"I can't fucking
Derek's been muttering angrily for ten minutes. Stiles has been sinking into the passenger seat of the Camaro, wondering when Derek will let him get up and go inside.
"Look, I'm not gonna apologize for letting that guy blow me, because I feel like a man should never apologize for enjoying a blowjob—"
Derek growls, hands tightening on the steering wheel.
"—so you should just, you know, get over it."
Derek stares at him, jaw dropped.
"Get over it?"
"Get over you offering your neck to a complete fucking stranger ."
"Uh, yeah? Man, I don't understand—"
"You don't—Stiles, how can you—"
"Fuck, Stiles, you're part of my pack. You can’t just go fucking around with pretty perverts in back alleys."
"I didn't know, I mean you never—"
"I'm the Alpha; it's my job to protect you—"
"I didn't know I was part of the pack!"
"How could you—"
"You never—I'm not a wolf! How was I supposed to—"
Derek's growl is closer to a roar as he shoulders open his door and springs from the car. Stiles is frozen for two seconds before he's out, too. Derek is pacing in the empty driveway.
"For someone so smart," he says, low enough that Stiles can barely hear him from where he’s leaning against the passenger door. "You can be so incredibly stupid."
"Oh, fuck off, Derek." Derek stops pacing, glaring at him. "Fuck off and fuck you. You don't treat me like I'm part of your pack so why the fuck would I think—"
Suddenly Derek's on him, in his space, nose inches away. He's still glaring, but there's something lurking under the anger that Stiles can't define.
"Listen to me very closely," Derek whispers. "You are mine. You're part of my pack, my family. Mine. Have I made myself clear?"
Stiles wants to say yes, nod, but he's just so confused —
"I didn't," he starts, voice catching. "I don't understand."
Derek groans, almost defeated. "Just... you're pack." Derek backs away, heads towards his side of the car. "And if I ever catch you whoring yourself out again, I'll kill you with my bare hands."
"I don't—" Stiles moves away, not quite following him.
Stiles nods. But then, no .
Derek stops. "Excuse me?"
“I just... No, okay? No."
He sighs, exasperated. "No what, Stiles?"
Stiles looks down. "You don't…get to tell me who to fuck. Just because you don't understand why anyone would want me—"
"I never said that." The words crack through the air. When Stiles looks up, Derek is practically vibrating, he's wound so tight.
Derek is possibly the most confusing being Stiles has ever encountered.
“It’s okay, man, I get it,” says Stiles, walking towards his front door. He digs around in his pockets for his keys. “I’m not your type and it’s cool. But Alpha or no, you do not get to tell me who to fuck.” He pulls his keys out, unlocks and opens the front door. “If I want to fuck a thousand older guys in places worse than that alley, I’ll do it. I may all of a sudden be part of your pack, but you don’t own me.”
Satisfied with his parting remarks, Stiles closes and locks the door. He shrugs off his jacket in the front room and takes the stairs two at a time.
He wonders if Derek being in his room will ever not scare the shit out of him.
“Fuck, Jesus ,” he gasps, goes for casual, “miss me already?”
Derek doesn’t laugh, not that Stiles expected him to, choosing instead to loom further into Stiles’ space, pressing him back against the door.
“Derek, what are you—“
Derek is pressed against him, breathing shallowly into the scant inches between them. Stiles is so confused—
“You think I don’t want you,” Derek whispers. “How you could possibly—“
“You never,” Stiles starts. Swallows. “You never said anything.”
“Wasn’t going to, was gonna wait.” Derek leans closer; their entire bodies are pressed together, Derek’s hands riding low on Stiles’ hips. “You’re a kid and I’m…”
“So,” Stiles licks his lips. “So are you gonna—“
“You smell like him.”
“You smell like him, like blood,” Derek rubs his nose along Stiles’ jaw, hands sliding up to the skin under Stiles’ shirt. “Like desperation and anger and doubt.”
Stiles tries and fails to hold back a whimper when Derek licks the side of his neck.
“I don’t like it.”
“Then fix it.” Stiles tilts his head to the right, exposing the long line of his neck and Derek moans low in his throat. “Mark me up if that’s what you want.” Apparently he doesn’t need to be told twice; Derek’s fingers press bruises into Stiles’ hips, hold him in place as his mouth latches onto the space under his ear. Stiles’ hands are in Derek’s hair, Derek’s are pushing the thin material of Stiles’ shirt up, and Derek’s cold belt buckle is pressing into the soft skin of Stiles’ belly. Derek bites down, hard but God, not hard enough; Stiles’ hips shoot forward, shoulders pressed into the door, and—
Derek is growling, low, just this side of dangerous. He pulls Stiles’ shirt up over his head and tugs him towards the bed. Stiles toes out of his shoes while Derek strips out of his jacket and shirt. Stiles has maybe half a second to feel self-conscious before Derek is on him, all over him, mouth pressing hot kisses against his skin and Stiles is trembling; he can’t stop mewling out little whimpers.
“Stiles,” Derek murmurs, mouth hot and open against Stiles’ skin. “You gotta—you want it—?”
He bites down and Stiles keens, hips bucking up, cock hard and aching in his jeans. Derek’s hands are hot, his mouth is hot, tongue even hotter, and Stiles is aware that Derek is talking to him but he can’t figure it out. Hands trail down, slide his belt out of the loops and slip the button on his jeans free.
“Stiles.” Breathed against his skin; gentle scrape of teeth against bruises beginning to form.
“God, Derek, I want it, whatever you want, please —“
The noise Derek makes isn’t quite human and Stiles shivers. And then he’s naked and Derek is naked and there’s—God, hot skin, everything is so hot and Stiles can’t breathe and Derek is biting him again, tiny nipping bites along the line of his ribs, down and down and down, biting, sucking kisses over the jut of his hips and blunt fingernails raking over the back of his thighs. Stiles spreads his legs and Derek settles between them, propped up on his elbows and without saying anything, his mouth closes over the head of Stiles’ cock and Stiles can’t stop himself; his back arches, sending his hips off the bed and his cock deeper into Derek’s throat. Derek doesn’t flinch or slow down, doesn’t try to hold on or stop Stiles from moving. He sucks, deep pulls like he’s in the desert and Stiles is a glass of water, fingers digging, pressing, pushing. Stiles is moaning, babbling incoherently, and Derek ignores him completely, nose buried in the nest of curls at the base of Stiles’ cock.
Stiles whines, high in the back of his throat, heels digging into the mattress beneath him. He’s—he can’t breathe and Derek isn’t breathing and oh God, Derek has one hand on Stiles, smoothing over his thighs and one hand on his own cock, jacking himself off while his mouth is full of Stiles.
Stiles comes embarrassingly quickly.
Though he really can’t be blamed for it; he’s had two blowjobs in the space of two hours.
Derek makes a content noise and pulls off, licking his lips and dragging the tip of his nose over the hollows of Stiles’ hips.
The sound Derek makes is almost a laugh. “Thank you.”
Stiles is quiet for a minute as Derek arranges himself on his side. Most of their bodies are touching and Stiles really likes the warmth.
Derek rolls his eyes. “So what?”
“You, ah—” Stiles is thinking about having some kind of relationship talk or something until he remembers that Derek didn’t actually come. “You want some help with that?” He gestures vaguely down and Derek’s breath hitches.
“If you want...”
Stiles tries to keep his hand from shaking as he reaches down and wraps it around Derek. He moves his hand a couple times, playing with grips and speeds and Derek rolls into him with a groan, burying his face in Stiles’ shoulder. Stiles picks up the speed, jacking faster, tugging harder and Derek’s hips start rolling against him and Derek bites down hard, Stiles’ swears he’s bleeding, and then there’s hot liquid on his fingers and Derek is moaning and it’s hot all over again.
“Fucking. Awesome .” Stiles drags his sticky fingers through the mess on his hip, only slightly jumping when Derek’s hand slides over his, twining their fingers together. Derek hums an agreement and throws a leg over Stiles, pulling him closer.
“Are we cuddling?” Stiles asks, voice already heavy with sleep.
“We’re sleeping .”
“Mmkay. G’night, Derek.”
Stiles knows they still have to have some kind of conversation, but it can wait. He squirms around, trying to reach for a blanket without moving too much, and smiles when Derek’s arms tighten around him. He finally gets the Beacon Hills High blanket he keeps at the foot of his bed up and draped over the bottom half of their bodies. He sighs and settles further into Derek’s embrace, almost asleep before he remembers something.
“Don’t ever call me a whore again.”
Derek nods, licks the juncture of Stiles’ neck and shoulder almost apologetically.
Stiles rolls his eyes, but falls asleep before he can think of something brilliant to say.