Stiles is...Stiles is living the dream. He's (semi)officially dating the hottest man ever to exist. He gave Stiles his leather jacket to wear and everything. And his car! Holy fuck, the black Camaro sex car. Stiles has hit the jackpot. He is dating the dream, magic dick included. Just wait 'til he tells Scott!
Probably Scott won't be so interested in the magic dick part. Stiles deflates momentarily in the passenger seat before perking right back up. Allison! Allison will be interested in the magic dick, Stiles is sure.
Stiles takes another quick peek over at Derek, his boyfriend. His boyfriend, Derek. Derek Hale. Derek is gripping the wheel in both hands, knuckles ringed white around the edges. And his gaze on the road, wow. Stiles didn't know it was possible to be that totally focused. Stiles allows himself a momentary twinge of nervousness.
After...after, um, disengaging, and well, divesting Stiles' ass of a veritable river of cum, the two of them had dressed in silence and stood looking at the extremely x-rated mess they'd left in the back corner of the stocking area.
"Come on," Derek had said, throwing his jacket around Stiles' shoulders. "We’re leaving."
"Okay," Stiles had replied (with no small amount of relief), and followed him out, sneaking behind Derek's prowling grace as best he could as the two of them skulked out of the docking area of Beacon Grocery and around the front parking lot to Derek's waiting sex car of dreams.
Stiles doesn't know where they're going, but honestly, with the afterglow he's riding over here, Derek could have asked him to do a naked tango while handstanding in the parking lot for all to see, and Stiles would have done it happily. Actually, there isn't much Derek could ask of Stiles that he wouldn’t do. Stiles just has this feeling that he wants to give Derek anything. Everything. God. Sex is great.
Stiles wriggles with satisfaction in the seat and hisses, his body stilling as a twinge of discomfort makes itself known.
"What is it?" Derek snaps his head around to Stiles, his nostrils flaring and his grip on the wheel tightening.
Stiles swallows. He doesn't want Derek to worry or anything.
"Just, ah, getting comfortable," he tries his best to assure Derek.
Derek looks suspicious, but appears to buy it, albeit reluctantly.
"Um, where are we going, by the way?" Ooo, is Stiles being abducted and whisked away into a sex cabin retreat in the woods? Awesome!
Oh boy, his dad will not be happy about that, holy crap.
"I'm taking you home."
Aw yisss, Stiles is a fucking sex kitten or something, he knew it he always knew it! Really he did.
"My mother will know what to do."
"You're taking me to meet your mom?" No sexytimes in the secluded forest? Damn.
"She and Uncle Peter will know what to do."
"Um, how many people are going to be there?" Stiles asks with a gulp.
"My whole family," Derek answers, like it's no big deal.
The extended family? Double damn. Stiles knows from experience that it's best to introduce him to just one person at a time, and in small doses. Stiles can't freak out. He can't. Derek likes Stiles, like, a whole lot; surely his family will too. He's not gonna be super nervous about this. He's not.
They're on what looks like the edges of the preserve when Derek pulls off into a secluded drive that winds its way around through the trees. After a few minutes, the tree cover ends at a wide expanse of lawn, and they're pulling up a circular drive to park in front of either a small castle or a mansion on steroids.
"Holy shit," Stiles squeaks.
Derek takes in a deep breath, like he's steeling himself for something, then unbuckles and slides out of his Camaro, all grace and hello ass and Stiles will get that grip, any minute now.
"Maybe I'll just wait in the car," Stiles says to the dash as Derek shuts his door and walks around the front of the car.
"Come on," Derek says, as he opens Stiles' door for him.
Stiles slowly unbuckles and shuffles out of the Camaro, as if by being a slug, he can delay the inevitable. Derek doesn't really make way for him as he unfolds himself out of the car, so when Stiles stands, they're practically pressed up against each other. Stiles watches with something like wonder as Derek's eyes go unfocused and he sways closer to Stiles, his head dipping down to Stiles' neck.
Hot damn, Stiles has still got it.
The moment is ruined by a massive front door being thrown open and a young woman with dark hair like Derek's bursting out onto the porch. She pulls up just short of darting down the steps to where Stiles and Derek are still standing by the car. Stiles can pick out the shapes of other people gathering at the front door, still inside the house. Whoo boy.
A grin splits the woman's face, and Stiles himself has lived in unholy glee far too long not to recognize it in someone else as she exclaims, "Why Derek, who have you brought home?"
Derek stiffens beside Stiles, and groans, so slightly under his breath Stiles almost misses it, "Oh no, not her."
"Oh yes, me," the woman states, so smug it almost hurts to look at her as she deliberately descends down to them, one step at a time.
Stiles looks at Derek's face, which is braced for the coming apocalypse, and asks, "How did she--?"
But he's interrupted by the appearance of another woman with long dark hair who can only be Derek's mother. "Laura," she says sharply, stopping the younger woman's descent with that one word.
"Oh, but mom." Laura turns back to pout, and the woman answers with a no nonsense, "Now," and Laura heaves a gusty sigh and tromps theatrically back up the steps and into the house.
Derek's mother smiles warmly down at Stiles and says, "Come inside, you two."
Stiles looks sideways at Derek, who closes the Camaro door and urges Stiles forward. Whelp, nothing for it then. Stiles squares his shoulders and marches up the steps. He’s unable to hide a pleased smile as Derek stumbles up the steps behind him in his haste to catch up.
Derek's mother blinks wide-eyed at them for the barest of moments, then ushers them both inside.
Stiles gulps as she shuts the massive door behind them, then jumps and turns to the side as Laura yelps and throws a hand over her nose. "Sweet moons of the fallen, Derek, he absolutely reeks of you. What’d you do? Throw him down and take him right there in one of the aisles in the store?”
Stiles feels himself flush bright red, and Derek has a look on his face that oddly enough, reminds Stiles of Scott, model child, caught out at misbehaving once again at the behest of, well...Stiles.
"Oh my god!" a girl Stiles' own age yells, her long hair more of an auburn, and suddenly the entranceway of the house is less quite a few people, leaving only a few lingering snickers behind.
Stiles feels a bit like the afterglow might be fading, because oh my god, what is he doing here? Where is here? What is happening right now?
"Why don't you introduce us, dear?" Derek's mother interjects smoothly, like that incredibly awkward and mortifying moment didn't just happen.
Derek raises a halfhearted arm to his mother as he says, "This is my mother, Talia Hale." He turns the halfhearted arm of greeting to Stiles and continues, "Mom, this is..." A look of abject horror passes over Derek's face.
"Stiles!" Stiles says brightly, coupling it with what he hopes is his most charming flail.
A horrified, "You didn't even know his name?" floats down from some place deeper in the house. Stiles feels his flush settle into what must be a horrifying shade of tomato, and Derek manages to look like he's just been hit over the head with a large embarrassing fish.
Laura, still off to Stiles' right, begins making a sound that eventually devolves into hyena-like laughter that she can't seem to get enough breath for. "Oh, Derek," she gasps out, "you beast!"
Oh, God, Stiles wishes Allison were here. Then he could hide behind her, and Scott could hide behind him, and she'd take care of both of them.
"Laura." Derek steps in front of Stiles towards her threateningly, a very flattering growl in Stiles' honor grating through his tone.
"Out," Derek's mother says sternly.
"Okay," Laura hiccups, and she turns to depart through a side hallway, but pauses as a thought occurs to her. “Wait, does this mean we still don’t have steaks for dinner?”
“Oh, come on,” Stiles is pretty sure he hears from further down that hallway, and “Only Derek,” groans a voice which floats down the stairs.
Hey now. Stiles likes to flatter himself that he’s a little bit higher up the food chain than some steaks. Against his will, his mouth opens (doesn’t know what’s gonna come out but it’s gonna be good). “Hey,” he calls, “it’s still some high quality meat you got here.” Stiles has got to remember that one for Scott.
Stiles hears another “Oh my god,” from down the hallway and Laura who is frozen in place, (no doubt processing Stiles’ fabulous pun) shrieks with laughter and turns to continue down the hallway, using the walls to hold herself up, bent over in the throes of mirth.
Beside Stiles, Derek has his head buried in his hands, but jerks up out of that (super dramatic, honestly) pose to glare at a man half-hidden in the shadow of the banister of the stairs. The man chuckles and says, “Oh, him I like.”
Derek takes a step towards the man, but is interrupted by Talia, who clears her throat conspicuously. Derek glowers, but subsides. The man shakes his head back and forth. “Dear, sweet nephew,” he starts to say, but Talia interrupts him.
“Peter,” she says, her voice a warning. The man, Peter, heaves a gusty sigh but says nothing more.
"This way, dear," Talia Hale says, flashing a worried smile at Stiles, and leads him and Derek down into a cozy kind of library-study room. A massive man with amber eyes and the auburn hair of the younger girl (Stiles has no idea how he managed to miss seeing him), and Peter, (who could almost be Talia’s twin) file in after them.
Talia closes the door behind them, then turns to face Stiles, who is fidgeting nervously. Beside him, Derek is slightly slumped, like he wants to sink down through the floor and deep beneath the earth.
Talia opens her mouth a couple times, then closes it, starting and failing to find the right words.
Stiles doesn't even know what words there are to possibly say, which is something, coming from him. He has this growing urge to flail at Derek and yell, ‘Protect me from your family, you magic dicked wonder!’ Thank god he seems to be growing out of his blurting out things spontaneously phase. Sort of. Well right now he might be.
Talia turns slightly to look at the auburn-haired man, who is bearded, and possibly the mold which was used to cut all other men from. He smiles encouragingly at Derek and says, "You've found your mate, son. Don't look so gloomy."
Mate? What the frickle frack?
Derek winces, and closes his eyes. All three of the adults exchange curious looks.
"Have you been courting him on the sly?" Peter asks.
Stiles momentarily loses control of his mouth (one step forward two steps back), and smirks at Derek. "It was so romantic," he says, batting his eyes.
Derek's eyes snap open to glare at him. "You stalked me all through the grocery store," he accuses.
"It wasn't stalking," Stiles defends hotly. "It was courting, like he said." Stiles gestures to the big man (who must be Derek’s father, if the ‘son’ he said before is anything to go by). It was totally stalking though. Stiles is living his teenage life fully, just look at him go. Boyfriend in hand. Meeting the parents. And extended family. Eat your heart out, Gaylord Focker.
Derek's nostrils do that flaring thing again, and he crosses his arms in front of his chest. "You made terrible jokes in the meat section."
"Hey, I stand by that package line, that's golden. It's going on twitter."
Peter chokes. Talia herself sighs and says, "Oh my."
"You were completely inappropriate," Derek says hotly.
"Hey, you're the one who dragged me off into a dark corner to have his way with me."
Derek does a complicated maneuver with his eyebrows and growls, "You jumped me and then begged for it. Literally."
Stiles points at Derek and delivers his coup de grace, "You are in love with me, you love me, if I were to walk out of here right now, you'd come running after me."
Derek snarls, "You played sex chicken and lost."
"I won," Stiles says smugly.
"So the two of you just met today?" the Derek’s father interrupts, asking weakly, as though he already knows the answer and it pains him.
"I thought he was an Argent, skulking around ineptly after me," Derek snaps defensively. "He's even admitted to being friends with one. He probably got me jacked up with something, either accidentally or on purpose, and that's what made me-"
Stiles interrupts, "Excuse me? Are you insinuating that I drugged you?"
"It's the only explanation, because there's no way otherwise that I would-"
Stiles doesn't hang around to hear the end of that sentence. He storms out of the room, right past a flabbergasted Talia, down the several hallways, and straight out the front door that he came in. He stops, momentarily held up by the sight of the Camaro sitting in the drive and not his Jeep. Where the fuck is his Jeep? Stiles blinks. His Jeep is still waiting for him back at the grocery store. With dawning horror, Stiles pats himself down in a frenzy and realizes he doesn't have his keys or his phone with him anymore. He glares at the Camaro, (stupid sex-car), then stomps right past it and down the road.
Stupid fucking assholes with their giant magical dicks. Stiles is so angry he wants to spit nails.
He tromps down the drive and then decides to cut through the preserve to get back home. Nobody needs to see Stiles doing the walk of shame down public highways, thank you. Also his ass is sore; he’s going to start hobbling funny any minute now, and nobody needs to see that either. He veers off the gravel and over the grass, heading into the treeline.
“Stiles!” he hears Derek call to him from back up at the house. Derek Snail, Derek Kale, shit. Why can’t Stiles come up with a truly insulting word that rhymes with ‘Hale? Is ‘snail’ really the best he can do? Where are all the good insults when you--
A hand grabs him on the shoulder and spins him around. “Holy shit!” Stiles flails at Derek. “How did you get here so fast?”
“Stiles, I didn’t mean it,” Derek says desperately. “I didn’t mean what I said before.”
Stiles narrows his eyes. “You said it, didn’t you?”
Derek’s mouth opens and closes, but nothing comes out.
Stiles sneers as he yanks his shoulder out of Derek’s grip and turns to continue his march off into the wilderness.
“Where are you going?” Derek asks from behind him.
“Home,” Stiles snarls. To his room. And his blanket nest. And a phone, with which to call Allison and demand that she make it all better with her dimples. And then another phone with which to call Scott and demand that he make it all better with his dimples, a giant bag of cheetos, and some GTA, motherfucker.
“You’re going the wrong way,” Derek informs him in tones of superiority that make Stiles’ brain go like foom!
He rounds on Derek, flailing aggressively. “How do you know where my home is or isn’t? You don’t!”
“I’m sorry, do you live in the Shasta-Trinity State Park? Because that’s the direction you’re heading in.”
So much for shortcuts. Dammit.
Stiles changes directions and starts marching off. He hears a gusty sigh heaved from behind him, and after a moment he whirls around and, sure enough, Derek is following him.
“I’m sorry,” Stiles says sweetly, (mocking Derek from just moments before and channeling him some Lydia Martin), “I’m not drugging you to follow after me, am I?” A constipated expression descends on Derek’s face. “Because don’t!” Stiles flails his most alarming flail (usually guaranteed to send people running for cover). But no, Derek remains in place, and has the gall to raise a judgemental eyebrow at Stiles’ flapping around.
“Shut the fuck up,” Stiles yelps, “it’s a defense mechanism.” He turns and starts marching off again. A few moments pass of him tripping around before he can’t take it any longer and turns around again to say, “What are you doing!? Nobody wants you here! I don’t want you here, you don’t want you here, why did you follow-” Stiles’ tirade cuts off as the answer hits him like an ACME safe to the head. “You followed me out here, you-you-you came running after me,” Stiles breathes, the feeling of ‘right right I was right’ rising up inside him like a tidal wave. “You love me,” he crows victoriously.
The look on Derek’s face cannot be described as anything other than ‘oops.’
Stiles takes a few steps towards Derek, who eyes him warily. Stiles--Stiles has landed an emotionally constipated boyfriend who can’t talk about feelings. This is...awesome.
“Tell me,” Stiles demands, “you love me.” Allison is always saying that Scott is super emotionally available, but with a little sigh at the end. She is going to love living vicariously through Stiles.
Derek’s face takes on a muleish expression.
Stiles takes a few more steps forward, closing the distance between them. “Tell me,” he says again.
Derek mutters something that Stiles can’t hear.
“What was that?” Stiles coaxes.
“No freaking way.”
Oh, Christmas has come about seven months early for Stiles this year. Not only is he now not single (and did he manage that in the most explicit of ways possible? Yes. Yes he did) but his boyfriend is a sex god from fantasy dick land and also freaking adorable. What is that expression? Petulance?
This is Stiles’ reward for 16 years of being...Stiles. Stiles takes another step forward, pausing just within arms reach. “Say it,” Stiles orders.
Derek crosses his arms in front of his chest. “I don’t love you,” he announces to the space over Stiles’ left ear.
“That’s not what you said earlier with your dick in my ass.” And what a glorious dicking it was.
Derek’s nostrils flare and his eyes snap to meet Stiles’ eyes. The heat from his glare makes Stiles’ knees weak, makes other body parts perk up with interest.
“You little...” Derek pauses for a moment, obviously searching for the right word. “...deviant.”
Stiles tilts his head up and lets his eyes fall half-closed. Derek’s eyes are drawn down to the exposed length of Stiles’ throat. Jesus...fuck. Apparently all these years of teenage awkwardness have been nothing but some sort of sex chrysalis from which Stiles has now emerged. He’s a sex butterfly. A monarch of sex. Allison was right.
“I can’t hear you,” Stiles (there’s no other word for it) purrs. Then he lets out a gasp of shock, of desire, of longing, as Derek’s arms whip around him and take hold of Stiles’ ass (one cheek cradled in each palm and fuck Stiles rolled over with a hot dog cart that’s hot) and jerks Stiles forward against him. They’re pressed chest to chest, thigh to thigh, hard cock to hard cock.
“Say it,” Stiles manages to grit out around the edges of desire so heavy its pull is like gravity.
“I love you,” Derek says, angrily. And another victory is awarded to Stiles, he the magnificent, he the conqueror of magic dicked men who are hot like the sun.
Derek dips his head down to press his face against the juncture of Stiles’ neck and shoulder and takes in a deep, shuddery breath. Stiles will get tired of Derek doing that precisely never.
“I want you again,” he breathes into Stiles’ skin.
Stiles turns his face towards Derek and sighs into his ear, “Good.”
Derek shivers, lifts his head, and then their lips meet and Stiles is suddenly confused as to why they ever stopped. Derek’s tongue in his mouth is exploratory, yet sure. Heat pools in Stiles’ stomach, gathers along his spine, rises with his erection with every languid stroke of Derek’s tongue against his. Derek shifts his grip from Stiles’ ass to lower down the backs of his thighs and suddenly, Stiles has been hoisted up against Derek. Stiles makes a sound of surprise from the back of his throat and brings both his hands up to clutch at Derek’s hair.
Derek must like that because his kiss grows feverish and hurried, and he uses his grip on Stiles to pull Stiles even closer against him. It feels bright, like agony. It feels like Stiles was born to be wrapped in this skin, so Derek could peel him out of it, piece by piece, and lay him bare against the world.
Derek takes a step forward, then another step, then he’s walking, carrying Stiles like it’s nothing. And fuck Stiles with Derek’s super dick, if that doesn’t make Stiles’ eyes want to roll back into his head.
Derek apparently had a destination in mind, because suddenly he’s pressing Stiles back against a tree. Fuck him, yes, Stiles wants it wants it wants it. He wants Derek’s dick in him. Now. Stiles drops his hands to his zipper and yanks it down, and Derek shifts his grip until both he and Stiles manage to get a hand on the waistband of Stiles’ jeans to pull them down. But it doesn’t quite work out (stupid clothing, hasn’t Stiles been saying that everyone should just walk around naked for years) and with a growl Derek has to give up and let Stiles drop to his feet to kick them all the way off (it only takes about one second flat but even that is too long). Stiles jumps back on Derek, who catches hold of him easily, (and now would be the perfect time for a comment about trees and climbing and whatnot but Stiles is distracted, okay).
They kiss again, but only for a moment. Stiles opens his mouth to protest Derek pulling away, but gasps out an ‘ah’ of pleasure instead as Derek grazes teeth down the column of his throat. The teeth are followed by tongue and then lips (and Stiles may have himself a thing here). There’s still too much clothing going on in this forest though, and Stiles tugs at Derek’s shirt until Derek breaks away from sucking on his neck with a snarl and flings it off.
Stiles wasn’t in a position to be able to appreciate it much before but Derek’s chest is hairy and god that’s hot, that’s so fucking hot. Why does everything that Derek is set Stiles’ skin on fire and set his heart rate running to where the wild things are?
“Want you in me, want you in me,” Stiles groans, raking his nails down the muscles of Derek’s chest and over his abdomen.
Derek groans wordlessly and throws his head back. Oh fuck, he likes that he likes that, so Stiles does it again, groans himself at the feel of Derek’s body trembling under his hands. He brings his hands down further, this time to jerk on the fastenings of Derek’s jeans. It’s time to get these puppies off, yes sir Mr. President sir. After a few seconds of ineffectually scrabbling at the zipper (his hands are shaking so much with the force of his arousal that he can’t get a firm grip), during which Derek pants in his ear (which does not help, thank you Derek), Stiles finally gets the zipper open. He pulls down Derek’s jeans and underwear as far as he can from his position, and Derek’s cock springs free, rigid and twitching in the open air.
Stiles glances up to Derek, who is gazing down, riveted by the sight of both their cocks bared together. Stiles is pleased to see that his dick is so hard it’s curving up towards his stomach. And why is that? Because Stiles is so fucking hot for it, he’s probably about to spontaneously combust.
“Are you going to fuck me or what?” Stiles taunts.
“Gonna fuck you,” Derek promises, his voice low. It sends shivers of delight down Stiles’ spine. Derek braces Stiles’ back against the tree and uses his grip on Stiles’ thighs to spread his legs open. Somehow, he has the strength to then hold Stiles there like it’s nothing, with just one hand. And just fuck Stiles already, fuck him, he can’t take this, jesus sex is dangerous, people can die from this, right? Stiles is certainly about to, because Derek slides his free hand in between Stiles’ legs (Stiles can feel his balls sliding along the back of Derek’s hand jesu christo yes) as he reaches for Stiles’ hole, which is still slick and loose and wet, and ready, so so ready. Derek circles his fingers around the rim, feels the wetness there and grunts out, “Ready for me.” Stiles nods his head up and down in agreement so enthusiastically, he’s likely given himself whiplash.
Derek grips Stiles once more underneath his thighs with both hands, lifts him up, positions him (Derek’s cockhead is nudging at his hole and Stiles’ whole body shakes at the feeling), and then Derek sinks Stiles down on his cock.
Stiles gives a strangled yell, because it hurts oh it hurts, fuck he’s sore, much more sore than he’d realized, Derek’s so big, too big this time, and hard. It hurts but before he can even draw some breath in to beg Derek to take it out, the pain melts away. Stiles gasps, blinking away tears that hadn’t even had time to form. He wriggles carefully in Derek’s grip. All he feels is a huge cock (Derek’s cock) in his ass, and it feels exactly like it should, like it belongs there. Once again, Stiles is ready for it like, yesterday, he wants to feel it, feel the thrust and the fuck and the sex.
“We are waiting here,” Stiles informs Derek snidely.
“You little…” Derek begins, but doesn’t finish as he pulls his hips back and snaps them forward (and there’s the thrust). Stiles grunts, sees stars, and then Derek thrusts again, then again, and again (and there’s the fuck). Stiles buries his hands once more in Derek’s hair (oh god the feel of it how could he have forgotten the feel of Derek’s cock plunging in and out of him already). They’re both gasping for air, and it’s mixing with the smack of their flesh meeting, they’re connected, they’re one. Stiles feels like he might dissolve into Derek’s hands; his nerves are on fire with pleasure. It’s rhythm and desperation and grace (and sex).
“Make me cum,” Stiles begs. He wants to slam into his orgasm with all the subtlety of a freight train. Derek lifts Stiles off the tree and they fall to the ground in a heap of limbs and straining flesh amidst the loam and leaves, beneath the branches of the trees, Derek barely missing one beat, his cock thrusting in and out, stretching Stiles, splitting him open so good. Stiles realizes with a startled moan that they’re face to face, and fuck fuck that’s hot, if Stiles wasn’t set on fire with lust before, he is now. Derek is braced over him on one arm, sweat gathering at his temples, cheeks flushed, eyes wide: it’s like Stiles can see his soul.Stiles is overcome by the certainty that Derek is every dream he’s ever had, but the thought flies away from him as Derek reaches down and grasps Stiles’ cock with his free hand. Stiles throws his head back in ecstasy as Derek jerks him off, and suddenly he finds that his body can fuck as well as be fucked as he digs his fingers into the dirt and raises his body to meet Derek’s thrusts.
“That’s it,” Derek pants.
Stiles’ muscles are burning with effort, his stomach tightens, he can feel his balls draw up, close so close. Derek rolls his hips, then snaps them forward, and “Ah there Derek,” Stiles cries out, his voice cracking. Sunlight filters down through the canopy above him, waves break upon the shore of Stiles’ mind, and then he’s reached it, Derek’s brought him there, he cums with a cry with a triumphant, “Derek,” falling from his lips.
Stiles is riding a haze, heaven sent, loose, boneless; he’s flying free but bound to Derek, whose mouth falls open as if his orgasm has overtaken him by surprise. His hips still and transient sparks flit behind Stiles’ eyes. He can feel Derek’s cock throbbing inside him. Derek’s so beautiful, above him, in him, it hurts to look at him but Stiles can’t not, Derek is his, his, his.
They come back to earth, chests pressed together, heaving and sweat-slick. Stiles sighs as Derek’s cock slips out of him. And then he blinks in surprise as a thought occurs to him.
“What happened to your dick mutation?” Stiles asks. Not disappointed exactly, but he had been sort of, well, expecting it, even if he’d sort of forgotten about it in the moment. Because. Seriously. There’s no way his ass imagined that happening. No freaking way at all.
“I take it back,” Derek grumbles from where his head has fallen onto Stiles’ chest, “I don’t love you.”
A word comes to Stiles, bestowed to him on high from the gods of insults themselves. “Keep telling yourself that, Derek Fail.” Stiles knew he could do better than ‘snail’ he just knew it.
“What?” Derek asks, voice resigned. Which, yes, you can’t fight the Stiles.
“Any time you displease me, that’s your name. You know, rhymes with Hale, it’s fucking genius.”
Derek just shakes his head, bemused. Stiles rolls his eyes and spells it out for him. “You know like, ‘what happened to those steaks you were supposed to bring home for dinner, Derek Fail?’”
Derek responds by pushing himself off of Stiles and throwing Stiles’ jeans on his face. Stiles sputters and emerges to see Derek pull his shirt over his head (which is just regrettable). Stiles shimmies back into his jeans and starts to lever himself up off the ground, but sinks back down with a wince.
“Fuck,” Derek says, voice sharp, and strides back over to where Stiles lays.
“Yeah, I think that might be the problem.” Stiles half-laughs, half groans. With great sex comes great ass-soreness, apparently. Derek grabs Stiles’ wrist and hauls him to his feet.
“No wait…” Stiles starts to yelp, but on his feet, the pain recedes until there’s really no pain at all. “Nevermind, I’m good.” Stiles looks around, and takes a deep breath in, beyond pleased with himself. Stiles Stilinski, sex god. Boyfriend of a sex god. These are his sexy stories.
“So,” he says brightly, brushing leaves off of his various extremities, “this way home,” and he starts off in the direction (he’s pretty sure) that he’d been traveling in before their little sex interlude.
“Stiles,” Derek says.
“Yes,” Stiles turns back to Derek and simpers at him.
Derek just rolls his eyes and says, “State park,” like he’s a long-suffering parent.
Stiles’ eyes narrow. “Wait...you were just gonna let me tromp off into like...the wild?”
Derek shrugs. “I knew you’d get tired eventually.” Then he smirks. Stiles glowers, because he knows exactly what Derek is thinking. Stiles is fucking exhausted. Because keeping Derek sexed all properly is hard work.
Stiles shuffles around to a different direction.
“Nope.” Derek informs him smugly.
Stiles grinds his teeth and tries again.
“Nope,” Derek repeats, even more smugly.
Stiles faces Derek and glares at him.
Derek sighs (like Stiles is such a burden and not Derek’s boyfriend and an amazingly fantastic lay) and points towards the one way that Stiles had been sure led to Mordor.
“Yeah, have fun explaining why you have fresh cum on your jeans to mommy when we get back, Derek Fail,” Stiles tosses over his shoulder as he heads off in what appears to be the right direction.
Behind him, Derek curses.
The walk side by side in silence. Well, Derek walks in silence and prowling grace, like he was fucking born in the forest or something. Stiles manages to get along with all the approximate ability of a spatially unaware Tyrannosaur. And, damn, Stiles was heading off into the wilderness because they still haven’t--oh. Through the trees, Stiles can make out the Downton Abbey lawn the Hales have going on in front of their fucking Bruce Wayne manor.
With a lurch of his stomach, Stiles remembers the numerous members of Derek’s family that are no doubt still lurking within. He needs him some courage. He turns and walks right into Derek (to get him to stop, Stiles has learned through many sets of experiments that this is an almost foolproof way to arresto momentum). Before Derek can roll his eyes or be a supreme asshole (god he’s so perfect, perfect, perfect for Stiles), Stiles wraps his hands in Derek’s henley, and jerks him forward into a kiss.
After a moment it becomes apparent that Derek is doing his level best to ignore Stiles. His body is held rigid against Stiles’ and he’s pursed his lips closed like some kind of prudish statue. Those defenses are so weak, it makes Stiles want to laugh. He ups his game, and bites down on Derek’s lower lip. Derek moves into action, like a reaction, he grasps Stiles face in between his hands and shoves his tongue into Stiles’ mouth, lays claim to it utterly, and fuck yeah, that’s the stuff.
Stiles has been kissed into a daze in just a few seconds, because he’s completely pliable as Derek pulls away from him, spins him around and pushes him up against (yet another) tree. He pulls down the combined collars of Stiles’ shirt and Derek’s own leather jacket and sinks his teeth into the bite he’d given Stiles previously in the stocking area of the grocery store.
Stiles’ brain promptly disconnects from his body.
He surfaces back to himself, eyes focusing on one of his hands, his fingers digging into the bark of the tree. Derek’s hands are running soothingly up and down his sides, and Derek is murmuring things softly to Stiles in between strokes of his tongue against the bruise of his bite. “So good...,” Derek sighs, “you take my mark so beautifully,” Derek sighs again.
Stiles could definitely get used to this. Derek presses one last kiss against the (no doubt) livid bite mark on the back of Stiles, and then murmurs evilly in Stiles’ ear. “Are you going to behave yourself now?”
“Oh, fuck you,” Stiles whines petulantly. Ugh, what a moment ruiner.
Derek slides Stiles’ collars back into place, and they both resume their walk back towards the house, Stiles using up the remainder of the stroll (the hike the fucking trek no more outdoors for Stiles ever) (except for tree sex thank you), to seriously contemplate kicking Derek in the shin. Or maybe in the ass, if Derek is going to insist on being one. God Stiles is in freaking love.
They (both of them) slink into the foyer (like there’s any way they’re going to be able to avoid the veritable infestation of family members that Derek possess). Plot twist! There’s not.
“Derek,” Talia starts to call (relief in her tone) as she walks in from a hallway, but then she takes a deep breath. Stiles shrinks back against Derek, who appears to be trying to merge with the wall behind them as she storms up, livid now. “Derek Tyler Hale, what do you think you are doing?”
There’s no power on earth that can stop Stiles’ snickering. “Derek Tyler Hale? Oh my god, that’s perfect.” Today is golden. Golden.
“Shut up, Stiles,” Derek grits out.
“Oh, it’s mates alright,” says Peter shrewdly, as he strides into the foyer from a different hallway.
“Wha-” Stiles starts to say but is interrupted by a rumbled, “Derek,” from their left. It’s Derek’s father, and Stiles notes with a rising feeling of alarm that they are now neatly caged in by adult representatives. Derek can’t seem to bring himself to meet his father’s eyes (Stiles doesn’t blame him, that ‘Derek’ was layered in enough disappointment to bring Jackson Whittemore to tears). His father doesn’t say anything further, just shakes his head at Derek, who now resembles nothing so much as a deflated Derek muppet, trying to sink through the floor in agony. Stiles sidles closer to Derek and grabs his hand and threads their fingers together. Derek goes rigid for a moment, then his hand squeezes down on Stiles’ and he pulls him closer against his side. Stiles can’t quite suppress the shiver that runs through his body.
The three adults exchange glances between them. Talia lets out a small sigh, then says, “Well, we need to call the Sheriff.”
It takes Stiles a few heartbeats to process this extraordinary statement and then he shrieks, “What!?” Panic, panic. Panic mode engaged.
Talia starts, and Derek jumps in shock beside him. Stiles detaches himself from Derek and windmills his arms so violently, he almost launches himself into space. “No, nonononono,” he wails, “are you crazy? You can’t call my dad! We all have to pretend none of this has ever happened until I’m at least 39, and also we have to move to Acapulco for those remaining years.” Oh, Stiles is doomed. Dead Stiles, dead Stiles walking.
Silence greets him. Don’t they understand that they should all be doing the opposite of calling the Sheriff? They need to be fleeing the Sheriff, Derek is gonna wind up shot, and Stiles is gonna be spending some up close and personal time relieving the fairy tale “Rapunzel.” As in, tower. As in, forever. As in, certain annihilation by parent.
Finally Talia says weakly, as if she wishes she could be saying anything but what she is saying, “Your father is the Sheriff?”
“Yeah?” Stiles asks, nonplussed. “That was why you had the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad idea of calling him?”
“Stiles?” Derek’s father questions, a look of confusion on his face, “I thought the Sheriff’s son’s name was Słone-”
“Don’t say that!” Stiles yelps, leaping frantically forwards and tripping over his own feet. Derek’s arm latching onto the back of the leather jacket is the only thing that keeps him from face planting at the big man’s feet. Oh dear sex-god boyfriend granting Christ! Stiles’ dad has just been going around telling people that? Oh the betrayal! Today has just been full of ups and downs. Wait. Ups and downs. Oh Stiles is fucking amazing. That’s like three puns in one. Who else could do that? Nobody but Stiles, that’s who. No wonder Derek’s in love with him. Stiles is magnificent.
“Oh my,” Talia sighs. Stiles opens his mouth to say what is most likely going to be something inappropriate about the physical eccentricities of penises, gravity, and emotional biorhythms, but he doesn’t get the chance.
“Where did you find him again?” Peter asks with an amount of interest and fascination that, quite frankly, Stiles finds to be disturbing. Evidently Derek shares this sentiment, because he growls at Peter. Whatever Derek was going to say gets cut off by Talia’s sharp, “Derek.”
Derek hauls Stiles up out of the half-fallen over position he’s been dangling in and back to his side. There’s a calm in the foyer for a few minutes as everyone watches Talia, who appears to be thinking deeply about something. Even Stiles finds himself waiting for her say-so. It is a feat that Stiles is sure that every authority figure he’s ever come into contact with would have previously declared to be impossible.
Finally, Talia pins Derek with a look Stiles is immensely grateful he isn’t at the receiving end of, and says, “Take Stiles home, Derek, and explain things to the Sheriff.”
Stiles lets out a squeak of horror, but quails before her as she turns and does pin him with that look, that-parent look of doom.
“How old is Stiles anyway?” Peter asks with a sneaky look. Stiles looks at him with newfound respect. You always have to watch the sneaky ones. Stiles of all people should know. Derek freezes beside Stiles, most likely in horror. Stiles does his best not to gulp, but fails. Yeah, he was wondering when that might come up.
“How old is Derek?” he counters, gearing up for filibuster.
“Derek,” Talia says severely, arching an eyebrow (all these Hales have fantastical eyebrows), “is 24.”
“Oh, wow.” Stiles lets out a huge sigh of relief. “I thought he might have been like, 35 or something.”
“35,” Derek repeats, sounding strangled.
“In the best way,” Stiles reassures him.
“And Stiles you are...how old again?” Talia asks, looking...well, looking a little scary, to be honest.
“19,” Stiles says, lying through his teeth. He’s a champion liar. Really!
“You’re lying,” Talia informs him flatly, looking much less than pleased. Okay, so obviously Stiles was lying about possessing the ability to lie, can you blame him? No, of course not.
“18,” Stiles tries again. The silence of complete and utter disbelief greets him. (Talia in particular is looking extremely unimpressed).
“Stiles,” Talia says her voice like a warning, “how old are you?”
“Oh god,” Derek whispers to the ceiling, looking like he’s just received the death sentence.
“16,” Stiles concedes at last, with ill grace.
“Well, it can’t get any worse,” Peter says philosophically.
Derek’s father takes a step closer to Talia (who Stiles eyes with trepidation, it looks like she might be ready to explode with some variation of maternal wrath). He whispers a word in her ear (which Stiles strains to hear). It might be the word ‘mates.’ What is it with these people? What does that even mean? Stiles narrows his eyes, but before his brain can rev it up and start listing clues in a nice spirally line to lead him to the answer, Talia speaks. “It is now twice as imperative that the Sheriff be informed.”
“We’re all gonna die,” Stiles informs the room.
Derek chokes off what might have been a ‘ha’ of semi-hysterical laughter.
“I will be expecting the Sheriff’s call,” she informs them ominously, like they’re planning on making a break for the border or something. Which Stiles had not been considering, at all. Talia then looks pointedly at the door behind them. Derek grabs Stiles’ arm with a muttered, “Come on,” and tows Stiles behind him as he opens the door and exits the house.
They descend down the stairs in silence, and Derek looms over Stiles while he opens the door and slides into the Camaro gingerly, hopefully with a minimal amount of wincing. God damn, but the soreness has returned. But Stiles regrets nothing! Stiles eases back into the seat with a sigh as Derek slides into the driver’s seat and grabs Stiles’ hand, absentmindedly placing it on his thigh. Stiles must have found the right position to sit in, because that’s the pain receding, alright.
Derek reaches over Stiles and buckles him in. Stiles wriggles contentedly. Derek buckles himself in, then throws the Camaro into drive and, with a spray of gravel, they pull around the circle drive and down into the lane.
They drive in silence for a few minutes, each of these ticking by in seconds during which Stiles becomes more and more aware of his hand on the thick muscle of Derek’s thigh. The heat of his skin is burning through his jeans and onto Stiles’ palm. Stiles licks his lips. Talia said ‘get thee to the sheriff’s house’ not ‘gitchyo ass over there now.’ He shifts his hand slightly, and drags his thumb back and forth along the inside of Derek’s thigh.
“Stiles,” Derek reprimands almost instantly.
“You really think a short detour is gonna matter at this point?” Stiles asks archly.
Derek grinds his teeth, but says nothing further. He doesn’t pull over either. Stiles has always fucking wanted to participate in one of these car blow job scenarios, and it’s looking like this will be his last opportunity until he’s 50 or so. Maybe even death awaits him once he steps in his front door, it’s only been a few weeks since Stiles, er, accidentally tried to monster truck Jackson Whittemore’s Porsche. (Roscoe is not from monster truck stock. Stiles had to learn that the hard way.) Also that 16 year-olds can still be reduced to blubbering messes by their fathers.
Stiles is not looking forward to the (drawing ever closer) repeat of that experience, so he slides his hand into Derek’s crotch and fondles him gently, but with intent.
Derek inhales sharply throgh his nose, but seems determined that ignoring Stiles is going to be his go-to strategy at this point in time.
Which...aw, wee lamb. Did we learn nothing yet?
Stiles continues to tease Derek’s dick (and if there’s one thing Stiles is a true master at, it’s dick teasing). Stiles can feel it fattening up inside of Derek’s jeans, can hear Derek’s breaths start to come a little shorter. He takes a look around; no obstructions on the road, and it looks like they’re still driving through the preserve or something, they’re encased in trees, thick woods (heh woods) on both sides of the road.
Stiles goes for broke. He flings his seatbelt off of him and leans over the gear shift (has to do some strange contortions to fit himself comfortably but-hello-Stiles), and presses his face into Derek’s groin. He breathes deep, smells arousal and dick and maybe even some precum and god. He mouths at Derek’s growing erection through the denim of his jeans.
“Fuck!”He hears Derek curse above him, then the Camaro skids and jolts as Derek yanks the wheel and turns the car off the road and onto (by the sound of it) some poor forgotten pull out that wanted to die a long time ago but didn’t quite manage it. They bump along for a little bit, and then Derek jams the brakes and the Camaro slides sideways into a stop.
Stiles grins and then, “Hey,” he yelps as one of Derek’s hands descends on the nape of his neck and he’s hauled up. Further protests die on his lips as Derek holds him in place over his lap and uses his other hand to unzip his jeans and pull out his cock (still only about half-hard but jesus it’s beautiful). And before Stiles can even whimper out “oh god oh god,” Derek’s lowering him back down, feeding the length of his cock into Stiles’ mouth. Stiles moans around it until there’s too much of it inside to manage even that. The heat of it, the weight of it, the uncompromising hardness of it. Fuck. Stiles has a cock in his mouth. He has Derek’s cock in his mouth, velvety flesh against his tongue. Derek presses Stiles down until he’s is gagging around the increasing size of it, and Stiles wants it, needs it. God, he’d beg for it, had he the means.
Derek’s left hand slides into Stiles’ hair and grips it firmly (and oh fuck that may be another thing). He releases his hold on the back of Stiles’ neck and slides his hand down instead to press his fingers along the crack of Stiles’ ass, right through his jeans.
Tears are starting in Stiles’ eyes, whether from the effort of sucking dick or the want that hits him at the feel of Derek’s fingers (like a punch to the gut), he’s not sure. What the hell, maybe it’s both. Derek’s hand tightens in Stiles’ hair like he knows, and he pulls Stiles up slightly, and then presses him back down, and like that, Stiles is sucking cock. He lets Derek handle the rhythm and concentrates on keeping his teeth out of the way and taking as much of it in has he can. There are slick, slurping (more obscene than any porn he’s ever watched) sounds filling his ears. Derek’s fingers are still pressing against his hole, rubbing him through his jeans and Stiles, god he needs something on his dick, but there’s no room to remove his hands from where they’re braced on Derek’s thighs, and both of Derek’s hands are occupied (and Stiles likes them right where they are, thank you). But it’s a dilemma, no way around it, until Stiles shimmies about in frustration and presses his cock up against the shift stick.
He rocks forward experimentally, (and yeah, that’s gonna work just fine) and then he and Derek are in the throes of (more) sex (yes yes yes), perfect and pleasure-soaked. Derek presses him down on his cock and Stiles gently humps against the stick shift, then pushes back against the firm stroke of Derek’s fingers along his crack. Then Derek pulls him back up by his hair and Stiles thrusts himself back against the gear shift and it’s sex, oh god it’s sex with Derek and it’s so good. Stiles relaxes into it, revels in it, is certain these are the heights unimaginable, to which he’s finally attained.
Then Derek starts talking.
And nope, there are still further pinnacles to achieve.
“I’m gonna,” Derek gasps, “come down your throat and you’re gonna take it, take it so good because you’re mine.” The startled moan Stiles gives at that, distorted around the stretch of Derek’s cock, is the absolute filthiest sound he’s ever heard.
“Take it,” Derek grunts, and punctuates this by thrusting up with his hips as he presses Stiles down on his cock. Stiles feels the head of it hit the back of his throat and he screams, the sound nothing more than vibrations, stuffed as full with Derek’s cock as he is.
Stiles ignites, Stiles is on fire, he is burned,is burning, burns. He’s twisted himself out of his careful position against the shaft of the stick shift and is thrusting desperately into thin air now. His hips are frenzied, needing something, anything, the tightness of his jeans against his dick is only a slight relief braced up against a deeper need.
“Stiles,” Derek gasps above him, “Stiles.”
Stiles feels Derek’s cock swell inside his mouth, and with a thrill of terror and ecstasy, he wonders if that one part is going to swell up larger than the rest; seal Stiles’ mouth shut with flesh and cum.
“Would you like that?” Derek gasps, the smooth rhythm falling by the wayside in favor of instinctive thrusts.
It’s like he can read Stiles’ mind, and Derek’s body tenses and Stiles’ shudders in anticipation, but then Derek sighs, “No, I can’t, not yet, but I will, soon I promise I will.”
Stiles’ cock throbs in his jeans at the intent in Derek’s voice, at the definite horizon that ‘soon’ and ‘promise’ will breach.
Derek’s name is filling Stiles brain like a chant over and over, and then Derek cums with a hoarse cry, his cock twitching as it shoots his seed down Stiles’ throat, liquid and heat. Stiles does his best to swallow but there’s a lot of it, and it fills his mouth and dribbles out from the corners. Stiles is desperate to say, ‘I love you god I love you I do,’ caught up in a pleasure that feels as if it’s going to burn him ‘til he’s nothing but ash, still desperately whispering Derek’s name.
Stiles can feel tension seeping from Derek’s body as his dick slowly softens and slips from Stiles’ mouth. It leaves Stiles feeling cracked open and empty and yet brimming full and he’s still so fucking hard.
Then Derek’s maneuvering him (carefully, but Stiles is still a tangle of limbs) on his back. All Stiles can do is lie there with his head in Derek’s lap (Derek’s softening cock next to his cheek) and pant for air and think, pitifully, please please please.
Derek draws the fingers of one hand along Stiles’ throat and then the other is unzipping his jeans and dipping into his briefs. Derek doesn’t have time to do more than wrap his fingers around Stiles’ dick and rub his thumb over the slit and (at last fucking finally) Stiles is cumming, body jolting with it, exhaustion and orgasm, ardor and fulfillment.
He focuses his eyes with a groan to realize that he’s cum all over Derek’s hand. And yeah that’s fucking hot. Stiles’ dick twitches out one last little valiant spurt, and then Derek brings his hand to his lips and licks off Stiles’ come, one lingering stroke at a time.
“Derek,” Stiles whimpers. Derek cards his free hand through Stiles’ hair, tilts his head back, and kisses him, deep and slow. His tongue lingers against Stiles’ tongue in slow caresses, and Stiles can taste himself in Derek’s mouth.
He closes his eyes and everything is Derek, shining like starlight, moonlight; lights in the dark.
“You belong to me.” Stiles finds himself saying when Derek finally pulls away, his voice hoarse and cracked. He says it fiercely, triumphantly. Derek’s body is wracked with shallow tremors against Stiles’, who smirks. Aw yeah, Stiles is the shit.
Derek glares down at Stiles and then smirks himself and says, “Now you’ve got cum on your jeans too.”
That wipes the grin off of Stiles’ face until he gets the brilliant idea of turning his head slightly to the side and flicking his tongue out to lick at Derek’s cock.
“Absolutely not,” Derek gasps, and pushes Stiles’ face away until he can zip himself back up inside his jeans (as if that’s any defense). But Stiles is tired and (bizarrely) comfortable, sprawled out along the seats, head in Derek’s lap as he is.
Derek reaches over and tucks Stiles (who hisses a breath in through his teeth at the contact) back inside his jeans, but he makes no move to dump Stiles back in the passenger seat.
“Is it gonna be like this all the time?” Stiles asks, head filled with a future where all his sex dreams and boyfriend fantasies are fulfilled. Something he previously would have thought would be physically impossible, but it’s a brave new sex-god boyfriend world.
“God, I hope so,” Derek says fervently.
Damn, Stiles may have just found himself the future Mr. Stilinski. Not bad for a day of illicit fucking, if Stiles does say so himself, not bad at all.