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whatever you want (but you're gonna have to ask me)

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Stiles has never had a boyfriend before—or a girlfriend, for that matter—so when he and Derek start dating during his senior year, it isn’t like he’s got any frame of reference for how these things are meant to go. It all seemed so simple and obvious last month, when he just sort of suddenly decided he could not take it anymore and hurled himself at Derek, fiercely determined despite his certainty that he was about to be thrown violently into a wall. 

(Stiles did end up hitting a wall that day, actually, but only because Derek pushed him up against one in order to kiss him harder, which was a different matter entirely and well worth the mild bruising Stiles sustained from it.)

And it’s been nice, since then. It really has. Derek openly prioritizes Stiles now, putting him first and listening to him most; it drives the betas absolutely insane, and makes Stiles perpetually smug. When they’re alone, Stiles sees a side of Derek he’s only suspected of existing before, patient and funny and shockingly warm. Instead of scowling when Stiles makes jokes, he’ll release these soft, helpless little smiles, and Stiles treasures those like the rare gifts that they are.

It’s just.

There’s been no bruising, is the thing, after that first time. It’s not that Derek doesn’t kiss him. Derek kisses him hello whenever they meet and goodbye whenever they part—dry, warm presses of lip to lip that always end in Stiles leaning forward and Derek leaning away. Derek kisses him every single day like it’s already a habit. Like they’re married. 

And kissing is all he ever does, and Stiles is going to die. 

So maybe he isn’t firing on all cylinders when he implements the Secret Seduction Plan™, but that’s hardly his fault. That’s Derek’s fault. People with perfect faces and sexy eyebrows and nice-sounding laughs and muscles can’t just go around kissing 18-year-old virgins without even TRYING to have sex with them; it’s downright irresponsible, and not at all fair. 

Ergo, the Secret Seduction Plan™, Phase One of which involves putting things in his mouth when Derek is around and trying to get him to notice. 

(It’s not a very elegant or detailed plan, it’s true, but Stiles’ brain has actually collapsed under the crushing weight of pent-up lust and it’s truly the best he can do under the circumstances.) 

He begins with the classics—lollipops, popsicles, etc. But matter how methodically he licks and sucks, even throwing in a tiny moan or two for effect, Derek never even so much as glances at him. The closest Stiles ever comes to eliciting a response is when he tries eating an ice cream cone while watching the wolves spar together in Derek’s yard, but that’s probably only because he drops it all over himself and everybody laughs at him. 

“Shut up,” Stiles groans as Scott actually falls over and rolls around on the ground. “There’s no way it was that funny.” 

“It actually was,” says Derek. “You looked so sad.” And he’s got one of those soft smiles on, so the day hasn’t been a total wash. Derek turns his attention back to Isaac, showing him some kind of fancy martial-arts hold, so Stiles sighs and surveys the damage. Seriously, chocolate fudge everywhere. He licks a swath along the inside of his arm, from below his wrist all the way up to the tip of his middle finger, because that was some seriously decent ice cream and he’s not wasting more of it than he has to.

“Ow, fuck, Derek!” Isaac is saying, and Stiles looks up in time to see Derek pulling the tips of his claws out of Isaac’s upper arm.

“Sorry,” Derek says, eyes darting around guiltily. “I didn’t… sorry. I got carried away.”

“That doesn’t usually happen with you,” Isaac points out, watching in fascination as the gashes on his bicep knit together and heal. “Like, ever, actually.”

“I lost my focus for a minute,” Derek says. “It won’t happen again. You have chocolate pretty much all over your mouth, Stiles.”

“Do I?” Stiles starts to wipe it off, and then—stops. “You noticed?”

Derek shrugs. “You’re wearing an entire double scoop on your face, it’s hard to miss.” But Stiles can see that his ears are ever-so-slightly red, and he crows silently to himself.  Victory. 

The next part of the plan is clothes, which Stiles objectively knows very little about. He eventually decides to rely on what he likes to see on Derek—tight shirts, open collars, fitted jeans, that sort of thing. If Derek wearing those kinds of clothes makes Stiles want to tackle him and tear them off, it stands to reason that the reverse would be true, doesn’t it?

“I brought you Gingerale,” Derek says as he’s coming into Stiles’ room to help him study that night. “And no, you’re not allowed to mix it with your father’s—what are you wearing.”

“Um, well.” Stiles thinks he looks pretty okay, actually. He has a new pair of black jeans on, a bit tighter and lower on his hips than he’s used to, and a snug grey Ramones t-shirt that he hasn’t worn since before his last growth spurt. “Just trying something new, I guess.” He gives a slow spin, trying for a careless confidence that he doesn’t actually feel. “Thoughts?”

Derek actually growls at him, which is something he hasn’t done in years. “Change into something else.”

“What?” Derek actually sounds distraught, which is so very far from what Stiles was going for. “Why?”

“Because—the shirt smells like mothballs,” Derek says. “Very strongly. Get something else.” He shakes himself and leans forward, gingerly, pecking Stiles on the cheek. “Please. Sorry I snapped. I’ll get your chemistry flashcards ready.”

“Okay, yeah,” Stiles says, hope deflating. He thinks about throwing one last Hail Mary and stripping off right in front of Derek, but he loses his nerve at the last minute and takes a change of clothes to the bathroom down the hall. 

It takes about a week of similar maneuvers—draping his body into suggestively submissive shapes, slowly rubbing suntan lotion into his own neck, licking the steamed milk from his cappuccino off of his thumb—before Stiles comes to a conclusion that has honestly never occurred to him, but maybe should have:

It’s possible, even probable, that Derek just isn’t that into him. 

And that sucks, it really does, but it would not have sucked nearly as much if Derek hadn’t entered into this whatever-it-was with Stiles and made it seem like they were together on this, like they were feeling all the same things. But that first kiss seems like a fever dream, now, chilled by the reality of chaste, feather-light tokens of depressingly platonic affection. 

Derek has been humoring him, apparently, and maybe he thinks he’s being nice but he’s not. It’s the cruelest thing anyone’s ever done to him, actually, and Stiles marches right over to Derek’s house to tell him so. 

“I’m done with this,” Stiles yells as soon as he walks though Derek’s door. “DONE. Do you hear me? I will not be pandered to. It’s insulting. Fuck you.”

“Whoa.” Derek appears suddenly and hops down the stairs, and Stiles’ life sucks because he’s not even wearing a shirt. He’s got sweat beading in the hollow of his throat, like maybe Stiles just interrupted a workout, and this is the most unfair day in the history of time. “What’s wrong, Stiles. What did I do?”

“What did you do?” Stiles throws his arms out dramatically. “You didn’t do anything. I’m not an idiot, okay. I know I’m not anyone’s centerfold or anything, but I thought—” He rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands viciously. “You kissed me, okay, like that, like I’ve never—and it felt like—I thought maybe you’d thought about it, thought about me the way that I—I think about you. I have, for what seems like forever, and it just keeps getting worse. I think about your shoulders and your skin and your hips, and your mouth and your hands, your hands, Derek, and I want—”

“What do you want,” Derek says, moving closer, like it’s just that easy.

“You know what I want, you jerk. I want your hands on me, I want you all over me, all the time, and I—” Stiles rolls his eyes against the slight sting of tears, because god, how embarrassing. “I don’t want whatever this is, I don’t want your pity. I want someone who can’t keep off of me, okay, because being with you and not touching you is the absolute fucking worst and I need someone who understands what that feels like, I need—”

“Stiles,” says Derek, like he’s in pain, and Stiles just doesn’t want to hear it.

“I know, I know, and it’s okay.” Stiles snorts. “Well, it’s not okay. It’s awful. But we’re friends, and that’s good.” He squeezes his eyes shut, hands clenched into stoic fists. “It’s important, more important than anything, so you don’t have to keep—”

Stiles has to break off because Derek’s mouth is on his and suddenly they’re up against the wall again, and oh, that’s how Stiles remembers it, the curve of his spine aching with the pressure as Derek pushes into him, and Derek’s hands are running up and down Stiles’ body like he can’t decide where he wants to touch most, and his tongue is desperate and seeking like he understands, like he wants it just as much

“I, hnngaaaaa,” Stiles gasps, flailing a little as Derek bites at his ear and then licks along the edge. “I’m guessing there’s been some kind of, ah, miscommunication, here—”

“Oh my god, shut up,” Derek groans. “Just… I was trying to be nice, you moron. Why didn’t you just ask. You’re always…” Derek is struggling with Stiles’ t-shirt, but Stiles has actually forgotten how his arms are supposed to work. “You always, you’ve always told me what you wanted from me, before, how was I supposed to—Stiles, get this off.”

“Okay, just—” But before Stiles can gain control over his limbs, Derek is growling and slicing the shirt open at the collar with his claw, oh god, and then he just grabs and pulls and the whole thing gives way like tissue paper. “I actually liked that shirt,” Stiles complains faintly, just for form’s sake, and Derek. Derek’s eyes are wandering from his chest to his belly and back up to his throat, eager and hungry, and Stiles can’t stop shaking. “Yyyyyeah,” he breathes out as Derek puts both of his huge hands on him at once, deliberate and firm, dragging down his sides from his underarms to his hips in one possessive slide. 

“Can I,” Derek says, stopping with his fingers hooked in the top of Stiles’ jeans, and Stiles just gives him the dirtiest glare he can manage and fumbles the button open himself. Derek leans in and drops his forehead against Stiles’ collarbone, panting and gazing down at Stiles’ fingers as they work at the zipper. 

Stiles hiccups a laugh and tries a timid bite to the base of Derek’s neck, because it’s right there, and Derek chokes out a soft, high little moan. It’s so unlike anything Stiles has ever heard out of him before that he pretty much has to bite him again in the same spot, except a lot harder. 

Stiles,” Derek says, and hauls him in by his belt loops for a time-stoppingly glorious moment of friction that buckles Stiles’ knees and grays out the edges of his vision. 

“Okay, okay,” Stiles gasps, shimmying his hips a little bit to help Derek pull his jeans down and off, right over his shoes because the idea of stopping to untie them is physically painful. “Now how do you want to—whoa.”

Derek hoists him up off the floor by the backs of his thighs and insinuates himself between them, using the wall for leverage. Stiles’ hands land on Derek’s biceps, and he can feel the strength holding him up in the flexing curve of the muscle—along with little twitches and tremors that don’t seem to be exertion-related at all.  

“Legs, around me,” Derek commands, but it comes out sounding more like a plea than an order, so Stiles is happy to do it. With some helpful manhandling, he gets his legs hiked up over Derek’s hips and his ankles hooked together, and then Derek is kissing him again, wet and frantic, grinding him into the wall in firm, devastating pulses. The fly of Derek’s jeans is a little bit painful where it’s pressing against Stiles through his boxers (because they forgot about Derek’s pants, right, this whole sex thing has a lot of logistics that neither of them seem competent enough to handle right now), but the edge of discomfort is pretty heavily outweighed by the fact that Stiles can feel the bulge of Derek’s cock, hot and hard, right up against his own. 

Stiles finally has to wrench his mouth away from the kiss because his chest is burning for lack of breath. He clutches Derek by the hair and breathes in heaving gulps, pressed open-mouthed into Derek’s shoulder. “I think,” he gasps, “I mean yeah, fuck, I’m definitely gonna come, like now, sorry, if you could just, Derek—”

Yes,” Derek sighs happily, right against his throat—and the way his stubble scrapes against the tender skin there ends up being all Stiles needs, and then he’s crying out wordlessly and shaking apart in Derek’s arms. Derek works his hand down between them and into his boxers anyway, just in time to pull one last body-wracking shudder out of him, and Stiles accidentally smacks the back of his head against the wall as he writhes with the force of it. 

“Ow,” Stiles says. “Mmmmmph.”

“Shit, are you okay?” Derek is laughing softly while he prods into Stiles’ hair, like he’s checking for an injury. He buries his nose under Stiles chin and just sort of sniffs him contentedly for a long moment, and when he finally draws back his smile is so big and bright that it’s actually hard to look directly at him. 

“Ohhhh yeah,” Stiles says. “I’m great. I’m fantastic. Now put me down, I have a plan.”

Derek bursts out laughing and eases him gently down until his feet touch the floor, and then cracks up again when he has to prop him up to keep him standing. “Shut up, you’re going to give me a complex,” Stiles grumbles, and Derek shakes his head.

“I’m just happy,” he says, simple and easy, and wow, Stiles didn’t think he could feel any better in this moment but there goes Derek, proving him wrong again. “So what’s the plan?”

“This,” says Stiles. He grabs Derek by the hips and spins him until his back is against the wall, and then he drops to his knees.

“You don’t, uh,” Derek is saying, wide-eyed, as Stiles pushes his jeans and underwear down to his ankles. “You really don’t have to—”

“I really do,” Stiles says breathlessly. He licks his lips and stares, enthralled. Derek’s cock looks huge at eye-level like this, fully hard and flushed dark with blood. He reaches out, and Derek starts groaning before Stiles even touches him, which is probably the most gratifying thing that’s happened to him in his entire life so far. “So you’re going to have to bear with me a little,” Stiles says, grasping the base carefully, “because I have no idea what I’m doing at all.”

Derek makes a choked sound and presses his palms into the wall. “Trust me. It’s not going to be hard.”

“I don't know, it looks pretty hard to me,” Stiles says, grinning, and he gets to hear Derek’s laugh morph into a low, drawn-out moan when Stiles gets his mouth on him.

He can’t go down very far, and the whole no-teeth thing always seemed easier in theory than it turns out to be in practice—but Derek is making sharp, hot little sounds whenever Stiles drags his mouth up his length, and the occasional scrape of teeth actually seems to be a positive thing in this case, judging by the way Derek hisses and clutches at the back of Stiles’ head the first time it happens. 

“Is it,” Stiles pulls back and looks up Derek’s body, checking. “Is this okay, should I—”

“Oh my god, don’t stop, why are you stopping,” Derek growls, his eyebrows furrowing in distress, and okay, that answers that. He goes back in, bracing his other hand against the straining muscles of Derek’s stomach, and improvises a sort of tongue-twist thing as he pulls up that has Derek sagging against the wall.

“Stiles, you, oh,” Derek’s saying, and he actually whines in the back of his throat when Stiles hums in response. “Your mouth, I can’t, all of those fucking popsicles, why would you… I thought I was going to die.”

“Hey, I would have done this weeks ago,” Stiles points out, and drags the flat of his tongue roughly up the underside of Derek’s cock, root to tip. Derek drops his head back with a helpless noise, and Stiles has to take a break to lean against his hip and grin joyfully. “You brought this on yourself,” he adds, jerking Derek firmly while he noses affectionately at his thigh. “We have a lot of catching up to do. You can fuck me next.”

“Yeah,” Derek agrees. “Yes.”

“Then maybe I could fuck you,” Stiles says, mostly as a joke; but then Derek slams his palm against the wall and goes still and tight, and his thigh trembles like crazy under Stiles’ cheek as he comes with a shout. 

“Okay,” Stiles says, biting his lip against a laugh. He’s kind of absolutely covered in come now, all along his jaw and even down his neck, a little bit, and he’s so happy he doesn’t know what to do with himself. 

“Not a word,” Derek says, sliding bonelessly down the wall. He pulls Stiles into his lap and starts kissing all over his face, which should really be gross, considering, but somehow isn’t. “I refuse to deal with you being smug about this.”

“Oh, I’m going to be smug about this forever,” Stiles says, snuggling closer. “I seduced you, fair and square. I wore you down. Admit it.”

Derek huffs. “You did not. I want you all the time, anyway.” He noses his way to the back of Stiles’ neck. “You didn’t actually have to do anything.”

“Oh.” Jesus christ. “Well, if it’s all the same to you I’m gonna go ahead and be smug about that, then.” 

“Whatever makes you happy,” Derek sighs, and kisses him on the cheek.