interact in front of other people is during lacrosse.  Stiles has Scott McCall, his best friend since elementary school; Lydia Martin, his lab partner; Allison Argent, Scott’s ex-girlfriend who is Lydia’s best friend; Kira Yukimura, Scott’s new girlfriend who Allison actually somehow approves of and is also on lacrosse; Isaac Lahey, Scott’s friend from summer camp; and Malia Tate, who Derek doesn’t actually know anything about.  Stiles doesn’t talk about her.

Derek has Vernon Boyd, his best friend since he can remember; Erica Reyes, Boyd’s girlfriend and ridiculous badass; and Danny Mahealani, whom Derek met during freshman year and subsequently forged some kind of bond with over computer games and sports.  Danny sometimes brings along Jackson Whittemore but Derek has nothing but bad feelings about the guy.  He seems like a dick, and Derek won’t hang out with Danny while Danny’s hanging out with Jackson.

There’s no overlap.  None.  Zip.  Zilch.

Until Jackson asks out Lydia, Malia and Kira start hanging out with Erica, and Boyd finds Isaac interesting.  Then the whole entire world fucking falls apart.

“I know you have an issue with Stilinski,” Erica says as she’s rifling through a bag, looking for the lipstick that looks most like the blood of insolent men, “but he’s really close with Malia, and he’s Scott’s best friend, and Isaac is Scott’s other best friend, and Boyd really likes Isaac.  So.”  She apparently finds the tube she’s looking for and proceeds to apply it generously.  “You’re going to come bowling with us and suck it up.”

“Bowling,” Derek says slowly.  “With Stilinski and his group of idiot friends.”

Erica smacks him upside the head, so quickly that Derek didn’t even register her hand moving.

“Fine,” he grumbles.  “But I don’t have to like it.”

He and Stiles barely say two words to each other the entire time.  They’re really not actively avoiding each other, but Derek doesn’t have anything he needs to say directly to Stiles, and it seems like Stiles doesn’t have anything to say directly to him either.

After, though, when Jackson and Lydia leave in his Porche, when Scott has to take Kira home on his bike because it’s close to her curfew, when Malia, Kira, and Erica decide they’re going out for ice cream and they want Isaac and Boyd to go with them, that only leaves Derek and Stiles there, together.  They had both been invited to ice cream.  They had both declined.

They end up in the alley behind the bowling place, Stiles pressing Derek into the bricks, grinding against him.

“We should celebrate,” Stiles says, unbuttoning Derek’s jeans.  “First time getting it on outside the locker room.”

“I don’t have a condom,” is what Derek says in response, brain whirling.

“We can stick to handjobs.  Kinda sketchy to get more naked than this while in public anyway.”  He seems kind of excited about it, though, grinning against Derek’s neck while he sucks on the skin, laving his tongue against Derek’s throat, jerking Derek off like a fucking pro.

Derek is so into it he can barely even reciprocate.  Stiles has been working his magic for plenty of minutes and Derek has to play catch up, and he’s suddenly grateful he knows so much about Stiles dick, because he knows just how to get him off in seconds.

He nudges his shoulder against Stiles’, trying to make him detach from Derek’s neck.

“Move,” Derek demands, shoving to get his hands under Stiles’ waistband.



They don’t kiss that often.  It’s fun, though, and Derek enjoys it.  Stiles has a lot of different kisses, hard and biting, soft and teasing.  He loves all of them, and he especially likes it when Stiles kisses him while they’re fucking, no purpose to it at all, just because he wants to.  Now, when Stiles slides his mouth across Derek’s, he knows that’s what they’re doing.  Just because Stiles wants to.

They come within seconds of each other, and Derek grunts into Stiles’ mouth, knees trembling.  Stiles keeps him trapped against the wall, breathing heavily, until they both manages to scoot away from each other, minds fuzzy.  Stiles yanks his hoodie off, then the flannel underneath it, grabs Derek’s hands and uses the flannel to clean off the come.

“You’re a good shot,” he says.  “Didn’t get any on your shirt.  Nice.”

Derek licks his lips.  “I’ve had a lot of practice.”

Stiles smirks, tosses the shirt into the dumpster.  “It was like a three-dollar shirt from Goodwill,” he says when Derek makes a surprised noise.  “It had holes in it.”

Derek is going to say goodbye then, take off and shower at home and spend the rest of his awake hours contemplating what exactly has changed between now and last week, why he suddenly feels so—weird, after fooling around with Stiles, but Stiles grabs him first, kisses him right on the mouth, deep and searching and unbelievably good.

“See you, Hale,” he says, squeezing Derek’s arm, and he walks away, leaving Derek dumbfounded in the alley.


There are more outings.  Derek isn’t incredibly thrilled about them.  He doesn’t really like Jackson, Malia annoys him for some reason, and Scott is always looking at him kind of strangely.  But, since Erica and Boyd are happy, he guesses he can live with spending a little bit of time around all of them a day or two a week.

On Saturday, they go to a movie.  Derek’s never heard of it, some action/thriller thing based off of a book he never read.  He sits through it, munches on popcorn, and daydreams.

Last week, during their standard Wednesday boning, Derek had changed things up a little bit.  He wasn’t about to bow out of his turn to get fucked—he’d deny it if anyone ever asked (although, why would they?), but he really, really enjoys every other Wednesday, when Stiles finds new and creative ways to fuck him stupid.  But this time, instead of Stiles bending him over things and pinning him against the showers, Derek rode him, bouncing up and down on his cock while Stiles was seated in one of the chairs Coach keeps in the office.  They’ve never done anything like that before, and Derek is just musing on it, happily, when Erica stands and says, “Did you wanna stay through the credits, Der?”

With a start, Derek realizes the movie is over and everyone else is ready to go.  He stands too, nearly tripping over himself, and follows them out to the parking lot.

“Hey, Derek,” Scott says quickly, and Derek hesitates for a moment because he can’t remember Scott ever speaking to him when not wearing lacrosse gear.

“Hi,” Derek says.                                                

“So, uh, you know Kira.”  He gestures vaguely over his shoulder to the girl standing near Stiles’ Jeep.

“Yeah.  I know Kira.”

“Well, we’re hoping we could take off but Stiles doesn’t have a ride otherwise—”

“I’ll drive him,” Derek says quickly, not looking towards where Stiles is over by his left.  “It’s fine.”

Scott beams hugely.  “Thanks, dude, you have no idea how grateful I am.”

Wordlessly, Stiles tosses Scott the keys, and he and Kira head out of the parking lot, leaving Derek and Stiles alone.  Again.

“C’mon.”  Derek nods towards his car.  “Let’s go.”

He knows where Stiles lives, purely because his mom has dropped stuff off at the Sheriff’s house before while he was in the car.  When he had his learner’s permit and was driving her all over Beacon Hills he took her there more than once, so it’s not hard to head down the right street.

Stiles doesn’t say anything about it.

“So.”  He leans back in his seat, crossing one leg over the other.  “Thanks.  I mean, Scott’s just trying to get laid, and Kira’s trying to not get caught by her parents while getting laid, so.”

“It’s no problem,” Derek says.

Stiles clears his throat.  “I was thinking about Wednesday.”

“New ideas?”

“No.  I was thinking about last Wednesday.”

Derek swallows tightly, keeps his eyes on the road.


“What about it?”

“I was thinking,” Stiles says slowly, “that it was really hot.”

Derek grips the steering wheel the slightest bit tighter. “We’re good at it.”

“We are,” Stiles agrees. “Turn left here.”

Derek hesitates slightly, frowning, but does as he’s told. “Do we need to go somewhere before I take you home?”



“C’mon, dude, we used to fuck around on Saturdays too,” Stiles says, and he seems anxious, antsy. “Go up the trail.” He points, towards where the road heads up to the lookout point over the city. “I mean, we don’t have to if you’re not into it—”

“I am,” Derek interrupts. “I was just checking.”

The thing is, Derek might have been hoping, just a little bit. He might have been hoping that, since he was seeing Stiles again tonight, something like what happened last week might be happening again. Foolish, he had thought at the time, but all the same he had everything they needed in the glove compartment, and he’s blushing to his ears just thinking about it.

“Do you have curfew?” Derek asks, licking his lips.

“Midnight,” Stiles says. “But my dad is gonna fall asleep before then, so it’s not vital.”

“Think we’re gonna take more than two hours?”

“We can hope.”

For whatever reason, it’s not awkward to just slide into the backseat. They both get out at the same time, move the seats of Derek’s Camaro forward so that they can scrunch into the back, and then they’re making out, grasping for each other, and Derek isn’t embarrassed anymore.

Stiles’ hands on his body feel so familiar at this point that Derek has a hard time even recognizing what’s going on until he feels the leather of the seats against his bare back, until he can hear the sound of Stiles’ belt clanging as he tosses his jeans onto the floor, until Stiles grabs him and pulls him into his lap because the seat isn’t long enough for them to lay themselves out over it.

“Hey,” Stiles rasps into Derek’s neck. They’ve been kissing a lot, hence Derek’s distraction, and Stiles’ mouth is red and swollen, his voice thick.

“Yeah,” Derek responds, rolling his hips against Stiles’ stomach. Stiles is still wearing boxer briefs—which are incredibly attractive on him, Derek has to admit—but Derek is naked, and he’s going to use that to his advantage. He’s about to lunge for the lube in the glove compartment, but Stiles holds him fast.

“You get the offer of a blowjob, remember?” Stiles asks, smiling wryly.

Derek licks his lips. He loves when Stiles goes down on him. It’s hot, ridiculously so, but right now he only has one thing on his mind. “Rain check,” Derek tells him.

There’s not a lot of talking while Stiles fingers him. Derek could do it himself—offered—but Stiles is really into it apparently, and there’s a lot of soft moans and gasps, coming mostly from Derek himself, but Stiles whines sometimes too, pressing his face against Derek’s chest.

The stretch is good. The pressure from Stiles’ fingers is better. Feeling, knowing, that Stiles is inside of him—the fucking best.

There’s always just the slightest bit of hesitation on Derek’s part when he realizes they need a condom. It’s not fair. He hates it. He hates that he’s been brought up with the idea of safe sex so firmly implanted into his brain that he can’t just willfully ignore a stupid condom. But it’s not just his life, and it’s not just him involved in all of this, so he has them, and he’ll use one, but he doesn’t have to be happy about it.

“Why do you look so frustrated?” Stiles asks with a laugh, gripping Derek’s ass.

“It’s cramped and it’s hot and we’re gonna get come on my seats,” Derek mutters, tugging Stiles’ underwear far down his thighs. But it’s worth it, he doesn’t say.

Like this, Derek can feel everything. He gets the strain in his thighs, the firm press of Stiles’ fingers against his muscles, the warmth of Stiles’ chest and abdomen, and finally the firm heat of Stiles pushing inside of him. The angle itself is perfect, just how he wants it right now, and the noise Stiles makes when Derek sinks down over him is going to be ringing in his ears for days.

Stiles’ hands settle firmly on Derek’s hips, holding him still. “God,” Stiles says softly.

“You can call me Derek.”

Stiles responds by dragging Derek closer, rolling his hips inside of him. Derek moans involuntarily, the noise startling out of him like it wasn’t even made by his own mouth, and he doesn’t even care anymore, doesn’t care about appearing aloof and uninterested. He wants this, wants Stiles, and he doesn’t care that Stiles knows it.

He rides Stiles without having to be asked. He drags his hands everywhere he can reach, stroking Stiles’ shoulders, chest, kissing him eagerly. It’s ridiculous, how incredibly turned on he is by this, but he also knows he’s not alone.

Stiles alternates between staring at Derek like he’s a fucking painting and tipping his head back against the seat, eyes shut tight. He looks beautiful like this, shocked, like he can’t believe this is really happening, and Derek feels pretty much the same way. He can’t believe that he gets this, can’t believe that he could possibly feel this good, like he’s about to come out of his fucking skin.

“Was it—was it this good last time?” Stiles pants, gripping Derek’s thighs, fucking up into him as Derek drops down. “God, I don’t remember it being this good.”

Derek sucks on Stiles’ neck—hard.

No, he doesn’t remember it being this good, either. He doesn’t remember being so fucking hard, doesn’t remember feeling like he was going to lose his mind if he didn’t come immediately, but at the same time, he never wants it to end.

“Wait,” Derek says, settling with Stiles deep inside of him. “Wait, just—wait.”

Stiles moans, grabs Derek’s face to kiss him desperately. “C’mon,” he whispers. “C’mon, Derek, please.”

“If I move I’m gonna come.”

“Don’t care. Me too. C’mon, Derek.”

He feels like he’s going to cry. Everything is hot, pulsing, and Derek takes short, shallow breaths as he begins to move again, losing himself in Stiles, his body, his mouth. He doesn’t count, can’t think, and he’s just trying to hold on for a little bit longer when Stiles takes hold of his dick, tugging him off so efficiently that Derek’s orgasm shocks him.

He’s still out of it when Stiles comes. He doesn’t register it, not until Stiles is slipping out of him, tying off the condom. Derek is—too warm, and trembling just the slightest bit, and he leans heavily into Stiles’ chest, trying to catch his breath.

Stiles kisses him. A lot. Turns his face so that he can capture his mouth and kisses Derek stupid.

“We’re good at this,” Stiles says happily, smiling into Derek’s jaw.

Yeah, Derek thinks. We are.


The next Wednesday, Derek doesn’t even go to school. Everyone in his house has the fucking flu, and he feels like he’s going to drop dead at any possible second. He’d been sick already, stayed home yesterday too, and he hasn’t been doing anything, just lying in his bed and watching television, napping, drinking tea. He’s tired all the time, feels like warmed over shit, and he just wants to sleep.

The sun is down when his mom knocks on his bedroom door.

He rolls over, pulling the pillow off of his head.

“Hey, hon,” she says softly, leaning in through his door. “There’s someone here to see you.”

He groans. “I don’t want to see anybody. I look like death.”

“He brought you soup.”

Derek figures it has to be Boyd. Mrs. Boyd is a very nurturing woman, and it’s happened before, her sending things over with Boyd when he visited. So Derek struggles into a sitting position and tugs on the light of his lamp, grabbing his tissue box. He wants to crawl into a hole and die when it’s not Boyd who walks in the door, but Stiles instead.

“Don’t freak out,” Stiles says, shutting the door behind himself. He’s carrying a little thermos and a box of crackers. “Coach told us you were sick. And so after practice I went home and made my mom’s secret recipe for chicken noodle soup, and I got the really buttery crackers from the grocery store.” He steps further into the room, setting the box down on Derek’s side table and handing him the thermos and a spoon. “Eat it, seriously. You need fluids.”

Derek freaks out for a couple of seconds, just staring at Stiles’ face. But he sucks in a breath through his mouth and his voice is rough when he says, “Thank you,” and Stiles smirks.

“You’re welcome, Batman.”

Derek loses his embarrassment pretty quickly. Stiles climbs into bed with him and they watch Brooklyn Nine-Nine on his computer while Derek eats. He feels better after the soup is gone and even though he’s blowing his nose and sniffing a lot, Stiles doesn’t shy away or tell him how gross he is. He sits right there next to Derek and tells him when all the best parts are coming up and how awesome Andy Samberg is.

Derek doesn’t even remember falling asleep. When he wakes up, though, his head is tipped onto Stiles’ shoulder, Stiles’ head is tipped onto his, and his dad is asking if Stiles needs a ride home.

“I drove,” Stiles says sleepily, sitting up. Even in the dim light, Derek can see the tips of Stiles’ ears turning red. “I, uh, better go.” He slips off the bed, grabs the empty thermos. “I’ll see you soon, okay? Feel better.”

Derek makes a mental note of the first time he and Stiles were alone together with all of their clothes on since they started screwing around. It’s funny, and he laughs to himself as he drifts off to sleep, rolling over and pulling the pillow on top of his head again.


On Friday, after the lacrosse game, Derek is still kind of worn out from being sick. He just wants to play and go home, nothing in between. Maybe tomorrow he’ll agree to go out to the shore with Erica and Boyd, but he’s not up for a pizza party, he doesn’t want to go see a movie, and he doesn’t want to spend time around people. But then he thinks about Wednesday. And maybe there’s one person he wants to spend time around.

He stops at Stiles’ locker when almost everyone is gone. “Hey,” he says. “Thanks. Again. For the other day.”

“Sure,” Stiles says pleasantly. “I’m sorry I didn’t, like, warn you or whatever. I’m sure it was kinda awkward.”

Derek shrugs. “It was fine. What are you doing tonight?”

Stiles smirks. “Dude, not that I’m not disappointed we missed Wednesday, but I have plans tonight. Another time.”

“Yeah,” Derek says, trying not to let his disappointment show. “Another time.”

He doesn’t see who Stiles leaves with, but he hears plenty about it on Monday. Apparently everyone is talking about it, which doesn’t make a lot of sense because almost nobody talks about Stiles.

“I guess they’re getting back together,” one girl in his English class says. “I mean, when they broke up last year everyone was confused.”

“Everyone thought Stiles was crazy about her,” the girl’s friend agrees.

“Maybe she wants him back! And he just went willingly into her arms.” She sighs dramatically, resting her face in her hand. “God, whoever let Malia near him in the first place?”

Derek freezes. “Malia Tate?”

“Stiles Stilinski’s ex-girlfriend,” the second girl says. “They spent all weekend together at her mom’s beach house. The pictures are all over Facebook.”

It’s not as if Derek didn’t know that Stiles and Malia were friends. But he hadn’t known that they had ever dated, or that they were—well, Derek had just figured that Stiles was a virgin when they started screwing around. Maybe he shouldn’t have. Probably he shouldn’t have.

He gets the full story from the girls in his class. At least, their version of the full story.

Malia and Stiles had started dating when she came to the school at the end of their sophomore year. They dated through the summer, through three-fourths of their junior year, and had just broken up a few months before he and Stiles started doing it in the locker room. Apparently they were really close, always together, and they were just absolutely crazy for each other. Everyone was shocked when they called it quits, especially because Allison and Scott had broken up too, and that meant the world was ending.

Derek tries his hardest not to think anything of it at first. But then on Wednesday morning—when he’s wondering what’s going to happen that afternoon after lacrosse—he sees Malia and Stiles strolling down the hall together, their shoulders bumping, both of them looking ridiculously happy, and Derek slams his forehead against his locker. He feels like crying. He knows he has to end things before Stiles can, maintain his own dignity, make sure he feels at least a little bit like he was the one who wanted it to be over.

Later on the field, in his jersey, crosse in hand, mask already on, he grabs Stiles’ shoulder.

“We have to stop,” Derek says, short and quick.

Stiles pulls a face. His mask isn’t on yet, so it’s very expressive. “What? Why?”

Derek’s stomach turns. “What? You know why! You can’t just—this isn’t what I signed up for, okay? Don’t be that guy, Stiles.” He can’t believe that Stiles would cheat on Malia with him, just because. It makes him feel cheap, knowing Stiles even assumed that. “Let’s leave it on the field,” he says, and he strolls away, trying to ignore Stiles’ eyes on his back.


Derek avoids him. Actively. He makes sure that they only see each other during lacrosse, and even then it’s a little bit iffy. He makes sure that he doesn’t fuck anything else up, that he doesn’t see Malia and Stiles together, that he doesn’t hurt himself further.

It’s a horrible realization, knowing that he’s fallen for Stiles. And that’s what it is, honestly. He’s fucking gone for him, head-over-heels, absolutely insane. He’s a mess. All he can think about is Stiles, all he wants is Stiles, and it’s been that way for weeks, probably since the bowling alley non-date. And it’s awful, knowing that he wants Stiles so badly, wants to actually date him and know more about him, and Stiles is happy with someone else.

He lasts three whole weeks. Three Wednesdays. He avoids Stiles to the best of his abilities—and then it’s the very last lacrosse game of the season. They’re going to take their finals next week, they’re going to have Winter Break, and then they’re going to come back to a new class schedule, new teachers, new things to do, and he and Stiles are going to have no excuses to see each other ever again.

They’re not going to go into finals this year, but it’s still an important game. Their record is still at risk here, and Derek is confident in their ability to pull this off. His only issue is that Malia is in the crowd, holding a poster with Stiles’ jersey number on it, and it makes him so angry he can barely function.

He’s just pissed off. And he thinks he has a right to be. Mostly at Stiles. Whose idea was it for Stiles to be so fucking charming and sweet and sexy all the goddamn time? Two months ago, Derek hated Stiles with a fierce, destructive passion, and that translated into truly phenomenal sex.

Except, thinking about it, he doesn’t remember hating Stiles at all. And that’s what shocks him, the sudden realization that he never—not once, not for a second—hated Stiles. He was annoyed, and surprised, and most of the time exasperated with Stiles’ tendencies, but as much as he didn’t care for Stiles at the beginning, he was always attracted to him. Derek always wanted him. He can’t remember a time when he didn’t.

It’s not right for Stiles to cheat on Malia. It’s not fair. It’s awful. And Derek refuses to be a part of it. But that doesn’t mean he can’t stick around the locker room and wait to have a conversation with the guy. One final conversation before they never have to see each other again for the rest of the semester.

He’s surprised to see Stiles actually hanging back, too. He’s the last one left, Scott waving goodbye and taking off to meet Kira outside the door, and Derek rounds the corner, bag slung over his shoulder.

Stiles looks up at him, a blank look on his face. “I thought you didn’t want to anymore,” he says, grabbing his shorts and tucking them into his bag. “Or have you changed your mind?”

Derek swallows tightly. “I don’t think you’re supposed to want to either.”

“Yeah, you said that earlier,” Stiles grumbles.

Derek grits his teeth. “You never told me that you had dated Malia.”

Stiles frowns, stands up. “What? I thought you knew. I thought everyone knew. It’s not like we were a secret.”

It’s entirely unfair, how upset Derek is right now. Because he thought they were on equal ground. He thought, one day, just having sex wasn’t going to be enough for Stiles, that he was going to want Derek for real, the way Derek wants him now. He’d thought, when Stiles approached him and stuck his hand down his pants, that they were on the same page, that Stiles was a virgin who wanted to have sex, that he knew that Derek was too.

“Are you jealous?” Stiles asks.

“Yes,” Derek spits, and his face feels hot. “Yes, okay? I’m jealous. Of Malia. And I’m pissed because I wasn’t supposed to care about you, you moron, and I do, I’m fucking nuts for you.”

Stiles arches an eyebrow, a slow smile growing on his face. “Really?”

“Don’t do this,” Derek says softly. “Seriously, Stiles, don’t—don’t rub this in my face, okay? It’s been enough to know that you chose her over me; I don’t need more shit from you.”

“How did I choose her?!” Stiles wants to know, smile becoming a confused, frustrated glare. “You were the one who told me we had to stop! You were the one who—wait. Wait.” He takes a half step back, hands coming up in front of his chest. “Why did you tell me we had to stop?”

“Because you’re dating Malia again!”

Stiles blinks. “I’m what?”

“That’s what everyone is saying,” Derek says, and he suddenly feels incredibly stupid. “I—they are. You are. Aren’t you?”

“No!” Stiles exclaims, seemingly outraged. “No, of course not! We broke up when she confronted me about my crush on you, and you broke things off between the two of us because you figured out that I had more than sexy feelings. More heart-oriented feelings.”

“No,” Derek argues. “I had no idea. I had no idea in the world. If I’d known, I never would’ve said we had to stop. I would’ve taken you on a real date. I would’ve fucked you in a bed instead of against a bunch of lockers.”

“How romantic.”

“You brought me soup! You—you were charming and handsome and you made me feel better all the fucking time and I think I must’ve been in love with you from the start because I can’t remember ever changing my mind about you, just—just feeling like this always and I can’t take it anymore.” Derek closes his eyes, hitches his bag a little tighter on his shoulder. “Are you in this or not?”

Stiles nods. “Yes,” he says, emphatic. “Yes, absolutely. Let’s do this. Let’s date. Let’s go all out. I’ll fucking woo you.”

“Not really necessary,” Derek tells him. “I’m already yours.”


And then they’re kissing. Derek’s bag is on the floor and Stiles’ hands are on his face and they’re kissing like it’s the end of some really cliché movie, sweet and slow and all romantic-like. And Derek can’t remember ever being happier.

He wouldn’t say Stiles’ hand on his ass ruins the moment, but it does startle him out of his “happy ending” reprieve.

“A bed, this time,” Derek says, gripping Stiles’ shirt. “I don’t suppose you have one available.”

“Tomorrow night I do.” Stiles winds his arms around Derek’s shoulders. “Dad’s working a double shift. Won’t be home until sunrise.”

Derek grins, going back in for another kiss. “How fortunate.”

“Fucking right.”




Stiles isn’t sure that it’s a great idea. For one, he might get slapped. For another, if Derek went and told anyone about this (a teacher, another student, whatever), he could get in some serious trouble, both with his reputation and with the school, not to mention what would happen if his dad found out that he was going to proposition Derek Hale for a series of no-strings-attached romps.

See, he and Derek have a lot of sexual tension. Like, a shit ton. Stiles has never had so much sexual tension with anyone, not even Malia. And it’s really wearing him down, never knowing if Derek is going to act on it, so he’s decided he has to. For the betterment of mankind. At least, for his own betterment. Maybe Derek’s too.

Derek missed the last two trial setups with newbies since he was away with his family, so he has to clean up after the team on the field, so that Girl’s Soccer can fill in after they leave. He’s going to be the last one back to the locker room, the last one to leave, and Stiles is going to wait. Pointedly.

He showers, just because he figures Derek doesn’t want to get down and dirty with somebody who smells like four hours of sweat and grime, and changes into a soft T-shirt and some cargo shorts. He’s just finishing up, though, when Derek returns, and Stiles is right, the locker room is completely empty except for them.

“What are you looking at?” Derek asks grumpily.

(There may or may not have been an incident last year, over which Stiles could understand Derek’s continuous temper towards him, but Stiles stands by the fact that he is a changed man, and he had no idea that his slime bomb would explode as far as Derek’s car in the parking lot. Whoops.)

“You’re not sabotaging Coach’s office again, are you?” Derek asks, shoving his crosse in his bag and dragging his jersey over his head.

“No,” Stiles says, leaning against a locker near Derek’s. “I was waiting for you.”

Derek glances up at him. “Why?”

The moment of truth. Stiles could be flippant about it, casual, make it seem like it’s not a big deal, but—honestly, it kind of is, and at this point Stiles is willing to try anything. He’s pretty sure Derek appreciates honesty anyway.

“So I could do this,” Stiles says, and he grabs Derek by the fabric of his sweaty undershirt and tugs him forward to kiss.


Stiles buys him dinner. Stiles dims the lights and cooks pasta and they watch one of Derek’s all time favorite movies. They make out for what must be like an hour, sprawled on the couch and enjoying the weight, heft of each other. Not that Derek isn’t super into it, of course, but they’re alone in a house for the first time ever, and he’s in love with Stiles and Stiles is hot and he just wants to do it in a bed for once.

It’s not necessarily a natural progression from couch to stairs to bed. There’s a lot of stumbling and laughing and kissing—lots and lots of kissing. And by the time they’re at least partially undressed, Derek is so ridiculously into all of it, that he can’t even figure out what he wants when Stiles asks him.

“Anything,” he says breathlessly, dragging his hands over Stiles’ back. “Just—anything, really.”

“Okay,” Stiles says, and he sits Derek on the side of his bed and drops to his knees. Wordlessly, he grabs for the waistband of Derek’s underwear and tugs them down, poking Derek to get him to lift up just slightly, and then Stiles is fitting himself between Derek’s thighs and just kind of holding his dick, brushing his fingertips along it, looking at it.

Derek licks his lips. “Um.”

“You have a really great dick,” Stiles tells him.

“I—thank you? I mean, you—”

“Can I blow you without a condom?” Stiles interrupts.

Derek swallows. “Yeah,” he says, nodding. “Yeah, please.”

Derek takes a lot of pride in his blowjobs. He’s really, really good at sucking Stiles’ dick. And Stiles, in turn, is fucking amazing, pretty mouth, soft lips, just the right amount of sucking versus licking, and it’s great, really, but he gets easily distracted. Sometimes Derek just wants a blowjob, doesn’t need the rest of the show, but Stiles is a performer apparently. He likes to give it all he’s got. Which is why, about three long, glorious minutes into what is truly a holy experience, Stiles’ mouth disappears completely and his hands push insistently at Derek’s shoulders.

“Wait,” Derek says, blinking, “I want—”

“Let me try something first, okay?” Stiles asks, moving Derek with his hands until he has what he apparently wants, which is Derek on his stomach, legs spread wide, and Stiles digging around for something in the drawer of his bedside table.

Derek looks over his shoulder slightly. “Not that I don’t like it when you fuck me—”

“No, no, you’re fucking me tonight. If you want,” he amends. “But I just want—I got this thing at the free clinic when I took Malia there the other day and I’ve wanted to see—because I know you really get off on all of…this.” He strokes the pad of his thumb over Derek’s opening in explanation. “So, uh, I thought—why not, right?”

It’s a dental dam. A fucking dental dam. And that means that Stiles is going to eat Derek out, and Derek honestly thought he didn’t have any virginity left to take, but he was wrong.

“You can tell me if you’re not into it,” Stiles says, and his voice is farther down Derek’s body, hands on Derek’s ass cheeks. “Like—just stop me.”

“No,” Derek croaks, blushing hard. “I—I want you to.”

“Sweet,” Stiles says, and that’s the last Derek hears of him for a while. Not necessarily because Stiles doesn’t speak—he’s pretty sure Stiles talks a lot during the whole ordeal—but because Derek’s brain whites out anything that isn’t the pulsing heat and overwhelming feeling of Stiles fucking into him with his tongue, licking him open, Stiles pressing his thumb against Derek’s perineum, rolling firmly against his prostate, and Derek doesn’t know what that noise is but his throat hurts and his body feels amazing and awful and terrifying all that once and he comes, shaking apart, after what feels like hours.

When he has complete control over his body again, he finds himself on his back, Stiles straddling him, one hand stroking his hair, the other tucked behind Stiles’ thigh, fingers moving in and out of himself. Derek makes a weak noise, hands coming up to grip Stiles’ legs.

“I need a bit,” he says softly.

Stiles nods. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Fuck. That was so fucking hot. Never in my wildest dreams would I imagine Derek Hale coming untouched from rimming.”

Derek’s brain takes a second to catch up, and he nods slowly. “Yeah, I—me neither.”

“I thought, when you broke things off—I didn’t get it.” Stiles swallows, avoiding Derek’s eyes, but his hand is still moving, his hips still rolling.

“You thought I figured out how you felt and panicked,” Derek says.

“Because that wasn’t part of our arrangement.”

Derek nods. “Yeah.”

“And then,” Stiles adds with a breathy sigh, “I thought you found somebody else. And it wasn’t exactly a surprise, because you’re fucking gorgeous and you could have anybody you wanted. But I was angry. And jealous. I never thought you actually—wanted me back.”

Derek squeezes his thighs. “Always,” he says softly. “I always wanted you. I had a crush on you in eighth grade when you did your book report on Fahrenheit 451—”

“And you gave me a whole list of books to read that were like it,” Stiles recalls, grinning. “That was the first time we spoke. And the last before last year.” He presses his forehead against Derek’s. “How did I even find time to fall in love with you?”

Derek closes his eyes. “I don’t know. I don’t care. I’m just glad you did.”

It doesn’t take long for Derek to get hard again. Stiles is gorgeous and panting and Derek wants to be in him, wants to feel him, just like this—for as long as he can.

“You made this look a lot easier than it is,” Stiles says when Derek is buried in him, their chests pressed close together, all wrapped up in each other.

“I’ll help,” Derek tells him, nuzzling at Stiles’ neck. “It’s okay. We’ll go slow.”

Stiles hums. “We have all the time in the world.”

It’s different, doing it like this. Not the way they’re positioned or the new emotional intimacy (although Derek isn’t going to say he isn’t enjoying both of those things too), but the bed. The mattress. They’re alone in Stiles’ house, lights off, moonlight streaming in, and Stiles is moving in short, undulating thrusts, making surprised noises, like he never knew it could feel like that. It’s romantic in the weirdest, most charming way, and Derek remembers being younger, just starting high school, thinking this is what it would be like to lose his virginity.

He buries his face in Stiles’ neck, wrapping his arms around his waist. It doesn’t matter that he lost it in a locker room, that Stiles just planted one on him and—after a brief, hurried “yes”—stuck his hand down his pants and made him seem stars. It doesn’t matter that it lasted less than five minutes and he spent the next several months secretly fucking the same guy, all while completely unaware of his own feelings; all that matters is that it was with Stiles, that he loves Stiles, and that they get to have this now. Now is more important than then.

Derek is too busy contemplating that to realize that Stiles had sped up his movements. But once he notices, it’s all he can pay attention to. That, and the fact that Stiles knocks his balance off and shoves him down onto his back, readjusting his own weight so that he can ride Derek faster, more efficiently. It’s so hot, watching him take control like that, that Derek forgets to breathe for a second, moaning at the ceiling and holding on for dear life.

Derek remembers, at what feels like the very last second, that Stiles hasn’t come yet. This whole time, while they were making out and taking their time, Stiles was waiting. And Derek is shocked into action, grabbing Stiles’ neck with one hand and Stiles’ cock with the other, taking a couple easy strokes while he kisses Stiles as eagerly as he knows how.

Either Stiles is tired or he’s lost a lot of leverage like this, because he’s resorted to grinding against Derek’s cock, circling his hips and moving back and forth without a lot of rhythm, like Derek is his trusty vibrator and Stiles is just on the edge of coming. Derek doesn’t mind. He just kisses Stiles through it, tugs him through what seems like a truly incredibly orgasm, and comes a moment later himself, when Stiles grabs his balls, laughing into his mouth.

In the afterglow, post-shower, after changing the sheets on the bed, they’re lying down together again, Derek tucked comfortably into the curve of Stiles’ body. It’s the best place he’s ever bed, and he never wants to leave.

“Do you remember,” Stiles starts to say sleepily, one hand stroking up and down Derek’s arm, “when we came up with all of our stupid rules?”

Derek hums what he thinks it probably affirmatively.

“I have the list,” Stiles tells him.

“We can throw that away now,” Derek mutters.

“I had another idea, actually.” He rolls out of bed casually, leaving Derek to grab for the pillow, turning onto his side so he can watch.

Stiles goes for his desk, digging through a few drawers before he finds the wrinkled piece of notebook paper with some of Derek’s math notes on the back. He smoothes it out against his desk, smirking at Derek over his shoulder, and proceeds to pin it to the bulletin board on the opposite wall.

“What are you—”

“It’s a piece of history,” Stiles says, crawling back into bed. “Our history. We made that list the first day you let me fuck you.” He nuzzles at Derek’s throat, sighing pleasantly. “We sat on the bench in the locker room, arguing the whole time. We went through four pieces of paper.”

Derek blinks over at the new addition to Stiles’ wall. It is—fitting, he guesses. “We could make another list,” he says.

“Already on it,” Stiles tells him, tugging him closer and apparently fitting in for sleep. “Thing to do in bed—or out of—before I die.”

“Sounds fun.”

“Hm, you have no idea.” He peeks open one eye, smiling craftily. “But you will soon enough.”