Mario Kart is serious business. Both Derek and Stiles know this, and over time Mario Kart Night has gone from something they met up for when everyone else was busy, to a standing Thursday night challenge, interrupted only if someone was bleeding.
It’s their thing. And maybe, just maybe, they get a little...competitive...about it. They’ve used practically every technique known to man or supernatural being to distract each other at times, so Derek’s only half-listening to the words coming out of Stiles’ mouth as they take the first curve in Wario’s Gold Mine.
Until he hears the phrase “dick piercing.”
“You- wait, what?”
Stiles doesn’t even look away from the screen.
“Yeah, I’m thinking about getting one. I see it in porn all the time, and it’s crazy fucking hot. Jason- you know, the guy who works the reference desk with me- has one, and he loves it. So does his boyfriend, if you know what I mean.”
This is accompanied by a ridiculous brow waggle that Derek just catches out of the corner of his eye. He’s resisting to the urge to stare at Stiles only by dint of the fact that he can hear the whine of a blue shell about to smash into him.
He’s about to zip back into first place after the collision when his ears catch up to the rest of what Stiles is saying.
“...but it takes six weeks to heal, dude, six weeks. Supposedly they make sex fucking spectacular, so maybe it’d be worth it, but that is a long damn time.”
Stiles is twenty-two, single, and living by himself. His whole apartment reeks of come most times that Derek is over. Still, no one’s more surprised than Derek when he opens his mouth and the words just fall right out.
“There’s no way you, of all people, could keep your hands off your dick for six days, let alone six weeks.”
On-screen, Toad drives off a cliff as the controller dangles from Stiles’ hand. He’s staring at Derek and flushed red with sudden embarrassment, not that Derek has noticed. Because he doesn’t notice things like that about Stiles.
“You know what, dude,” Stiles says as he snaps his mouth shut, “challenge fucking accepted.”
It takes nearly an hour of furious debate, but they set the terms: a full six weeks with no orgasms of any kind, self-induced or otherwise. If Derek wins, then Stiles has to wash the Camaro every weekend for a month. If Stiles actually manages to hold out, Derek has to turn over the keys to it instead, and let Stiles drive his car for a week.
It’s a good thing Derek fully expects Stiles to break within the first couple of days, because he’s seen the way Stiles drives his Jeep, and that is not happening to Derek’s car. Granted, Stiles has driven the Camaro away from any number of supernatural calamities without crashing it, but Derek knows that it’s only a matter of time. Teaching Erica to drive in it was less of a nightmare than what he envisions every time Stiles gets behind the wheel.
Doesn’t matter, though. There’s no way Stiles can do this.
: : :
Stiles, 10:45pm: still going strong
Derek, 10:52pm: It’s been three hours. Good job.
Derek really, really hadn’t thought this through well enough. He’s not going to make it through the next six weeks if Stiles keeps sending him abstinence updates. Derek tries pretty hard not to think about Stiles’ dick, ever, for his own sanity, and now it’s right there in the front of his mind.
Hard and aching, desperate to be touched-
Derek’s going to be masturbating enough for the both of them, apparently.
He deeply regrets the day he started talking to people instead of glaring angrily. A solidly furious scowl would never have gotten him into this kind of mess. Unfortunately, the one thing his well-honed bitch face can’t do is convince his hard-on to go away.
Despite the demands of his dick, Derek isn’t picturing Stiles when he comes. Broad shoulders and toned arms, yes; long, fine fingers that wrap around his cock, yes; the strong lines of a pale throat, bared for his teeth, yes.
But that doesn’t make it Stiles.
: : :
One week in, and Derek’s been reduced to taking shallow little pants of breath around Stiles so that he’s not overwhelmed by the scent of frustration layered over lust.
It makes him wonder if he could make Stiles smell like that, pin him down and tease him until Stiles begged, until he whined, until Derek made him come so hard he cried.
He thinks he could. Stiles would let him, and they both know it.
The problem is what would come after: Stiles gathering up his clothes and patting Derek on the head before waltzing back to his regular life. Derek wants more than that. In the back of his head, where he refuses to acknowledge it, is a fantasy where Stiles stays. Where he wants to stay.
Forever. Or at least until one of them gets eaten by monsters, which Derek admits is more likely to happen first.
But he’s not- Stiles doesn’t like him like that. And this whole thing, Stiles walking around in a haze of pheromones, practically begging to be bent over and fucked... it’s too much. Makes Derek want to bite, and tease, and find out exactly how much Stiles can take.
He can’t handle another five weeks of this torture. If he wasn’t a werewolf, Derek’s pretty sure his dick would be chafed. As it is, he’s not even sure he’s enjoying masturbation anymore.
Derek needs a plan. Immediately.
: : :
The idea comes to him after another late-night session of- well.
He just needs to get Stiles to break, is all. If Stiles gives in and gets off, Derek can go back to mocking Stiles mercilessly for his lack of self-control, and everything will be fine.
His phone pings with a text like a gift from god.
Stiles, 12:16am: two weeks down. i’ve so got this, dude
Derek, 12:16am: I’m impressed. I wouldn’t want to go two weeks without.
Stiles, 12:17am: what? Are you hooking up with some hottie behind our backs?
Stiles, 12:17am: don’t make me get scott to pull the sad-pack face until you spill the beans
Derek, 12:20am: God, Stiles, no. I masturbate, just like anyone else.
Derek, 12:21am: I have a vibrator and everything.
He shuts his phone off with a sound that he would have called a cackle, had anyone else made it. And then maybe he jerks it to the thought of Stiles’ mouth falling open, shocked and red and wet.
What of it?
: : :
Getting the pack together for milkshakes is probably a low blow. All it takes is a text to Erica, though, and suddenly they’re piling into cars and taking over the picnic tables outside the diner. The owner, Shelley, has been pretty fond of them since that time the pack cleared a nest of gremlins out of her kitchen. She puts up with their antics, although Derek’s sure the amount of food they order doesn’t hurt, either.
Stiles flashes a smile when Derek settles across from him, keeps gesticulating with a french fry as he details his latest Librarian Adventure to Isaac. Derek waits, carrying on a conversation with Allison while watching Stiles out of the corner of his eye. It’s only when Stiles’ gaze flicks back to him that Derek lets his tongue slide down the length of his straw.
He catches a drip of whipped cream and pulls his mouth away, licking his lips. It could be entirely innocent, but that doesn’t stop Stiles’ cheeks from flushing pink before he looks away again.
It takes effort to drink a milkshake that slowly and ostentatiously, but Derek manages.
The pack has a very strict “no commenting on the status of human scents/heartbeats/pupil dilation” agreement, put into place after The Party They Don’t Talk About. That doesn’t mean they don’t find ways around it, and none of them could have missed Stiles’ reaction to his little show. Unsurprisingly, it’s Erica that corners him as they leave, sliding into the passenger seat of the Camaro and shutting the door in Boyd’s face.
Derek raises an eyebrow, but takes the left out of the parking lot necessary to drive her home.
“So,” she says, tapping red nails against the center console, “what’s going on with you and Stiles?”
She raises one eyebrow in a perfect imitation of Derek himself.
“We have a bet going.”
“Is it a sex bet? Is that a thing?” She smiles wickedly. “Can it be a thing?”
“It’s not a sex bet.”
It’s true, in the strictest definition. Technically, a sex bet would be a bet about sex, not a bet about not having sex. And the technicalities count when it comes to lying to werewolves.
“Damn. Here I thought you were finally going to man up and make your move, put us all out of our misery.”
He pulls up to the curb near her driveway.
“How about you get out of my car, Trouble?”
She leaves a smacking, red-lipped kiss on his cheek when she goes, whistling what it takes Derek a moment to recognize as The Bloodhound Gang’s “Bad Touch.”
: : :
God damn it.
Why didn’t the milkshake thing work? It should have worked. It certainly smelled like it was going to work. And yet, somehow, another week has passed and Stiles still hasn’t gotten off.
At this point, Derek thinks it might be affecting him more than it’s actually bothering Stiles.
The air around him is still permeated with near-tangible lust, but the edgy, bitter scent of frustration is starting to fade.
Not for the first time, Derek curses Stiles’ adaptable nature.
Three hours later, empty notepad staring him in the face, Derek gives in to the inevitable and calls Erica for help. She drops the phone she’s laughing so hard, then rats him out to Boyd so Derek can listen to the both of them make fun of him. But she comes up with a plan in under five minutes, once she finally gets her breath back.
He’s not a prude, regardless of what the pack thinks. You really can’t be, growing up with a bunch of nosy werewolves. He’d sat Isaac, Boyd, and Scott down for what Stiles called the “Werewolf Boning 101” talk, and then had a different version of the same talk with Erica and Allison- their version included a month’s worth of research on menstruation in female werewolves that he sort of wished he’d never had to look up. The female alpha he’d consulted looked at him like he was a total creeper.
Not to mention the part about dealing with an adult male werewolf’s knot, which he thinks all three of them would prefer to forget.
He does not, however, typically make a habit of talking about every prurient detail of his- largely hypothetical, at this point- sex life with a bunch of rabid, hormone-crazed teenagers. But he’s willing to start, if this will do the trick.
: : :
Derek looks up as nonchalantly as he can when his front door slams open to reveal Stiles, shedding shoes, messenger bag, and hoodie across Derek’s floor before throwing himself onto the couch.
“Hey, Stiles,” Derek says, before turning back to Erica. “Your healing’s going to kick in if you take it too fast. You need to start slow, even more so than if you were still human.”
It’s not like they timed this conversation to his arrival or anything.
“Ugh, no more training, please,” Stiles mumbles. “It’s summer, Derek, summer. Summer break, I might point out.”
“Oh, this isn’t training. I really want Boyd to knot my ass, but we’re having some trouble with the whole insta-heal thing.”
Erica, it must be said, has absolutely no problem talking about her sex life.
“Oh, well. I’m sure Derek has plenty of practice knotting the hell out of people. Good call.” Stiles’ voice is dry, his eyes still closed, but Derek and Erica can both hear the trip-jerk of his heartbeat.
“More like the other way around, really,” Derek says, matching Stiles’ dry tone exactly. “The endorphins after an orgasm are going to slow your body’s instinct to heal, so I always try to get off at least once before I start stretching myself out.”
Erica nods, asking a question about lube. Derek’s pretty sure he answers, but all he can hear is Stiles’ faint, shocked “oh.”
“A human could probably get away with three or four fingers, but you’ll want to stretch out more, especially if you’re going to take Boyd’s knot. I’ve taken a whole fist before being knotted sometimes. It... helps.”
The absolutely filthy laugh he shares with Erika isn’t even fake. That had been a damn good night.
“I’m gonna grab a water,” Stiles says suddenly, shoving himself up off the couch. “I’m a little thirsty.”
“I just bet,” Erica whispers to Derek, right before she jabs him in the side, where she knows he’s the most ticklish. Her laughter and the ensuing couch-pillow fight nearly clears the sound of Stiles’ pounding heartbeat from his ears.
: : :
Stiles, 9:27pm: I know what you’re doing, asshole
Stiles, 9:28pm: and it’s not going to work
Stiles, 9:28pm: you’ll never break me
Derek, 9:30pm: I have no idea what you’re talking about, Stiles.
Stiles, 9:31pm: oh, so you’re not totally cheating to try and get me to break our bet before six wks is up
Stiles, 9:31pm: liar, liar, pants on motherfucking fire
Derek, 9:32pm: Why? Having some trouble keeping it in your jeans, Stilinski?
Stiles, 9:33pm: oh, bitch, it is on
Stiles, 9:33pm: give me whatever you got. bring your A game. it’s not gonna matter. i am unfuckingflappable
Stiles, 9:34pm: your ass is mine
Stiles, 9:37pm: and by ass, i mean that sweet, sweet ride
Stiles, 9:39pm: your car. i mean your car
Well, never let it be said that Derek Hale backed down from a challenge. Stiles wants his A game?
He will get so much A game that he falls down on his knees and begs for more. Fingers clenched into white-knuckled fists, the tight lines of his thighs on display, chest heaving-
Derek looks down at the bulge in his pants. Fuck.
: : :
The next week is full of one shamelessly explicit display after another. There’s the “spontaneous” water fight that leaves Derek drenched, his white tanktop plastered to his abs, shorts clinging to his ass. The honey sampler he picks up from the farmers market, smearing it on toast and sucking it off his fingers while Stiles determinedly shoves bite after bite of waffle in his mouth.
Masturbating just before Stiles came over, so that even human senses could see how flushed Derek was, still hazy from his orgasm... Stiles had taken one look at him, choked, and immediately left to “run an errand.”
And then there’s the touching.
He brushes crumbs off Stiles’ cheeks. Runs fingers through his hair. Smacks a palm against his ass in retaliation for some dumbass joke Stiles makes. Tugs down his shirt when it rides up, fingers skating against the small of Stiles’ back. Throws himself down on the couch during movie night and drops his head onto Stiles’ leg, rubbing his face against Stiles’ thigh. Any excuse Derek can think of, really, to get his hands on Stiles, relishing the way it makes his heart jump and his eyes widen for just a moment before Stiles gets control of himself.
Stiles is stretched out along a corner of the couch when Derek leans over the back, dragging his nose along the length of Stiles’ neck. Derek’s fingers card through Stiles’ hair, holding him in place as Stiles jerks.
“Mmm, new cologne? I like it.”
Stiles’ fingers spasm against the cushions, just like Derek’s imagined.
“Oh, you bastard,” he hisses, low and tight.
“Something the matter, Stiles?” He’s close enough that the words are breathed out against Stiles’ skin.
Derek smirks as Stiles forces himself to relax.
“No problem at all, asshole.”
“That’s not very nice.” He taps Stiles lightly on the cheek, just a tiny little slap, but Stiles sucks in a breath, the smell of his arousal bursting in Derek’s nose.
Suddenly Stiles reaches back, sliding his fingers up Derek’s arm, wrapping his hand around the back of Derek’s neck where he’s leaning over Stiles.
“I can be nice.”
Derek’s frozen as Stiles turns, pulling back just enough to lick a hot line across Derek’s jaw.
“I can be very nice, Derek.”
Then he’s pressing their lips together, slipping his tongue in, filthy and wet, and Derek can’t breathe, he can’t breathe, fuck, Stiles. God, he tastes so good, that clever little mouth working in ways that make Derek’s cock ache.
“Derek?” Stiles whispers.
“Nice try,” he says, laughing against Derek’s mouth, so smug and self-satisfied that Derek’s tempted to hatefuck it out of him right there on the couch.
“Dude, seriously, A+ commitment, really went the extra mile forcing yourself to make out with all this-” Stiles waves at himself like he hasn’t been front and center in Derek’s fantasies lately. “It was hot like burning, and may I just say, damn, son, but you’re not going to win this thing.”
“You, ah, you caught me,” Derek says weakly, pushing himself away from Stiles.
“Yeah, if you wanted me to roll over for a pretty face, you probably should have picked someone who would actually want to get it on with me, it’s a little more believable that way.”
Stiles has pulled his legs up to his chest, and Derek can’t help but wonder if it’s to hide the hard-on in his jeans. Did Derek do that, get him hard? It’s a torturous thought, given that Stiles is in the middle of turning him down, but he can’t let the idea go.
“Give it up, man, there’s one week left and I got this thing down. You might as well hand over the keys to the Camaro now.”
“I have to- I need- I’ll be in the bathroom,” Derek says. Maybe beating his head against the brick wall in there will make him feel better.
: : :
No text sent at three a.m. is ever a good idea. Derek knows that. And yet, for some reason, he’s staring at his phone, thumb hovering over the send button and then darting away. He sets it down, picks it up, sets it down again.
Picks it up.
Derek, 3:17am: Thinking about your mouth makes me want to come. I can’t stop thinking about it sometimes, what it’d be like to have your tongue on my cock.
He can’t send that to Stiles... can he?
On the one hand, he can always blame it on the bet. Oh god, what if Stiles thinks he means it?
He does mean it. But does he want Stiles to think that?
Jesus, this is why he never should have taken on a pack full of teenagers. They’ve driven him crazy.
Fuck it. He closes his eyes, hits send, and then stuffs his phone under the couch cushions where he can pretend it doesn’t exist until he falls asleep.
: : :
The pretending must have worked better than he thought, because the pillow that smacks Derek across the back of the head and jerks him awake is a real surprise.
As is the ear-splitting sound of Stiles screeching at the top of his lungs.
“You asshole! What the hell is wrong with you?”
Derek rolls over, blinking, just in time to catch Stiles’ next down-filled swing with his face.
“You can’t just say shit like that to me to win a bet, you fucker! What do you think I’m even going to do to your car that is such a big fucking deal? You are such a- such a-” Stiles splutters.
Thankfully Derek’s awake enough by now to catch the pillow that comes flying toward him.
“A cock tease! You’re a fucking cock tease, you... asshole!”
Stiles is red-faced and flailing, flannel pajama pants hanging off his hips, in a threadbare t-shirt with bleach spots down the front.
God, he’s adorable. Derek can’t resist winding him up more, just to see the expression on his face.
“You said asshole already.”
“That’s because you’re a huge fucking asshole, oh my god, Derek!”
Derek can’t be blamed for the laugh that escapes him. It seems to take the wind out of Stiles’ sails, and he throws himself on the bed next to Derek, snatching the pillow back and dragging it over his head.
“I hate your stupid face,” Stiles mumbles into the mattress. “You broke like, the number one rule of our friendship, dude, not cool.”
“What? I did not.”
As far as Derek’s aware, the number one rule of their friendship is that Stiles always gets shotgun in the Camaro. It says so in the bulleted list Stiles made and stuck to the fridge, helpfully entitled “Official Friendship Rules” in 24 pt. font.
“The unwritten rules. Come on, man, keep up here.”
Of course Stiles has a secret set of unwritten friendship rules. Of course he does.
“You know what I’m talking about, don’t front with me.”
“You should be, rule number one is extremely important and you just broke it, like a terrible person who breaks things. We have rule number one for a reason, remember?”
“Not really, since you still haven’t told me what this rule actually is.”
Stiles is quiet for so long that Derek actually picks up the pillow and checks to see if maybe he’s fallen asleep. As well as Derek knows Stiles, he can’t make sense of the expression on his face.
“I know this is just a bet for you, Derek, and I don’t want to fuck up our friendship with my... feelings, or whatever. So just cut me some slack here, okay?”
“Stiles, I don’t- I’m not mad that you’re attracted to me sometimes. It’s. Flattering.”
Stiles’ teeth snap together with a click. He sits up, shoves into Derek’s space, and they’re so, so close suddenly, too close in the sleep-warm sheets of Derek’s bed.
“Flattering? Attracted to you? Jesus fuck, Derek, seriously? Seriously? You brought this up, you made me say it, and now you’re going to give me ‘flattering’? Fuck you, Derek, I’m in love with you, you assface. Now just... go to sleep so we can pretend this entire conversation never ever happened, okay? I hate you so much, Jesus Christ.”
Their heartbeats are pounding so loud in Derek’s ears that he wonders if maybe he heard Stiles wrong.
“You’re in love with me?”
“What did I just say, Derek, oh my god, have you gone deaf, I said we were going to pretend this didn’t-”
Derek doesn’t catch the rest of Stiles’ sentence, probably because it’s a little hard to understand when he’s trying to kiss Stiles and Stiles is still mumbling the words against his lips.
His fingers flex against Stiles’ shoulders. He doesn’t even remember grabbing Stiles, pulling him in, but there his hands are, summer-tan against the faded blue of Stiles’ shirt. It’s irrefutable, and he drags in a deep breath, uses it to force the words out into the open.
“Okay. You can pretend it never happened, if you want. Or you could let me kiss you again, and tomorrow if you ask nicely, maybe I’ll buy you a bagel.”
Stiles’ indrawn breath is slow, so slow it terrifies Derek. He opens his mouth and Derek’s sure that he’s about to change his mind-
“I like bagels.”
Alright, so the guy he loves is a bit of a douchebag. It doesn’t stop him from kissing Stiles again. And again, until he feels warm and soft with it, lazy and happy. A twist and a yank and Derek’s on his back, grinning at the surprise on Stiles’ face.
“You know what,” Stiles says, staring down at him. “I think you owe me for what you put me through the last few weeks.” His hips rock down, slowly, and maybe Derek’s not that tired after all.
“You think so, huh?” Derek arches his back, stretches his arms up deliberately, wrapping his fingers around the posts of the head board. “I think you’re probably right.”
“Challenge accepted, dude,” and the filthy smirk on Stiles’ face makes Derek shiver. “Challenge accepted.”
Stiles’ pretty red mouth is everywhere, tongue flicking across Derek’s nipples, teeth skating across his collarbone. Stiles’ fingers too, long and scorching, just like Derek had imagined, in his hair and tight around his wrists, dragging nails down his sides and up his thighs.
Derek’s begging long before that wet mouth finally reaches his cock. Stiles doesn’t stop, refuses to speed up, to touch him more, to fuck him, drags out every sensation until Derek’s nearly out of his mind. Until his hands have come off the headboard and are buried in Stiles’ hair; until his voice is cracked and broken; until his body’s frantically rolling up into every touch.
And then, oh, then it’s long wet pulls and Stiles moaning around his dick like he’ll never get enough, a spit-wet finger tracing Derek’s hole, tension spooling tight in his spine and curling his toes. He thinks he might break, shatter apart in Stiles’ hands, under his mouth. It would be worth it. He trusts Stiles to put him back together, after.
Stiles pulls off with a slow, filthy sound, tongue dragging along the slick head of Derek’s cock. “Come on, Derek, come for me, come on,” he whispers, before his mouth sinks back down. His finger slides insides Derek’s ass and that’s all it takes, the burn of it driving Derek’s orgasm with a force that makes him scream, curled around Stiles, hips fucking up into Stiles’ mouth.
“Let me,” Derek says, hands reaching out. He wants to make Stiles come, always has, has craved it these past six weeks.
“Oh, no, I don’t think so. You’re going to lie there and let me come all over you, aren’t you?” The smirk is back, but Stiles’ eyes are dark, his lips swollen, and all Derek can think is I did that. Part of him wonders how much more Stiles could take, what Stiles looks like when he’s well and truly debauched, but Derek’s willing to wait to find out.
Instead Derek watches as Stiles’ tongue snakes out to lick his own palm, sucking his fingers into his mouth and getting them spit-covered and slick. They wrap around Stiles’ cock and Derek groans just to see it. Stiles is fucking his own fist now, with his teeth buried in his bottom lip and his breath panting out of him, heartbeat pounding in Derek’s ears.
“Gonna cover you in my come, Derek, want everyone to smell it, so they know you’re mine, even after all the shit you pulled. Thought you were in charge, but you’re mine and you know it, don’t you?”
“Yeah. Yeah,” Derek admits, eyes fixed on the place where the wet head of Stiles’ dick slips out of the tight clutch of his own fingers.
“Fuck, Derek, yeah, you do,” Stiles groans, and the hot splash of come across Derek’s balls, his shaft, up onto his belly... god, it feels good.
Right up until Stiles collapses on top of him in a sweaty, sticky mess. His head nudges up against Derek’s chin as his heartbeat slows, the sound of it dragging Derek towards sleep, even if it means he’ll have to peel them apart in the morning.
“Hey,” Stiles murmurs, “it’s after midnight, you know what that means?”
He’s only barely awake now, tucked around Stiles’ body. “Mmmm, what?”
“Means I get your car keys after all,” Stiles says around a yawn, before he drops off entirely, dead to the world, leaving Derek with eight seconds of stark terror as he considers his baby in Stiles’ hands.
The ninth second, though, Stiles makes a ridiculous snuffling snort of a sound, and Derek shrugs to himself before he tucks his face into Stiles’ shoulder.
Totally worth it.