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Trepidation is a word that has burrowed into the deepest crevices of his mind. His fingernails peel back busted and bleeding, mouth opening in desperate grunts as he tries to prevent himself from falling into paranoia by clutching the cliff edge. He’ll hold on for as long as he can, but he finds lodged in his throat inevitability. All those days he spent running from the nightmares, he woke and ran towards the monsters instead. Fear coils around him with thorns buried deep in his skin; he learns to live with the pain. He doesn’t want to be so melodramatic, but he can count the days he has left and there aren’t many.
“We’ll split into teams to track this thing down,” Scott stands in the center of the room. His brown hair is touselled from his fingers constantly going through it. A nervous tic he developed sometime in middle school after his dad left. The pack is scattered around in Derek’s loft, all draped over each other. Stiles sits alone in a bean bag chair he had brought in one day because he was tired of sitting on the floor. His eyes find Derek’s, and even he has the warming presence of Erica and Isaac sitting on each side of him. They stare at one another, each not finding anything worth breaking the eye contact for, that is until Erica jostles his side his eyes immediately going over to her. Then Stiles just stares at the floor. “Erica and Lydia. Jackson and Boyd. Derek and Stiles. That leaves me and Allison and Isaac being a team of three.”
His eyes narrow at Scott. He watches how Isaac raises the corner of his lips before tucking his head down and nodding. Allison grabs her bow that she had resting on the side of the couch with a soft smile. Scott’s eyes are flitting back and forth between the both of them, thumbs in his belt loops and smiling gently. Lydia has her brows pinched together as she argues the durability of her custom Jimmy Choos with Erica. As they argue the corners of their lips raise without their permission. Jackson tells Boyd about the importance of tailoring clothes to the body. They’re all walking out of the door deep in the midst of conversation.
A huge, warm hand lands on his shoulders. He startles, letting out a short yell, “Warn a guy!” Stiles turns his body to face Derek. He has on his signature bitchy brows paired with a deep red Henley and blue jeans that hang entirely too low. He doesn't know why Scott keeps pairing them together, some fucked up shit about team building and making the pack a fortress of friendship. Scott had sat him down weeks ago with a speech about how a pack is a family, and family means you love each other. Stiles zoned out during most of it thinking about Napoleon getting jumped by rabbits, and then the next thing Stiles knows is Scott embracing him and wiping tears from his eyes. He imagines Scott gave the same speech to Derek.
“Listen. I know you don't want to be paired up with me, but just try for Scott’s sake.” Derek growls, walking out the door.
“When the fuck did you start caring about Scott’s sake?” His footsteps are heavy as he hurries to catch up with him. Stiles hates it when he does that. Derek is always assuming that nobody wants to spend time with him. That he's not good company, that everyone's just circling around him because he's pack adjacent. If anything Stiles is the outsider, the one who gets forgotten, the spoiled milk in the back of the fridge. He slams the door of the Camaro when he climbs in. Derek reverses the car with a hand on Stiles’ headrest, and a snarl leaving his mouth. This close Stiles can see the blue of Derek's eyes, the small beauty marks that Derek hides with his glare, and the bump of his nose. He looks… pretty. Their eyes slide together for one heart-stopping moment. He swears he can hear his own heartbeat. He swallows deeply when Derek peels out of the parking lot. It's quiet in the car except for how fucking loud his heart is beating. His dick is swelling up from all the exciting blood flow of being angry at Derek Hale. He pushes a palm against his jeans to try to adjust very subtly wanting to avoid Derek thinking that his slight hard-on is because of him. Derek's eyes flit towards the movement anyway, his glare deepening, nostrils flaring.
“Fucking teenagers,” he mutters as he brings the car to a slow stop fingers tapping on the door waiting for the light to turn green. He looks out the window trying to take his mind off his passenger.
“My body gets hard when I'm angry, I’m eighteen Derek, go fuck yourself.” He spits out. Derek doesn’t fucking get to judge him for being young. “At least I can get it up, old man.”
Derek's brows furrow quickly turning to sneer at Stiles, “I can actually find someone who wants to fuck me, unlike you. Your right hand is the only action you get.”
For some reason that enrages Stiles, “Well, your last lay almost killed my dad, and the one before that murdered your entire fucking family. If I were you I’d be careful who I put my dick in next.”
Derek narrows his eyes at Stiles, “Fuck you.”
“Fuck me? No, fuck you.” Stiles' knee bounces at a rapid rate. Then, his head is forced to the headrest as Derek’s foot presses the gas pedal to the floor. The Camaro roars with increasing speed. Stiles’ foot presses down on the floor like he has a brake pedal there, his hand is gripping the ‘Oh, God’ handle. “What the fuck, Derek? Slow the fuck down!”
Derek’s frown gets more profound as he swerves in and out of traffic. He doesn’t care if Stiles' fragile human disposition causes him to go into cardiac arrest. Derek isn’t slowing down for shit. Stiles can run his fucking mouth all he likes, there’s only one person in this car that can kill him and that’s himself. You know what? Derek was trying. He was. To answer Stiles’ earlier question, the moment Derek decided to be a part of the pack is the moment Derek cared about Scott’s ‘sake.’ It’s what you do when you’re a part of a pack. Stiles, disgustingly human Stiles, wouldn’t know that because he had never been a part of something like that. He could claim he had playground brotherly love for Scott, but a pack isn’t what humans call a family. It’s more than that. It's fucking mystical, okay? It’s the insane urge to howl to the moon. It’s laughter on Sundays. It’s the rain kissing the ground. It’s the sun shining after a storm. He yearns for it. He misses what he had. He is the destroyer of all the good he didn’t appreciate. His heart cracks in his body. Every time he bleeds out after a fight, it’s like an apology to his pack seeping into the ground and returning their stolen blood back to them. He doesn’t want to die, however, no he’s too much of a coward for that. He thinks if he dies then his mother would be the one he sees immediately after. Her face etch in the emotion that he always hated the most. The one that makes him whine just to think of her wearing it. Her disappointed face; her arched brows downturned and blue eyes pitying. “Really, Derek?” She would say. He couldn’t face that.
“Holy hell, Derek! Slow down!” Stiles yells eyes glued shut. He’s a ball in his seat, at some point during this wild ride he decided it would be better to not see when they eventually wrecked. The car finally stops. He musters up the strength to look around. Huge, ominous trees lean towards them, leaves blowing in the wind. The sky is darker than when they left out ten minutes ago, and he feels a shiver down his spine. He yanks the door handle, forgetting he has a seat belt on when he's pulled back. His hands fumble with the release. Finally escaping the Camaro he whirls on Derek who’s already out of the car looking as cool as a cucumber, “What the fuck was that, huh?”
One of Derek’s brows raises, “You’re a whiney, little fucking human who doesn’t know when to shut the fuck up.”
Stiles takes a couple of steps toward Derek fuming. His finger stabs Derek in the chest with each word, “You. Are. A. Dick.”
Derek bats his hand out of the way getting close to Stiles’ face. They're so close that Derek can feel Stiles' breath ghosting on his lips, “You are so obsessed with being right, you don’t even know when you’re wrong.” He backs off and walks towards the trees.
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Stiles mutters, walking in the direction Derek walked off in.
Stiles is one hundred percent sure that Derek is a dick. The guy looks like an overgrown nutsack. Except that’s not true because earlier when Derek’s face was so close to his own he could see how beautiful he really is. Stiles isn’t gay, but he could admire a pretty face, and Derek’s? He looks like an artist refused to stop working on him until finally they could step back and breathe a sigh of relief, ‘perfection.’
He watches as Derek tilts his head like he hears something. Stiles' head rises to see if he can hear anything. It’s quiet. Far too quiet. He should be hearing birds chirping, or the sound of life rustling in the dead autumn leaves. Derek takes off.
“Hey! Wait on me!” Stiles starts to jog after him. Then raises his arms and drops them when he sees Derek didn’t even acknowledge him. “Ugh!” Fucking Derek Hale. He walks around aimlessly for a few minutes kicking rocks and muttering curse words. He can’t believe Derek ditched him. Well, he can. He was a major dick to him not even twenty minutes ago. It was kind of a low blow to mention his past few failed relationships. The thing about Stiles is that he rarely gets angry, but when he does it consumes him. When that happens nothing is below the belt, the goal is to hurt the person by saying or doing whatever is needed to accomplish that. He has a tough time regulating his emotions, a side effect of ADHD. He figures he might owe Derek an apology. Or maybe not since he did try to kill him by driving like a crazed insane maniac, redundancy required.
The awful silence has yet to be interrupted. There’s a feeling creepily crawling across his spine. The reports he stole from his dad’s office revealed the gruesome ways the hikers had been killed. Gouged was the word that kept repeating. The news stations, the reports, the pack repeating that word.
Gouged.
Gouged.
Gouged.
Till he pictured holes in his body, organs spilling out on the green grass of the preserve. It’s a horrible way to die. They’re not sure what it is they’re hunting. Last time, they tried burning it thoroughly with fire, because fire was supposed to kill everything, but it just reanimated from its ashes. Stiles thinks the beast looks reminiscent of a huge boar. Everyone else thinks it is some kind of hell horse, a not-so-friendly unicorn.
A branch snaps.
Gouged.
Gouged.
Gouged.
It sounds like an earthquake racing toward him at a horrifying speed. He imagines a slobbery mouth with teeth as sharp as knives, and not worrying about its mouth because there are glinting horns sticking out from every piece of its skin ready to gouge his body like a torn sheet. Derek comes flying from the brush, emerging like a golden savior. He’s fully wolfed out, eyebrows nonexistent, as he yells at Stiles to run. He didn’t need to tell him twice, Stiles was already beginning to flee in the opposite direction. His mind would not output any coherent string of thoughts. He grasped onto thoughts of ideas, quickly vetoing most of them. He needed to think of a way to get them out of this.
The thing was already quickly gaining speed. They may have roughly a two-minute head start on the huge beast. The thunderclap of its hooves is getting closer and closer.
Gouged.
Gouged.
Gouged.
“How far are we from the Hale house?” He can barely speak, his words coming out more like pants than the English language.
Thankfully, Derek hears him. “Not that far, why?” He turns his head while running to look at Stiles. Sweat is glistening on his forehead, open mouth harshly exhaling.
“Remember that hole Scott and I dug up?”
“How could I forget?” Derek asks sarcastically.
Stiles winces.
They run towards it anyway. The terrible thing trudges through those thick trees like they’re thin blades of grass. Cracks of lightning with each step it takes. It’s so close.
Gouged.
Gouged.
Gouged.
They make it to the Hale house. Derek is leading the way to his sister’s old grave. Honestly, Stiles should have extended a sincere apology for digging her up and accusing him of murdering one of the last living relatives he had a long time ago. Derek stops and turns. His eyes widen in horror as he gestures for Stiles to run faster to him. He can feel the shake of the ground behind him, and his heart seizes.
Gouged.
His blood turns into glass shards.
Gouged.
His lungs are metal anchors incapable of breathing.
Gouged.
Derek is there grabbing his hand. Their eyes are hooks that cannot be untangled. His wide bourbon eyes like saucers wide in fear imploring Derek to do anything. Derek pulls him into the hole and then jumps in after. The beast’s belly flashes them overhead immediately after.
They lean against the dirt trying to catch their breath. They had just barely made it. Another day, another miraculous escape. How ironic he feels the most alive after almost dying. He pulls out his phone and sends Scott a quick SOS! message. Tucking his phone back into his pocket he looks up and realizes Derek is right there. Their chests are almost touching, they’re magnets on the same poles pushing away from each other as an outside force tries to push them together.
The creature chuffs, then it sounds like it lays down nearby waiting for an opportunity to gouge them like the rest of its victims.
“Does it sound like a bull to you?” Stiles asks, tilting his head to the side. He raises a brow when he gets no reply. “Excuse me?” He asks.
Derek ignores him. He saw Stiles text the rest of the pack, hopefully, he’ll be free from sharing a hole with Stiles in the next ten minutes or so. He feels a sharp jab in his side, then his brows dip down to almost make his eyes disappear. “Do you have a death wish?”
Stiles moves his hand behind him, he shakes his head, “No, but you got a good look at it didn’t you?”
He tries to ignore him again. Derek hears the movement of Stiles's arms before he sees it, he grabs it and pins him against the wall. He bends low, and growls right in his ear, “Do it again, and you’ll lose that hand.”
Stiles once almost calmed down heart starts thud, thud, thudding against his chest. His pelvis starts to tighten, throbbing with a feeling that he isn’t ready to give a name. It doesn’t change what it is though. Desire. It’s just because he hasn’t been able to get a hand wrapped around his dick in almost two weeks, but smelling Derek’s sticky sweet scent that has notes of nature after a storm is making his dick slightly hard. “You know I’m not intimidated by you right?” He asks.
Derek makes a home-invading his space, “You don’t have to be. Doesn’t change the outcome.” He looks down at Stiles' lips involuntarily.
“What’s that?” Stiles' eyes find Derek’s lips. His grip tightens on his arms.
“You will be.” Derek lets him go, and then slides one large hand down his face, his thumb catching on his mouth. Stiles lips audibly part. He glances up at Derek. Derek's eyes flit up to his before going back to his lips and watching his thumb enter his mouth. It’s warm and silky.
The air around them is frozen. They are stuck staring at each other, their bodies almost painfully immobile except for his thumb slowly making its way back into Stiles’ mouth. Stiles tilts his head back and runs his tongue over the entire length of it.
The thumb in his mouth should not taste as good as it does. It should be filthy the thought of the dirty appendage in his mouth. Instead, the taste of it affects every part of him. His heart pounds as he hollows his cheeks and sucks. Derek’s eyes darken, but he remains silent, except for the shallow breathing he’s doing while roughly dragging the pad of his thumb across his frenulum. The air around them is like molasses, hard to navigate in.
The snap of twigs is like a force pushing them apart. He brings his hand to his tingling lips, and he’s thankful that his back is pushed up against the wall to keep him upright. Confusion freaks out in his head.
A mop of brown curly hair and a radiant smile peaks over the top of the hole, '“Scott!” He gasps relieved. Two more heads look down at him from behind his best friend.
Derek looks at him, there is a dark look in his eyes. It sends a shiver down his spine.
Scott gives a little wave and then leans forward holding his hand out. Stiles takes it.
***
Lydia purses her lips as Scott questions them. They’re both sitting in uniquely made chairs that Erica picked up at an antique store in Derek’s loft. Scott is standing directly in front of them with hands on his hips, a mix of disappointment and irritation on his face. He seems older.
“Neither one of you heard this giant— what was it again?” He stops, eyes darting as he thinks, and neither one of them has time to answer. “A horse?” Scott asks disbelievingly, “Trot away back into wherever the hell it came from?”
Stiles opens his mouth to correct Scott, he thinks the creature is in fact a bull due to the chuffing sound it was capable of producing, but everyone sends a glare his way. Pouting, he sits back on the couch.
Scott sighs, and Stiles resists the urge to look around for his father even though he knows Scott is behind the disappointed release of air, “You want to know what I think you two were doing?”
Stiles coughs, hacking up his right lung. Meanwhile, Derek simply freezes in his spot. The tips of his ears go red. Lydia straightens as she observes their awkwardness and places her forgotten phone in her lap. Her eyes narrow at them, watching them like a puzzle she can't figure out.
“Really, what?'“ Stiles manages to get out. Scott isn't really that intuitive, so he isn't sure why he’s on the brink of a nervous breakdown at even the thought of him knowing what the two of them did. What did they do? Hardly anything. Derek's hand accidentally went into his mouth. That happens to people all the time!
“You two were arguing again!” A breath of relief leaves him, even though he knew there was no possible way for him to know. He doesn't even risk the glance at Derek to see his reaction, but he sees his shoulders ever so slightly slump. It kind of shocks him. Confidence seems like it's ingrained in the very fibers of Derek’s DNA. Every choice is a conscious decision, his control immaculate. He's so sure of who he is that the moment his body deflates Stiles can’t help but feel a way about it. He perceives it as Derek being ashamed of him. There’s no him to be ashamed of, he doesn’t know why he cares neither he nor Derek is gay— bi?— whatever they’re calling it these days. He’s straight. Except for the occasional fear boners he gets for Derek, but that’s normal.
“I can not believe the two of you! Even after our talks together!” Scott’s voice gets higher and higher. Hands rising in the air incredulously. “I bet you guys can’t even stop arguing while you’re dying! No, I bet—“ Then, he trails off. His eyebrows rising to wave “hi” to his hairline. He turns ever so slightly to Stiles with a maniacal grin on his face.
Stiles had been sitting there, head slumped in remorse, before noticing Scott’s evil expression. He sits up shaking his head.
Derek just stares at the two of them with eyes like slits.
“The only way you two are going to get along,” said Scott beaming, “is if you are forced to,” he continued.
Lydia smirks at the both of them like she knew exactly what Scott had thought of. She slides her phone into her Louis Vitton bag as she watches her entertainment for the day. Her acrylic nails echoing off the metallic clasp.
“I bet that you two won't be able to last two weeks together nonstop while getting along.”
Derek gives him a dry look, “You can't be serious.”
Scott gives him a meaningful look in return. “You don't really have a choice, remember Derek?” He jerks his head to the door. All Derek does in response is cast his eyes down and mutter something that he can't hear. Most likely curse words.
What kind of dirt does Scott have on Derek to make him instantly agree to this silly little bet?
Stiles's curiosity peaks, but before he could be his normal inquisitive self Scott turns on him, “And you!” Stiles gestures to himself in question. “It's my turn to bet. This is what I'm challenging. Deny or die.”
It's Stiles’ turn to hate the actions of past him. It was in fourth grade that the betting commenced. You see young Stiles thought it would be a good idea to bet Scott to actually fight back one of his bullies, and young Stiles didn't think Scott would actually do it unless Scott bet him to do something. The deal worked. It earned Scott one less bully, and Stiles a parent-teacher conference. Flash forward to a couple of months back, and sick Stiles wasted his bet on making Scott come play video games in his contagious room. Scott, the responsible bastard, didn't waste his bet until now. In the nine years, they'd been playing they'd never turned a bet down. It was an unspoken rule.
“Of course, you two have a childish betting game,” Derek sneers. His shoulders are high and taut like he's so much older and better than them.
“Of course, that stick is still buried up your ass.” Stiles glares at him.
Derek leans forward ready for a fight.
Scott claps his hands together, “Hey! Enough!”
Lydia clasps her hands together ignoring palpable anger in the room, “ We need to establish ground rules.” Her eyes run over the two of them devilishly. Scott nods his head grinning like that's a fantastic idea. “At no moment should you two be alone, unless you're in the bathroom. If you can't manage this, we will buy you handcuffs to make sure you do…” Lydia purses her lips thinking, “ if you argue in front of one of us, or in hearing range of one of us you're time starts over. If the two of you call it quits, and decide that you can't do it the pack will come together and choose an apt punishment.” She smirks.
The both of them shiver at the thought of whatever punishment she has in mind.
Lydia shrugs like it's no big deal, “ Also, you will keep us updated with pictures.” She winks at them, grabs her leather bag, and leaves the loft.
Scott smiles at them, “It’ll be fun! You’ll see.” At their twin glares, he follows Lydia out the door, his grin changing to nervous laughter.
Derek looks over at him, “This is all—“ he begins. His mouth shuts as his head cocks to the side like a dog. Stiles hides his smile behind his hands.
Stiles shows off a painfully forced smile, “Guess you're stuck with me, buddy.”
Derek flashes his fangs, “Don’t call me buddy.”
***
“I’m not changing my routine for you, Stiles. Work out or watch me. I don’t care.” Derek says as he puts protein powder in his smoothie. Shake? Stiles doesn’t really know the difference.
“You do this every morning?” Stiles asks bewildered. Derek doesn’t respond, but Stiles takes the twitch of his brow as an assent. “You mean, I have to wake up at 5 am every day for the next two weeks!” Stiles groans and lays his head down on the countertop. He looks up at the ceiling, and fake sobs, “Why me? Please, why me?”
“Routine is good.” Derek turns around grabbing another ingredient.
Stiles's hands flail everywhere, “For who? The elderly?” Derek’s eyes flatten him with a look. “Alright, fine! I’ll just—” looking around for something to do. Derek’s loft is a huge room. Lydia and Erica had finally managed to decorate and establish some sense of purpose for the space. A huge flat-screen TV sat atop a sleek dark grey stand that was filled to the brim with everyone’s favorite movies. A large sectional big enough to fit at least seven people, love seats, and bean bag chairs comprised all of the sitting for the pack. There was a makeshift library in the corner that they all used for research with a huge desk in the middle of it. Stacks and stacks of books laid out on top of it.
Derek chugs his protein drink. His head tilting back, the extended line of tan skin while his adam apple bobs make for a titillating display. The grey muscle shirt clings to his pecs wrapped around them like a wrapper on a lollipop.
Stiles looks away. He walks over to the desk. Derek's eyes follow him as he takes a seat. “I'll actually try to catch this thing.” He says haughtily waving the book around.
“Yes, Stiles. Because words are what's going to catch this thing, and not muscle.” Derek scoffs. He reaches underneath the couch and pulls out the pull-up bar.
Stiles eyes Derek’s fluid movements as he workouts. He does these supernatural burpees; pull up, squat, push up, jump. The easy way Derek moves his body, with absolutely no tension and pure strength reminds Stiles of the incapability of humans. Even an Olympic-level athlete would not be able to compete with him. It's not natural; the perfection of every contour of his body. His physique chiseled.
Derek works out with an intensity that he’s never seen before. He could almost physically see the demons that he’s making himself stronger to fight. That’s the thing about Derek Hale. It doesn’t matter what he prepares for, it’s like the cards are perpetually not in his favor. Nonetheless, he makes himself even stronger than he supernaturally is. Working for it as if he stopped he would lose it all.
He infuriates Stiles. His smart-ass comments, his martyrdom, his recklessness. All of it.
“Do you always randomly get mad at people? Or is it just me?” Derek deadpans.
Stiles finally notices he’s just been glaring at Derek. His hazel eyes focus only on Stiles while he does chin-ups. His grey muscle shirt is soaked in sweat, biceps glitter as he effortlessly raises his chin. His sweatpants are hanging low. Low enough to the point of indecency. A sliver of hair peaks out just enough to get the idea.
“Just you,” He suddenly finds it hard to swallow. He turns back to the random book he has open and pretends to read.
He hears the thud of the older man’s feet landing on the ground. Stiles tries not to watch him as he walks to the refrigerator, but he's unable to. His eyes are glued to the trail of water that's escaping Derek’s lips as he downs the water bottle. The water makes a route from his neck until it vanishes under his shirt. He places the bottle on the counter and turns to look at Stiles who quickly avert his eyes glancing back down at the book in his hands.
Stiles is screwed.
***
“If it isn't my two favorite love birds,” Jackson smirks as he saunters in. He's wearing tight black skinny jeans with a denim jacket and knowing Jackson he spent $1000 on each respectively.
Lydia struts in beside him casting a scrutinizing look their way. Her hair is perfectly curled falling in ringlets over her shoulder.
She crosses her legs as she sits, and straightens her dress, “We don't need to reset the time, do we?” She questions.
The perfect job for Lydia would be one of those people who come into restaurants and berates the owners for their unhygienic ways. He knows that her eyes are set on winning the field’s medal, but she should strongly consider a profession of bossing people around.
Stiles elects to say nothing as the rest of the pack comes trailing in. He remains silent as Scott comes to sit next to him.
Scott’s warm hand hits his back, “C’mon! Don't be like that.” He presents himself in front of Stiles, rounds his eyes, and pouts his bottom lip. Scott's big brown eyes implore him deeply to forgive and forget. He's powerless against it. He jumps on Scott and tries to put him into a headlock.
They wrestle back and forth until Erica yells, “Boys! Boys! You're both pretty!” She giggles. Boyd is sitting as stoic as ever by her side as if he isn't surrounded by the pack’s tomfoolery. All in all, it was the start of an excellent pack night.
Or it would have been.
“Put a finger down if you ever had sex in a dark alley,” Erica said with an accusatory bright red fingernail pointing at each of them.
“That means your out too, Erica.” Isaac leans back in his chair hand down with a smirk on his face.
She raises a brow, then shrugs, “At least you all know what a wonderful sex life sounds like,” She lowers herself down to the ground and gives Boyd a wet kiss.
Stiles gags.
“Speaking of which,” Lydia begins. “Put a finger down if you’ve ever thought of being with the same gender.”
“Boo!” Allison cups her hands over her mouth, “Oh, C’mon! Everyone has!” She says looking at everyone, then her eyes land on Stiles. “Right, Stiles?”
He looks around, eyes flitting around like he’s looking for a path of escape before he decides to just own it, “Fuck yeah! It’s not gay if you’re wearing socks.” He laughs. He hates the way that came out douchey. He glances over at Jackson to see him making a face.
Scott looks over at him, “Bro, are you bi?” He asks excitedly.
At this point, Stiles would have to be a fool not to see the weird love triangle that Scott, Allison, and Isaac share. He sees the looks they cast between them, and how hard it is for them to look away. Scott hadn’t told him how he feels about either one of them, and he wonders if saying yes to his question would make him feel comfortable confiding in him.
“Bi-curious.” His eyes involuntarily find Derek who's already watching him. The green henley is left unbuttoned leaving the beginnings of chest hair uncontained. Large muscles bulged with his arms crossed over his chest like he couldn't be bothered to play. He's doing his high and mighty routine, at least that's what Stiles calls it. It's that thing that he does when the pack is enjoying themselves and he just stands there with a look of indifference.
Check.
That's another thing that infuriates Stiles.
He looks away to find Lydia, Erica, and Allison looking at each other and giggling. His eyes narrow at them.
His attention is dragged back to Scott shaking his shoulders with a huge smile on his face, “Bro!”
He waves his hands to avoid blushing, “Lydia choose something else.” He hurries to change the subject.
She purses her lips, “Put a finger down if you've actually fucked a member of the same sex.”
There are gasps of shock as they watch who puts their finger down. In the end, it's Erica, Jackson, and Derek.
He doesn't really know how to react to this information. His dick pulses at the thought of Derek doing anything with another man. Derek on his knees his large hands wrapped around the man’s dick. Derek on his back legs splayed out as the man, who's beginning to look a lot like Stiles, laps at his balls.
Still, Stiles isn't actually bi-curious Derek just brings out a primal side of him that he can't explain. But he's gaping at Derek nonetheless, and the treacherous side of him thinks that maybe he has a chance now.
The game continues. There's laughter shared between everyone, but as Stiles goes through the motions his eyes drift to Derek's. Tension builds in the air as the night progresses.
He's watching as Derek spreads his legs, uses a hand, and lifts his body readjusting in his seat. His body stiffens as those piercing eyes stare him down.
The night comes to a close with everyone trailing out of the loft tired and laughing. Before he leaves Scott pulls him to the side and asks,” How’s the bet going?”
He rubs the back of his head as he thinks, “I mean, Derek is Derek.” His eyes dart towards the man who's currently hugging Erica and Isaac.
“You good?” Scott's big brown eyes are looking at his imploringly searching for the answer to his question.
He nods his head before he can even think of an answer, “Yea, man. I'm good.” Scott leaves satisfied with that answer but not before saying a quick goodbye to Derek.
They're alone now.
His heart starts to beat a little faster, harder. He doesn't know why, but he imagines it had something to do with Derek sliding his thumb in his mouth. They never did talk about it. He didn't even let his thoughts drift to the moment. He pretended it never happened. But it did.
He can't help but think that maybe he is a little curious about being with another man. If he lets himself be really honest, he's a little curious about being with Derek. Would he be rough? Gentle? Sensual?
At the same time, they both reach down to pick up the blankets the pack had left out. Apologies escape their lips, and it may be the first time they've ever apologized to each other.
A contemplative look crosses over the younger man's face, “I never did thank you for saving me that day.”
Derek pauses, furrowing his eyebrows, “You don't thank me for that. It's what pack means.” He shakes his head.
“Last time trying to be nice to you.” His voice comes out tight.
“That’s not what I—” Derek resumes folding the blankets and putting them in the bins. Then fully turns toward him, “Pack means you protect each other no matter what. It's like thanking a mother for taking care of their child. It's in the job description.”
So, what he means is that he only saved him because he had to. Stiles knows that they hate each other, he does, but— He doesn't know what he was expecting Derek to say. Maybe something more like, ‘I saved you because I want to fuck you.” He says nothing instead.
Once the blankets are put up, they both gaze at each other eyes darkening. Derek steps forward. His heart leaping he takes a step back.
Derek crowds him against the counter, “Why just curious Stiles?” A hand slides down his neck. “You want to put that curiosity to rest?” He leans forward nostrils flaring.
“You don't like me, Derek.” Short gasps leave his mouth as he feels Derek's breath caress his throat.
A wet press of lips against his neck startles a moan out of him, “I don't have to like you to satiate you.” Another kiss, “Satiate the curiosity.”
Stiles doesn't know if he grips the henley to pull him closer or back, but when Derek comes surging forward lips on his that's when he gets his answer. The taste of water on the hottest day of summer is the way Derek's lips feel. Standing in the sun on the coldest days. Glorious.
Derek's hands are on his belt loops tugging his hips closer. Someone groans. He doesn't know who it is. Finding a way underneath his Henley are Stiles’ hands rubbing the planes of his abdomen. He rakes his nails down Derek's chest a hair gets stuck on one of them and Stiles yanks it free. Derek growls and flips him over, a large hand forcing his face down on the countertop. The other hand palms his ass. A foot kicks out and makes his legs spread wide, and then the hand rubs between them.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck…” he repeats as the older man rubs against his dick even harder. Pulsing waves of pleasure rush through him.
Derek growls against his neck causing shivers to rack through him. “You talk all this fucking shit all the time,” he maneuvers Stiles around and pushes him to his knees. “Let's put that mouth to good use.”
Stiles is shell-shocked. He can't believe that this is happening. A couple of days ago he would have sworn that both of them were straight as an arrow. Now, he's going to put a presumably large cock in his mouth and he has no problems with it. None. Actually, his mouth is watering at the idea.
His knees hit the floor with a thud and his hands reach for the button on Derek’s jeans.
“Beg for it.”
Stiles tilts his head confused,” I'm sorry, what?”
“Beg.” Derek's eyes are dark as he watches Stiles on his knees. “Baby, I can smell how much you want it. Just tell me. I'll be nice.”
“You’re not being nice now,” he says petulantly. Derek just looks at him. “I want your cock in my mouth, you asshole.” he spits out.
Derek rubs a hand against his bulge and shakes his head. The younger man's mouth waters, even more, his dick getting even harder.
“I want your dick in my mouth, please.”
Derek smirks and then ever so slowly unbuttons and unzips his jeans,” Take it out for me, baby.”
Stiles crawls closer and yanks his pants down impatiently. Derek laughs. It's monstrous; Derek's dick. He wastes no time licking a stripe against the protruding vein on his dick. He thought it would feel weirder, instead, it feels like he was made for this. Made for the way Derek’s head is thrown back in ecstasy. Made for the way Derek grips his head and forces him to take him in. Made for the ache in his knees. Made for the drag of his tongue.
Derek is gripping his head directing the movements of his mouth on his shaft. He goes slow at first, and then so fast that Stiles has spit leaking from the corners of his mouth. Stiles is moaning from being used like this. His hand tries to apply pressure on the ache of his dick, but the bearded man growls a warning. Precum flows like a river from the older man's dick and Stiles slurps it all up.
“Look at you. You're a beast.” Derek says proudly like he knew Stiles would be. Then he gently pulls him off and into a kiss. Stiles reaches up to meet his lips. “Strip,” Derek commands.
He rises to his feet and lets his flannel overshirt drop to the ground. The next things to go are his jeans and boxers. He leaps onto the werewolf’s arms and tries to leave hickeys all down his neck. Each of Derek's hands is gripping an ass cheek. He's spreading them apart, pushing them together, and kneading them. He grinds against Derek's efforts right into the werewolf’s proud dick, and they both let out loud whines at the skin-to-skin contact.
Derek walks them to the bed and hurls the human onto it, “You’re doing so good baby.” Derek tucks his head in Stiles' neck and breathes deeply. His tongue darts out to taste him again.
Stiles is laying there with his back on Derek’s surprisingly soft sheets. Derek hovers over him and grinds against his dick. The younger man’s hands clutched his back that would have left scratch marks had Derek not been supernatural. He grinds again, and Stiles wails.
“Please. Please. Please.” He begs because he finds it easy to. Something about having sex with Derek feels sacred like he could say or do anything without being judged. It’s just a hell of a feeling when he usually is being judged, Derek.
Derek slides down his body and wraps a hand around his dick. His back arches off the bed as he lets out a gasp. Then, Derek’s tongue joins the frenzy. All Stiles sees is the white light of pure bliss. He’s dripping sweat and cum, and his body hurts from the sheer pleasure of it all. Derek comes back up to be kissed by him, and Stiles wraps his long legs against Derek. The werewolf thrusts down against his length in a slow grind.
Derek’s muscles sheen in the low light. He can feel the supernatural power of Derek driving his hips home to him. He can do nothing but stay for the ride. It begins to be too much, all too much. He moans, gasps, and yells in pleasure. Derek does not let up.
“I’m gonna come. I’m gonna come.” He pants.
“I got you, baby. Come for me.” Derek says into his neck, his tongue flirting with Stiles’ ear.
At his words everything that Stiles has spill out of his dick, his head thrown back, legs gripping Derek’s waist tightly. It’s not too long before Derek follows his lead.
As Stiles calms down from his high, he realizes that he is so, so screwed.