Derek pulls his large frame effortlessly over the windowsill and into Stiles’ bedroom. This is becoming a habit now, but something about Stiles’ room -- or maybe Stiles -- seems to draw Derek in, so Derek always seems to manage to find some excuse to drop in.
This afternoon there’s a book about werewolf history that Derek needs to borrow, because of reasons, reasons that mostly involve hanging out in Stiles’ room for a little while. Derek enjoys watching Stiles fidget uncomfortably and listening to the way that his heart always beats just that little bit faster when Derek gets within a certain distance of him.
Derek loves that shit, but refuses to examine the reasons why.
Alphas don’t need reasons.
But today, Stiles is nowhere to be seen. Derek listens carefully, but the house is silent -- as silent as unoccupied houses ever are to a werewolf anyway -- and he frowns, brows curling and forehead furrowing as his nose flares in displeasure. Of course, it’s Sunday morning so Stiles will be out chucking lacrosse balls around with Scott.
Derek decides that he’ll wait for him. He always enjoys the feigned irritation that Stiles puts on when he finds him in his room. The protests of: “dude haven’t you heard of front doors?” or the “way to be a creepy stalker, man,” don’t fool Derek. Stiles might be able to put on a show of exasperation but he can’t fake his scent, and Derek can smell the secret little thrill that Stiles gets when he comes home to find Derek sprawled on his bed.
He dismisses the fleeting thought that the fact that he knows where Stiles is right now is maybe an indication that he knows way too much about Stiles’ life. Stiles is pack, despite his humanity, and that means that he’s Derek’s to watch out for. He smells of wolf as well as boy, of Scott mostly still which makes Derek’s hackles prickle when he catches the Beta’s scent. But more and more these days Stiles smells of Derek too, probably due to the amount of time that Derek spends lying on Stiles’ bed while Stiles does his homework, or googles stuff about monsters.
Derek loves lying on Stiles’s bed. It smells perfect; warm and musky and comforting, of teenage boy, and that sweet grassy scent that’s uniquely Stiles. Derek toes out of his shoes and strips off his jacket and t-shirt, making himself comfortable. He stretches out on his belly, relishing in the touch of Stiles-scented sheets on his skin and tucking his head into the pillow, his hands sliding underneath it as he inhales deeply.
His nose catches the scent as his fingers tangle in something that’s not pillowcase or sheet. The scent of come -- of Stiles’ come -- invades Derek’s senses and makes his mouth water as his cock springs to attention in a dizzying redistribution of blood to the groin.
It’s not the first time that Derek’s caught the scent of semen in Stiles’ room -- he is a teenage boy after all and mess happens, and sheets don’t always get changed regularly -- but this is the distinct smell of fresh, wet come and it’s right under Derek’s nose, literally.
His fingertips find wet fabric, and Derek rolls onto his side, pulling the source of the scent out so he can examine it, or rather them. It’s a pair of gray boxer briefs, stained dark with come where they’ve obviously been used for a hasty clean-up.
Derek hesitates for a fraction of a second, before his instincts take over and strip him of any sanity, dignity or ability to behave like a civilized not-entirely-human being. With a growl he bunches the fabric in a fist that’s grown claws and buries his nose in it, sniffing like an addict looking for a fix. He forces his wolf under control -- because masturbating is so much easier with human hands -- and tears at his button and zipper, freeing his erection so he can grasp it in his hand and squeeze as his body responds to the filthy-delicious scent of Stiles’ come.
His body curves around his cock, gripping it tight as it throbs in his hand. His balls are aching already with the need for release, his whole body flooded with burning want. He rubs his face against the damp fabric, marking himself with Stiles’ scent as he starts to move his hand. He forces himself to go slow, fucking into the curl of his fingers as he brushes his lips over the patch of come. Derek’s mouth floods with saliva and his cock jerks in his hand, and then he’s parting his lips, licking at the wet patch, tasting Stiles on his tongue -- earthy and salty and rich.
He rolls onto his back, spreading his legs. He releases his cock for a moment and shifts his attention to his balls, wanting to prolong the exquisite build of tension. They’re already drawn up tight and he cups them in his palm, squeezing and rubbing as he licks and sucks at Stiles’ underwear. He chases the flavor of Stiles, filling his mouth with it and imagining the shape of Stiles’ dick in his mouth, the pulse of blood beneath delicate skin.
Derek squeezes his eyes tight shut and growls, a harsh, desperate sound. He can’t wait anymore. His hand is back on his cock, thumb spreading pre-come as he tugs himself hard and fast. The sounds of slick skin on skin and the huff of his breath fill the room and Derek shoves the underwear into his mouth to stop himself from crying out Stiles’ name. He makes a muffled groan as his cock jerks and shoots hot, thick come onto his fist and stomach, slicking his hand as he strokes himself through it, shuddering and helpless.
“Huh. Well, this is new.” Derek’s eyes fly open and he stutters, spitting out Stiles’ underwear. His whole body flushes as he registers Stiles standing in the doorway, staring at Derek’s dick. “That’s the first time I’ve ever managed to creep up on a werewolf. I guess you were a little distracted, I mean... obviously.”
“Stiles,” Derek says, rather pointlessly. Then, “Stiles, stop staring at my dick.”
“If you don’t want people to stare at your dick maybe you should try not jerking off in other people’s bedrooms... and what... Jesus, Derek. Is that my underwear you had in your mouth?” Stiles stares at the sodden gray fabric in Derek’s hand. They have tooth shaped holes in them from where Derek wolfed out a little as he came. “I guess I won’t be wearing those again.”
Derek just stares as the stream of nervous babble pours from Stiles’ lips; his soft, very pink lips. Although Derek hears the words, he’s not really paying attention, because his other senses are telling him much more interesting things. Faint, but audible beneath Stiles’ chatter, Derek can hear the rapid, thready beat of Stiles’ heart. He sees the pulse flickering on the side of his pale throat, like something trapped beneath the skin. Stiles’ scent fills the room -- fresh sweat tinged with anxiety; laundry detergent released by the heat of his body; the minty-citrus shampoo that he uses. But stronger than that, pushing through everything else like a battering ram, is the smell of arousal. Derek feels his cock filling again, thickening in the loose grip of his fingers.
Stiles is still talking, hands flailing as he gets into his stride. “Seriously. I think we need to go over the concept of privacy again, and also deal with the subject of appropriate places to masturbate...”
“Stiles!” Derek’s voice is a growl, cutting through Stiles’s ranting -- and Stiles just stops, breathless. “Get your ass over here.”
Stiles stares at him, mouth hanging open in a way that makes Derek want to stick something in it. His cock twitches in his hand. Stiles shakes his head in disbelief. “We can work on your chat up lines too.” But he starts to move, as though pulled by an invisible thread, and when he reaches the side of the bed, Derek pulls him down and starts stripping his clothes off.
Stiles does his best to help, but what with Derek’s desperation to get his hands on bare skin and Stiles’ natural clumsiness, there is some tearing of material and cursing along the way. Derek’s forcing his own jeans and underwear off too and somehow among all this they end up kissing, tongues forcing between lips, and it’s hot and wet and chaotic in all the best ways.
Finally Derek gets Stiles where he wants him, naked and underneath him. He wants to take his time, he really does, but Stiles isn’t helping with all the whimpery squirming that’s going on, and breathless little gasps of ‘oh fuck’ and ‘Derek’ that keep popping out as Derek licks all the bits of him that he can reach. Stiles tastes awesome, like summer and sweat and teenage boy, and Derek can’t decide which bit he likes best. It’s probably a tie between the soft, sweet skin of his throat and the musky-salt of his groin, but his pale pink nipples are very distracting too -- especially when they stiffen against the flat of Derek’s tongue. But Stiles is moaning now and Derek feels his hand reaching down to touch himself, so Derek slaps it away with a growl.
“I really think you’ll find...” Stiles gasps, “that it’s mine. But, dude. I’m happy to share as long as you just fucking touch it. Otherwise I’m going to start humping you like a...” He stops. “Whatever. Just touch me.”
Derek doesn’t need to be asked twice, the scent of the pre-come leaking into the dark line of hair on Stiles’ belly is calling to him. He moves down and licks up Stiles’ dick in a long, wet slide and then opens his mouth and draws Stiles in, the sweet musk exploding on his tongue and making his own erection throb. Derek just goes for it, driven crazy by the warm weight of Stiles’ cock on his tongue. He sucks and licks, fisting Stiles at the base, spit sliding down Stiles’ shaft and slicking the movement of his hand. Stiles’ hands are in Derek’s hair, pulling to the point of pain as his hips buck, fucking up into Derek’s mouth.
“Jesusfuckingchrist,” Stiles mutters. “Fuck, Derek... Fuck!” Derek takes this as positive encouragement, so he just carries on doing his thing, and when Stiles’ body goes rigid and his cock spurts hot in Derek’s throat, Derek hums and keeps on sucking messily.
Stiles whines, pushing at Derek’s head, so Derek lets Stiles’ dick slip from between his lips, slick and shiny-wet. He kneels up and moves forward to straddle Stiles’ hips. Derek’s mouth is still full of Stiles’ come, he slides it around in his mouth, tasting it for a moment before spitting it into his palm and spreading it on his thick erection.
“Oh God,” Stiles sounds wrecked. “That really shouldn’t be as hot as it is, because actually it’s kind of gross, but Jesus.”
Derek leans down to find that soft bit of skin under Stiles’ jaw and sucks on it as he jerks himself off for the second time that morning. He feels Stiles’ hands, fluttering and then settling on his thighs, fingers gripping as Derek’s hand flies over his cock. The wet, filthy sound of it fills the room, the scent of sex thick in the air, and Derek feels the tension building, coiling in his balls as the wolf in him rises too. Derek pulls back, away from that fragile skin. He fights the shift and wins, just his eyes flaring red as he comes with a howl that rips from his throat as his come splashes on Stiles’ chest, sticky strands of white marking the pale skin. Stiles’ eyes are wide and dark as Derek rubs it into his skin with his palms and then licks him until he’s clean again.
Finally satisfied, Derek lies down and wraps himself around Stiles and snuffles into his neck, inhaling and grinning with wolfish satisfaction. “You smell like you’re mine now.”
“Well, duh.” Stiles wriggles closer, getting comfortable. He’s still tentative as he puts his arms around Derek, as though he thinks he might not be allowed. “You just marked your territory like... all over me. I’m surprised you didn’t piss on me too. Oh God -- that’s not a thing that werewolves do is it? Because I’m not sure I’m down for that I gotta tell you...”
Derek laughs, cutting him off mid-flow. “No, Stiles. It’s not a thing.”
“Good,” Stiles settles in his arms, his breath tickles Derek’s shoulder. “That’s good. This is all... um... surprisingly good actually. Only maybe next time you could wait for me instead of starting without me...”
“Stiles,” Derek interrupts again. “Stop talking.”
Surprisingly, Stiles does.