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Like Real People Do (The Only Exception, Part Two)

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Stiles cracked his eyes open, breath catching in his throat as his sleepy gaze fell on the most beautiful sight he had ever seen. There, in the middle of his messy bedroom, bathed in early morning light, was the most gorgeous ass in existence. A perfect bubble, likely shaped by the hand of god Herself, bare and supple, just an arm’s length away from him, begging to be kissed and praised, fondled and worshiped. He stared, enraptured, still not fully awake, head thick with an ache from last night’s free wine. Maybe he was dreaming, he thought after a long moment, although the exhaustion in his muscles and the pleasant soreness throughout his body felt very real.

Above that perfect ass was an equally perfect back, strongly-flanked waist arcing up into broad, muscled shoulders, a large black swirl tattoo between them. Derek, he remembered, starting to wake up a bit, but with his new alertness came a more intense throbbing in his head, so he kept his eyes as closed as he could while still watching that superb butt flex and flutter. Derek Hale, the absurdly hot doctoral candidate and werewolf he somehow managed to hook up with last night at the English department’s beginning of the semester mixer for graduate students.

Stiles smiled into his pillow, proud that he landed the hottest guy in the department before classes had even started, memories rushing back, realizing just exactly why he was so tired and his ass so sore, why his skin was flaked with come. He remembered flashing blue eyes and snarling growls that maybe should have scared him but that he found deeply, wildly erotic. His skin felt tender and raw too, probably marked to hell with bites and hickies from Derek’s insatiable mouth, stubble burn from his rough cheeks. Sighing, Stiles rolled his hips down against the mattress, wanting more.

Derek bent over then, and Stiles muffled a needy groan into his pillow when he saw the dark swirls of hair between those exquisitely-shaped cheeks, his mouth watering. He wondered if Derek would let him play with his ass, get his fingers inside of him, eat him out, make him come with his tongue buried deep, maybe even fuck him. God, he hoped so. An ass that extraordinary deserved to be devoured, and Stiles was confident in his hunger and his abilities.

He was just about to say as much when Derek stood back up, pulling on his jeans. In his hand was the green sweater he was wearing last night, so tight it clung to his sculpted bulk, the color making his absurd eyes glow like sunlit jade even from across the room, captivating, making Stiles' jaw drop, which he hid by gulping at his wine. Derek pulled on his sweater, then began looking around for his shoes.

Well nevermind then, he thought, closing his eyes all the way, ignoring his disappointment. It’s not like he expected Derek to spoon him all morning and take him out to brunch or whatever. But it was barely sunrise and Stiles was pretty sure Derek’s cock had made him see through space and time, and well, he was hoping their first time together wasn’t going to be their only time together.

“This was fun,” Derek said when he sat to pull on his socks and boots. His voice was rougher, deeper than it seemed the night before. “But it’s not going to happen again.” Derek stood then and stared down at him, those damn jeweled eyes narrow and harsh, like he was daring Stiles to challenge him.

“Yeah man, cool,” he said, half into his pillow, squeezing it tight. “Thanks for the good time.”

He sunk back under his blankets and closed his eyes so he wouldn’t have to watch Derek walk out.


As the semester started and Stiles got to know his fellow grad students, no one said anything to him about hooking up with Derek. Stiles didn’t tell anyone, and apparently Derek didn’t either. Stiles vacillated between being impressed that Derek maybe respected him enough to not tell everyone in the department about it, and being dejected, convinced that Derek kept it quiet because he’s embarrassed.

It’s not like Stiles was looking for something serious. He just thought it would have been pretty cool if he and Derek could hang out, grab dinner or beers together every once in awhile and talk books and tv shows the way they had at the mixer, their witty, innuendo-filled banter its own kind of foreplay.

Stiles had long known that he had a thing for weres; he had frequented werewolf porn sites long before Scott was bitten and he had to branch out his werewolf research interests. He had dated a couple werewolf guys in undergrad, bossy tops that had no problem using him roughly the way he liked, but none of them had ever fucked him the way Derek had. It was dizzying and overwhelming and so incredibly hot Stiles sometimes thinks he dreamed the whole night up.

Sex with Derek was a revelation, and he wanted more, but he quickly found out that wasn’t likely to happen. He asked around about Derek as casually as he could, and found plenty of people with something to say about him. Turns out he was something of a celebrity in the department, and not just because of his supermodel looks and outstanding scholarship (of course he’s brilliant, Stiles had thought ruefully, reading one of his published articles). Not only was he one of the few werewolves, student or faculty, he was apparently the werewolf, which Stiles didn’t find out until after their one and only night together.

“Basically werewolf royalty,” Kira, a second-year poetry MFA, had told him over beers after their class together. “His great grandmother helped write the Lycanthropic Constitution. He doesn’t talk about his family much though. He actually doesn’t talk to anyone all that much.” Kira also told him that Derek volunteers as a teaching assistant, refusing to accept the tuition remission and stipend so another grad student who needs the funding can have it (of course he’s a fucking saint).

Stiles vaguely remembered something about the Hale pack when he was researching werewolves for Scott, but he hadn’t paid much attention to anything then that wouldn’t directly help him not die on the next full moon. All it took now though was a quick google search to find plenty of information about the Hales. Turns out Derek is a born wolf with a direct lineage that can be traced back several hundred years to the British Isles, according to the Wikipedia page Stiles found about Derek’s mom, an LC senator. Almost all of the information was political and business stuff – the Hales were also insanely wealthy and well-connected, Kira’s royalty comment not that far off – interesting enough, sure, but not what Stiles really wanted to know.

There was very little about the Hales’ personal lives, basic info about matings and kids, occasional photos from official events that Derek never seemed to attend. Stiles learned that Derek has an older and a younger sister, twin nephews, and a mess of aunts and uncles, the Hale pack one of the biggest and most powerful on the West coast. Stiles was about to click away from the page when he saw the last section of the article, just a short paragraph titled Assassination Attempt.

“The fuck,” he had muttered, lighting a joint. Katherine Argent, secret daughter of long-imprisoned anti-werewolf extremist Gerard Argent, who had been declared a domestic terrorist back in the eighties, had somehow gotten herself invited into the Hale family home in Beacon Hills, poisoned them all with wolfsbane, and then tried to burn the house down with the entire family, kids and humans included, inside.

Stiles double checked the date of the incident against the birthdays listed for Laura Hale’s twins, figured that the boys, who had been in the house, had been barely more than newborns at the time. “Jesus,” he muttered, puffing on the joint, anger rising. He knew there were ignorant racists out there who hated werewolves, had gotten into more than one argument over the years with such idiots, but he had never known anyone so hateful as to actually try to exterminate them, which was the Argents’ stated intent.

The attempt was thwarted by Senator Hale’s son, Derek. Katherine Argent died in prison two months later. That’s it. That was all the information given, and the news reports he found about the incident offered precious little more; clearly, the Hales used their influence to keep the details out of the press. There was a picture of Katherine Argent though, a photo taken in a hospital bed that she was handcuffed to, bulky bandage on her neck, a sneer across what was probably a very pretty face. She was unsettling, disgusting, and the whole thing, details scant as they were, made his stomach sour at the hatred and violence. It also made him think about Derek in a new light, about what he had done to protect his pack and how much self control it probably took for him not to kill her. He would have been within his rights to, Stiles knew, from his research into LC law, which put pack defense above all else.

It made Stiles wonder even more about Derek’s quiet but undeniably powerful presence, the raw, primal power coiled in every inch of his achingly beautiful body. His stern features, beautiful but knife-edged, that seemed more and more like a cultivated mask, like armor, as their night together went on, as Derek kissed Stiles’ body like it was something to be cherished even as he bruised him with his too-strong hands.

But he knew he had to forget about him when more than person told him that Derek didn’t date. No one had ever known him to have a boyfriend or a girlfriend, although his ability to pick up one night stands seemed well-known. “Don't get any ideas,” Kira had teased. “He never hooks up with anyone in the department, and believe me, tons of people, men and women, have tried. Every single one of them, shot down. Derek says he has a rule.”

Stiles had grinned into his beer at that, trying to hide the warm rush of pride he felt, remembering how easy it was to get Derek to come home with him.


As the semester went on and Stiles got busier with classes and teaching freshmen comp, busier than he had ever been in undergrad, it became easier to push thoughts of Derek to the back of his mind. Sometimes he would go days without thinking about him, but then he would catch a glimpse of a tall guy with a dark beard or hear an ad on the radio for a werewolf dating site and then he’d be lost in daydreams and memories.

He looked up Derek’s office location and his office hours, but talked himself out of going to see him. He considered emailing too, or seeing if anyone he knew had his number, but all of that seemed so… deliberate. So obvious and needy. Stiles cringed at the thought of Derek thinking he was a pathetic hook up who got too attached.

About halfway through the semester, he was in the grad lounge kitchen with Kira and Travis, one of his officemates, taking turns heating up their lunches in the decrepit old microwave. “You coming out tonight?” Travis asked, shooting Stiles a hopeful glance that he’d been seeing more and more often from him.

“What’s going on?”

“The comp lit people’s weekly night out,” Kira explained. “Allison – do you know her? Allison Lahey. She’s a second year PhD – anyways, she invited me, told me to bring whoever I wanted. You should come, they’re a fun group, even though the bar they always go to kinda sucks.”

“And they talk about postcolonial theory way too much,” Travis added, winking at Stiles, like they had an inside joke or something. “But it is pretty fun. You should come.”

“Sounds cool,” he said carefully, stirring his leftover Thai takeout and putting it back in the microwave. “I’ve never met Allison. Don’t really know many people from comp lit. Who else is usually there?” He swallowed and kept his eyes on the spinning carton of food, working hard at looking like he didn’t have any real interest in the answer to his question.

Kira rattled off a bunch of names, some he recognized, some he didn’t, none of them the one he was looking for. “Allison’s husband Isaac comes sometimes. He’s in the Chemistry department, and he’s a werewolf. He’s good friends with Derek Hale, so he’s there sometimes too.”

“He was there last week,” Travis chimed in, handing Stiles his lunch and putting his own in the microwave. Stiles didn’t make anything of Travis’ interest in talking about Derek, knew by then that any Derek sighting was something of a hot topic.

“He was?” Kira asked. “I didn’t see him.”

“You got there late. He had already left, with some hot twink undergrad.”

Stiles dropped his fork, swearing as it clattered across the floor.

“Of course he did,” Kira said. “That dude is walking sex,” she sighed appreciatively.

You have no idea, Stiles thought, setting his food down and turning to the sink to wash his fork, trying to ignore the souring twist of jealousy and anger. He had no claim on Derek, and absolutely no reason to feel this way, he reminded himself, forcing himself to rejoin the conversation still going on behind him.

“Why is he getting a doctorate anyways,” Travis mused, pushing his glasses up his nose. “If I looked like him, my life would be constant sex. I’d be living it up as a model or making a fortune in porn, not getting a PhD.”

Travis’ praise of Derek’s beauty only made the inappropriate jealousy worse, but still, Stiles couldn’t help but silently agree. Based on looks alone, Derek would certainly excel at either career.

“He’s already rich,” Kira reminded Travis. “Derek Hale of the Hales, remember?”

Travis made a noise of disgust. “So not fair.”

“So Stiles,” Kira said, turning back towards him. “We’ll see you tonight?”

“Yeah,” he answered, squaring his shoulders, telling his jealousy to shove it. This was what he was waiting for, a chance to casually to run into him again. We’ll see who Derek goes home with tonight, he had thought, hopeful, excited.


But Derek wasn’t there when Stiles arrived at the bar, and then he didn’t show up at all. As the night went on Stiles kept drinking, which only made his morose staring at the door more obvious, he was sure. It didn’t seem to matter to Travis though, who was practically in his lap by the time Stiles was finishing his seventh beer.

He should have gone home with him. He needed to feel someone else’s hands on his body to brush away the ghost of Derek’s touch, put the damn wolf out of his mind once and for all. He was probably just fixated on the great sex, after all. He just needed to get laid again and he could go back his normal, pre-Derek Hale existence.

He didn’t go home with Travis though. He peeled away from his grasp, smiling awkwardly at his disappointed face, paid his tab and said a few quick goodbyes before stumbling out of the bar to his bus stop, sucking in the cool night air to clear his head, skin hot from the booze but still shivering.

When he got home, he wasted no time locking himself away in his room, pulling up one of his favorite werewolf-human vids and jacking off hard and fast, slicking up his fingers and shoving two in roughly, drunk enough to barely feel the burn. Naked, he crawled onto all fours, trying to get a better angle, remembering how good it felt to be on his hands and knees for Derek.

He had fingered himself open that night, just like this, Derek on his knees on the bed behind him, watching, grunting in pleasure, hand at his big, uncut cock. Derek had pulled his fingers from his ass without warning and replaced them with his own, and if that wasn’t enough to make him groan and buck in surprised delight, he had also brought Stiles’ wet fingers to his mouth, sucking hard and loud, moaning. Barely watching the video now, Stiles fingered himself harder, thinking about that moment and so many others: the way Derek growled when he finally pushed in, how his eyes flashed blue and he bit Stiles’ neck every time he bared his throat for him, how good it felt when Derek pulled out and unloaded sizzling hot bursts that drenched his sweaty back. Stiles cried out when he came all over his sheets, falling asleep soon after, head spinning.


He gives up hoping to see Derek again after that night, throws himself into his work with such single-minded focus he barely notices the passage of the next several weeks. Thanksgiving comes and goes with little fanfare, and the next thing he knows it’s finals week. He finishes all of his grading early and the final revision for his fiction workshop, leaving just his seminar paper for Dr. Morrell’s post-postmodernism class. He’s close to having a finished draft, but he’s going a little stir crazy after three straight days cooped up in his office with his library books and Travis’ forlorn glances.

Stiles gathers up his laptop and a few books and walks in the rain to a coffee shop just off campus. He’s waiting for his order, scanning the crowded room, just about to ask the barista to make his coffee to go when he spots Derek on the far side of the café, sitting alone at a table by the window. Stiles’ breath catches in his throat and his palms feel sweaty, chest tightening with excitement and nerves.

It’s strange, finally seeing Derek after three months of trying to remember the exact details of his pristine features. He looks at once the same and very different, Stiles’ memory of him quickly reconciling with this new, updated version. Derek’s wearing a thick-knit sweater, dark purple – purple, for the love of god – and his scruff, which had just been long enough to rough up Stiles’ pale skin, is a full beard now. It’s night-black and luxurious like his hair, which is longer too, sticking up messily, even curling a bit at the back of his neck.

He looks soft, and Stiles feels very, very warm.

Derek’s got expensive-looking headphones around his neck and he’s slouched back in his chair, typing away at a Macbook, seemingly oblivious to Stiles’ presence. The barista calls out his coffee and Stiles picks up the steaming mug, still trying to calm his heartbeat as he walks over to him, biting his lip when he sees Derek’s eyes up close again, sparkling bluer than he remembered.

“Derek,” he calls out, steadying himself by leaning on the empty chair across from him, unable to stop his smile when Derek finally, thankfully, looks at him again.


Jackson and Lydia are over when he gets home from his dinner with Derek, lounging around the living room with Scott, passing a pipe around and watching Parks and Rec. Stiles pauses it and falls next to Scott on the couch. “So, I just agreed to pretend to be Derek Hale’s boyfriend.”

Lydia, who finished undergrad in three years and who’s in the second year of her master’s in mathematics, looks up from the thick textbook she’s reading, curled up in the big recliner next to the couch. “Start at the beginning, sweetie,” she says, passing him the pipe.

Stiles accepts it gratefully and explains as best he could, leaving out the few details Derek had given him about why he didn’t date. Kate, Derek had said, a woman I dated a long time ago. It didn’t end well. His face was closed off and severe when he told him, obviously not wanting to discuss it any further. Stiles’ felt a hollow dread when he put it all together, realizing with how Katherine – Kate – Argent got into the Hale house. He didn’t tell Derek that he knew about the attempted murder of his family, didn’t reach over to take his hand in a vain gesture of comfort like he wanted to. Instead he had changed the subject to get that pained look off Derek’s face, and he seemed grateful for it.

“So, you’re going to move in with Derek for a week so you can better lie to one of the most powerful alphas in the country,” Jackson asks when Stiles is done explaining, eyebrows skeptical, conveying just how idiotic he thinks Stiles is.

“Basically,” he answers. “Derek seems to think it will work, if we do the scent mixing right.”

“Hey,” Scott says, smiling and hitting him in the chest. “You’re getting what you want, sex with Derek again.”

“He said we shouldn’t have sex again,” he says quietly, still not sure exactly why Derek is against them fucking again. “He said that it would complicate things. Whatever that means.”

Scott patted his shoulder and smiled sympathetically. “Sounds like maybe he was trying to let you down easy, buddy. I’m sorry.”

From his spot on the floor at Lydia’s feet, Jackson cackles. “Damn, Stilinski. He wants you to pretend to be his mate but he doesn’t want to fuck you again? Must suck to be that weird looking and bad in bed.” Lydia slaps him on the side of the head without looking up from her book.

“Boyfriend, not mate,” Stiles corrects him. “And blow me, Whittemore,” he adds, getting up to leave the room.

“Someone’s gonna have to,” Jackson, yells at his back. “Your rich pretty boy wolf isn’t going to, that’s for sure.”

In his room, Stiles digs a bag out from his bed, and begins sorting through his piles of clothes on the floor, grabbing enough for the next week, figuring he’ll be able to come back and pack better before he and Derek leave for California. He’s muttering to himself, about Jackson mostly, whose parents bought him the bite when he turned eighteen, and he has the gall to call Derek a rich pretty boy wolf? At least Derek was born a werewolf, and isn’t flashy about his wealth like Jackson, the Porsche-driving douche.

Scott appears at his door, tossing him the pipe and lighter, a fresh bowl loaded, scooping up a baseball from the floor and flopping onto Stiles’ bed. He lies on his back and tosses the ball in the air a few times, catching it easily. “Why are you doing this, Stiles?” he asks finally.

Stiles responds sharply, “I’m in a position to help him, so I’m helping him." He takes a hit and shoves clothes into the bag.

“But that’s not the only position you want to be in.” Scott grins and wiggles his eyebrows at him, reaching for the pipe.

“You’re hilarious, Scotty boy.”

“I know. Doesn’t change the fact that you’re totally doing this because you want to bone Derek again.”

“Well, yeah, of course I do. He’s fucking hot. You’re the straightest guy I know and I’m pretty sure you would fuck him if he looked at you twice.”

“You showed me that one picture of him you found online. His eyebrows are confusing. And does he really think you’ll be able to pull this off without having sex?”

“He seems to think so. Why, you think we can’t?”

“I mean, I’m sure he knows more about all this than I do, but, yeah, wolves notice the smell of sex on people, on couples especially. You smelled like Derek for a week after you two hooked up, dude. It’s unmistakable. I think a pack of born wolves will definitely notice if you guys don’t smell like sex.”

Stiles throws the half-full duffel on the floor and flops on to his bed next to Scott, sighing. He had been thinking as much, and Scott confirming it didn’t help his confusion. Why would Derek risk this not working, desperate as he seemed for it to? They’ve already had sex, so it’s not like it would be all that weird if they did again. Just the opposite in fact, so what the hell? “He offered to pay me,” he tells Scott, not wanting to talk about Derek’s no-sex rule anymore.

“No shit? How much?”

“I don’t know, I didn’t let him get that far. The idea of getting paid for it feels really weird.”

Scott catches the ball and stares at him for a moment. “Even if you don’t have sex again?”


Scott’s quiet again, the only sound in the room the smack of the ball against his palm as he tosses and catches it. “Stiles,” he says cautiously.


“Do you like like Derek? Like more than just want to have sex him again because he’s hot?”

Stiles sighs. He thinks about the way Derek growled and at nuzzled at his neck their first night together, before they had even gotten in the front door. He thinks about how, that night, between their second and third round, Derek dozed off and Stiles got up to get water, and when he came back into his room, he stood by the bed and stared at him for a minute, struck by his beauty, by how gentle and calm he looked in sleep. He thinks about how disappointed he was when Derek didn't show at the bar, and how excited he was when he saw him in the coffee shop today. He thinks about the way Derek teasingly growled and flashed his eyes when he caught Stiles watching him, the look of disbelief, followed by cautious hope when he agreed to help him lie to his family. Stiles thinks about the twist in his gut when Derek said he didn't want to have sex with him again, how it was even worse when Derek offered him money, because this is just a business transaction to him. He thinks about how he doesn't care if it is, because he wants to help Derek, no matter what it takes. Leave it to Scott to say what Stiles hasn’t been wanting to admit to himself. “Yeah, I think maybe I do,” he answers finally, quietly.

“So why don’t you tell him? Ask him out for real. It’ll make lying to his family easier.”

The thought had crossed his mind more than once during his dinner with Derek, talking about the best ways to lie to a pack of werewolves. But once he realized what happened with Kate, why Derek refused to date, the guilt and betrayal he must have felt, probably still feels, Stiles knew getting Derek to date him for real would be impossible. Derek is protecting himself by keeping people at arm’s length, and it's ridiculous to think that he would lower his defenses for Stiles, who he barely knows. And Stiles wouldn’t just get rejected, which would totally fucking suck, but Derek would also definitely call off their plan and where would that leave him?

“If I tell him, he won’t let me help him, and then what? He ends up mated to someone he doesn’t want to be with?”

“Instead of you?”

He scoffs. Yeah, like the crown prince of the Hale pack who is so anti-relationship he was willing to pay someone to help him trick his family, is going to want to get mated to Stiles Stilinski. “Scott, come on. I don’t want to be his mate. I just think he’s a good guy and I just want to help him out, okay? So I have a crush. Yeah, dating him would be cool, but that's it. It's not a big deal.”

Scott gives him another long, puppy-eyed look before sitting up suddenly, slapping him on the thigh. “Come on. Lydia already has a bunch of ideas for how you and Derek met. And she says you need to think of nicknames.”

"Got that one covered."


Stiles tries not to act too impressed with Derek’s place, a freakin' houseboat on Lake Union. It's one of the smaller ones, probably not one of the million dollar ones, but still. It's gorgeous, big windows with a stunning view of the lake and the city and an entire wall of built-in bookshelves, with sleek but comfortable furniture, everything very neat and sparse.

Derek seems agitated when Stiles first gets there, obviously nervous about having someone new in his territory. Stiles wants to calm him down, so he doesn’t make a big deal about his place, just teases him about nicknames but fights the urge to chatter endlessly like he often does when nervous, not wanting to irritate Derek or accidentally say something about his maybe-not-so-small crush. Instead he scopes out Derek’s books, studies a photo of Derek’s sister and her identical twin boys, their wolf-eyes flaring slightly at the camera’s flash, but not enough to obscure the resemblance to their uncle, making Stiles wonder about Derek at that age, if he had been as serious and stern as a child as he is as an adult. Stiles puts the frame down – he hadn’t realized he’d picked it up – very aware of Derek’s steely gaze on him.

Derek seems to relax quickly, frowns adorably when Stiles is confused about the drawer he cleaned out for him, the space he cleared in his closet. But seriously, what the hell? Stiles can barely remember the last time he did laundry, let alone fold and hang up his clothes. But Derek seems like the type of person who puts his clothes in hotel room dressers, so Stiles rolls with it, flushing with embarrassment and silently vowing to do laundry first thing tomorrow when Derek’s nostrils flare as his clothes spill out of his bag.

He settles in when Derek goes to take a shower, getting comfortable on his big couch, thinking about fake dates and fake boyfriend pictures and cute stories that will convince a pack of wolves they’ve been dating for months.

But mostly he thinks about how mouth-watering Derek looks his in sweaty running clothes, basketball shorts low on his hips, sleeveless t-shirt clinging to his pecs.

How is the hell is he going to get through this without having sex with him again?

And even if he wasn't kinda dying to kiss him again, Stiles would still think it’s a bad idea to try and pull this off without sex, especially after what Scott told him. Maybe Derek feels weird because he thinks he’d be taking advantage of Stiles, or pressuring him, because of their arrangement? The more he dwells on it, waiting for Derek to get out of the shower, the more that starts to make sense.

The shower shuts off, and Stiles smiles. All he has to do then, is reassure Derek that he wants to have sex with him, and hell, that won’t be difficult at all. There are a lot of things he’s going to have to get good at lying about in the next week, but wanting Derek is most definitely not one of them.


The next time he wakes to Derek’s bare ass, Stiles is certain he’s dreaming.

It’s just too perfect.

It’s closer this time, a lot closer, because his pillow is Derek’s muscled back, and he’s peering down the slope of it to the graceful, glorious swell of that ass that he still hasn’t gotten to explore to his liking. Derek is still asleep, face buried in a pillow, back rising and falling steadily under Stiles’ cheek and the little puddle of drool he’s left near his bottom rib.

He wants to move to wipe it up, because ugh, drooling on a guy’s back is so not sexy, but he doesn’t want to wake Derek yet. For the scent, he thinks, leaving it there, huffing softly, wincing at the memory of last night and his pathetic attempt to hide his blatant need for Derek’s affection after they fucked. Derek had said it first, but of course it made sense when he did it, rubbing his come into Stiles’ skin. Stiles’ isn’t the expert here, but he’s fairly certain that’s some pretty good scent mixing. No need for him to force Derek into cuddling him, curling against him like he’s a goddamn teddy bear, making Derek put his arm around him.

Stiles just couldn’t help it. He was sex-dazed and overwhelmed with how good Derek felt on him, in him so full and deep, touching him in ways that made his body feel brand new and alive, his kisses making him feel weak and exhilarated all at once, eyes unnerving and fiercely bright as he fucked him, relentless. It was only natural, instinct, to want to still be close to Derek after that, especially given the lie they’re trying to build, right?

He was thrilled when seducing Derek proved nearly as easy as the first time. Even though Derek’s feelings and motivations remain obscure and confusing, Stiles is at least reassured that Derek is attracted to him.

But Stiles was an idiot, and he let it get the best of him, let himself get too caught up in it, let his feelings show in the heat of the moment. Exhausted, relieved that Derek seemed okay with cuddling, for the scent, but still worried he had revealed too much, he muttered something to cover his ass, to remind Derek that he knew it was fake. He fell asleep almost as he was still speaking, hoping it worked.

Stiles closes his eyes against Derek’s warm skin. If this were real, he would kiss his way down Derek’s spine, gently, waking him slowly with his tongue, worship at the altar of his godly beauty, eat him out until he cries. But this isn’t real, and Stiles needs to remember that before he goes and ruins Derek’s life by screwing this up.

“Hey,” a sleep-thick voice says from above, Derek shifting underneath him. “You okay?” Derek half turns onto his side, looks down at him, eyes partly closed and hair an adorably wild mess.

Stiles rolls back from him a bit, adjusting the blankets. “Huh?”

“Your heart is pounding and you smell…anxious. Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”

“Hurt me? No, of course not.” He moves up the bed so he’s facing Derek, both of them lying in their sides now, still naked. Stiles is cold now that he’s no longer pressed against the furnace of Derek’s body. “I…uh, was worried about you. That you might be regretting this.”

Derek’s kiss is hard and urgent, surprising him. “I don’t have any regrets,” he reassures him, reaching up like he’s going to pet Stiles’ cheek, but lets his hand fall to his shoulder instead. “This helps our story.” His voice is even, unreadable, but his body, which Stiles understands quite well already, arches closer to his, his stiff cock brushing across Stiles’ belly, making them both shudder a little.

“So, uh, you’re up for another round then,” Stiles asks, returning his hand to Derek’s skin, tracing his fingers down his rock hard abs, swooping over his hip to clutch tentatively at his ass.

Derek closes his eyes, wide mouth creeping into a gentle smile. “I remember you saying something about wanting me to come in your mouth.” His voice is breathy and low, hungry.

Stiles laughs, his own cock rising more, earlier anxiety about Derek his too-obvious affection dissipating with each brush of Derek’s hand along his spine. “You remember that, huh, Wolfman?”

Derek nuzzles at his neck, scenting and nibbling on his earlobe. “Wolfman? What happened to Sourwolf?”

Stiles feels his eyes go wide with surprise, excitement rising, licking his lips, dying to suck Derek off, to feel all of his hot come slide down his throat and coat his mouth. “Sourwolf? How’d you know about Sourwolf? That one was a secret.”

“You said it last night.”

“I did?”

“Yeah, right before you fell asleep.” Derek tenses up for a moment, but Stiles must imagine it, because he’s back to relaxed and horny in a moment.

“Oh.” He knows he’s blushing, hides it by kissing Derek’s neck. “That’s, uh, actually what I called you in my head, that first night we met. Before we actually met, you know. When I was just staring at you from across the room.”

“Oh yeah? You really knew that quickly that I was a wolf?”

“I told you dude, I am like, the wolf whisperer.” Stiles kisses down his chest, rubbing his cheeks, rough with a few days worth of stubble, through his dark, silky chest hair. He moves to push Derek on to his back but he’s too slow, or maybe Derek’s too fast, because suddenly Stiles is on his back, falling against the soft mattress with a dull thump, Derek hovering over him.

Derek kisses the confused noise off his lips, tonguing into his mouth until they’re both breathless. He works his mouth and his beard down Stiles’ torso, licking and kissing, pulling skin between his blunt human teeth and biting softly, looking up to meet his eyes, grinning, when Stiles moans and bucks underneath him. Derek settles between his legs and nuzzles at the base of his cock, hands gentle on his thighs. Stiles hisses and twitches when his big fingers grace lightly across his tender rim. “Sore?”

Stiles smiles dreamily, remembering in vivid detail how he got the dull, throbbing ache in his ass. “Lil’ bit,” he answers, rolling his hips, trying to press against Derek’s fingers. “We can still, you know. Maybe just, uh, go a little easier on me this time?”

Derek shushes him – actually shushes him, the adorable weirdo – and settles his fingers more solidly around his ass, making Stiles’ cock twitch against his beard. Derek isn’t moving, is just watching Stiles’ face, inscrutable expression on his own. Stiles is about to ask him what he’s doing when his gaze is drawn by a slight movement, snaking black lines working their way up Derek’s forearm, disappearing into the crook of his elbow. “Wha – ” he starts to ask, but sputters off when he feels the throbbing mellow and then dissipate altogether, soreness replaced with a calm, glowing warmth. “That is amazing,” Stiles murmurs, unsure if he’s more affected by Derek’s powerful pain-leaching or the fact that he’s thoughtful enough to take his pain at all, minimal as it was. “Y’can definitely fuck me now, Sourwolf.” Stiles is tangling his fingers in Derek’s hair, impossibly silky smooth and soft, fingertips gentling over the hard contours of his skull.

Derek shushes him again before he swallowing his cock down, still looking up at him, still grinning.


When Stiles starts to come, Derek pulls off, giving him his neck to spill all over. Body thrumming, panting, he yanks Derek up, grappling awkwardly at his obscenely muscled shoulders, biting his lip so he doesn’t say anything stupid. He catches Derek’s red mouth in a bruising kiss, pushing at his shoulders now, trying to get him to roll over.

Derek snorts a laugh into his jaw and lets Stiles roll him onto his back, settling back against the pillows and spreading his legs wide for Stiles to sit between, cock flushed and shiny with his thick precome, begging to be sucked. Even though it’s beckoning at him so, making his mouth water with how badly he wants to get his mouth on him, Stiles tears his eyes away to look back up at Derek’s neck, muscled and strong like the rest of him, glistening with his come.

Stiles gets it, he thinks, the wolf marking, claiming thing. He’s no wolf, but something in him, something deep and primal-feeling, swells with pleasure at seeing his come on Derek’s skin, on his neck, that most sacred place for wolves. He reaches up and runs two fingers through his mess, wants to feel its heat on Derek’s skin, wants to rub it in so Derek will smell like him well past the end date of their charade. Wants every werewolf Derek meets to know that he bared his neck for him, let Stiles mark him.

They’ll never know it was fake.

Stiles closes his eyes and moves down Derek’s body, overwhelmed and sad in a way he pushes from his mind. Derek makes a grab for his hand, the one still messy with his come, and pulls his fingers into his mouth, licking and sucking.

It makes Stiles groan as he circles the head of Derek’s cock with his tongue, bittersweet precome making his mouth water. He wants to destroy Derek with his mouth, wants to lick and suckle and swallow him down until he’s gasping, wants to make Derek fall apart the way he makes him, even just a little.

It seems like maybe it’s working, judging by the way Derek’s breathy moans are getting more and more urgent, hands tighter in Stiles’ hair, pulling slightly. Their first time together, when his hair was shorter, barely more than buzzed, Derek had been frustrated that he couldn’t get a good grip on it. Stiles smiles around his cock, glad that he’s let it grow out.

Emboldened, he slips off his cock and wets a finger with his spit, reaching down under Derek’s full, heavy balls. “Can I?” he asks, brushing softly against his cleft, downy with soft hair. “I can make you feel so good Derek, I promise.”

“Fuck, yes,” Derek’s voice is low and scratchy and he spreads his legs wider, rolls his hips up. “I’ve thought about your fingers,” he mumbles shyly, like he’s telling him a secret.

Pleased, fucking delighted, Stiles watches Derek’s face as he teases his tight muscle with the tip of his finger, pressing in slowly, pushing farther when he sees the blissed out grin on Derek’s face, the quickened flutter of his dark lashes. He gets another spit-slick finger in him, so hot and tight Stiles can’t help but think about what it would be like to plunge his cock into him, feel that hole swallow him up and clench around his dick. Groaning, he returns his mouth to Derek’s cock, working his tongue and his lips and bobbing up and down, fucking his tight hole steadily with his fingers, reaching deep and curling to tease at his prostate, massaging gently before pulling off, making Derek writhe and pant.

He starts to thrust up into his mouth then, small, controlled little ruts at first, faster and harder when Stiles nods and smiles, encouraging, stretching his mouth wider, focusing on opening his throat more, breathing through his mouth. His eyes are starting to water and spit and precome is dribbling from the corners of his mouth and he’s pretty sure the back of his throat might be bruised by the time this is done, but fuck, he’s loving every perfect moment of it.

Stiles works his fingers harder, buried to the last knuckle, keeps at it when Derek’s hips still on the upthrust, cock shoved deep into his mouth. Stiles swallows deliberately, tightening his muscles around his head, the first thick spray of come slipping down his throat easily. Derek is muttering curses and Stiles thinks his eyes are glowing blue, and maybe he’s growling too, and fuck yes, Stiles is totally the wolf whisperer.

Derek pulls back a bit so the next few bursts of come puddle onto Stiles’ tongue, so much so fast his mouth already feels full, and fuck, Derek’s not done, still unloading, across Stiles’ lips now, painting his face with a final ribbon of white before his body goes limp, chest heaving.

Jaw aching, Stiles looks up at Derek and swallows again, mouth thick with the bittersweet taste of him. Derek hauls him up by the arms and pulls him into a soft, sloppy kiss, grunting and grinning, licking at each other until both of their faces are shiny with Derek’s come. For the scent, Stiles thinks.

They lie side-by-side for a bit, not touching or talking, contently basking in the afterglow. Stiles is surprised when Derek finally speaks again, having thought he had fallen back asleep. “I need to work on my diss for awhile,” he says, sitting up and swinging his legs to the floor, pausing for a moment before standing. “But this afternoon we can do something. Maybe one of those fake dates you were talking about? For the pictures?”

“Yeah, sounds good to me, big guy.” Stiles is glad Derek’s back is turned toward him, both so he can stare unabashedly again at his ass, and so he doesn’t see his answering smile, which he hides in the pillow anyways.

He knows it’s fake, knows that he wouldn’t be spending the day with Derek, wouldn’t have woken up in his bed this morning, or probably ever, if it weren’t under the condition that it all means nothing. But that doesn’t stop his excitement, or stop him from thinking that this is how their first morning together should have gone.

And every morning since, he thinks, and that’s when Stiles realizes that he might be a little bit in love with Derek Hale.