Stiles belched. His attempt at covering it up with a cough was unsuccessful, he could tell, because Derek just smirked in his direction and took another sip of his beer.
Beer was pretty gross. It was heavy and coated his tongue weirdly, and he had to take long breaks between sips just to be able to swallow it, but it also kind of made things fuzzy around the edges. He could use a little fuzzy around the edges right about now. His life had been all sharp, clear bits of stark terror for too long. A fuzzy stupid mellow was a nice change of pace.
"Not your thing?" Derek asked after Stiles took another long moment between sips.
"What? No, no – totally, yeah, it is totally, I mean…" Stiles hiccupped and rolled his eyes. C'mon, say something not totally moronic. "I mean, you know, I'm a liquor man, myself… You know, tequila, whiskey… SoCo…"
"Uh-huh," Derek nodded, watching him with very un-Derek-like amusement.
Stiles deflated and set the beer down onto the floor. Scott had peaced out half an hour ago, coming up with some lame excuse that only Scott could get away with, and was probably macking on Allison by this time, but Stiles – well, Stiles had nowhere to be.
And Derek had a six-pack, and no one had ever shared their six-pack with Stiles before.
And then there was the beer.
"All right, so I'm a total pathetic lightweight, okay? Give me a break."
Derek shook his head, reached back into his cooler and took out two clear bottles.
"First, have some water," he commanded and Stiles took the first bottle automatically. "Then, do a shot." Stiles reached for the other one.
"So, like. You don't turn at the full moon," Stiles slurred, his head propped up against the back of the chair. He was watching a spider skulking across a web by the ceiling. He knew that it should have been freaking him out, but all it was doing was fascinating him. "When d'you learn that?"
Derek was silent for long enough that Stiles began to recognize it as judgment at the stupid question, but then he said, "High school."
"Cool," Stiles said, then made his putty neck lift up so he look at Derek directly. He was bigger when Stiles was drunk.
No, no, seriously – he was, like, hulking. He was just sitting in a chair across from Stiles, drinking his second beer, but the bottle looked tiny in his hand, and his shoulders strained the shadows on the room. It was bizarre.
"You're bizarre," Stiles heard himself say, then stepped on his own foot just to feel something besides blinding embarrassment. "I mean – uh – you know, I meant… Ce-sar… I meant…" Stiles threw his head back. "This spider should be freaking me out right now."
"You might need to go soon," Derek said instead of answering, sounding pretty firm, just – sitting there in his chair, being all - big. "Drink more water."
"What? No!" Stiles protested, forgetting why his foot was in acute pain. "No, man, I'm having – well, my dad can't see me like this." The thought hadn't occurred until he said it, and then his brain helpfully flew into a panic. "Shit! Shit. Shit! Shit, my dad cannot see me like this, oh my God. Derek. Oh my God, what do I do? Can I do anything? Can you dunk me in some water?" He was up and pacing Derek's dark and cavernous "living room" before he could think. He clutched at his hair, a feat made all the more difficult by his short hair and drunk fingers. "Shit! Derek!"
"Oh my God, shut the hell up." Derek took another sip of his beer.
Stiles shut up.
"Sit the fuck down."
Stiles sat. Unfortunately, because he had been pacing, he wound up hitting the dusty floor pretty hard. "Ow."
Derek watched him from his chair, first looking exasperated, then annoyed, and then finally almost sympathetic. Which was kind of more human emotion than Stiles has seen from him in pretty much ever. Then he sighed. "All right. You can stay here. Tell your dad you're having a… sleepover with Scott. Or whatever it is you two do. But I'm not painting your toe nails," he added, pointing at Stiles with the neck of his beer.
Stiles felt stupidly, drunkenly grateful, and he leapt up as quickly as his wobbly knees would let him. He perched his arms on Derek's (hard; rock hard) thighs, looking up at him and batting his eyelashes. "Gee, Mister, you're my savior!"
"Get off me," Derek mumbled and pushed Stiles' forehead away until Stiles' ass once again met the floor. Hard. Whatever, he was saved from showing up drunk at home, and it was totally worth a little tumble here and there. "I don't have an extra pillow or whatever, but I think I have a hoodie you can use," Derek said into his beer, his knee kind of bouncing up and down.
Stiles just grinned at him. "My hero!"
The floor at the foot of Derek's bed was dusty, and that was putting it generously. In reality, Stiles would not have been surprised if all the dust mites in the world were actually having a dust mite convention, with the end goal being taking over his body and nostrils until he was nothing but a mass of snot and lost hopes and dreams. Stiles also refused to be in a room where Derek wasn't, which was possibly what they called being between a rock and a hard place.
"Uh… Derek?" he whispered, when yet another dust bunny threatened to upset the delicate balance between breathing and sneezing his brains out.
"Listen, uh." Stiles watched the bunny's progress towards his nostrils with bated breath. "I don't mean to sound like I'm coming on to you or anything, especially since I know you could take me with a single pinky or whatever, but I'm actually worried your floor is becoming sentient." He paused, his eyes crossing because of how close the bunny was getting. "Can I please sleep with you and not on the floor?"
In the silence that followed, Stiles realized that what he had taken for an especially fierce dust bunny was actually a spider in disguise, and at that point, neither Derek's answer nor Stiles' manhood mattered at all, and he screamed and leapt up onto the bed all at the same moment.
He continued screaming as he scrambled up to the bed, until his head was covered by a blanket, and his mouth by Derek's hand, Derek's breath coming dangerously close to Stiles' face. "Shut up, Stiles, or I will turn on you."
Stiles whimpered and forced his heart to subside; that spider was fucking scary as hell. He shut his eyes. Well, he was stone cold sober, now. Slowly, Derek's hand (which, incidentally, covered more than half of Stiles' face, thankyouverymuch) pulled away and Stiles could take deep, gulping breaths through his mouth. The air tasted like stale underwear, actually, and it took him another moment to realize that he was, in fact, not only in Derek's bed, but under Derek's covers, with Derek's nearly naked body in very close proximity to Stiles' thankfully clothed one.
"On the other hand," he managed to rasp, before throwing the blanket off, "maybe I should just –"
"Calm down, Stiles," Derek said tiredly, and flopped back down onto his pillow. "So, you're scared of spiders, it's fine."
"No, it's just – " I'm scared of you, he thought, but managed to not say it out loud through some heavenly intervention. "It's fine. I'm fine," he finally said and flopped down next to Derek almost not of his own volition. "Sorry," he added belatedly. "Were you asleep?"
Derek was on his side, facing Stiles, and he looked suddenly so deeply tired to Stiles, Stiles only just managed to suppress the urge to reach out and stroke his cheek. What a weird fucking impulse.
"Nah, couldn't sleep," Derek said after a while.
"Did you know it takes you a while to answer questions?" Stiles' mouth asked next, while Stiles' brain screamed at it to stop it with the stupid asides and observations, oh my God, what are you doing?
"Mmm-hmm," Derek replied, surprisingly without any violence towards Stiles' stupidity. "And did you know you ask a lot of stupid questions?"
Stiles nodded, rolling over onto his side so he could see him better. Derek's eyes were now fixed on his. Stiles shivered. "Yeah, actually." He thought about it for a second. "But you always answer."
Derek made a soft noise and then rolled over onto his back. Stiles watched as he lifted an arm over his head and paused, mid-stretch. Then he appeared to sag down, almost into himself, like a deflated balloon. Stiles watched him, the shadows of his hand, the muscles in his shoulder and arms. Once again, it was like Derek was in a room by himself, just him and the questions Stiles posed, as if Stiles was merely a vehicle for his thoughts or something. It was weird, but Stiles found he didn't really mind. He slipped a hand under his cheek and was prepared to just go back to sleep like that, sharing Derek's bed like he was just dreaming strange things, when Derek turned his head and once again pinned him with his stare.
"Unlike what Scott thinks, I don't actually like keeping things from people."
"Oh," was all Stiles could manage to say, because Derek was just watching him, and it was a weird moment that both startled Stiles and gave him a weird un-startled-like reaction somewhere in his gut. It was the warm kind of churning that, if pressed, he would liken to the moments when Lydia appeared to be looking at him from across the crowded halls, but this time, it wasn't imaginary, and they weren't in a crowded hallway; they were in Derek's bed.
It was a really, really good thing that nobody was pressing him to evaluate anything.
"Yeah," Derek replied, and still didn't move. Neither did Stiles.
He searched his mind for a non-stupid reply, but unfortunately, the only thing his brain supplied was, "So you don't care that I ask you stupid questions?"
This time, Derek nearly, almost smiled, and even the hint of it freaked Stiles the fuck out. "Well, they're never boring," Derek replied, a glint of white teeth like an afterimage in the dark. Stiles gulped.
"Uh, good. Good, that's, uhm. That's great."
"What, you have more?"
Did he ever, but Stiles wasn't about to parade his stupid questions in front of Derek like he was a one-dumb-teenager show. He attempted a casual shrug. "Oh, you know. Here and there." He cleared his throat. "I guess."
Derek rolled back over onto his side, facing Stiles, and this time, it was definitely a smile. A kind of a snide smile, maybe, but a smile nonetheless. If he wasn't busy freaking the fuck out, Stiles would have been texting Scott, all, YOU WILL NEVER BELIEVE WHAT JUST HAPPENED TO ME, DEREK JUST SMILED LIKE A HUMAN OR WHATEVER. Instead, he just waited for Derek to say something, anything, to shut Stiles' brain the fuck up.
"What?" Stiles asked dumbly as Derek continued to stare at him with that goddamn smile.
"Nothing, just – well, I can't sleep, you're, apparently, deathly afraid of about spiders –"
"I am not –"
"You jumped into bed with a werewolf to avoid one," Derek pointed out, eyebrow arched. "That was pretty bold."
Stiles could feel his entire face flushing like a big embarrassed tomato. "I didn't jump into your bed, as much as I –"
"Jumped onto my bed?" Derek asked, like he was talking to a toddler. Which, in the context, was extraordinarily weird and wrong.
"Noooo," Stiles retorted, attempting to find any kind of wording at all that wouldn't make him sound exactly the way he actually was. "I just – look, it's not my fault you don't know how to take care of your house."
As soon as he said it, he wanted to punch himself in the head and knock himself out, just so he wouldn't have to look at Derek's face. Awesome. Just fucking awesome, Stiles. That foot tastes mighty fucking good right now, doesn't it? He closed his eyes and only opened them when Derek miraculously didn't kick him (literally) out of bed.
"I lost my Swiffers in the fire," Derek replied, and Stiles searched his face for any sign of ass-kickings to come, but mostly it looked like Derek was actually making a joke.
Derek. Making a joke.
About his house being half-burned down.
"You know, I think Sam's Club is having a special this week," Stiles answered automatically. "I could get you some, no charge."
Derek's lips quirked. "Oh yeah? Good. Pick me up some toilet paper, too. I'm almost out."
Stiles bit his lip, but the nervous giggles overwhelmed his, admittedly, not-so-stellar self-control, and the next moment, he was half-laughing, half-wailing into Derek's sheets from the sheer absurdity of everything that was going on, really, in his entire life.
Like. His best friend was a werewolf; he'd almost been killed by a myriad supernatural beings out to kill him and his family and his friends; and now, he was curled up in Derek Hale's bed, attempting to hide himself from a spider, of all things. Most people would probably have chosen the spider over the werewolf.
Stiles hiccupped as the laughter began to subside over time, but that didn't make the situation any less weird, really.
"Man, how do you do this?" he asked with no preamble from his brain. "How do you fucking – how do you handle this shit, without – without –"
"Without melting down?"
Derek's voice was suddenly quieter, and the quicksilver smile was gone, too. Stiles stopped clutching the sheet in his fist and glanced at Derek's face. He didn't look mad, just – thoughtful and really fucking sad.
"Yeah. How do you do it?"
Derek shrugged, but didn't look away. "I just do. I have to."
"And you don't – you don't think it's all really, I mean, seriously fucked up?" Stiles was pretty sure his voice was doing the thing where it basically pleading, but he tried not to over-analyze his own voice's actions too much.
"I grew up with it," Derek said, like duh. "This is all I know."
Stiles knew other things. He knew happy childhoods, fathers who played ball with you behind your house, and mothers who gave you books to read they just knew you'd love. Mothers who would squish a smiley face into your PB&J, and fathers who basically catered to your every whim because they loved you just that much.
He knew having a best friend, the kind who would (more or less) willingly follow you into the woods in search of some distraction and not abandon you.
He knew the intense, unrelenting pain of seeing your mother die before your very eyes.
So, divide the first two by two, then multiply the last by ten, and you got – what? Derek Hale, he supposed.
"I'm sorry," he heard himself say. He was.
"You're not an Argent. It's not your fault," Derek replied, looking somewhere beyond Stiles' shoulder.
The quiet creaking of the house settled around them, but Stiles couldn't stop shivering. He wondered if werewolves ever became ghosts. He couldn't believe he'd actually willingly chosen to spend the night here, in this half-burned down wreck of a house. But it was a half-burned down wreck of a house where Derek actually lived, which was just kind of appalling, really, as far as Stiles was concerned.
"Why – why don't you move?" he asked, finally, when the silence got to be too much.
Derek sighed and the sudden movement of him turning over onto his back startled the dust that had already somehow managed to settle on the bed like ashes. "I'm not done here yet."
Derek moved his head just enough to give Stiles a quick glance. "What, you wanted a pillow of your own or something? Gotta give me advance warning on that, I'm not exactly a bed & breakfast here."
Stiles cracked up despite himself. "I bet the ladies love you."
The smile slowly dropped off Derek's face. Way to go, Stiles. Now you've gotten to eating your own ankle. Jesus, was he never going to say the right thing?
"Uh, anyway, I – uh, I'm just gonna, you know – early wake-up call and everything –" he mumbled, making a huge show of turning over and settling down, until he realized that looking at the scorched walls was just a lot worse than looking at Derek's face, and slowly turned back over, like he was the world's most awkward pig on a spit.
Derek's face, in fact, was a lot closer than where he'd left it. In fact, because Stiles had no pillow, it was about an inch over his own face, and even in the dark, he could see the exact pattern of Derek's stubble on those ridiculous chiseled cheeks of his.
"Sorry," Derek whispered. Stiles gulped. Derek was basically never sorry for doing that creepy I can appear before you quiet as a mouse at any given moment, just give me a window thing.
"Uh," Stiles began smartly. "It's, you know. Your bed. Your bed, your rules, I guess?"
Stiles' eyes began to cross. He was studying the dark smudges of Derek's eyelashes, and they were mighty close to his own face. Everything in him woke up all at once. His fingers curled around the sheets he was clutching, his feet grew restless, like on pinpricks. His legs, his belly, his shoulders – everything began quivering, like his entire body was ready for fight or flight, but not in a scared way. More like…excited. Aware. Intensely, ridiculously aware. What the fuck.
What the fuck.
"Uh, so, you always sleep like…on this side of the pillow or, uh… Want me to move?" Stiles actually didn't think he could move, not even a tenth of an inch. Like. At all. Nope, no moving for him. He was hypnotized into staying in place. Could werewolves do that? He'd have to ask Scott. Like, when he was once again in reality and not in – Derek's bed.
Fuck. His dick. There was – a boner. Happening. A real-life, brought-on-by-external-stimuli kind of boner. Stiles shut his eyes and attempted to breathe through it. Derek was still quiet beside him, though, and so fucking close, Jesus Christ. There was no breathing through this. He could probably tell Stiles was a heartbeat away from having a stroke, anyway.
"Thank you," Derek said softly, kind of suddenly, worming his way into Stiles' internal mental breakdown.
"F-for what?" Stiles squeaked in a totally manly fashion and forced himself to open his eyes and focus them on Derek's. Were Derek's – glowing? Oh God. Was that happening? No. Trick of the moonlight. Right? Jesus Christ.
"For not running away," Derek whispered, and the whisper went right through Stiles. It shuddered down his spine and curved his back; it gave way to a shiver that ended somewhere in the vicinity of his toes. Fuck.
"Why would I –" Stiles started, and then run away melted into Derek's lips and tongue, because he kissed Stiles.
Kissed Stiles. On the lips. Like. No one had ever done before. Not even as a joke.
It ended kind of quickly – too quickly – he'd barely gotten into it – but neither of them moved away. Stiles knew his mouth was still open, and he could still feel the ghost of Derek's on them, a soft sort of feel, and he smelled of guy.
"No, no, don't be!" Great, the first movement he was able to make was to grab Derek by the wife-beater and pull him in. Or, well, actually, only the force of a god could pull Derek Hale in by a single fist, and Stiles was many things but a god he wasn't, so all he wound up doing was pulling himself closer, and mashing his face into Derek's pillow.
But his humiliation brought on the desired effect. Derek grinned quickly, and then once again, lowered his mouth to Stiles'. By the time he did, the grin was gone.
Stiles shut his eyes. Oh God. He was going insane.
Derek wasn't just kissing him now, he was devouring him. Body, mouth, heart, Stiles was trapped beneath the feel of him, sudden, and completely crazy.
And then Derek rolled over enough to cover Stiles' body with his own, and opened up his mouth, and then they were just doing that thing of making out, Stiles believed the kids called it these days. Tongues and teeth and it was possible that werewolves were also able to transmit kissing lessons, because Stiles had never so much as pecked anyone on the lips before, and now he was responding to Derek move for move, breath for breath.
In fact, he was barely breathing. He could feel the smooth skin of Derek's shoulders under his fingers, with no idea as to how they had managed to get there, and he could – Jesus – feel Derek's hard dick up against his thigh, and that was just – that was –
"Fuck, fuck, stop, wait, fuck –" Stiles ripped his mouth away from Derek's, everything in his body protesting the move, and attempted to gulp in some air with Derek's hands gripping his hips, his thighs hard up against Stiles'. Derek didn't stop, he merely went in a different direction, and his hot, wet mouth was now traveling down Stiles' jaw, sliding over his neck, and then – "Nnngh, Derek, Derek, no, stop, abort, wait, wait!"
Suddenly, Derek wasn't even on top of him anymore, but staring down at Stiles from, like, half a foot away, in mute horror. Stiles felt like he'd been dropped from several thousand feet in the air. He stared at Derek with a similar kind of horror, like, Jesus, who did Derek think he'd been making out with? Was this a really horrible case of mistaken identity? As far as Stiles knew, Scott had never woken up next to Allison wondering how she'd gotten there. Everybody knew, anyway.
"Shit, Stiles – I'm sorry –"
Oh, thank God. Stiles took a deep breath, then slowly reached out until his hand landed on Derek's chest. Jesus, this dude worked out. Wow.
"It's fine," he said softly, trying to contort his brain into some kind of functioning position that would allow for things like words and phrases and possibly full sentences that made any kind of sense. At least Derek knew who he was. "I just – it's just – a bit, uh, fast." What? No, no, it wasn't. It was perfectly sensible that the very first person Stiles got to kiss, he would also get to make out with, and quite possibly come in his pants rutting against. What are you doing? his brain screamed at him.
"Just too fast?" Derek asked, and now he looked less worried and more, like, with it. The program. The program of macking on Stiles. He reached out as well, and then his warm, huge hand was sliding up over Stiles' belly and rucking up his t-shirt, until, like an electric shock, it was sliding over bare skin, and Stiles gasped, his muscles jumping. His heart was beating so loud, he was surprised that Derek hadn't actually commented on it. It must have been deafening. "So, you're okay with this, then?" he asked softly.
"Am I - shit - Jesus, yes," Stiles breathed, feeling slow and stupid, and like Derek was slow and stupid, because even Stiles, were he an impartial observer of the current events, would be able to tell that Stiles was absolutely and completely okay with this, and, quite frankly, any other observer, including his boner.
"Good," Derek whispered and leaned forward until his lips slid down below Stiles' belly button, rough stubble meeting his treasure trail. Holy Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, that was – was that – fucking hot. That was – Stiles found no words that could sufficiently sum up what the fuck was happening to his (too pristine and virgin) body.
"Ravage me," he whimpered, then slapped a hand over his mouth. When he looked down at Derek in horror, Derek was giving him a grin that really, could only ever be described as feral, and then Stiles had absolutely no room for any embarrassment, because Derek growled - growled - and went for Stiles' fly teeth first.
"That's the idea," he replied, glancing up at Stiles for a second before sliding his eyes closed.
It was the probably the hottest fucking thing Stiles had ever seen; definitely the hottest thing he'd ever experienced. White teeth gleamed in the dark as the denim gave way, and Stiles watched as Derek framed his hips with his hands and licked a long, hot stripe back up over his belly, leaving a cooling wet trail that raised his skin up in goose bumps. Stiles shuddered, whimpering, and clutched Derek's shoulders. It was clear that he was no longer in control of the situation, and that was just fucking fine. One of them was definitely a lot more proficient in this, and if there was one thing Stiles had learned well, it was to let the more proficient people lead you; you might learn a thing or two.
But, still. "Why – why me? Is it ‘cause you're – you're bored or –"
A hard nip at his hip, and Derek's mouth was suddenly a lot closer to Stiles'. How did he do that? "Are you seriously asking me this right now?"
Stiles analyzed himself, gaze darting between Derek's eyes, dark and hard, watching him back. "Y-yes? You did say, yourself, that I ask a lot of stupid questions."
Derek kissed him. It was hard, but it wasn't mean; it made a point. And as soon as Stiles had room to respond, the kiss turned different; it slowed; it softened. Stiles' heart yoinked in his chest and he barely managed to drag his fingertips over Derek's stubbled cheeks when Derek slowly pulled away and fixed him with another kind of stare. "Okay?"
Stiles had no idea what he meant, but, watching Derek's face so close to his own in the dark, breathing in his scent, something made him nod shakily in reply. "Y-yeah – okay."
There was a moment – a slow, languid moment – where Derek just watched him, causing everything in Stiles to go belly up and writhe around, and then Derek lowered his face until he was nipping a trail down Stiles' chest, licking the spots he bit, and Stiles could only stare at the ceiling and shudder.
Derek reached the spot he'd abandoned earlier, and that was when Stiles began to shake. He gripped the sheets under him, hoping against every fucking hope in the world, that his instincts were not betraying him this time; Derek certainly seemed to be triangulating very well, but you never knew. At least, Stiles didn't. He'd never been in this position before. Ever. Ever, not with anyone. He wasn't just finding himself on new territory, he was pretty sure he was discovering Mars all on his merry fucking own, because Derek clearly had been to Mars before, and probably not even just once.
"Okay?" Derek asked, catching his gaze, and – using his hands this time – began to lower Stiles' jeans.
Breath coming in way, way too fast, Stiles nodded, possibly a lot, and possibly so much, his head kind of whined at him, but he ignored it, because Derek was now not only sliding down his jeans, he was urging Stiles' hips up, and then sliding the jeans – along with his boxers – all the way down Stiles' thighs, revealing Stiles' hard dick to the air between them.
Stiles whined and bit his lip, because even the sight of Derek watching his dick like that was nearly enough to make him come. Fuck, fuck. It was so fucking weird to see somebody who wasn't a teammate or a doctor or Stiles himself looking at his dick. And not just looking, watching it; studying it like it was the Mona freaking Lisa.
"Uh, does it – pass inspection?" Stiles' mouth asked without his permission, and Derek, instead of kicking him out of bed, ass-first, simply tore his jeans and boxers all the way off and spread Stiles' thighs.
Fuck. Stiles gulped.
"Of course you fucking do," Derek mumbled, not catching his eyes this time, and Stiles scrambled for purchase as he felt Derek's breath ghost over his dick. And then Derek slid his mouth over the head and took Stiles halfway down and all the fucking way to heaven, because oh my God, he was getting blown by the hottest dude in town and holy fucking shit, was this real?!
Stiles would always admit this to himself and his diary later – he yelled; he cursed; he possibly lost his mind. It didn't matter. Derek's mouth was so fucking hot and tight over his dick, and what he couldn't catch in his mouth – his mouth - he took care of with his hand, sliding it up and down Stiles' dick to the rhythm of his lips. It was fucking wet and hot and tight, and Stiles tried so hard not to close his eyes and miss the sight of Derek's long, gorgeous eyelashes fluttering over his sunken cheeks (sunken because of sucking his dick) and also not to blow his load without any warning at all, because holy shit, he wanted to last even a little bit.
This was nothing like he had imagined, nothing at all like beating one out in the shower or in his bed.
He gasped as Derek sucked him faster, and lost the first battle. Without realizing it, he threw his head back, his mouth open on a permanent, never-ending gasp, everything going hotter, better. Fuck, it felt amazing. Derek was amazing. Between his mouth and his fist, he was sending Stiles over the edge so fast, it was embarrassing. He was spiraling out of control, he couldn't cling to a single thought that wasn't reduced to Derek and fucking and blowjob and Derek. His legs stopped obeying him at all, and he was writhing on the sheets, Derek's mouth his only anchor to the bed. It both lasted forever and seemed to end in a flash, as Derek gripped his thigh and gave his dick a long, hard suck, and Stiles cried out and came down his throat with no warning at all.
His voice sounded so stupid in his ears, but he couldn't even care; he was too busy shuddering and coming inside Derek's warm, incredible mouth.
When he fell back, the world spun for several seconds, while all the blood in his body began to return to all the right places. His brain was definitely the last place it was going to reach, he decided.
"D- Derek," he slurred, hand pawing at air until his grip was filled with the flimsy cotton of Derek's shirt. "Derek," he repeated and grinned helplessly as Derek's face came into view. Even in the dark, his cheeks looked flushed, and his hair was a mess. Did I do that? Stiles wondered and grinned harder. "Man, you sucked my dick," he informed him, feeling Derek's tense weight settle over him. "I can't believe – you sucked my dick."
"I'd wanted to," Derek admitted quietly, and Stiles' heart did that yoinking thing again, his grin dropping off.
"Since when?" he asked, feeling slow and stupid once more.
Derek ducked his head and did this move where he slid up against Stiles' hips and let him feel how fucking hard he was; Jesus Christ. Where did he learn those moves? "Doesn't matter."
"Uh, yes it does," Stiles protested, attempting to get himself back online.
"Why?" Derek actually sounded confused, like it really didn't.
"What the – why? Because we could have been maybe doing it a long time ago, that's why!"
"Well, we're here now, right?"
He sounded so – so – "Smooth. Nice," Stiles ground out. "You're a regular Casanova. I bet you say that to all the boys." Wait. Should he not have said that?
"Only the really, really cute ones," Derek replied, smirk fully back on his face. Stiles could feel his own cheeks flushing even further, the pleasure of Derek's words filling his every pore, even if Derek was mocking him mercilessly. He grinned back.
Derek rolled his eyes and kissed him, instead.
Stiles grinned into the kiss, his body slowly clicking back into place after being dissolved like that, and wormed his hand down between them, going for the gold. After all, Derek was still completely dressed, and if Stiles was willing to look like an idiot wearing just his t-shirt, Derek was going to get naked for him.
Derek hissed at the first firm touch to his dick, and Stiles gulped. Fucking hell, there was – a lot to touch. Like, a lot. Like, he could not possibly fit all of that into his mouth, never mind his – well, never mind anything else. Fuck. Despite his brain's protestations, however, his mouth watered. He wanted to – wanted to taste it; to try it; fucking hell, he wanted to be all up in there.
He had a brief struggle with his brain about whether or not there even a remote possibility of Derek wolfing out on him all of a sudden, but then he remembered that Derek never even turned at werewolf high noons, and also, Stiles so could not give a crap at this point.
"Now, now, c'mon, Derek, take ‘em off," he urged, pushing Derek off of him and trying to help with the fly. Derek batted him away, making quick work of it himself, but Stiles wasn't going to be deprived of the pleasure of stripping Derek Hale down to his birthday suit. He reached for the shirt, instead, and took maybe a little too much pleasure in sliding it over Derek's belly and ribs, up over his chest and armpits, getting him just slightly tangled with all the arms and the fabric, and then Derek was kicking off his jeans and briefs, and there he was – gloriously, ridiculously naked, glowing, and huge, in every way.
Stiles gulped. It suddenly occurred to him that Derek Hale was a man. Not a boy; not a Lacrosse teammate. He was all man, muscle and hair and strength, and the only thing standing between them was Stiles' t-shirt and a flimsy layer of oxygen.
Stiles worked quickly on the former, and did a quick job of getting rid of the latter, then pulled himself in until they were touching, chests and dicks and thighs and toes, and twining in ways that he could never have imagined.
"Fuck- Derek-" He couldn't breathe, his hips thrusting up against Derek without any input from his brain.
Derek moaned against him, sending another shiver down Stiles' skin from all the Jesus, he made Derek moan, and rolled them over until Stiles was buried beneath him. He was hard again.
Derek raised an eyebrow. "That fast, huh?"
"You're hot," Stiles shrugged defensively. "Besides, I'm still eight-"
Derek squeezed his eyes shut. "Don't say it. Let's pretend you're Superman."
Stiles crowed, grinning. "Fuck, yes. Does that make you Lois Lane?"
"Don't push it," Derek warned, eyebrow arched and deadly serious.
Stiles laughed and nipped at the naked shoulder above him, just as an experiment, just to see if he could. Derek made a soft noise at that, eyes sliding shut, so Stiles did it again, biting across the smooth, hot skin, until he reached the dip beneath Derek's throat. Stiles closed his eyes and licked it, tasting – salt, and something that could really only be described as Derek, his skin, the taste of it clinging to his tongue.
The next moment, Derek growled and his weight left Stiles for the smallest of moments, until he was suddenly straddling Stiles' chest, his dick front and center before Stiles' very eyes, hard and huge and fucking dangerous.
"Shit," Stiles breathed despite himself.
Derek's hand, which had looked fucking huge on that bottle of beer, now only covered half his length, as he stroked himself slowly, like in preparation. Stiles gulped, and raised his eyes to Derek's. "Can I?"
That was the question, though, wasn't it? He wanted to; he desperately fucking wanted to taste Derek's dick, to see how it would feel in his mouth, make him come hard and fast. But.
"You ever done this before?" Derek asked. It didn't sound judgmental, or overly protective, just, like, seeking information.
Stiles breathed through the slight twinge of humiliation, and shook his head. "But, uh. I really, really want to? You know. With you. In, like. Particular. Not just a general dick-sucking…thing. But a, uh. Yeah." Stiles finally managed to shut the fuck up.
Derek watched him, hand still roving nonchalantly over his dick, then slowly lifted his hips up. "C'mere," he whispered, and it took Stiles a bit to get with the program and figure out where, exactly, it was that Derek wanted him to go. Then he followed Derek's guiding, helping hands until he was propped up against the single pillow on the bed, and Derek was settling back down over him, so gentle, Stiles thought he might actually melt.
"Yeah?" Derek breathed, hand hovering over Stiles' jaw, and after Stiles nodded at him, only a bit jerkily, he whispered, "Open up."
Stiles did. Just as gently, Derek guided the tip of his cock into Stiles' mouth. Instinct took over; Stiles slid his tongue over the head, shut his eyes, and slipped one hand over Derek's on the base. Then, he sucked.
Derek's dick formed his lips into an obscene ‘o' and, as he sucked, Stiles couldn't stop thinking it; obscene, this is fucking filthy, and it turned him on even harder. Derek tasted intense, overwhelming. When Stiles managed to open his eyes and look up, attempting to breathe through his nose, he saw Derek for everything he was and everything he felt like. A predatory being – human and not; dangerous and not. It should have been ridiculous – Stiles wasn't good at this, not yet, and it hurt his lips, his jaw; everything ached, and he could feel all the wetness escaping his mouth, sliding down his chin and jawline; but all he could focus on was Derek, their hands moving in tandem on his dick, his body a tightly controlled thing, so close to losing it, and yet so fucking restrained.
Stiles wanted that restraint to shatter.
He moaned in the back of his throat and urged Derek to move, just a little, let him have it; this was not enough. Wildly, he thought he wanted to be torn to pieces, wanted Derek to do what he truly wanted to, and fuck his mouth, just like this; just like this.
It got hazy after that. He didn't have enough hair for Derek to pull on, but that didn't mean that Derek didn't try. Stiles was pretty sure he would have been shouting, if his mouth hadn't been busy being filled up by Derek's dick, as Derek fucked into it, short, rapid movements that pushed the boundaries of what Stiles could fucking do. He was losing air quickly; his eyes rolled to the back of his head; he never wanted this to end.
"Fuck, fuck - are you – are you okay –" he heard through the rush in his ears, and squeezed Derek's rapidly-moving hand. Yes. And then a moment later, he realized that he wasn't going to be okay pretty soon, and he pushed Derek back, just an inch, just to show him, because fuck, he couldn't breathe at all.
Derek pulled back immediately, one hand still stroking his own dick, the other gripping Stiles' buzz cut. Once released, Stiles gulped for breath, his lips chapped, jaw aching. He felt crazy; he was clearly losing it. His dick was hard as a rock, and when he looked up at Derek, Derek was watching him with a mix of crazy fucking lust and incredibly misplaced concern.
Stiles shook his head. "Don't stop, don't – don't stop, please –"
A noise escaped Derek, like pain, short and sharp. The next moment, he watched as Derek's dick jumped, and then instinct took over once again, and Stiles opened his mouth as Derek came, groaning, wave after wave of it hitting Stiles' chin and catching on his tongue, fucking him up, marking him. That's what it was, right? Stiles thought crazily. He's marking me, I smell like him now. I really smell like him.
It felt like forever before Derek subsided. Stiles managed to catch the last glimpse of pleasure on his face as he glanced up through hazy eyes. Derek was beautiful. Fuck. Fuck. He towered over him, a hand braced over Stiles, on the headboard, and he was covered in a sheen of sweat, his chest moving with each rapid breath.
"Are you still hard?" he asked Stiles, his voice shot, like his throat had been sanded down.
Stiles nodded mutely, licking at the mess on his lips.
Derek carefully moved off of him, settling down onto his side, and commanded, "Make yourself come."
They both watched, then, as Stiles gripped himself and went to town. It wasn't going to take long, not even the second time. He was fucking eighteen, and he was Superman. He didn't bother wiping the mess off his chin, and the next moment, Derek was crowding him up on the bed and licking it all off himself, the heat coming off him in waves, his body bearing down onto Stiles. Stiles choked down his sobs, but some still escaped. He was lost now, really, truly fucking lost, and all he knew at that moment was Derek, his body, his scent, his taste, and his heart, beating wildly against Stiles' chest.
He came so hard, he thought he would black out. In fact, things did get hazy for a moment or two where he just floated out of his mind somewhere. When he came to, Derek was sliding down his body in an echo of what seemed like hours ago, though was probably just a few minutes, and gently kissing a trail down Stiles' skin. When he got the mess Stiles had made on his belly, he licked that up as well.
"Fuck," Stiles breathed finally, when his voice returned. His toes had fallen asleep. "You really love the taste, huh?"
Derek huffed out a laugh, but didn't bother answering. Apparently, that was a yes.
"You should sleep," Derek said the next moment, and there didn't seem to be any reason at all why Stiles should not have obeyed. And so he fell asleep with his hand still wrapped around his dick, and with Derek's rough cheek resting on his stomach.
When he woke up, it was morning.
Dust bunnies existed in sunlight, too. When Stiles cracked open his eyes, his first instinct was to scream, but it was quickly suppressed by mute shock. Derek's eyes were open, and he was watching Stiles from barely an inch away, like it was normal. Stiles tried to pull his thoughts together in rather quick order: got drunk, slept over, had amazing, mind-blowing, life-altering, sexuality-awakening sex with a dude werewolf. Right. Okay.
And holy shit.
"H-hey," he rasped oh-so-casually when Derek continued staring.
Derek didn't respond, but he shifted until they were even closer on the pillow, and it took Stiles an embarrassingly long time to realize that Derek was going in for a kiss.
In all fairness to him, though, that had never happened in daylight before.
They both smelled and tasted atrocious, but Stiles didn't fucking care. Derek was making the slightest, tiniest noises against his mouth, and as the kiss went on, Stiles felt the flutter of Derek's fingers on his cheek. He moaned and settled deeper into the pillow, harder against Derek.
When they finally broke apart, he pulled back just enough to be able to see Derek's face. He was even more beautiful when it wasn't dark.
"I am so fucked," Stiles blurted out.
Derek's eyebrows knit together. "Why? Are you late?"
"Late?" Late to what? What could he possibly – "Oh, fuck. Fuck. Fuck!"
He was definitely, almost certainly, late, and by "late" he obviously meant "dead" in the Old English sense of the word, because it was most certainly way past the time where his dad wasn't waiting for him with a gun on the porch.
"Shit! Help!" He jumped out of bed and immediately regretted it, because yep, there it was, good ol' reliable. Just as up as Stiles. He winced, then covered up. "I need to – I really need to –"
Derek was half-sitting up, looking like freakin' Adonis or whatever, partly covered by a sheet, and partly completely and deliciously naked and hard, and Stiles was so fucked, last night would never even come close to the fucking of how fucking fucked he truly was.
"It's only nine?" Derek said tentatively, like Stiles was a spooked hawk that had landed in his yard.
Stiles squawked, because apparently, he was that spooked hawk that had landed in his yard. Bed. Whatever. "Dad gets up at eight! He'll have called Scott already!"
Where were his pants? He needed them. He could not go home without pants. He was pretty sure that was an unspoken but firm agreement between him and his father.
"Okay!" Derek was out of bed the next second, already rooting around for his own underwear and pants, and Stiles wanted to kill himself, he really did, because he couldn't not look, and Derek had the most amazing ass.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity of beautiful man and panicked brain, they were both dressed and semi-presentable.
"How do I look?" Stiles asked, running his hands all over his shirt and pants and head, just in case. "There's nothing about Mary about me, right?"
"Huh?" Derek paused mid-way through making his bed. (He made his bed.?)
Stiles shook his head. "Never mind. Do I look like I spent all night banging a dude?"
He watched as Derek pursed his lips, then tilted his head, like he was really studying him from across the room. "Well…you definitely look like you spent a while making out with sand paper," he replied slowly, like it was no big deal.
Stiles crumpled to the floor. "I'm dead."
Derek walked him to the Jeep. It would have been pretty romantic, actually, Stiles thought, had it not been for his very near demise, and Derek's house being the site of several gruesome murders in recent memory.
"You'll call me?" Derek smirked, then tilted his face up to the sun. Stiles squirmed in place, having absolutely no idea what to say. Would Derek call him if he didn't? Was this just a one-time thing? It didn't feel like a one-time thing. In fact, as sudden and unfortunate flashbacks raced through his mind, it felt very, very much not like a one-time thing at all, but like a – a start of something. Of what? He had no idea.
Jesus, he was gonna have to tell Scott. He winced. "I'm gonna have to tell Scott."
Derek fixed him with a stare. "Damn."
"I know!" Stiles flailed. "I know. I know! And –"
"My dad is gonna hit the roof, ‘cause you know, he's the sheriff –"
"And nothing gets past that guy, I mean, you don't get elected sheriff for –"
Derek's face loomed in front of him, eyes fucking boring into Stiles'. Stiles shut up. Derek kissed him.
There were, Stiles was discovering, very few things that could worry you when you were being kissed by Derek Hale. Maybe that was one of his werewolfy powers, but Stiles felt his mind clearing, when it should have been screaming back at him in panic.
When the kiss broke off, Stiles found his hands enfolded in Derek's. "Aww," he said looking down. "I like you, too."
Derek rolled his eyes. "You ruined the moment, asshole."
"Was there a moment?" Stiles felt his mouth tipping into the stupidest grin.
"Now you're just being a jackass on purpose," Derek told him.
"That is patently untrue," Stiles retorted, "because in my experience, you can only be a jackass on purpose if you know what you're doing, and I don't know if you've noticed this? But I have no fucking clue what I'm doing." It was true, and yet he found, when he really, truly, deeply searched his soul, he didn't mind that one little bit. Not even at all.
"In other words, in your experience, you have no experience," Derek said slowly.
"Exactly!" Stiles felt an overwhelming urge to bop Derek on the nose with his finger. It was a really, really good thing that Derek still had a hold of his hands. Stiles was sweating all over.
"Then I'll say it," Derek nodded, and moved even closer. So close, Stiles could no longer tell the details of his face, only his eyes, bright and smiling. It was really mesmerizing. The toes of their boots touched. "I like you, Stiles. I would like to see you again." He paused. Stiles gulped. "In a –" Derek paused, looking like he maybe wanted to eat his own fist rather than continue talking.
Stiles ventured a conclusion for him, just in case. "- A sexy capacity?" Derek rolled his eyes, but didn't answer, either way. Stiles bit his lips in an attempt to stop his grin from spreading once again. It didn't work. "So I'm sexy?"
Derek stepped on his toe.
"Ow! Fine, I'm sexy, cool, good to know." He attempted to rub his toe with his other foot to no avail.
Derek raised his eyebrows. "And?"
"Huh? Oh! Aaaand, I like you, too. Derek. Derek Hale." Stiles paused, light panic bubbling up inside of him. "Derek Hale, the werewolf, who is a werewolf and also…a werewolf." Derek looked like he was waiting for something more. Stiles nodded as he continued, "And also, a sexy, sexy werewolf. That I would like to have more sexy times with. And. Stuff."
Derek laughed, a short, sudden bark, and pushed Stiles up against the side of the Jeep. And sure, okay, so Stiles was totally a dead man walking, but he could never really truly mind his fate, if his present was just so fucking awesome.
And it was.
It really, really was.