Stiles is having a shit day at the end of a shit week. He’s on the tail end of a twenty-four shift that has seen him nearly brained with a platform heel during a domestic dispute, clawed by an irredeemably evil cat that he gallantly rescued from a sewer drain, and called an impressive and creative slew of insults by a couple of skate punks in the park he ticketed for underage drinking. He’s exhausted, irritable, smells terrible, and wants nothing more than to go home, tear off his uniform, and sleep for the next forty-eight hours he has off.
So of course, just as Allison is turning their patrol car into the station so they can do paperwork and clock out, the dispatch radio crackles. Drunk and disorderly at Earl’s, the diviest of dive bars in Beacon Hills’ small but respectably disreputable warehouse district, injuries reported, paramedics en route. Stiles groans and Allison, who was spared the shoe and the demon cat, punches him softly in the arm as she circles the lot and pulls out, flipping on the lights and the siren. “You can make it through one more call,” she smiles.
He side-eyes his partner of nearly five years warily. “Have I ever told you that your aggressive positivity is disgusting and possibly even suspicious?”
“Of course you haven’t, because you know I can kill you and make it look like an accident," she smiles sweetly.
Stiles snorts a laugh and shakes his head, sipping back the dregs of his umpteenth cup of coffee this shift. “Let’s go take care of this bullshit so I can get some damn sleep.”
They get slowed down by construction traffic on Dexter, taking much longer to get to the scene than Stiles would like, further agitating him. When they get to Earl’s, a Beacon Hills Fire Department ambulance is already parked in front of the bar, lights on but no siren, back door closed.
“I hate it when the paramedics get here first,” Stiles mutters to Allison while they walk to the door, hands on their holsters. “They always get in the way.”
Allison rolls her eyes. “Yeah, how dare they do their jobs so efficiently.”
It’s controlled chaos inside – controlled, Stiles sees with confusion and surprise, by a paramedic he’s never seen before, a tall guy with dark hair, a truly spectacular beard, and an incredibly intense scowl. He’s standing between two drunk truckers, a hand on each of their chests, holding them apart as they thrash and bellow, trying to get at each other, trying to go through him to do it. There’s another rough-looking guy sitting on a barstool a few feet away, blood gushing from a head wound that Reyes, the paramedic Stiles does know, is patching up.
“Nice of you to finally show,” the new paramedic growls at them, loud enough to be heard over the slurred, shouted insults of the two drunks.
“Hey, why don’t you fu–” Stiles starts, having absolutely no patience to take any shit from a damn paramedic, but Reyes cuts him off.
“Deputies Argent and Stilinski,” she calls out. “Welcome to the party. Meet my new partner, Derek.” She jerks her head, blonde ponytail swinging, toward the guy keeping the two drunks from strangling each other. The guy – Derek – nods slightly towards them, but his scowl doesn’t soften, settling with a disturbing intensity on Stiles. He’s intimidating as hell, with a shock of black hair that contrasts sharply with his vibrant green eyes. There’s a rigidity to his stance, a bearing that suggests a history of law enforcement or military, and Stiles has the distinct impression that this guy could be extremely dangerous if he wanted to be.
Stiles cautiously approaches the drunk closest to him, the bigger of the two, hands raised in an attempt at calm appeal. “Alright, buddy let’s try to settle down a bit, huh?” He takes another step forward and reaches to take the guy’s arm, but the guy on the other side of Derek lunges then, yelling even louder and grappling at Derek’s shirt, making him turn towards him in kind, with an even more intimidating glare; the guy Stiles is trying to subdue takes advantage of Derek’s distraction and twists from his grip, lurching towards Stiles with an ugly snarl and wild flailing of limbs.
It’s such a rush of chaotic motion that Stiles isn’t quite sure how exactly he ends up with the trucker’s arm in his face, his elbow landing with a skull-rattling crack on his nose, so hard his vision goes momentarily black and flares with sparks of light, a hot gush of blood bursting from his nostrils. It’s utterly disorienting, and Stiles trips backwards, stumbling into a clattering table and chair, blinking hard and getting his vision back just in time to see Allison expertly bring the guy who hit him to the floor, facedown, cuffing his hands behind his back.
Still blinking hard and trying to ignore the pain radiating from his nose, he looks over to where Derek has the other guy in a similar position, wrists pinned, apparently just as skilled as Allison in physically subduing someone. He’s looking up at Stiles, scowl replaced by arched, expectant eyebrows. “Cuffs?”
He steadies himself, head spinning a bit, and hands his handcuffs to Derek, who gets them snapped on the guy and hauls him to his feet. Erica tosses Stiles a towel for his nose, and Allison mirandizes the two truckers. Stiles helps her get them outside to the squad car, one hand still clutching the towel to his face.
He slams the backdoor of the squad car closed and turns back towards the bar, coming up short when he sees that Derek is standing there by the door, apparently waiting for him. He jerks his head towards the ambulance.
“I’ll take a look at your nose,” he says curtly, stalking away, not waiting for Stiles for answer.
“Asshole,” Stiles mutters into the towel hanging over his mouth, but follows him anyways. He tries, and fails, not to check out Derek’s ass, which is superb, cupped by snug uniform pants, round and perfect enough to make him momentarily forget about the hot throbs of pain in his face. He lets his eyes trail up his back, impressed by the breadth of his wide shoulders and the muscle under his dark blue uniform shirt. The guy may be an asshole, but goddamn, he’s a hot asshole.
Derek opens the back doors of the ambulance and gestures for Stiles to sit down, but he still doesn’t say anything as he goes about opening a large case of supplies and pulls on a pair of blue latex gloves. Without preamble, he steps between Stiles’ thighs and cups his face, pulling the towel and his hand away.
“We got a bleeder,” he finally mutters, mostly to himself. This close, Stiles can see that his eyes are an array of unbelievably vivid colors, jeweled greens and ocean blues and glittering golds, framed by long, dark lashes and those ridiculous wild eyebrows. Elongated rectangles of red light from the top of the ambulance cross over his face in a steady rhythm, making him seem even more aloof and mysterious.
Stiles is fascinated by him.
Derek reaches for his kit and pulls out something small and plastic-wrapped along with a pair of medical scissors. “Is that a tampon?” Stiles asks incredulously.
“Yep,” he answers, pulling off the plastic and cutting the tampon in half lengthwise with quick, practiced moves. Derek pulls the towel away from Stiles’ face again, this time tossing it aside. Quickly, but gently, Stiles notes, he slides a tampon half up each of his nostrils, far enough until they’re stuck, half sticking out, cotton string on one side hanging down and tickling his lips. He feels utterly ridiculous, but it is, he admits reluctantly, a very effective way to stanch the bleeding.
“You learn this trick in paramedic school,” Stiles quips, sliding his eyes up to meet his.
“Afghanistan,” Derek replies, matter of fact, reaching up again to examine Stiles’ face, cupping his fingers around his chin and gently prodding his nose and cheeks with his thumbs. “They’re great for bullet wounds too.”
“Army?” Stiles tries not to wince too much at the flashes of pain in his face, tries not to get too distracted by all those damn colors in Derek’s eyes, by the wide, stern curve of his mouth.
“Marine Corps.” Derek doesn’t offer any more details, just keeps examining his busted face with deft fingers and a neutral, infuriatingly difficult to read expression that Stiles can’t help but study. His beard really is something else, perfectly sculpted, soft-looking but still maybe a little rough.
Dammit. Stiles is on shift, is fucking bleeding profusely, but all he can think about is what that beard might feel like on the inside of his thighs, against his ass, tickling his balls while Derek deep throats him. Fuck, he’s known the guy for fifteen minutes, during pretty much all of which he’s looked like he wants to murder Stiles, but apparently that doesn’t matter to his cock. Or hell, maybe that’s exactly why he’s getting inappropriately hard while Derek patches him up, contemplating the thrills of bringing a guy like him to his knees.
Derek secures a metal splint over the bridge of Stiles’ nose. “I don’t think it’s broken, but you might want to get it x-rayed just to be sure. The bleeding should stop soon.” He activates an ice pack by folding it half and hands it to him. “Keep this on for a bit to help with the swelling. Want anything for the pain?”
“Ibuprofen, morphine, and fentanyl.”
Stiles shrugs. “Nah, I think I’ll just grab a bottle of whiskey on the way home. Thanks, though.”
“Good plan.” Derek actually smiles at that as he snaps off the gloves – or something like a smile at least, a little twitch at the corner of his mouth (fuck, his fucking mouth).
He’s still standing close, looking down at him, even though he’s done fixing up Stiles’ nose. Derek’s eyes track over his face, expression dark, eyes lingering on Stiles’ mouth, which is starting to crust with drying blood. It sends a rush of heat through his chest, hot and twisting, surprise and excitement at Derek’s apparent interest in him.
“You could join me,” Stiles says, doing the best he can to look alluring with a tampon sticking out of his nose and his uniform shirt covered in blood. He lets his knee fall to the side a bit, enough to rub against Derek’s thigh, clear in his meaning. “We could have some fun,” he adds, licking his lips, ignoring the bitter copper taste he finds there.
Derek starts and steps back, angry scowl returning. “What the fuck?”
The excitement in Stiles’ chest sours to dread. Fuck. He rarely makes this mistake, but when he does, it never goes well. “Shit man, I’m sorry. I thought you were gay too.” Derek’s scowl deepens, and even in the midst of this awkwardness, Stiles can’t help but be impressed. He’s downright terrifying, and what the fuck, that turns him on even more.
“Why?” Derek demands.
“Huh?” Stiles tries to straighten his shirt, feeling incredibly awkward and desperately in need of an exit strategy.
“Why do you think I’m gay?” There’s a tightness in his jaw and in his voice, a slight pause before the word gay.
Well. That tells Stiles everything he needs to know about Derek. He rolls his eyes. Fucking homophobes.
“Forget about it, man,” he says. “My mistake.” He stands up and grabs the ice pack. “Thanks for your help in there. And with this,” he adds, waving vaguely towards his face. Derek steps back again, giving Stiles a wide berth, like he’s not going to risk them touching again.
Stiles sighs and shakes his head. “See you around, Derek,” he says, not bothering to hide his disdain as he walks away from him, hating himself for wanting to look back.
Hello, ducklings! I was so inspired by the awesome response you lovelies had for chapter one, I finished chapter two earlier than planned! And, as promised, the hatesex has begun!
Please be sure to read the tags before proceeding!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Stiles sees Derek a few times during the next few weeks after their not-so-great first meeting, fortunately always from a distance that doesn’t require them to interact. There’s one close call at the scene of a three-car accident on highway thirty-two, but they’re both too busy to talk to each other, even if they wanted to, which Stiles definitely does not (mostly).
He often sees him across the shared parking lot between the sheriff’s station and the firehouse, Derek getting in or out of his douchey, totally-not-sexy-as-fuck black Camaro. They’ve also crossed paths at the gym a couple times, Stiles always making sure Derek is nowhere near the locker room when he goes in.
Once, he sees him in Starbucks when both of them are off-shift. Derek is wearing dark, snug-fitting jeans and an even tighter green v-neck, aviator sunglasses that are totally not super hot. Stiles resolutely studies a shelf of bagged coffee beans and mugs, aggressively avoiding eye contact and Derek’s entire existence until his coffee is ready and he gets the hell out of there as fast as he can.
It’s not like he’s never made the mistake of hitting on a homophobic straight guy before, and he’s even had the poor judgment to attempt dating colleagues, so it’s not like he’s a stranger to this kind of awkwardness. But for some reason it feels especially acute with Derek, the twisting burn of righteous anger mixed with shuddering embarrassment every time he sees him (or even thinks about him, to be honest).
It would just be easier to forget about the whole thing if he didn’t have to keep seeing Derek everywhere. And if the asshole wasn’t so goddamn hot.
But no matter how much he wants to get him off his mind, Stiles can’t help but ask Erica about him, a couple of weeks or so after the scene at Earl’s, when he and Allison go out for beers with her after shift. “Not the friendliest guy,” she tells him, “but he’s a good partner. Helluva firefighter, and he was a medic in the Marines, so he knows his shit.”
She also tells him that Derek is actually from Beacon Hills, unlike Stiles, who moved here after college five years ago to take the deputy job. “That’s right,” Allison says, remembering. “He graduated a few years ahead of us, didn’t he? A big baseball star, right?”
Erica nods. “Football too. And then that whole war hero thing happened. I think that’s why he’s stayed away for long.”
“War hero thing?” Stiles asks, trying to hide just how curious he is.
“Yeah, he joined the Marines after college after did a couple tours in Iraq and Afghanistan,” Erica answers, those giant brown eyes of hers studying him carefully.
“He was wounded, wasn’t he?” Allison asks. “Won some medals too?”
Erica nods. “He doesn’t like to talk about it, but yeah, I think he got some combat medals. Saved some people? It was a huge deal around here, especially given who his parents are.”
Erica takes a big gulp of her beer before explaining. “His mom’s a Congresswoman, and his dad is Chief of Staff to the Governor.”
Stiles' eyebrows rise in surprise, all of this new information making him reassess Derek; his apparent homophobia is starting to make a little more sense now, if he grew up in a political family and spent so much time in the military. It also makes him that much more interesting, which makes Stiles hate the beautiful bastard even more.
“Fucking sucks what happened with his ex-wife,” Erica goes on, trying to flag down the waiter for another pitcher. “Derek hasn’t said anything to me about it, but Boyd was friends with him in high school and they’ve been hanging out since he’s been back.”
“What happened with his ex?” Allison says, and Stiles is silently grateful that she asks so he doesn’t have to.
Erica snorts into her glass and shakes her head. “Cheated on him with his best friend when he was on deployment, and then took off with his combat pay.”
“Shit,” Stiles says. “That’s brutal. No wonder he’s an asshole.”
Erica tosses him a sharp look before impatiently jumping up from their booth to go to the bar to order. Allison leans over the table towards him while she’s gone, talking quietly so only he can hear. “Did something happen between you and Derek the other night? You seemed weird after he fixed up your nose.”
Stiles sighs and stares hard into his almost-empty pint glass. “I, uh, kinda came on to him,” he finally admits.
Allison’s eyes widen. “On the job? Minutes after meeting him? Do you even know if he’s into guys? Stiles, come on.”
“You don’t think I don’t know how stupid it was? Regardless of the fact that he’s not just straight, but like, really fucking uptight about it.”
“What happened? Did he say something shitty to you?”
Stiles shrugs. “Nah, he just, was like, really defensive about me thinking that he might be into dudes, you know? Totally homophobic." He drains the dregs of his beer. "But in like the whole ‘the lady doth protest too much’ way, you know?”
Allison eyes at him skeptically. “Are you sure that’s not your wishful thinking? It’s kinda obvious you have a crush on him.”
“What? It’s not obvi – I don’t have a crush, okay? The guy’s an asshole.”
“Stiles, you fuck Jackson Whittemore. I’m pretty sure ‘asshole’ is your type.” She snorts a laugh into her beer. “Pun intended.”
“You’re hilarious , Argent. Derek acted like me thinking he was gay was a huge insult. He’s a homophobic asshole, and I don’t have a crush on him, no matter how fucking hot he is.”
“Still talking about Derek?” Erica asks as she drops back into the booth with a sweep of her long blonde hair, their shame-faced waiter right behind her with two filled-to-the-brim pitchers. “He is ridiculously hot.”
Allison nods in enthusiastic agreement as she refills their glasses. “You’re a lesbian,” Stiles yells at her, faux-indignant. “And married! To a woman!”
“And none of those things preclude me from appreciating a beautiful man,” Allison counters, kicking him under the table.
“You’re into him?” Erica asks. “He’s straight, you know.”
Stiles rolls his eyes, exasperated. Why the fuck does everyone seem to think he likes Derek Hale? He loathes the guy. “Yes, yes, I know. Derek Hale’s heterosexuality is well-established and totally secure, okay? Can we drop it please? The guy pisses me off and I’m here to drink and have fun.”
Erica looks over at Allison and makes a face. “Well shit, Stilinski, now you tell me. Boyd just texted to say that he and Derek are on their way to meet us. I told him the more the merrier.”
Stiles’ gut twists and sours. He knows he’s not going to be able to avoid interacting with Derek forever – even if they didn’t kinda-sorta work together, Beacon Hills is a small town – but he hoped he’d be able to put it off as long as possible. He’s totally not prepared right now to deal with the inevitable awkwardness of having to talk to Derek again.
He gulps back the rest of his freshly-poured beer. “Where’s that waiter? We need shots.”
Shots are, of course, an excellent idea. Two heavy pours of Wild Turkey take away pretty much all of his fucks to give about dumb Derek Hale, town golden boy and war hero, firefighter extraordinaire, Certified Heterosexual™.
Boyd and Derek show up just as Stiles is throwing back the second shot, and Stiles exchanges friendly pleasantries with Boyd, who, while taciturn, he’s always liked, even before he and Erica started dating. Derek is wearing those goddamn uniform pants and a BHFD t-shirt, looking like he fell out of the ‘I’ll-throw-your-legs-over-my-shoulders-and-fuck-your-brains-out’ tree and hit every branch on the way down. He nods tersely at Stiles. “Stilinski,” he says, and Stiles is surprised, pleased, and annoyed that Derek remembers his name. “How’s the nose?”
“Fine, thanks,” Stiles answers brusquely, rising from the table where Derek had just taken a seat. “I’m going to get another drink.” He stalks off, feeling the heat of Derek’s scowl on the back of his neck; in his increasing buzz, he loves every fucking second of it.
The bar is packed by this point of the night, and it doesn’t take much for Stiles to find a cute guy to buy him a drink. His name is Kai and he’s a welder and seems like a nice dude, but Stiles is both too drunk and too distracted to really focus on him. He leans with one elbow against the bar and tosses back drinks, trying to not be too obvious as he eyes Derek over Kai's shoulder. Derek doesn’t seem to be talking too much, mostly just listening and nodding along to whatever Allison and Erica are saying. His eyes drift across the room and catch Stiles’ a couple times, narrow and suspicious, alluring and mesmerizing and fucking captivating, that asshole.
Frustrated, Stiles tries to keep his focus on Kai, who’s buying another round. Here’s a hot guy with a great body, yet it takes nearly all of what little concentration he has to pay attention to him instead of Derek. After awhile, Kai steps closer and slides a hand over his hip, brushes his lips against his neck, leans in close to whisper into his ear. “Wanna get out of here?”
This guy’s breath his hot against his skin and his hand is strong and firm on his back and he’s got very nice brown eyes and he’s clearly into Stiles, but he still can’t help but look over at Derek to see if he’s watching them.
He is. Brow furrowed, eyeing them darkly over the top of his beer.
Stiles’ cock throbs in his jeans, thick against the zipper.
He answers Kai with a kiss, licking into his mouth and grabbing his ass, making a show of it.
He stops by their booth to give Allison some cash for their tab and to say goodbye to everyone, Kai trailing behind him, his hand hooked in the back pocket of Stiles’ jeans. Derek doesn’t make eye contact, but it doesn’t matter, because Stiles can still feel his gaze.
“Kai,” the guy says.
Stiles opens his bleary eyes and looks down at the guy sucking him off, vaguely confused for a moment to see brown eyes looking up at him. “Huh?”
“My name is Kai. You called me Derek.”
Stiles bites his lower lip and grunts in frustration. “Sorry, dude, I’m drunk.”
“Yeah, whatever,” Kai says, swallowing him down again.
Two weeks later is the annual Beacon County Humane Society Gala Fundraiser, one of the town’s biggest and most popular events. For a two-hundred dollar donation to the Humane Society, local philanthropists can enjoy an evening of dancing to live music, a gourmet five-course meal, and the chance to bid in a silent auction for all manner of high-end donated items - but the real highlight of the event is the Singles Auction. Beacon Hills’ wealthiest denizens – partnered and unattached alike – eagerly bid on the town’s most eligible men and women for a date (sex-free, of course), all of the proceeds going to the animal shelter.
His first year in town, Allison and Lydia had to practically force Stiles into a rented tux and threaten him with bodily harm to make him participate. He had nervously shuffled on to the stage cradling the adoptable kitten they have given him to hold, convinced that he’d be so utterly humiliated that he’d have to leave his new town for the sake of his dignity. But, shocking no one more than him, Stiles sparked a three-way bidding war that resulted in him selling for a record-breaking forty-four hundred dollars, to Beverly Coates-Wilson, an elderly widow who took Stiles to her weekly high-stakes poker night for their "date."
It was just because he was new in town, Erica had said, fresh meat, she called him, but the next year Stiles signed up willingly (for the animals!), and lo and behold, he sold for fifty-one hundred to Luther Mendez, the town’s most well-respected lawyer. This will be his fifth year of participating, each time the Humane Society – and his ego – getting a record-breaking boost from people with money to burn and who are inexplicably eager to buy his company.
It’s become one of his favorite things, attending the Gala and participating in the auction. Hell, a couple years ago, he even bought his own custom-tailored tuxedo expressly for this event. This year, he’s out to set another record, ambitiously hoping top last year’s sale to Natalie Martin, who paid eighty-seven hundred to spend a day watching Stiles clean her pool shirtless while she and her daughter Lydia, Allison’s wife, drank sangria and playfully catcalled him. He’ll gladly endure that not-so-terrible indignity if it means continuing his run as Beacon Hill’s most desirable single.
Is it vain and incredibly narcissistic that he cares so much? Yeah, probably, but it’s not like dudes are fighting each other to get a chance at him, all right? Sometimes a guy just has to take what he can get, and in his case, if that means letting his ego get stroked for the good of the Beacon County animal community, well, he’s okay with it.
The event is held at the country club, in the grand ballroom, with the ‘backstage’ area set up in one of the anterooms. Stiles is there now, a few minutes before the auction is scheduled to start, struggling with his bowtie in a mirror over a vanity, when a bombshell blonde suddenly appears in the reflection next to him, checking her impeccable, blood-red lipstick, which is the same color as her skintight, satin dress. “Good goddamn, Erica,” Stiles smiles, turning towards her. “You’re enough to make a guy go straight.”
Her laugh is raucous and bubbly, just like her, and she grabs him by the elbow and turns him toward her. “Yeah right, Stilinski,” she grins, taking over the fixing of his tie for him. “A cockslut like you? Even I’m not that hot," she winks.
Stiles laughs, instantly feeling more relaxed, loving that he can always count on Reyes to keep him honest. “Not only a cockslut, but I’m a size queen to boot,” he says proudly, grinning at answering her snort-laugh. “We’d have to get you an enormous strap-on to keep me satisfied,” he goes on, feeling quite proud of Erica’s cackle.
Her soft curls slip over her bare shoulder as she throws her head back, and Stiles watches them, looking up to see Derek standing behind her at the next mirror, straightening his own tie, definitely listening their ribald conversation and pretending like he isn’t, his cheeks above his closely-trimmed beard pink, his eyes focusing way too hard on his reflection and the folds of his tie.
Stiles can’t help but check him out in his tux, and yeah, okay, maybe his jaw drops just a little bit despite his loathing, because goddamn , the man knows how to wear a tux, okay? It’s most certainly not rented, tailored to fit his sculpted body snugly, showing off the perfect V of his shoulders and waist and the strong, long lines of his legs. But to Stiles, the sharp black-and-white contrast of the crisp tux is nothing compared to the jarring, glowing distinction between his jeweled, glittering eyes and his ink-black hair and beard, highlighted with his pinked cheeks.
He’s utterly drool-worthy, and it just makes Stiles hate (want) him more.
Erica pats him on the shoulder and kisses his cheek before leaving him to his own devices, disappearing into the bustling room of people preparing for the event. Figuring that this tense game of disgruntled glaring has to end sometime, Stiles takes a steadying breath and walks over to Derek.
“So who twisted your arm to be sold off?” he asks, sounding much more confident than he feels.
Derek eyes him in the mirror for a moment before answering. “My sister is one of the head organizers,” he says finally. He doesn’t smile, but he also looks a little bit less like he wants to rip Stiles’ throat out, so he takes it as a win. “She threatened to tell our mom if I refused,” Derek adds, the barest hint of a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth.
It absolutely does not do things to Stiles, that tiny smile, the slight crinkle at the corners of his stupidly pretty eyes. He focuses on his own reflection in the mirror, rubbing Erica’s lipstick stain off his cheek. “It’s actually pretty fun,” he offers. “Watch out for the widows though. They’re ruthless and I’m pretty sure they all cheat at poker.”
Derek actually smiles at that, maybe even laughs too, but he stops himself so quickly Stiles barely catches a glimpse of it, which, as disappointing as that may be, he’s grateful for.
Stiles does, unfortunately, get subjected to the full force and power of Derek fucking Hale’s smile a short while later, after he’s been sold to septuagenarian Winona Greenberg for a very respectable nine thousand dollars. After Stiles, Beacon Hills’ newest bachelor is paraded out clutching a Labrador/Pit Bull puppy mix, and as soon as his name is announced it’s like a switch has been flipped. Derek smiles brightly, warmly, brilliantly , as the auctioneer details his many achievements and desirable qualities. Sitting in the audience with Winona, voraciously guzzling the free-flowing booze, even Stiles can’t help but be impressed: firefighter, paramedic, bachelor’s degree with honors from Texas A&M, decorated Marine Corps veteran.
“Narrow-minded homophobe,” Stiles mutters into his glass. Unfairly attractive and in need of a good fingering.
Derek’s smile is as blinding as his glare is intimidating, nothing but gentle charm and kindness where Stiles has only a known gruff, sharp-edged terseness. The change is remarkable, dizzying almost, but that’s probably just the bourbon, Stiles assures himself, not at all because suddenly Derek is a suave, adorable, puppy-snuggling war hero instead of the asshole who shoved a tampon up his nose and spurned his advances.
The damn-near magical effect of Derek’s everything isn’t lost on the rest of the crowd, and Derek sparks a fucking five-way bidding war, raucous but good-natured, eventually selling to Natalie Martin for fifteen thousand dollars, an amount that makes Stiles nearly choke on his Maker’s Mark.
The record-shattering sale is met with wild applause of course, which not only makes Derek grin even more, but it makes him blush, his cheeks going even redder than they were backstage.
Stiles gulps hard and orders another drink.
A couple hours later, deeply drunk and desperately in need of fresh air, Stiles snags an almost-full bottle of Maker’s from the bar and slips out the side door to the backstage area, where he promptly strips off his jacket, vest, and tie before slipping off his cufflinks and rolling up his sleeves, instantly feeling better, like he can finally breathe a little freer.
He heads out the deserted side hallway of the clubhouse and follows the hideous floral pattern of the obscenely expensive carpet to a set of French doors that lead outside to the club’s expansive flower gardens. Sipping from the bottle, aggressively trying to push thoughts of smug, handsome firefighters from his mind, he shuffles down the stone path that he's pretty sure leads to the rose bushes, in search of an old stone bench he remembers from last year, his path lit by the paper lanterns hanging along the trellises lining the way.
It’s not hard to find the bench he’s looking for, even though it’s in the most secluded nook of the garden, because drifting directly from that partially-hidden nook is a thick plume of cigarette smoke that Stiles’ bourbon-soaked brain thinks is the greatest smell in the world. He quit smoking three years ago, except for the occasional one here and there when he’s drunk, and right now seems the perfect time for yet another exception. Hoping whoever’s found his escape spot is willing to share their bad habit, Stiles rounds the corner, taking another long swallow of bourbon.
Of course, it’s just his luck that the asshole he’s trying to avoid is the one sprawled across the bench, languidly smoking the cigarette that Stiles wants. Derek is similarly partially-disrobed, tux jacket nowhere to be seen but vest still on, top couple buttons of his shirt undone to reveal a dark patch of chest hair, sleeves rolled to his elbows. He’s clearly drunk, possibly even more than Stiles is, a slightly disheveled, bleary-eyed look to him.
“You got to be kidding me, this guy’s everywhere,” Stiles mutters not-too-quietly, certainly loud enough for Derek to hear.
Stiles should leave him be. Should turn around and find another spot to sit for awhile and sober up, make his way back to the gala and find someone to drive him home or call a cab. But Derek is drunk and looks compellingly disarmed, eyeing Stiles as he stands there watching him, one of those goddamned eyebrows crooked up, not saying anything.
Stiles rubs the back of his neck and tries not to notice the flutter of excitement in his chest. “Hey,” he says, finally breaking the silence. “Can I bum a smoke?”
Derek’s eyebrows rise even more, but he nods and shifts, reaches into his pants pocket, holds out a pack of American Spirits and a matchbook, even makes room for him on the bench. It’s incredible, just how much Derek can communicate without speaking, Stiles thinks, sitting down and tapping a cigarette from the crumpled foil pack. He lights it and inhales with a satisfied sigh and sets the pack on the bench next to him, passing Derek the bottle of Maker's.
Stiles smokes slowly, his tolerance for nicotine dangerously low, amplifying the effects of the booze, making him even more lightheaded, more reckless. “Congrats on your sale,” he says eventually, knowing that he’s failing completely at sounding sincere, that he does, in fact, sound terribly bitter.
Derek snorts a laugh, an honest-to-god laugh, a shock hair falling over his forehead, his features softened with drink, making him look almost as tender and sweet as the puppy he was cuddling on stage. “What’s the matter, Stilinski? You mad because you’re the not the prettiest boy in town anymore," he teases. DerekfuckingHale. Fucking drunk and smiling and teasing him.
Stiles hates him. And he desperately, desperately wants to suck his cock.
“Erica said you’d be pissed that I broke your record,” Derek goes on, smirking as he downs several long swallows of bourbon. Apparently Drunk Derek is infinitely more talkative than Sober Derek – but still an asshole. Through his own drunken haze, Stiles wonders what other parts of Derek might emerge with his defenses so lowered.
Stiles puffs on the cigarette and tries to look like he doesn’t care that he’s so annoyed at Derek outselling him so spectacularly, and to Natalie Martin too. “Whatever, man,” he sighs, leaning back heavily, slouching. His shoulder brushes against Derek’s bare forearm that’s tossed across the back of the bench, but he doesn’t move it away. “The Martin women are notoriously fickle,” Stiles goes on, snagging the bottle back from him. “I learned that the hard way in high school, when Lydia and I dated.”
Derek looks at him, confused (which is not adorable as hell). “You and Lydia? But aren’t you both gay?”
“Lydia is pansexual,” Stiles corrects. “And I hadn’t quite figured out yet that I was pretty much exclusively into dudes. Besides, haven’t you heard of sexual fluidity?
Derek’s brow furrows. “Whatever, Stiles,” he slurs, voice dripping with drunken disdain.
Stiles glares at him through the heavy smoke. “Shit, man, you really are not comfortable with the queers, are you?”
Derek tenses immediately. “What are you talking about?”
“Dude, you’re a homophobe. I mean, you grew up conservative, were in the military and all that. It makes sense, even though it sucks and kinda makes you an asshole.”
“I’m not an asshole.”
“But you are a homophobe?”
“No, I’m not a fucking homophobe either."
“Prove it,” Stiles mutters, mostly to himself, words a bit slurred.
Derek snorts and rolls his eyes. “Prove it? How?” He says it like a challenge, like he wants Stiles to make him do something.
I could think of a few ways , Stiles thinks. “Whatever you think it will take to convince me,” he says instead, side-eying him through the heavy, rose-scented smoke curling between them.
Derek eyes him back, eyes bright even in the moonlight, glittering in the sparkle of the lanterns, holding Stiles’ gaze before tracking over his face and neck, down his chest to where his own shirt is unbuttoned. “During my second tour in Iraq,” he says finally, eyes locked on Stiles’ mouth, “there was this this other officer, a gay guy – “
“Oh fuck, don’t tell me you’re giving me the ‘one of my best friends is gay,’ excuse –”
“What? No, we weren’t best friends. We barely talked to each other – ”
“Okay, so what, you were tolerant of the fag in your unit? That’s your proof? Didn’t freak out in the showers when he was in there with you?”
“Shit, man, do you ever shut the hell up and let other people talk?”
Stiles bites back a retort, barely, and shrugs instead, fingers running idly up and down the neck of the bottle, tapping his nails against the glass in irritation, arousal.
“This guy...sometimes I’d let him watch me," Derek goes on, his voice is soft with liquor and secrets.
“Watch you?” Stiles asks, quiet now too, blood starting to turn hot.
“Watch me jack off. He liked to watch me, and sometimes I’d let him.”
Stiles swallows hard. “Did he get off too, while he was watching you?” he asks, his own voice husky now. Derek nods, slouching further back against the bench. Stiles shifts too, moving slightly closer to him, brave with booze and emboldened by Derek’s drunken confession, his mind racing wildly with all the images it conjures. He lets his thigh press next to his, and Derek doesn’t move away. “Did you like it? Did you like that he got off watching you?”
“Yes,” Derek whispers. His thigh is a warm weight against Stiles’, solid and strong, and his eyes hold his for a long moment and then fall heavily, purposefully, to his groin. “Yeah, I liked it a lot."
There can be no mistaking his meaning, and Stiles’ ever-hardening cock begins to throb. Hoping to hell that he’s right about what Derek wants, Stiles stubs out his cigarette and lets the bottle fall to the grass and moves his hand to his own bulge, cupping himself, stroking his thumb along the hard line of his cock. “You wanna jack off for me, Hale?”
Derek answers by unzipping and shoving his hand down his well-tailored pants, grunting when his cock springs free. Stiles follows suit, eagerly freeing his own dick, body humming with excited, stunned shock that this is actually happening, that holy fucking fuck , they’re about to jack off together, at Derek’s request.
Stiles greedily eyes Derek’s cock, which is fucking huge , and uncut too, so fucking perfect it’s all he can do not to fall to his knees and give Derek his mouth to fuck, swallow him down and suck him off until he’s coming down his throat and whining Stiles’ name. He doesn’t, he controls himself, barely, knowing even in his drunken haze that he’s already walking a very fine line with Derek and that pushing him too far out of his comfort zone too fast could ruin this.
Derek spits into his palm and begins stroking himself, other hand teasing at his balls. Stiles gasps at that, at just how fucking hot it is to watch him pleasure himself, wants to find the Marine Corps officer who first did this with Derek and salute the hell out of that American hero. He spits into his own hand and teases the head of his cock, already starting to leak. “Yeah, just like that,” Stiles urges him on, smirking when Derek turns his head sharply to look at him, clearly surprised. Apparently the other guy didn’t say much.
Not saying much, especially during sex, has never really been Stiles’ thing, especially when he’s drunk, but even though Derek’s surprised, he’s still eagerly touching himself, still clearly wants this. Stiles slides his hand down his shaft, shivering and moaning at the rushes of pleasure, so fucking turned on that Derek is watching him too, that yeah, he may be “straight,” but he’s getting off on Stiles getting off on him, and for whatever reason, that fucking does it for Stiles. “You like this?” he asks, pushing his boundaries further. “You like me watching you?”
Derek grunts and nods, his hand moving faster over his cock, which Stiles can see is starting to leak too, his slick glistening in the soft light. Stiles groans, hungry to taste, his own strokes moving faster. He can’t take his eyes off Derek’s dick, even though he the searing heat of his eyes on him as he watches is nearly enough to pull his gaze away.
This is good, fucking incredible, seeing Derek like this, drunk and sloppy and basking in his own pleasure, but Stiles can’t help but want more, wants to know how far he can take this.
He wants to get his hands on him.
Keeping one hand on his dick, he lets his other fall to his own thigh, then drags it over to rest on Derek’s. Derek stills at the touch and Stiles holds his breath, heart pounding in his ears, until Derek groans softly and starts moving his hand again, quickly getting his rhythm back. Further emboldened, heart pounding even faster now, Stiles drags his hand up his thigh, pausing when his fingers brush his splayed-open zipper. Derek doesn’t stop this time, no – he bucks his hips up, groaning again, encouraging. Biting back his own groan, Stiles wraps his hand around Derek’s and squeezes.
“Fuck ,” Derek mutters, head falling back, and then his hand falls away too, leaving just Stiles’ circling his cock. Stunned but not missing a beat, Stiles keeps up the pace, working him as best he can from this angle, dragging more precome from his slit with the tips of his fingers, thumbing his thick crown and teasing his foreskin. “God-fucking-dammit, Stiles .” Derek is practically growling, like he’s mad it feels so good, so Stiles strokes him harder, faster, forgetting about his own cock in his determination to get Derek off, to make him even angrier.
“Come on,” he pants into his shoulder. “Come for me, Hale,” he orders, working him faster, harder, chasing his orgasm for him. Derek’s hips jerk and stutter, and he comes with a growling, gasping groan, spurting hot and thick all over Stiles’ hand. Stiles whines, so close to his own release that, when he drags his hand, dripping with Derek’s come, back to his own cock, it only takes a few rough strokes and then he’s coming too, whining, dense bursts of buzzing, burning pleasure rolling through him, arching his back and scraping his feet across the grass, shooting hard, his own mess mixing with Derek’s in his sloppy fingers.
Stiles sighs loudly, body going loose and languid, sprawled out on the bench, his leg pressed against Derek’s, both of their spent cocks still out. He risks a glance over at him. Derek’s eyes are on him, wide but dark, confusion, anger, and lust written all over his face.
“Shit, man,” Stiles smirks, wiping his hand off on his shirt. "That was-"
He stops talking when a voice rings out from the direction of the clubhouse. "Derek! Are you out here? I can smell your nasty-ass cigarettes. I’m telling Mom that you started smoking again!”
“Fuck,” Derek spits out, jumping to his feet and zipping up.
Stiles does the same, albeit a little bit slower. “Relax, dude, it’s no big deal.”
“It’s my sister,” he spits at him. “She can’t know.”
Stiles isn’t sure if he’s talking about them fooling around or the cigarettes, but either way, he can guess that Derek doesn’t want his sister to know any of it.
He scoops up the pack of American Spirits and lights one – he could use a post-orgasm smoke anyways – and makes sure most of the come is off his hand, just as a woman in a glittering purple evening gown rounds the corner into the rose garden.
It only takes one look at her to see that she’s related to Derek; she’s almost as tall as he is - although that may be heels - and they have the same ink-black hair and fierce bright eyes, and of course, she’s stunningly gorgeous. “There you are,” she says. “Cora and I have been looking all over for you. Everyone’s asking to talk to you.”
“I know,” Derek snaps. “Why do you think I came out here?”
The woman – Stiles still doesn’t know her name – glares at Derek for a second, but then her expression quickly softens to concern. “Derek?” she asks, voice gentler.
“I’m fine, Laura,” he sighs. “I just don't want to talk to a bunch of people and answer a bunch of stupid questions, okay?”
“And you’re drunk,” she says, again more concerned than admonishing now. “And smoking,” she adds, the edge returning to her voice.
Stiles drags on his cigarette and looks over at Derek curiously. “Nah that’s just me,” he says hurriedly, waving an awkward hello. “I was out here smoking and Derek wandered by, and I started talking his ear off. Stiles Stilinski, Beacon County Sheriff’s Department,” he says, offering her his left hand to shake – his come-sticky right hand is holding the cigarette, thank god.
Laura steps forward and takes his awkward handshake, quickly looking him up and down, making him hope to holy hell that he managed to get his pants buttoned and zipped correctly. “Nice to meet you,” she says, her nose crinkling at the smoke.
“Sorry for keeping your brother from the party,” he smiles. “When I get to talking about baseball, there’s no stopping me.”
“Let’s go, Laura,” Derek says before she can reply. “Nice talking to you, Deputy.” He nods to Stiles and takes Laura’s elbow, leading her away.
Stiles watches them go, his fascination in, loathing of, and curiosity about Derek Hale growing with each step he takes away from him.
I hope you enjoyed! So much more hatesmut to come...
Hello gentle readers! Here's some super smutty smut! Many, many thanks to @bleep0bleep, @mad-madam-m, and @fauvistfly for their brainstorming and beta'ing!
***General warnings: homophobic language!! Specifically, use of the slur 'fag,' by both of our main characters. It goes without saying that the characters' use of this language does not equate to the author condoning such use. Also, this chapter includes Stiles/Jackson sex. If you're not comfortable with the aforementioned, feel free to panic moonwalk away now!
As always, please read the tags before proceeding.
Thank you for your patience, and your lovely comments!! XOXO
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
If Stiles had been surprised by Drunk Derek wanting to get off with him at the Gala, the following Monday when he arrives to work, he’s downright shocked to see Sober Derek leaning against his Camaro next to where Stiles usually parks his Jeep in the lot at the sheriff’s station.
Derek isn’t in uniform; he’s wearing low-slung basketball shorts and a white tank top, his typical gym wear, Stiles knows by now. Apparently he’s made a special stop just to talk to him, and Stiles is pretty sure that doesn’t bode well for whatever Derek has to say. Steeling himself, he turns off Roscoe and hops out, grabbing his uniform shirt, which he hasn’t yet put on over his white undershirt. He walks around to stand across from him, leaning against the Jeep’s passenger side, trying to affect the same aura of detached coolness that seems to come to Derek so effortlessly.
“Hale,” he says, crossing his arms. “Morning.”
“Stilinski,” Derek answers, not quite curt, but definitely not warm – cautious.
“What can I do ya for, big guy?” Stiles smirks, remembering, with startling clarity, the pleasant feel of Derek’s big cock in his hand.
Sober Derek is, of course, much more impervious to Stiles’ charms than his drunken alter ego had been, so he just rolls his eyes. “I just wanted to say thank you,” he says. “For the other night. With Laura.”
“She’s always been overprotective of me,” Derek explains, “and ever since I’ve been back, she’s made it her personal mission to watch over me like a damn mother hen, because she’s yet to realize that I’m thirty years old.”
“Sounds like she really cares about you.”
Derek throws him a sharp glare. “Yeah, well, I’m tired of getting hell from her for smoking, so thanks for covering for me.”
“You’re welcome.” Stiles leans further back, studying the severe angles of Derek’s stubbled jaw, the thick tendons of his neck descending gracefully into the wide breadth of his shoulders, nearly bare but for the thin straps of the tank top. His biceps are ridiculously bulging, and this close, Stiles can see that the left one is dotted with three large, roughly-circular scars, clearly bullet wounds. He stares at them for longer than is polite before darting his eyes back up to Derek’s, who’s been watching him closely. “Is that all you wanted to thank me for?”
It’d be funny, if it weren’t so intimidating and infuriating ( and fucking arousing ), just how dramatically Derek’s expression darkens, how narrow and angry his glare becomes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Stiles shakes his head, flabbergasted by Derek’s refusal to admit his apparent attraction to men. “Is that really how you’re going to play it, Hale? Pretend like it didn’t happen?” He steps closer, into Derek’s personal space, close enough to count the colors in his eyes. “You’re just gonna pretend that you didn’t ask me to get off together the other night?”
Derek practically growls at him, but neither of them move away. “Just forget about it,” he says through clenched teeth.
Stiles is exasperated. “Seriously man, what’s the big deal? You’re into dudes. Awesome, just accept it. We could have a lot of fun getting each other off.”
“Except that I’m not a fag,” Derek snaps, straightening his shoulders.
That makes Stiles’ blood boil with anger strong enough to drive out his lust ( almost ). He leans closer, their faces inches apart, Stiles’ chest brushing Derek’s crossed, defiant arms. “No, you just get off on fags wanting to fuck you. I know all about guys like you. You get off on the attention, on guys thirsting for your cock, which you’re too fucking good to give them, right?”
“Fuck you, Stiles,” he snarls.
“Any time you want, Derek ,” he snaps back. “I know you’d fucking love to have me on your dick.”
What little space there is between them crackles with tension, Derek’s eyes, fiercely blue in the early morning light, holding his in a hungry, aggressive glare, before finally falling to his mouth, something that’s happened so many times now Stiles expects it. Part of him – the part of him that probably wants to subconsciously get murdered – has the utterly insane idea of kissing him, probably just because there’s no way in hell Derek would ever expect it (and because his mouth, even when pursed tight in undignified anger, is objectively kissable).
Instead, he takes a step back and looks down, and fuck yeah , his suspicion is correct: the outline of Derek’s huge cock, definitely hard, is clear through the thin, shiny fabric of his shorts.
Stiles makes an exaggerated show of eyeing his erection before looking back up at him. “Not a fag, huh?” he snipes, roughly bumping his shoulder into Derek’s as he stalks away from him. “Go fuck yourself, Hale.”
Twelve hours later, when Stiles gets home from work, the first thing he does is text Jackson. The second thing he does is shower and prep, because he needs to be fucked, hard, as soon as possible .
Jackson Whittemore, a fiercely competitive up-and-coming state assistant district attorney, was one of the first guys Stiles attempted dating when he first moved to Beacon Hills. They quickly realized that weren’t very compatible outside of the bedroom, and have since settled into a convenient and easy, no-strings-attached fuckbuddy relationship that Stiles has never been more grateful for than he is today, full-to-the-brim of pent-up frustration and hot, angry lust.
Jackson arrives just as Stiles is getting out of the shower, strips off his coat and tie before he even closes the door behind him. He’s clasping a towel around his waist, his skin still damp, half-hard, and he grabs Jackson by the shirt and pulls him into a rough, filthy kiss while dragging him over to the couch.
“It’s been awhile, Stilinski,” Jackson says, unbuttoning his shirt and peeling it off, then getting to work on his pants. Stiles lets the towel fall to the floor. “I was getting worried you’d forgotten about me,” he smirks, all smarm and arrogance, crooking a cocky eyebrow up over a big green eye.
Stiles scoffs and rolls his eyes. “Yeah I’m sure you’ve been pining away, waiting for me to come begging for your dick again.”
Jackson answers by seizing Stiles by the hips, his hands smooth and cool, probably nothing like Derek’s would be, but he grabs him roughly, hungrily, and Stiles is grateful for it. He takes his cock between his full lips, looking up at him from under his pretty lashes as he works him to full hardness, smirking even more around his mouthful of cock when he slips his hands around to Stiles’ ass, his fingers finding him already slick with lube. Stiles whines in painful pleasure when he shoves two fingers in, hands tugging at his hair.
Jackson pulls off his cock, works his fingers more. “Damn, you really are desperate for it.”
Stiles picks up the lube and condom he brought from the bedroom and tosses them into Jackson’s now-bare lap. “Just shut up and fuck me.”
He spins him around and pushes him down, so Stiles is on his knees in front of the couch, elbows resting on the coffee table, knees spread, ass up. With, quick, practiced hands, Jackson slicks him up more and slips his fingers back into him, stretching him more, dragging his fingers over his prostate until Stiles is panting, whining a bit, begging for his cock, his forehead fallen heavily to the table, eyes squeezed shut, utterly powerless against the power of his imagination, his overwhelming lust for the man who refuses to fuck him, basking in wishful images of what it might be like if it were Derek behind him, fingering him open with ruthless efficiency.
Jackson finally shows him some mercy and slips his hands free, slides on the condom. “Who do you really want to be fucking right now, Stiles?” he asks, conversational, curious, pressing the tip of his cock against him. “Come on, tell me.”
“Derek,” he breathes, hole twitching in impatient anticipation. “Derek Hale.”
Jackson grunts, grips Stiles ass hard, spreading. “Hale? Yeah, he’s hot. I bet he’d be a pretty good fuck.” He shoves into him, hard and sure, a burst of hot, stinging pleasure shaking through him that makes him cry out and gasp, hands scratching at the table.
He fucks him hard, fast, fingers digging into his hips, skin smacking against skin, sweat pooling in the small of Stiles’ back, Jackson’s dripping from his forehead on to his ass. Stiles is a grunting mess, drowning in his fantasies of Derek, imagining how much rougher and coarse his hands probably are, how his huge cock would fill him up even more than Jackson’s, how he’d probably fuck him like he was furious about it, muttering filth, wrecking him until he was nothing but a flaming burst of sizzling pleasure-pain.
Jackson reaches around to stroke his cock, and Stiles comes with an aching groan, spilling all over his hand and the table beneath him. Jackson gasps and grunts, hips snapping even faster, harder, before stuttering and snapping wildly, coming into the condom and collapsing heavily over Stiles’ back, thrusting sporadically until he’s finally done.
Jackson pulls out and disappears to the bathroom, leaving Stiles splayed on the couch, catching his breath, trying to hold on to the last blistering waves of pleasure slowly rolling through him. He closes his eyes and all he sees are sharp, glittering blues and greens, the kaleidoscope of colors of Derek’s eyes, sees his perfectly sculpted beard, so incongruous with the wildness of his eyebrows, feels the ghost of imagined hands on his sweat-stained skin that still carries Jackson’s rough touch.
He’s roused from his half-doze when Jackson emerges from the bathroom, slacks back on, shirt too but only partially buttoned. Jackson picks up his tie and tosses it around his still-flushed neck, grabs his blazer. “Thanks for the good time, Stilinski.” He grins and smacks him playfully on the foot. “Hit me up when you’re craving Hale’s cock again,” he winks.
Jackson lets himself out, leaving Stiles alone in his partially-satisfied lust, sleepy and frustrated, agitated and irritated, the man who just fucked him already a distant memory, his mind too full of the man who refuses to fuck him.
Life goes on as usual, his routine of double shifts and overtime at least keeping him busy and tired enough to not think about Derek too much (except, of course, in those precious few moments before he falls asleep or right after he awakens, his imagination running wild with fantasies, with the many, many ways Stiles would like to be fucked by him and fuck him in return).
He still hates the bastard though.
Stiles immerses himself in work, focusing mostly on the department’s ongoing investigation into the county’s ever-increasing meth and heroin boom. They’re fairly certain a biker gang called the Alpha Pack, loosely affiliated with the Hell’s Angels, is cooking and running the shit throughout multiple counties in Northern California, taking advantage of the expansive network of back roads and vast geography to operate relatively uninhibited. He and Allison have been zeroing in on the gang’s leadership, trying to figure out the details of their organization and where their center of operations and frequent haunts might be.
A couples weeks after his confrontation with Derek in the parking lot, Allison insists that they need a break from the investigation and plans a night out for them with Lydia and Erica, who invites Boyd, who invites Derek, and goddamnit , he finds himself forced to be have a modicum of civility towards him.
The tension between them feels palpable to Stiles, but no one else seems to notice, so he’s hoping that maybe he’s just paranoid. There’s no reason for there to be anything between them, he tries to convince himself for what must be the millionth time since he met the man.
He knows it’s no use. He may loathe Derek fucking Hale with the fire of the thousand suns that make up his stupid smile, but for better or worse, he’s also infatuated with him. When he’s near, Stiles can feel his presence like no other’s, feels himself drawn to him even as he stokes his hatred for him, for his homophobia, so damn internalized he can’t even admit that he’s obviously attracted to men, at least a little. Stiles isn’t sure why, but he wants to figure him out, wants to see what makes him tick, wants to get under Derek’s skin the way he’s gotten under his.
But tonight they’re mostly just glaring and sniping at each other under their breath as they all play darts and pool, Stiles’ snide remarks getting sharper, and louder, with each Jack and soda he drinks. Derek seems to be sticking to club soda with lime; he says something to Lydia about being Boyd and Erica’s designated driver, but Stiles can’t help but remember the concern Laura seemed to have when she found Derek drunk at the Gala and wonders if there’s more to it than that.
Stiles is four drinks in when Jackson shows up, skintight red V-neck and snug dark jeans, that familiar gleam in his eye that Stiles knows means he’s looking to fuck. Jackson buys a round of drinks and joins their game of pool, chatting with Lydia and Allison for a bit before he makes his way over to where Boyd and Derek are playing darts.
From where he’s standing by the pool table, Stiles can’t hear their conversation, and he’s trying to act like he’s not dying to know what they’re talking about, like the sight of the two of them standing close, these two absurdly beautiful hot men, doesn’t fill him with a rush of arousal and wild imaginings.
Fuck, he needs another drink if he’s gonna make it through the night while fantasizing about fucking Derek and Jackson at the same time. He brushes past them, avoiding eye contact with both of them, heading to the bar.
Jackson sidles up next to him a few minutes later, after he’s ordered. “Bad news. Your boy is as straight as they come,” he reports, and orders a drink on Stiles’ tab. “I tried all my best moves on him, and he wouldn’t bite.”
Stiles rolls his eyes. “Maybe you’re just not his type.”
“I’m everyone’s type,” Jackson smirks.
Stiles scoffs and takes a big swallow from his fresh drink, enjoying the spread of whiskeyed warmth through his already dense, loose limbs.
Jackson is eying him up and down. “Guess you’re gonna have to settle for me again, Stilinski.”
Stiles follows Jackson into the bathroom, too drunk and frustrated and horny to give a fuck that it’s probably terribly obvious to anyone who’s paying attention to them that what they’re up to, not to mention the fact that public sex is illegal and he’s a goddamn deputy.
Jackson pulls him into the bathroom’s one stall, twisting his fingers in his shirt and dragging him into a brutal, feverish kiss, the stall door swing closed, leaving them just enough room. “My turn,” he breathes, biting his lip before turning around to face the wall, unbuttoning his jeans. He pulls a condom and a small packet of lube from his pocket and tosses them over his shoulder to Stiles. “I’m prepped,” he adds, sliding his pants down his hips, his full, round ass rubbing against Stiles’ crotch.
“Fuck,” Stiles mutters, going a little lightheaded from the rush of blood to his cock, which he frees from the confines of his jeans, slides the condom over, and lubes up, while Jackson reaches back to pull free the plug in his ass.
“That’s the idea, Stilinski,” Jackson says dryly, reaching back to hold himself open.
Grunting, Stiles shoves into him with a rough thrust, hard enough to make Jackson gasp and scratch at Stiles’ hands, which are splayed across his ass. Jackson rolls his hips back, meeting Stiles’ rocking thrusts, muttering appreciation for his cock while reaching down to stroke his own. He lets his head, heavy with whiskey, fall to rest on Jackson’s shoulder, closing his eyes tight and letting himself get lost in the buzz of booze and the hot, wet clench of Jackson’s ass.
He’s so gone, he’s not sure how long it take him to notice that someone has come into the bathroom, heavy-looking but apparently stealthy leather boots appearing outside the stall. Stiles silences a groan into Jackson’s shoulder and stutters to a stop, dragging a hand up to cover Jackson’s mouth, not trusting him to stay silent, still buried deep. They both look back over to the boots, and yeah, Stiles’ immediate suspicion is right: it’s Derek.
Jackson realizes it too, he can tell by the way his mouth curls into a smirk under his hand. Stiles bites his shoulder harder, a warning, hoping Derek won’t realize what’s happening in the stall, or who’s in here. Stiles is pretty sure finding him fucking Jackson in a men’s bathroom won’t really do much for Derek’s issues with gay guys.
But Jackson is an asshole, and answers Stiles’ warning with a ferociously tight clench of his ass around his dick and a sharp roll of his hips. The hot rush of pleasure sizzles through him like electricity and he cries out, teeth still buried in the expensive fabric of Jackson’s shirt, but it’s not enough to muffle the sound, and the boots turn towards them and stop.
They both still and wait in silence then, watching to see what Derek will do, Stiles’ heart pounding against his ribs because he’s not sure what he wants, but knows that the thought of Derek watching him fuck Jackson makes him so hard he nearly comes right then and there.
After a moment that feels like an eternity, Derek steps away, and Stiles lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, trying to ignore his disappointment.
It’s still silent in the bathroom but for the distant, indistinct thrum from the music in the bar, and Stiles expects to hear the bathroom door creak open; but instead, he hears the bolt slide into place, locking the door.
Then the boots reappear, immediately in front of the stall, pointed right at them.
Stiles takes a shuddering, stuttering breath, reaches over and unlocks the stall door, lets it swing open. Derek’s glare is fierce, his eyebrows scrunched together in anger, but his mouth is slightly open, like he’s breathing heavily, hands clenched at his sides.
Jackson breaks the silence. “You wanna watch, Hale?” He rocks back, starts rolling his hips again, fucking himself on Stiles’ cock, and Stiles can’t help but meet his thrusts, start up his rhythm again, his drunken lust ignited even more with Derek watching them, one of his big hands twitching at his thigh, like he’s trying to fight the urge to touch his cock.
Stiles keeps fucking him, gaze still locked on Derek, on how he seems entranced by what he’s seeing, can’t seem to take his eyes from where Stiles is ruthlessly plowing into Jackson’s pert, round ass. Finally regaining his ability to speak, he smiles at him. “Yeah Derek, wanna get off on a couple of fags fucking?” he challenges.
Derek grunts a response and his hand move to cup his bulge.
“Come on, let us see your cock,” Jackson urges. “Show us how hard you are.”
Stiles hurries his fucking, spurred on by Jackson’s demands and the growing bulge in Derek’s pants, by the way he’s breathing hard as he watches. He doesn’t follow Jackson’s order though, just stays like that, right outside the stall, hand clutching his dick through his jeans. Groaning in frustration, harsh words spill from his mouth. “Come on, Derek,” he slurs. “Show us how hard watching two fags fuck makes you.”
If he didn’t know better, he’d think Derek actually growls at him, his fierce glare somehow intensifying even more, but his mouth falls open more and he licks his lips, grips his crotch tighter. That makes Stiles grin wickedly, deeply pleased with himself, and he thrusts even harder, faster, and then Jackson’s coming, moaning loudly and shooting all over the wall, ass clenching tight and burning hot around Stiles’ cock, making him come too, stuttering and grunting as he fills the condom, gripping Jackson’s hips hard enough to bruise.
Stiles is dazed, comedrunk and lightheaded, falls back heavily against the wall, slipping out of Jackson, who, not missing a beat, pushes his plug back in and zips up. He exits the stall, brushing past Derek, and washes his hands at the sink, checks his reflection in the water-stained mirror, adjusting an out-of-place strand of dark blonde hair before turning around to smile mischievously at them. “Thanks, Stilinksi,” he grins. “You two have fun without me,” he teases, unlocking the door and disappearing with a wink.
Go big or go home , Stiles thinks, pulling off the condom and tossing in the garbage. He steps past Derek too, not making eye contact yet, and re-locks the door. His own cock still out, still half-hard, he stands in front of him, meeting his blistering hot gaze again, close enough to see the slight pink flush on his cheeks, his widened pupils. With much more confidence than he feels, Stiles again reaches for Derek’s cock, this time not questioning or tentative, but sure, assertive. He seizes Derek’s bulge, heart pounding, lips watering. “Need some help with that, big guy?”
Derek’s nostrils flare, and he growls again – fuck, Stiles swears the guy must be part wolf or something – and he nods, almost imperceptibly. Grinning, biting his bottom lip, Stiles snaps open the button of his jeans, yanks on the zipper and reaches into Derek’s snug boxerbriefs, frees his hard, leaking cock, and takes him in hand, strokes him hard and slow while staring into his rainbow eyes.
Derek moans, loud and mad, and Stiles strokes him harder, watching the flutter and flickering of his eyes before dropping to his knees and pulling the head of Derek’s cock into his mouth, sucking hungrily, before Derek has a chance to resist. “Fuck, ” he hisses, as Stiles relaxes his jaw, opens his throat to take as much of him down as he can. Stiles grabs his hands and pulls them to his throat, makes Derek feel the hard curve of his cock, makes his rough, callused hands trace over his unshaven cheeks, reminding Derek of who exactly is getting him off.
Derek fucking whimpers , like he can’t help it, clutches onto Stiles’ neck for dear life and thrusts , slamming the head of his thick, long cock against the back of his throat, so hard Stiles knows he’s gonna be feeling it for days, his own cock twitching in response. Derek fucks his mouth, greedy and starving, rough and wild, fingers digging into his skin, twisting into his hair, half-broken curses and slurs breaking from his red, panting mouth.
Stiles looks up at him, blinking away the tears watering from his eyes, spilling them from the corners of his eyes, one hand clutching at Derek’s ass, which fuck , is just as firm-yet-supple as he imagined, the other cupping and teasing his heavy balls, fucking determined to give Derek the best goddamned head of his life, humming around his cock, squeezing with his well-practiced throat.
He feels Derek come before he hears the gruff, tortured cry he makes, pulling Stiles’ hair even harder, spilling into his mouth with jerky, violent thrusts. His cock, spit-slick and red, slips out from between Stiles’ puffy lips and brushes against his scruffed face, dribbling the last few drops of sticky come across his cheek.
Stiles has just enough self-control left to stand up, play it cool, tuck his hard cock away and zip up like he’s not dying to come too, like the bittersweet taste of Derek’s come in his mouth isn’t the best thing he’s ever tasted.
Derek looks more dazed than angry now, eyes wide, still breathing heavily. Stiles holds his gaze, tries not to get lost in the whirlpool of blue-greens haloing his blown pupils; he runs a thumb over his cheek to gather up Derek’s come and slips it into his mouth, sucking and savoring, moaning just loud enough for him to hear.
Derek lets out a slow, steady breath, like he’s fighting for some kind of control, and Stiles smirks. “See ya around, Hale,” he smiles, triumphant, throwing him one last heated glare over his shoulder before he unlocks the bathroom door and stalks out, feeling victorious and viciously satisfied.
These two are SUCH assholes!! ;)
Thank you for your patience, lovelies!! Please the tags and previous chapter warnings, and thank you all for your wonderful comments!! I'm so happy you're enjoying the story! XOXO
When the fourth dark-haired, bearded, muscled guy in as many days leaves Stiles’ house after fucking him senseless, he finally acknowledges that he might have more than a passing infatuation with Derek Hale. He’s never been so well-fucked in his life, but he’s still not satisfied, still can’t get the sonofabitch out of his mind, sees his goddamned eyes whenever he closes his own, can still taste him in his mouth, even weeks after their rendezvous in the bar bathroom.
It seems that no matter what he does, who he does, he can’t stop thinking about, can’t stop wanting Derek. It’s fucking infuriating, and Stiles deals with it the only way he knows how: pretending it doesn’t bother him while distracting himself with as much meaningless, empty sex as possible.
In the weeks since that with Jackson at the bar, he still hasn’t seen Derek. He’s irritated about that, but not surprised. Derek was stone-cold sober that night, can’t blame any of it on booze, can’t claim that he doesn’t remember anything this time; Stiles is sure he’s avoiding him as much as he possibly can now, and his triumph and vindication at sucking Derek off starts to wane the longer he goes without seeing him, like he needs another fix of Derek’s vitriol and his cock, his everything.
When he’s not mindlessly fucking and getting fucked by strangers, he throws himself into his work, distracting himself with the Alpha Pack investigation, he and Allison making slow progress as the weeks go on.
They get lucky and catch a break when a routine traffic stop for a busted taillight lands them a low-level dealer who, after hours of interrogation, proves to be as dumb as he looks but who also happened to be carrying a notebook with several important details about the organization.
Stiles and Allison are in the station conference room sorting through the new evidence, trying to fit these new puzzles pieces into their already-sprawling investigation board, tossing theories back and forth, when the piercing alarm from the fire station next door rings through the building. Moments later, their radios crackle with the call, just as Parrish sticks his head in the room.
“Structure fire downtown, all hands on deck,” he calls out before disappearing down the hallway, Allison and Stiles right on his heels.
The ladder truck and two ambulances are already pulling out of the station when they get to their cruiser, Allison taking the wheel as usual, catching up with them easily to help clear traffic. Stiles monitors the radio and updates dispatch while she drives, adrenaline pumping, his mind settling into the clear, precise calm and focus that he always snaps into when the job brings them high-stress, dangerous situations.
The fire is at a popular restaurant that’s on the first floor of a five-story apartment building, and by the time they get there it’s spread well up into the residences above. It’s lunchtime and the restaurant was packed, but it looks to be fully evacuated by the time they arrive. The upper floors, getting eaten by ever-growing flames, however, still appear to be occupied. It’s the worst fire he’s ever scene while on the job, big and hot and terrifying.
Stiles and Allison get to work, helping Parrish and Hernandez set up a perimeter to keep the growing crowd away. The paramedics have already set up a small triage unit behind the ladder truck and are treating a few of the restaurant patrons for smoke inhalation. He scans the area, looking for Erica’s bright blonde hair ( not Derek’s shiny black locks), wondering if they – she – is on ambulance or truck today.
Not seeing her around the triage area, he surveys the rest of the scene. He spots a flash of yellow hair in a long no-nonsense braid, and feels momentarily relief at the sight, but that’s dashed away almost immediately: Erica is wearing full gear, pulling on her hood and helmet before grabbing a halligan and axe, which she tosses to Derek, similarly outfitted, before they jog into the burning building, Derek leading the way.
A sinking feeling that he tries to ignore fills his gut. It’s always made him a little anxious, seeing people he knows and cares about run into burning buildings; but, just as he relies on his own training and abilities to keep him alive in his own admittedly dangerous line of work, he reassures himself that his friends and fellow first responders are more than capable of taking care of themselves.
He puts aside the question of when exactly Derek became someone whose safety concerns him in order to focus, updating the sheriff when she arrives, managing the scene, helping out at the triage station as much he can while the firefighters do their work.
The hoses are going full blast and smoke billows from the engulfed building, and soon more people begin to emerge, coughing and sweating with ash-streaked, terror-stricken faces. Some of them are running out on their own, others escorted by firefighters who turn around and head right back into the flames. It’s hard to tell through the chaos, but Stiles is pretty sure he sees Derek and Erica a couple times, catches glimpses of their last names emblazoned in blocky, reflective lettering on the back of their jackets as they head back in the building after bringing people out.
The fire gets under control fairly quickly, and soon the flames are pushed back to just the top floor, more and more of the crew exiting the building for the last time. There are some pretty serious injuries, and one ambulance has already left to take someone to the ER. Stiles spots Lahey and Yukimura, but still hasn’t seen Derek or Erica since the last time they went in.
He heads over to the truck and stands next to Hewitt and Dunbar, the rookie candidates. “Everybody out?” he asks.
“Reyes and Hale are still on the top floor,” Mason tells him, staring up at the building just like everyone else in the crowd. Chief Rogers is trying to contact them on the radio, but seems to be having some kind of problems, and there’s a hushed tension amongst the crew that tells Stiles they’re worried, that things might turn from bad to worse at any moment.
A few tense minutes later, a bulky, dark shape appears in the doorway, and a collective sigh runs through the crowd. It’s Derek, carrying Erica, who pulls her mask off once they’re outside, revealing a tight grimace of pain across her face. One of the paramedics meets Derek with a stretcher, and Derek sets her down gently, pulling of his own mask to reveal his sweaty, red face. “Her leg’s broken,” he says, patting her roughly on the shoulder before turning on his heel and pulling his mask back on. He jogs back towards the building, much to the surprise of everyone.
“What the fuck,” Liam says. “He’s going back in? It’s too unstable.”
“There’s someone still up there,” Erica says through clenched teeth. “A kid.”
“Fuck,” Stiles mutters under his breath.
Erica looks up at him from the stretcher where one of her colleagues is cutting off her pants to get to her injured leg. “Derek’s got this. He’ll be fine.”
Chief Rogers is yelling into his radio. “Goddammit Hale, I told everyone to clear the building. The roof’s about to collapse!”
If Derek responds, Stiles doesn’t hear it. He waits there on the street with everyone else, time moving inexorably slow as they watch the last of the flames eat away at the building, listening to the creaking of the breaking, stressed structure, smoke darkening the sky. Stiles is no firefighter, but he knows damn well that that building is about to go down at any moment, and if Derek and the kid he’s looking for are still in there when it does …
He swallows hard, the taste of smoke and ash thick in his throat, his heart pounding, bunching his hands into fists at his sides, frustrated as hell that there’s absolutely nothing he can do to help, that he has to just stand here and wait .
Surely that’s why he’s so agitated, so anxious, so worried. There’s a kid in there, after all. Who cares that it’s Derek risking his life to save them? Derek, who Stiles hates, who he totally does not give any fucks about.
“There!” Mason calls out, pointing. Stiles, and everyone else, looks up, and sees Derek in a second-floor window, a small child clinging to him, arms around his neck, skinny bare legs around his waist, wearing Derek’s oxygen mask. Even from this distance, Stiles can see the look of grim determination on Derek’s unprotected face, the way he scopes out the ground beneath him and then turns around to look behind him for a moment, calculating.
“The stairs are blocked,” Derek calls out, almost matter of fact, calm and cool. “We’re coming out the window.” He sets the kid down for a moment and ditches his tank and the mask, then pulls the kid onto his back, securing them with his harness. “We’re jumping,” he announces, and before anyone can even react, Derek, the kid strapped to his back with arms gripped tight around his neck, pushes off from the windowsill, a collective gasp rolling through the crowd.
It feels almost like slow-motion, watching Derek float to the ground from twenty feet up, landing on his feet with his knees bent, one hand hitting the ground to brace himself, the other wrapped around the child’s forearm at his neck. The crowd’s cries of fear turn to astonished surprise and shock, and then when Derek stands, applause, just as the roof of the building starts to crumple and cave in.
The sigh of relief that runs through Stiles is powerful enough to shake him a bit, forces him to take a steadying breath. There’s a rush of paramedics and firefighters towards Derek and the kid, and Stiles steps away, giving them and himself much needed space. He watches from a distance as Yukimura pulls the kid, a girl probably no more than five or six, from Derek’s back and carries her to a stretcher, while Lahey helps Derek, who looks to be limping a bit, over to the truck to check his ankle.
Stiles gets called away by Allison to help take some witness statements from people who were in the restaurant when the fire began, and he’s glad for something to do finally, something to focus on other than Derek’s well-being and his child-saving heroics.
By the time he’s done, the crowd has cleared significantly, although there’s still a fair amount of people milling about. The fire crew is hosing down the wreckage and the investigators heading in. He scans the area again, spotting Erica, getting her lower leg splinted while comforting the girl Derek jumped with while holding an oxygen mask to the girl’s face.
He’s able to locate everyone he knows, except for Derek, and for some reason, even though he’s knows Derek is safe now, it bothers him, but that doesn’t stop him from walking towards the triage area, looking for a shock of dark hair and bright eyes. No luck there, so Stiles circles around towards another ambulance, a little farther away from the center of the action. He goes to walk around to the front, but stops short when he catches a glimpse of that tell-tale dark hair, sees that Derek is leaning against the front of the ambulance, elbows resting on the hood, head resting in his hands.
From where he’s standing, Stiles is pretty sure he’s blocked from Derek’s line of sight, and he takes advantage of it to watch him surreptitiously. He’s removed his bulky jacket, and the thick red canvas suspenders of his uniform are hanging at his waist, his BHFD t-shirt soaked through with sweat. Derek is breathing heavily, like he’s trying to steady himself, the tension and rigidity that’s always in his stance even more pronounced now as he hunches over the hood, staring down. He seems at once intimidating and oddly vulnerable, something Stiles never thought he’d see, something he’s fairly certain Derek doesn’t want anyone to see.
He’s about to turn and walk away, give the Derek the space and privacy he so clearly needs after his harrowing heroics and near-death, but Derek moves suddenly, standing up straight and turning so his back is to where Stiles is standing, and he finds himself stuck to the spot, terribly curious.
He can hear Derek’s exhausted sigh as he reaches back and yanks the damp shirt over his head, uses it to wipe the dirt and ash from his face. Stiles’ stomach does this thing , this tightening, twisting, tugging thing that he doesn’t recognize. He can’t look away from the sight of Derek’s bare back, a wave of rippling muscle descending from his broad shoulders, a black, three-spiraled tattoo between his shoulder blades.
Still holding the shirt to his face, he turns slightly towards Stiles’ direction. Stiles feels his eyes widen in surprise at what he sees; a glimpse of Derek’s chiseled abs, yes, but that barely registers as he takes in the expansive web of scarring that that begins under his left arm and stretches all the way down his torso, disappearing under his pants. He swallows hard, feeling an odd sting of guilt at his voyeurism, at seeing Derek’s scars without his permission, at the twitch of his fingers at his side, the peculiar urge to touch, to comfort.
The shirt drops from Derek’s face, and his eyes – bloodshot and rimmed with smoky ash, like they’ve been lined in kohl – dart over and met Stiles’, catching him watching.
Now his stomach flips in very familiar dread, and he knows he should say something, apologize maybe, or fuck, just turn and walk away, anything but just standing here like a goddamn deer in the headlights.
Maybe he can’t move because he’s confused by the lack of anger in Derek’s face, by the way Derek is holding his gaze but not to challenge or intimidate like usual; Stiles isn’t quite sure what he sees in his exhausted, sweat-streaked features, but it isn’t the hatred he’s come to expect, certainly not under circumstances like this. Derek looks resigned maybe, but curious too, like he genuinely wants to know what Stiles is going to do now that he’s been caught, now that he’s seen Derek’s scars.
Slowly, Stiles nods, and, remarkably, Derek nods back, barely, before walking away.
The next morning, which Stiles has off, when he strolls into Starbucks, he’s not at all surprised to see that a photo of Derek is featured front and center on the local newspaper, catching him in mid-air, the frightened face of the little girl partially obscured by his shoulder and hood, a look of stoic, noble bravery on his handsome features. The headline reads Hale is a Hero Again , which makes Stiles roll his eyes, but he still can’t help feeling a little impressed, especially as he reads the accompanying article.
It’s just his natural curiosity, his instinct towards knowledge-gathering that makes him a good cop, that leads him to pulling out his phone and googling Derek, which if he’s being truly honest with himself, he’s surprised he hasn’t looked him up sooner.
It’s not hard to find several articles about him, and his high-powered political parents. Stiles skips over those for now and finds articles from a couple of years ago, from when Derek was injured in combat. He learns that during Derek’s third tour, this time in the Korengal Valley of Afghanistan, one of the most remote and geographically harsh parts of the country, and one of the deadliest for US troops. Derek was a medic and also a sharpshooter stationed at the Korengal Outpost, and his unit was on patrol, making their way towards one of the small mountain villages to meet with their elders about gaining their support in fighting the Taliban, when their three-vehicle convoy was hit with an IED.
He quickly becomes engrossed in the lengthy article that details the attack and how Derek practically single-handedly saved four of his fellow soldiers and a young Korengali boy injured in the explosion and then took out the three Taliban who set the bomb and were waiting in the hills with their AKs to shoot any survivors.
One of the Humvees was completely destroyed, the three soldiers inside killed immediately. Derek was hurt in the blast, suffering serious burns and shrapnel wounds on his left side; despite his injuries, he was able to pull his comrades from the flaming wreckage and into small roadside ravine that offered some cover from the sniper fire that began as soon as he pulled himself from the Humvee.
The first person he saved was Corporal Gabriella Rodriguez, the .50 gunner from his vehicle, who lost the lower half of her right leg in the blast. Derek pulled her from the flaming Humvee and into the ravine, put a tourniquet on her leg, treated her for shock, and then gave her his sidearm so she could cover him while he pulled the rest of the injured from the toppled, twisted vehicles.
Rodriguez is quoted in the article, but, interestingly, Derek isn’t. They had three snipers hidden in the hills surrounding us, but only one of them could shoot worth a damn. That’s the one that got Lieutenant Hale in the arm a few times, when he ran farther out to get the little boy. After he brought him to us and stopped the bleeding from the wounds in his neck, Hale grabbed his M-16 and took out all three Taliban shooters in a matter of seconds. It was like nothing I’d ever seen before. His injuries were terrible, he was covered in blood, but he didn’t care about himself. He just wanted to help us, help that boy. He’s the best solider I’ve ever had the honor to serve with.
The article goes on to further detail the subsequent rescue and the unit’s recovery, first at Rammstein AFB in Germany and then at Walter Reed; the medal ceremony where Derek was honored, the funerals of those lost. Stiles scrolls through dozens of photos: burned-out Humvees, soldiers with battlefield dressings on their wounds; bodies of dead terrorists, too young and stricken-looking to look as ruthless as they are; weeping children and scruffy dogs and goats; and Derek, so many photos of Derek: getting his wounds tended by a medic on the evac chopper while holding Rodriguez’s hand; close-ups of his wounds that make Stiles cringe and swallow; Derek in a hospital bed, smiling gently at a nurse; Derek in full Marine dress, receiving his medals, his parents beaming proudly behind him.
Stiles clicks on a few links and finds himself reading about Congresswoman Talia Hale, representative of California’s Third Congressional district, moderate Republican and legislative powerhouse in DC, a sharp, smart woman who looks even more intimidating than Derek, who, in event photos with her, always seems to look a little strained, like he’s trying just a bit too hard to look calm and happy, putting on a good face for the camera.
Or maybe that’s just Stiles’ imagination, his creative and admittedly circuitous brain, looking for something,some reason to explain why Derek is the way he is, or some crack in the façade, some weakness that he can sense under the cool, tough demeanor Derek wears like armor.
He gives up trying to puzzle Derek out based on news articles and photos from years ago, tries to push him out of his mind altogether and goes about his day off. He puts in some time at the shooting range, goes grocery shopping, cleans his house, reads for a bit, browses dog adoption websites. And all the while, Derek is there, in the back of his mind, a damn shadow tugging at his attention that he just can’t shake.
When it gets dark he opens a beer and starts scrolling through his phone, looking for a potential hookup. His thumb hovers over Jackson’s name for a minute while he sips at the bottle, contemplating. Thinking about Jackson, though, just makes him think about that night in the bar bathroom with Derek, how unbelievably hot it was that Derek watched them fuck, the way Derek fucked his mouth so hard he felt it for days after.
Tossing his phone aside, decision made impulsively, Stiles jumps up from the couch, grabs a six-pack from the fridge, and heads out the door before he can change his mind.
Stiles had long ago looked up Derek’s address, which he of course memorized, and it only takes fifteen minutes to drive downtown to the recently restored warehouse lofts. He parks his Jeep next to Derek’s Camaro and jogs up the steps to the front door, which is of course, locked. Still running on the adrenaline of his probably-very-stupid decision, he presses the call button for his apartment.
Derek’s surprised voice crackles through the speaker. “Yeah?”
“Hey, Derek,” he answers, wincing at how forced his attempt at casualness must sound. “It’s Stiles … Stiles Stilinski.”
He’s pretty sure he can hear Derek roll his eyes. “Yeah, believe it or not, you’re the only Stiles I know.”
“I brought beer, asshole.”
The door buzzes open a moment later.
Stiles tries resolutely not to stare at Derek’s bare chest when he slides open the loft door, wearing nothing a pair of low-slung sweats hanging pornographically low on his hips. “Hale,” he says, clearing his throat and nodding, following Derek inside when he turns and waves him in. “Thought I’d come see how you were recovering from your injury,” Stiles says, just to make conversation, even though he’s sure his blatant lie just makes it even more awkward between them.
Both he and Derek glance down at his Ace-bandaged wrapped ankle. “It’s just a sprain,” Derek says.
“That’s why I didn’t bring the hard stuff,” he quips, offering Derek the six-pack.
He’s rewarded – or perhaps punished – with Derek’s laugh. “Come on,” he says, leading Stiles to the big French doors that open onto the balcony. He follows, taking in as much as he can. The penthouse loft is expansive and sparse, almost Spartan, and he also has, much to Stiles’ surprise, two cats, who glare suspiciously at Stiles before disappearing to the bedroom.
Out on the balcony, there are a couple of chairs with a small table between them, littered with empty beer cans and a half-full ashtray. They sit and smoke and drink for a little bit, letting the silence between them settle. “Nice work yesterday,” Stiles says finally, opening another bottle. “Pretty impressive shit, actually.”
Derek shrugs, pulls on his cigarette. “It’s the job. You know that.”
“Yeah, it’s the job, but I’ve never been called a hero on the front page of the newspaper.”
“I hate that shit,” Derek scoffs. “The media stuff.”
“It seems like you’ve had to deal with it a lot,” Stiles agrees, watching for Derek’s reaction that Stiles knows about his family, his past, at least somewhat.
Derek eyes him carefully, his expression difficult to read in the dim gray-blue moonlight. “Much more than I’d like,” he mutters. “But with my mom’s career, my dad’s too … ” He finishes one beer and immediately pops open another, takes a long swallow, voice a little soft when he speaks again. “Gotta be the Golden Boy, you know?”
Stiles doesn’t know, not personally at least, but he nods, because it seems like Derek’s mostly talking to himself anyway.
“So,” Derek says sharply, voice going dark again, eyes narrowing. “You come here over to suck my cock, Stilinski?”
Stiles doesn’t miss a beat. “Is that why you let me in?”
Derek smiles and stubs out his cigarette. “Maybe.”
“Well maybe I did come over to suck you off,” Stiles admits, licking his lips, letting his eyes track down Derek’s bare chest, hungry to feel the coarse spray of hair, the hard lines of his abs. He’s sitting to Derek’s right so he can’t he see his scars, but he wonders what what they might feel like under his hands, how Derek might react to his touch there. “But honestly,” Stiles continues, adjusting his thickening his cock, making sure Derek’s eyes follow the movement of his hand. “I’d rather get fucked. More in it for me.” He winks.
Derek’s glare sharpens and he sighs heavily, like he’s frustrated and annoyed, which is exactly how Stiles wants him. “I thought you liked sucking dick.”
Stiles swallows the rest of his beer. “I like riding dick even better.” He sets the glass down on the table and stands up to leave. “Let me know when you decide you’re not too good to fuck a fag, Golden Boy.”
Several hours later, Stiles is roused from a fitful sleep full of confusing, disjointed dreams, by a fist slamming insistently on his front door. He stumbles from bed and down the stairs to the door in his boxers. He snaps on the porchlight and glares through the peephole, half-convinced he’s still dreaming when he sees Derek on the other side.
Stunned, but smirking, Stiles opens the door. Derek looks beautiful, even in this light, his eyes a little wild, his hair a mess, wearing ripped jeans and a leather jacket and looking like the living, breathing embodiment of every sexual fantasy Stiles has ever had.
“Okay,” Derek says, stepping over the threshold and into Stiles’ space, so close his jacket rubs his Stiles’ bare chest and sends a frisson of electricity through him, through them. “Let’s fuck.”
This chapter is a bit shorter than I had hoped, but the previous chapter's cliffhanger is most smuttily resolved. :) Thank you all for your patience, and your wonderful comments. I live for them. <3 XOXO <3
Always, please be sure to read the tags!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
“It’s about fucking ti – ”
Stiles can’t finish his retort, because Derek, the bastard, in a series of moves that no civilian could pull off, especially in such a state of intoxication, hooks a foot around Stiles’ ankles and knocks his feet out from under him, bringing him to his knees while simultaneously popping open the button of his own jeans.
It’s so unbelievably hot, such a fucking turn on, that Stiles’ yelp of indignation sounds more like a whimpering groan of pleasure, loud enough to be heard over the thud of his knees hitting the floor.
Derek unzips and his cock slips free – he’s not wearing underwear – and he’s hard and red, and his wet tip drags across Stiles’ cheek. “Fuck,” he gasps. “You been jacking off, Hale? Thinking about fucking me?”
Derek answers with a grunt, twists a hand in to Stiles’ hair.
Stiles circles Derek's dick with both hands and grins up at him. “I got off too, thinking about you fucking me,” he admits. “Fingered myself, imagining your big cock inside of me.”
Now Derek’s the one who whines, hips rocking forward. Stiles is telling the truth – he may have been calm and collected when he laid the bait for Derek at his place earlier tonight, but the second he got out of the loft he practically sprinted to his Jeep so he could race home and do something about his demandingly hard cock.
It fucking thrills him that Derek had done the same, makes him want to smirk and say I told you so, tell me again how straight you are, you beautiful fucking homo.
But he can’t, because Derek has both hands on his head now and shoves the head of his cock between his lips, and then Stiles wants nothing but more, more, more.
It’s part battle, part race, part awkward, angry dance as Stiles pulls Derek up the stairs to his bedroom, pulling off his jacket and tossing it to the floor, Derek pushing at his chest and scratching at his back while Stiles stumbles backwards, still exchanging muttered insults and barbs. He sucks a hard, angry hickey into his collarbone. Derek’s skin tastes like sweat, like smoke and spice, and Stiles shivers, wants more of it.
By the time they make into the bedroom in a tangle of eager limbs, Stiles’ boxers have fallen to his ankles and Derek has kicked off his boots and jeans, and his shirt somewhere on the stairs. Stiles sits on the edge of the bed, his cock arching up to his belly, mouth thick with precome. Derek, practically supernaturally gorgeous in all of his naked glory, stares down at him, eyes hooded and dark, dick in hand. Stiles reaches for his lube, still out on the nightstand, grabs a Magnum condom from the drawer and tosses it at Derek, who of course catches it.
He raises his eyebrows when he sees the brand, but doesn’t say anything. Stiles slicks up his fingers for the second time tonight and scoots back on the bed, spreading his legs wide. Derek’s gaze feels like flames on his skin as he slides one finger inside himself, his still-loose hole accepting it easily. Derek lets out a breathy grunt and strokes his cock, bites at his bottom lip. Stiles pushes in a second finger, trying to ready himself as quickly as possible, aching to finally get Derek inside of him, anxious that Derek might change his mind.
But it’s clear there’s really no risk of that when Derek rips open the condom with his teeth and rolls it over his dick. Stiles adds more lube to his fingers and then hands the bottle over to Derek. “Lube up, Hale. I’m a size queen but I don’t want to get ripped apart." Derek’s cheeks go red and Stiles smirks proudly while scissoring his fingers, stretching. “You wanna help me out, or are you just gonna stand there with your dick in your hand?” he quips.
“You’re a fucking idiot,” Derek huffs, the smallest of reluctant smiles twitching at the corner of his mouth. He grips him by the ankles and yanks hard to bring him back to the edge of the bed. Stiles fucking loves it, the way Derek manhandles him so easily, the way he lets himself be manhandled by him, implicitly trusting him to control his brute strength, to not hurt him more than he wants.
Derek pushes a finger in alongside Stiles’, sparking a burst of sweet, pleasure-pain. Distantly, in the haze of it, he realizes that this is the first time Derek’s touched him with anything like intimacy, with the intent to give him pleasure, and that realization spins a heady wave of satisfaction through him. Stiles arches his back, using his feet against the edge of the bed for leverage, knees falling wider open. “More,” he demands, his own voice rough and breathy too, and Derek obliges him, pushes in another finger hard and far enough to hit his prostate, making Stiles gasp. “You – you’re pretty good at this, Hale,” he stutters. “Sure this is your first time?”
Derek answers by pulling his fingers out entirely and shoving his cock against his slick, twitching hole, the head breaching his rim.
“That all you got,” Stiles manages to huff, hands twisting in the sheets.
“Fuck,” Derek growls, and slams his hips hard, burying himself to the hilt, hands gripping Stiles’ knees hard enough to bruise, and holy fucking fuck, Derek is so fucking big, so deep, so everything, staring down at with a stunned gaze, like he can’t believe how good it feels either.
Stiles wraps his legs around his waist, the thick scars on Derek’s side rough on the inside of his thigh. He digs his heels into the small of his back, spurring him on. “Come on, Derek, fucking fuck me already.”
“God, I hate you,” he mutters, but he follows Stiles’ command.
Whatever hateful comeback Stiles tries to muster gets lost in the rush of overwhelming, pulsing spasms of bone-deep pleasure that shake through him from the drag and thrust of Derek’s cock filling him up, his whole body coming alive with sensation rippling from his core, Derek thrusting deeper into him than anyone has ever been.
It doesn’t take long for Derek to set a furious, rapid rhythm, their blunt-edged barbs giving way to hungry moans and gasps, broken curses and the slap of skin-on-skin. The moonlight from the room’s many windows is just bright enough to illuminate Derek’s face, sweat shining at his temples, eyes dark and narrow, tracking up and down Stiles’ body, mouth hanging open, glazed glare lingering on his throbbing, leaking cock.
Derek looks back up at him, catching him staring at his staring, their gazes locked in some kind of battle for dominance, for something, while Derek keeps up his frenzied fucking, a thick lock of hair falling over his forehead. God, he’s extraordinary, so ruthlessly beautiful and breathtakingly strong, so infuriatingly, utterly perfect – fuck.
Get it together, Stilinksi, he thinks, peeling Derek’s hands from his thighs and rocking his hips so his cock slips out of him. The sudden emptiness is jarring, and Derek groans in frustrated confusion.
Wordlessly, Stiles rolls over onto all fours, reaches back and holds himself open. Not missing a beat, Derek plunges back into him, making them both cry out as he begins to fuck him anew. His thrusts pick up speed rapidly, hungrily, his cock hammering down on Stiles’ prostate relentlessly.
Derek keeps a bruising grip on Stiles’ hip and drags his other hand up to wrap around the back of his neck, squeezing, pulling his head back so Stiles is forced to look back at him. “Tell me,” he orders, voice rough and low. “Tell me how much you love my cock, fag.”
Blood boiling, Stiles finds his voice again, husky and broken with lust as it is anger. “Fuck me better and maybe I will,” he bites back, practically a sneer, clenching as tight as he can around him.
“Fuck, Stiles.” The rough, callused hand around his neck falls to his waist, grappling for more leverage.
Stiles is close, so goddamn close, to coming untouched, Derek’s cock pounding so fucking hard inside him, but he wants more. He reaches back for Derek’s hand and drags it forward, tangles their fingers together and wraps them around his dick, stroking hard and fast. Derek makes a noise of surprise but doesn’t resist, doesn’t pull his hand away, grips him tight, and it only takes a few more thrusts, a few more drags of Derek’s fingers on his cock and Stiles is coming harder than he ever has before, clenching tight around him and shooting thick all over their hands.
Body and mind alight and buzzing with pleasure, Stiles goes limp, falling forward to his stomach, exhausted, but still alert enough to goad Derek. “You like that, Hale? My come all over your hand.”
Derek pulls out of him with an angry grunt and flips him over to his back again, ripping off the condom and crawling on top of him until he has one knee on Stiles’ reddened chest and the other pressed against his temple, furiously stroking his cock over Stiles’ waiting tongue, shoving his fingers into Stiles’ mouth. “Lick it off,” he orders, and fuck, Stiles does, fucking wants to. His come is bitter and tangy, soon joined by Derek’s sweeter taste when he comes with a deep, aching groan, spilling thick and hot on Stiles’ lips and splattering across his cheeks.
Still dazed from his own orgasm, Stiles laps up Derek’s mess, sloppily circles the tip of cock with the tip of his tongue, sucking and slurping every last drop, making Derek shiver and hiss.
Derek looks down at him, equally dazed. “Cockslut,” he murmurs, with something like wonderment, a callused hand dragging roughly over Stiles' cheek as rises from the bed, and walks out the door.
More hatesex to come, darlings!!
Thank you for your patience, everyone! And I truly wish this were longer, but I thought it better to post something rather than continue to keep you all waiting even longer! Life has been cray busy these past weeks and I've had very little time to write, which I had not anticipated. My apologies! And thank you for reading and for your lovely comments! xoxo
As always, please read the tags and notes. Happy hatesmut!
When Stiles wakes up late the next morning, all evidence of Derek’s presence is gone except for the bruises on his skin, the dull ache in his ass, and the faint taste of come in his mouth, which he savors as much as he can, going about the rest of his weekend off in a distant state of astonishment that not only did he and Derek actually, finally fuck, but that Derek initiated it.
Over the next week, he vacillates between falling into vivid daydreams, delighting in the satisfaction of being right about Derek being totally-not-straight and memories of his hands on him, his cock inside of him, the fervor with which he fucked him; and adamantly trying to forget him, half-heartedly trying to convince himself that their night together was what he needed to get Derek out of his system, out of his head, that he could finally get over his infuriating infatuation.
He doesn’t see Derek around town or at the station over the next few days, and he tries not to be bothered by it. Truth be told, he’s worried about how Derek might react to seeing him, wonders what kind of denials and excuses he’ll have; how he’ll insist on his heterosexuality despite the fact he that spent the better part of Saturday night with his dick in another dude’s ass.
But as much as Stiles wants to think of their night together as an end to whatever it was between them, part of him, regardless of how much he denies it, wants it to be some kind of beginning, no matter how completely absurd that hope is.
Or so he thought.
About a week after Derek showed up on his doorstep in the middle of the night, Stiles is working his weekly overnight rotation on the front desk. The station is quiet, and he’s using the time to study the Alpha Pack files and succeeding fairly well at putting Derek out of his mind (well, more like putting him securely in a back corner of his mind, where he sits and glares ), when, lo and behold, the man himself strolls into the empty station just past midnight.
Well, not strolls – nothing Stiles knows about Derek suggests that he even knows how to stroll – more like stalks in, with the air of a wolf on the prowl
Stiles guesses that Derek has just finished his shift at the firehouse; he’s wearing his paramedic uniform, the dark navy of the button-up shirt making his eyes look bluer than usual, and it looks like he’s recently shaved, his scruff still sculpted but less full, close enough that Stiles can see just how sharp his jawline really is.
Stiles swallows hard, taking in the sight of him. Apparently there’s no version of Derek that doesn’t make him want to climb him like a goddamned tree. Fucker.
Derek leans an elbow on the front desk and looks down at Stiles, a hungry smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. “Deputy.”
There’s absolutely no mistaking his tone, or what he wants, and Stiles can’t help but grin, wickedly, his whole body warming, lighting up with the gratification of this not-so-surprising-surprise, of being right, of Derek wanting him .
“Derek,” he answers, smile growing even wider, leaning back in the chair, clasping his hands behind his head. Derek’s nostrils flare and he rolls his eyes, but he locks his gaze back on him, tracks those cursed eyes of his up and down the length of Stiles’ body. He studies Derek’s uniform for more than a moment. “You just get off?” he asks, still grinning, trying not to laugh at his own innuendo.
“Was hoping to,” Derek quips back, lets his eyes fall to Stiles’ groin.
“You’re unbelievable,” Stiles mutters under his breath, and Derek just raises his stupid, sexy eyebrows, a question, a goddamn invitation .
“Unless you don’t want to,” he says, a clear challenge.
Stiles huffs and grabs the walkie talkie on the desk and radios back to Parrish, who’s in the back working the booking desk and holding cell. “Hey Jordan,” he says, not taking his eyes from Derek. “I’m going to head out for a break. Keep an eye on the front desk for me.”
“So, your car or mine?” Stiles jokes when they get out to the parking lot. Neither option sounds particularly compelling, to be honest – his Jeep is tiny and lacks the luxury of reclining seats, and he doubts the backseat of Derek’s Camaro can fit the two of them. Derek just raises his eyebrows at him again, his preferred method of communication. “This way,” Stiles says, jerking his head at him.
He leads him around the back of the station, where the fleet of cruisers are parked, to one of the new SUVs, which he unlocks with the keys on his utility belt. He opens the back door and gestures dramatically to Derek. “After you, Hale.”
Derek gives him a skeptical look.
“Unless you don’t want to,” Stiles smirks.
“You’re such a fucker,” Derek mutters as he climbs into the backseat.
“Aww, thanks sweetie,” Stiles coos, all smarm, sliding in next to him and slamming the door closed behind them.
There’s a surprising amount of room, even if the metal barricade between the front and back seats makes maneuvering a little difficult. Stiles pulls off his belt and holster, drops it to the floor and straddles Derek’s lap, looking down at him, his expression hard to read in the near-dark.
Wasting no time – he doesn’t really want Parrish to come looking for him – Stiles unzips Derek’s pants to free his cock, spits in his palm and starts stroking him to full hardness. He stares down at him, suddenly giddy with delight and satisfaction that Derek has come back to him for more.
“Got tired of just jacking off while thinking about fucking me, huh, Hale?” He goads, roughly working sticky precome from the tip of Derek’s cock with one hand while unzipping and freeing his own with the other.
“Shut up,” Derek mutters, but there’s hardly any bite to it. If anything, Stiles suspects he’s encouraging him.
Stiles grins even wider and rocks forward, slides farther down Derek’s thighs. Their faces are close, close enough to kiss, if that’s something they did, if that’s something Derek would let him do.
He pushes the absurd thought of kissing Derek out of his mind, focuses on bringing their hard cocks together, wraps his long fingers around both of their hard, hot girths. Derek’s eyes flash up at him like he’s surprised, rocking his hips up, grinding their cocks closer together and groaning in pleasure.
“Fucking straight, huh?” Stiles snorts, smirking and squeezing harder around them.
“Shut up,” Derek says again, his tip starting leak precome.
Stiles spits on to their closely-held dicks, working the slick between them, stroking with more purpose. “Wanna give me a hand,” he quips, not really expecting Derek to do anything but roll his eyes again, say something harsh and biting. But instead Derek wraps a hand around Stiles’, creating even more friction between them, hot buzzing waves of lust bursting through him at Derek’s touch. “Fuck me,” Stiles gasps in surprise.
“Next time,” Derek answers, and fuck , Stiles throws his head back so hard it hits the metal grate behind him.
It doesn’t take long after that, both of them grinding into their shared grip, hands moving quick and hard, panting breaths fogging up the windows of the cruiser. Stiles comes with an rough grunt, jerking his hips, shooting a hot and sticky mess all over Derek’s cock and his abs, messing up his uniform shirt.
“Yeah … ” Derek whispers breathily, biting his lip, eyes locked on Stiles’ cock, on the thick dribble of come dripping from his slit. “Blow your load for me, fag,” he whispers, spurting his own mess all over them, groaning.
Stiles laughs, low and rough, and falls to the side, crawling off Derek’s lap to sit next to him, wiping his messy hands on Derek’s pants. He’s done with work on and his way home, he figures, so it’s no big – Stiles can’t really go back to work for the next six hours with his pants and shirt covered in come, even if it is the come of Beacon Hills’ most eligible and heroic bachelor.
Derek doesn’t seem to notice or care, just slumps back against the seat, breathing hard.
“I gotta get back,” Stiles says, tucking his shirt back in and reaching for his holster. Derek puts himself way, wiping the mess on his hands on his pants.
They slide out of the cruiser and Stiles locks it up. Derek gives him another once over, looking him slowly up and down, silently, Stiles’ eyes lingering on the mess on his clothes and the slightly confused look on Derek’s too-beautiful, sex-drunk face.
They part ways, Stiles walking back to the station, Derek to the parking lot towards his Camaro, the now-silent words next time echoing between them.
Thank you all SO SO SO much for your patience! I hope you enjoy this chapter!! Thank you for your lovely comments! xoxo
Next time, it turns out, is five days later, even though Stiles has gone out to Jungle specifically to get dick that isn’t Derek’s. He’s clean and prepped and plugged, wearing his most flattering red v-neck and his tightest jeans; it’s almost ten pm and he’s already passed up two offers, finding the Thursday night options not to his liking, unable to get a certain jacked jackass out of his mind.
He leans against the bar and orders another Maker’s neat, slipping his phone from his pocket and scrolling to Derek’s number, which he got from Erica last week. Ignoring the pulsing music and flashing array of lights, he fires off a text, hitting send before he can change his mind.
Send me a pic of your cock.
Derek’s reply is practically instantaneous. Why?
Stiles takes a big swallow from his just-delivered drink. So I can frame it and put it on my wall, he types, snorting, laughing at his own joke, imagining Derek’s eye roll. Why the fuck do you think?
It only takes a moment for Derek to respond. Why don’t you come over and get the real thing instead?
Stiles feels his eyebrows rise to his hair, but he’s not really sure why he’s so surprised. He downs the rest of his drink in two quick swallows and signals the bartender to close out his tab before texting Derek back.
Be there in twenty.
Derek has left his door unlocked for him, something Stiles tries to not find endearing, and weirdly, hot. He finds the man himself on the couch in the middle of the living room area of the loft, black fleece pants low on his carved hips, shirtless, the scars on his left side bright and pale against his older, smoother skin.
Stiles swallows, pushing away the infuriating blooming warmth of affection for the jerk that’s getting harder and harder to ignore.
Derek eyes Stiles up and down, expectantly almost, like he’s late for a long-standing appointment. “Stilinski,” he says, one hand slung over the back, the other casually draped over his groin. “It’s about time you came back for more.”
Stiles shakes his head, yanks his shirt off and drops it to the floor. “So this is more of you being not-gay, huh,” he smirks, making quick work of the fly of his jeans.
Derek pretends to ignore the barb, thumbs over his cock and watches him undress. “Shut up and suck my cock.” There’s a hint of laughter in his voice, just enough to let Stiles know that is Derek is finally becoming aware of just how ridiculous their situation is.
Stiles goes to stand in front of him, not quite between Derek’s legs, looking down at him, eyeing his bare chest, heart starting to race, as usual, when he takes in the exquisite beauty of him. Sighing happily with anticipation, and maybe even contentment, he drops to his knees, hands spreading Derek’s thighs to make enough room to do as he’s ordered, freeing him easily from his pants. Derek is more than a little hard, and that gets Stiles going even more, the thought of him sitting here, stroking himself, plumping up, waiting for Stiles to arrive and give him what he can’t admit he wants.
He takes him into his mouth, swallows as much of his length as he can, grins at the pleased sigh Derek lets out. Stiles had been eager to get laid tonight, had just wanted something quick with someone forgettable, but now that he’s found himself with Derek again, he wants to make it last. He teases up and down his shaft, dragging the tip of his tongue across soft skin taut over hard length, smiling with satisfaction. He amps up his teasing, licks the underside of his cock, flicks his eyes up at him when he presses his tongue along the shapely vein that traverses from base to crown, closing his eyes at the contented groan of pleasure that escapes from Derek’s chest while he watches Stiles toy with his cock.
There’s a hand in his hair too: big, callused fingers; he feels no affection or tenderness from him, but Derek’s touch sends a shock of pleasure through him all the same. Derek tugs on his hair a bit, grunts, is altogether louder, more relaxed, less reserved than he’s been before.
Go big or go home, Stiles thinks, slipping a finger in his mouth and out again, slick with spit, reaches down in search of Derek’s ass.
Derek hisses and twitches his hips up, but he doesn’t stop him from circling his entrance with the tip of his finger, pressing gently against him, part question, part demand. Stiles takes his response as encouragement, just barely breaches the tight ring of muscle, still sucking hungrily on his cock, waits for the reflexive tensing of body and then the release, slides his finger in just a bit more. He pulls off, a string of heavy saliva webbing from his lips to Derek’s cock, locks his eyes on his and slowly teases him with his fingertip, heart racing in tandem with the hot, pulsing flex of Derek’s too-tight body.
His expression is unfathomable, and Stiles feels like he’s gotten to a place recently where he’s gotten pretty good at fathoming Derek’s indecipherable features, but not tonight, what with, Stiles is sure, the first time he’s had a man’s finger, or maybe any finger, up his ass. Stiles pushes in a little more, until Derek is practically growling at him, but he doesn’t stop him, just sits there, legs sprawled wide and Stiles between his thighs, mouth hanging slightly open, eyes hooded and dark, watching Stiles finger him.
When Derek eventually starts to grunt and squirm, panting, Stiles pulls back and stands up, still smiling while he pulls off the rest of his clothes, Derek’s eyes never leaving his body. Cock heavy and arcing up towards his belly, Stiles strokes himself harder, an easy feat, what with the taste of Derek still in his mouth, those fucking eyes of his raking up and down his body.
Stroking his cock, Stiles turns his back to him and lifts one foot to rest on the coffee table, presenting his ass to Derek, the end of his biggest plug peeking out in a way that he knows is irresistibly tantalizing. He reaches back and presses lightly on it, shuddering slightly at the sizzle it sends through him.
“Fuck, Stilinksi,” Derek huffs breathlessly.
Stiles twists his neck to look over his shoulder to see Derek biting his lip and squeezing his dick, huge eyes locked on his ass. “You really do love taking cock, don’t you,” he asks, though it’s really more of a statement than a question.
“You really do love fucking my ass, don’t you?” Stiles bites back, playing with the plug, trying not to gasp at the hot bursts of pleasure, trying to maintain his façade of teasing coolness, trying to push Derek’s buttons because they’re just so goddamn pushable.
“Well, you are a pretty little cockslut, so how can I resist?” Derek retorts, grinning, eyes narrowing playfully.
Stiles hides his blush, hopefully, by snorting and rolling his eyes, slips the plug from his ass with a deliciously obscene pop. The plug clatters to the floor when Derek scoots forward suddenly, reaching up to grip him just under his ass, long, strong fingers wrapping around the top of his thighs, thumbs sinking into the curves of cheeks, Derek’s face, his mouth, those fucking gorgeous full and plump lips of his, dangerously close to his eager, hungry hole, tormenting him.
“Goddammit, I want you to eat me out,” Stiles huffs, heart pounding harder, wanting it so badly he doesn’t care if he’s going too far, and Derek just squeezes harder, pulls him closer, so close Stiles can feel his warm breath on his tender skin. “You want to?” he goes on, the hint of a dare spiking his tone. Derek grunts, grips him harder, pulls him closer, and Stiles can practically feel his beard on him now, he wants it on him so badly, Derek’s face is so close to his skin. “You wanna rim me,” he teases, challenging. “Or is that too gay for you?”
Derek responds with an even harder grip on his thighs, thumbs digging into the soft flesh of his ass, creeping ever-closer to his loosened rim. Torn pretty evenly between fiery desire and his insatiable need to push Derek to his limits, Stiles rolls his hips back, winks his hole at him. “Come on, Hale,” he urges, issuing the challenge. “You’re man enough to put your dick in me but not your tongue, huh?”
Stiles is almost embarrassed for Derek, for how easily he takes the bait.
Almost, because he’s so turned on he can’t feel much of anything other than Derek’s mouth, abruptly on his ass now, those damn adorable teeth of his biting the swell of his left cheek, hands digging ever-deeper into his flesh. Derek drags his mouth, beard rough on his tender skin, over to his hole and circles his rim with the tip of his tongue, a little tentative maybe, but sure enough to make Stiles curse and shudder.
Derek must have a fair amount of go big or go home in him too, or maybe he really is just that competitive and unsure about his masculinity, or fuck, maybe he’s actually been dying to eat ass. No matter, because his slight hesitation gives way almost immediately to aggressive, hungry licking and sucking. What he lacks in experience he more than makes up for with enthusiasm, attacking Stiles’ hungry hole with an overwhelming and unexpected fervor, their gasping grunts blending together in the otherwise silent loft.
Stiles’ knees go soft when Derek shoves his tongue into him, falling forward so his hands clatter against the coffee table, completely bent over now with Derek still perched on the edge of the couch behind him, pulling him closer by the hips and renewing his attack with his mouth. “Fuck, Hale,” he pants, still not quite sure this is real, Derek’s beard rubbing between his cheeks, his lips pressed against his stretched, wet hole, his big hands holding onto him like a vise while he rims him to within an inch of his life. “How are you so goddamn good at everything,” he manages to breathe out between groans.
Derek’s laughter is somehow soft, bubbly even, against Stiles’ ass, beard and breath somehow both soft and harsh on his reddened, tender skin, and Stiles thinks that just might be the end of him, this feeling. He collapses further, down to his elbows, shamelessly wanton now, all challenge and teasing gone, completely subsumed by the warm, electric bursts of pleasure that course through him, Derek moaning lightly and slipping a spit-slick finger into him alongside his tongue.
One of Stiles’ hands finds his cock, and he gives an embarrassingly loud groan when he wraps it around himself, wasting no time to get to stroking, copious precome leaking from his slit.
Derek gets another finger in him, prepping him more, the pleasure-pain burn of the stretch making him shiver with anticipation for Derek’s massive cock. “Come for me before I fuck you,” Derek orders, words misshapen and mumbled against his ass.
Maybe it’s the growling force command, or the rough scrape of his beard on this most intimate part of him, or the hunger with which is devouring his ass, or maybe it’s just Derek, but Stiles comes undone, falls apart into a heaving moaning mess when he comes, thrusting forward into his fist and he back into Derek’s mouth, spilling all over his hand and the table, ass clenching tight around Derek’s tongue and fingers.
Utterly spent and dizzied with skin-tingling pleasure, it takes Stiles a moment to realize that he’s suddenly being lifted, that big, hairy forearms are wrapped around his waist and he’s being manhandled, in a most undignified way, but he doesn’t even care, because Derek is hauling him to his bed. He throws him down on his belly in the middle of the unmade mess of soft sheets and then reaches into the nightstand, emerging from the drawer with a bottle of lube.
He drizzles some over his cock and then his fingers, returning them to Stiles’ ass before tossing the bottle aside. In one easy, confident motion, Derek hauls him to his knees by his hips and shoves into him, the head of his enormous cock breaching his loosened rim with only a little resistance. Derek wastes no time getting to fucking him, still standing at the edge of the bed, one hand dragging up Stiles’ back and into his hair to pull his head back, his beard scraping at his neck, mouth hot on his skin.
“You like that, fag,” he whispers into his ear, so accustomed to the hint of affection he thinks he hears when Derek says it that he’s come to like the slur, come to enjoy this particular degradation when it’s from him. “Love taking my cock,” he adds hoarsely.
“Only because you love giving it to me so much,” Stiles mumbles back, his attempt to be at snark lost in the waves of carnal heat lighting him up.
Derek responds by sinking his teeth into the meat of his shoulder and thrusting even harder, slamming into his prostate, pulls his hair even more, pounding into him over and over until Stiles feels nothing, is nothing, but Derek’s cock filling him up, driving him to edge and not even pausing before pushing him off, fucking him so hard he comes again, this time untouched, and Derek comes too, unloading hot, thick spurts inside of him.
Derek’s hips are still twitching as they fall in a sweaty heap to the bed, his muscular bulk warmly dense and heavy. He’s breathing hard too, hot and wet on the back of his neck, heart pounding so hard Stiles can feel it against his shoulder.
Stiles is sex-dumb and still a little buzzed, warm and happy and satisfied, a wave of dangerous contentment washing over him, Derek’s sturdy weight pinning him to the bed.
It doesn’t last long; once Derek has calmed a bit, he rolls off and out of Stiles, then gets up and disappears to the bathroom wordlessly, tossing a towel to him before closing the door.
“You’re killing me with all this romance,” Stiles mutters, mostly to himself, mopping up the mess.
Stiles takes his turn to get cleaned up once Derek is done, and when he emerges from the bathroom fully dressed, Derek is back on the couch, wearing a shirt and pants this time.
The TV is on, and the unmistakable sound of Gary Cohen’s voice calling a Mets game is coming low from the surround sound speakers. “Is this the Mets – Dodgers,” Stiles asks, shuffling closer to the TV. “Tonight’s game? I recorded it too,” he explains. “Was gonna watch it when I got home.”
Derek shrugs and scoots over to the other end of the couch, just a bit, like he can’t really bothered to make too much room for Stiles. “Beer’s in the fridge,” he says, twisting open a bottle and settling back into the couch.
As invitations go, it’s pretty fucking terrible, but it’s more than he expects from Derek, especially after they’ve just fucked, so Stiles doesn’t push his luck. It’s not like he Derek have never hung out before, although it’s never been just the two of them - when they’re not angrily getting each other off, that is. And they may hate each other – does Stiles hate him still?– but Derek told him he could stay, so that must mean he doesn’t completely loathe him.
He helps himself to a beer and joins Derek on the couch, chewing his lip in nervous anticipation that he doesn’t fully understand, mentally berating himself for caring so much, for being excited to hang out with Derek, who, he reminds himself, is a total dick.
But he’s well-fucked, the beer is cold, he’s still got a bit of buzz from earlier, and the Mets are playing, so it doesn’t take too long to get out of his head and relax, settling more comfortably into Derek’s big couch, the hand not holding his beer bottle just inches from Derek’s fleece-clad thigh.
Stiles is expecting that they’ll watch the game in silence, but, surprisingly, Derek starts talking to him halfway through the second inning, after Mark Harvey strikes out the side. “Looks like he figured his curveball out,” he remarks, returning from the fridge with two more beers for them. “’Bout time,” he adds. “That 5.71 ERA is fucking embarrassing for you guys.”
And that’s when Stiles learns that Derek is a Dodgers fan, and all nerves and anxiety go out the fucking window as he deals with that epic tragedy.
The next thing he knows, it’s the seventh inning and they’re half-way into their second six-pack and still talking ERA and batting averages and RBIs, nasty fucking sliders that make even the best hitters look like inexperienced Little Leaguers.
Fun, that’s what this is, Stiles is having fun. With Derek. The mind boggles sometimes, he supposes.
The conversation pauses for a moment while they watch the game, but picks back up again when Declan Hollingsworth is called off the bench to pinch hit. Stiles feels an immediate rush of anxiety when he’s announced, a tinge of apprehension echoing in the announcer’s voice as well.
This past offseason, paparazzi snapped photos of Hollingsworth leaving a gay club in Seattle alongside Joey Stripes, the openly queer frontman of this year’s hottest band, Miguel’s Striped Shirt. The speculation about the Dodgers’ centerfielder and his apparent homosexuality dominated the news for weeks, sparking all kinds of op-eds and thinkpieces about gays in professional sports. Declan had been silent through the whole thing, refusing to comment, although there were rumors that he was going to quit the MLB because of all the controversy.
“I’m glad he decided to keep playing,” Stiles says, curious about Derek’s thoughts on the Hollingsworth debacle. “It’s bullshit how his personal life was made such a fucking spectacle.”
Derek nods. “No shit. Just let the guy play ball. Who cares who he fucks?”
Stiles looks over him, surprised, and snorts. “Oh that’s rich, coming from you.”
“What does that mean?” Derek challenges, returning his stare.
“Just that it’s pretty funny,” he scoffs, “that you of all people think it doesn’t matter who someone is screwing.”
“Meaning, you say it doesn’t matter if Declan Hollingsworth is gay, but here you are, fucking me and refusing to admit that you’re not straight.”
Now it’s Derek who scoffs. “I’m not a pro athlete, Stiles. My mother’s a Congresswoman. And my dad is one of the most powerful people in the state government. It’s not the same thing.”
Stiles doesn’t bother hiding his surprise that Derek didn’t kneejerk react and deny his queerness like he usually does when he challenges him on it. “So,” he asks, “you’re saying that if your parents retired from political life, you’d be leading the Pride parade, waving your rainbow fag flag around for everyone and God to see?”
Derek snorts a laugh and shakes his head, looking, back to the TV. “It’s not that simple, and you know it.”
“No, I don’t know. Explain.”
He sighs heavily, shoulder slumping slightly. Stiles has never seen Derek look so defeated, didn’t know he could look this way. “My parents,” he starts, slowly, as if he’s struggling to find the right words. “They’re conservative, yeah, but it’s more than that. You know how your parents want you to be happy no matter what?”
“My parents are dead,” Stiles answers dryly, swallowing down the last of his beer. “It was a long time ago,” he explains to Derek’s look of concerned surprise, not wanting to get into the details of his mother’s cancer and his father’s depression and alcoholism. “Go on,” he says, waving a hand.
Derek watches him for a moment, eyebrows scrunched up adorably, like he’s trying to figure something out. “Well,” he says, “my parents want me to be happy, but not no matter what,” he continues. “They have a very particular idea of what happiness is and what my life should be, and if I don’t live up to that, if I fail them….” He drifts off, running a hand through his hair. “They’ll not just be disappointed, it could ruin their careers, everything they’ve worked their entire lives for.”
“Do you really think it would ruin their careers if you came out?” Stiles asks.
Derek points his beer bottle toward the TV for emphasis. “Shit, Stiles, you saw how Hollingsworth was treated. Nearly chased out of the MLB by an angry mob. You think this country’s conservatives are gonna elect a woman with a gay son?”
Stiles doesn’t really know what to say, because he’s not sure Derek is wrong, as much as he wants him to be, as much as the truth of what he’s saying infuriates him.
“It’s why I married Jennifer,” he says after a long pause, voice gentler than Stiles has ever heard. “I knew she wasn’t right for me, and I didn’t really want to get married, but it was so important to my mom. Fuck, she wants grandkids so bad too,” he adds, rolling his eyes. “And I thought….” he drifts off, voice so low Stiles can barely hear him over the sounds of the TV. “I thought being married might…
“Make you straight?” Stiles offers.
Derek sighs in resignation. “Something like that.”
They sit there for a long time, not speaking, as if both of them are letting the gravity of Derek’s confession sink in.
They’re sitting close, close enough that it wouldn’t be at all difficult to just lean over and kiss him, finally learn what that gorgeous full mouth feels like on his. He watches Derek’s face, eyes glittering their impossible greens and golds and blues, kaleidoscopic, searching his own eyes for what, Stiles isn’t sure.
He’s always felt like he and Derek are hovering constantly on the cusp of something, some kind of precipice that will irrevocably change them if they tumble over that edge, and it feels especially precarious now, with the rare look of vulnerability on Derek’s lovely face, the surprising way he’s opened up to Stiles tonight, even just this little bit, like he’s finally realized that Stiles isn’t his enemy.
There’s something hovering between them, a feeling of possibility but also fear, and Derek is looking at him still, just looking, searching even, biting his bottom lip slightly, and fuck, it’s all Stiles can do to not kiss him, to not to pour himself into his warm, inviting lap and show him just how badly he wants him.
The thought of that, of finally giving in to his desire to really, truly be with Derek, to feel that harsh, angry mouth on his, to learn just how good it probably feels to have his tongue tangle against his, to cross that line from whatever they are to whatever they aren’t, sends a wave of gut-churning anxiety and fear through Stiles.
Voice and hands slightly shaking, he rips himself from Derek’s mesmerizing gaze and stands, runs a hand awkwardly through his hair. “Better get going,” he explains weakly, abruptly. “Gotta work early tomorrow,” he lies, heading towards the door. “Thanks for the good time.”
Derek's expression reverts back to its usual stoic coolness so quickly, so seamlessly, Stiles wonders if he imagined the look of open tenderness that just sent him spiraling.
“Yeah, sure, any time,” Derek says, words clipped and rough, and Stiles lets himself out, too scared to look back.
Thank you all for your patience, and your lovely comments!! XOXO
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Stiles tries to stay away.
He really, really does.
Last time, drunk more on sex than on booze, he had wanted to kiss Derek so badly it scared him enough that he told himself he had to stay away from him, because the absolute last thing he needs is to catch feelings for a closeted asshole who’s action-packed with internalized homophobia. But it’s hard, what with kinda-sorta working with Derek and having overlapping friend groups, so it’s really not his fault that his pledge to steer clear of him is a complete failure.
Just a few days after they fucked and then watched the Mets game together, he finds himself in the upstairs bathroom at Erica’s house during Boyd’s birthday party, bent over the counter, Derek thrusting into him urgently while muttering filthy appreciation for his ass.
Okay, so maybe he didn’t try all that hard to avoid Derek. Maybe, in fact, all it took was one look and a jerk of the jerk’s perfect head and Stiles was babbling an excuse to Allison about needing to take a phone call and making his way upstairs just moments after Derek had disappeared up them.
And yeah, maybe he made sure he was clean and ready to go before he came to the party, knowing that Derek would be here. But it’s not like he sought Derek out or anything.
A particularly well-aimed thrust to his prostate shocks Stiles from his distracting thoughts, brings him back to the moment, to Derek’s rocking hips and strong hands, one on Stiles’ waist, the other pulling his hair. Stiles looks up at the mirror, just a few inches from his face and slightly clouded over with his panting breaths, notes his red cheeks and the sheen of sweat across his forehead, looks up farther still to watch Derek’s reflection.
Through the rising haze of pleasure, he can see that Derek, eyes bright and hungry, is looking down at him in the reflection, his stare magnetic and bold and so unbearably intense Stiles wants to close his eyes against its beauty, but he can’t; he lets himself be held by Derek’s gaze, somehow even more intimate than being fucked by him.
Derek keeps their eyes locked as he comes, gripping Stiles’ hip hard enough to bruise while his thrusts lose their steady rhythm, gasping as he fills up the condom they remembered to use this time. Stiles clenches as tightly around him as he can, wanting it to be good for him, wanting to remind Derek yet again of how much he loves being buried deep inside of him.
Stiles is right on the cusp of his own release but he’s not quite there yet when Derek slips out of him, peels off the condom and tosses it in the garbage. He seizes Stiles by the arm and turns him around to face him, surprising him.
Derek looks down at his red, leaking cock, and with a soft smile that belies the look of sex-soaked mischief in his eyes, and drops to his knees. He circles him with a tight fist, mouth falling open.
“You’ve never,” Stiles manages to huff out, his own knees, all of the bones in his body, going soft and weak and the sight of Derek looking up at him from under his long lashes. “You’ve never sucked cock,” he finishes.
“So you should shut up and think about how lucky you are,” Derek quips, grinning again, then swallows him down.
“Holy fucking fuck,” Stiles gasps, wholly unprepared for just how earth-shatteringly good Derek’s warm, soft mouth feels on his sensitive, throbbing cock. Just like when he rimmed him last week with an enthusiasm that more than overcame his inexperience, Derek’s natural skill and eagerness seems to be all he needs to give Stiles some of the best head of his life, teasing and licking and sucking him down fiercely, like he needs Stiles to come, which he does, soon, groaning loudly, spurting thick bursts all over Derek’s perfect fucking beard.
Derek rises to his feet with a triumphant smirk, as if he’s fucking proud of himself for making Stiles come so hard, and godfuckingdammit, Stiles thinks it’s utterly adorable.
“You got something on your face,” he teases, trying to break the electric tension between them, reaches up to flick at a drop of his come hanging from Derek’s whiskered chin.
“Your mess, you clean it up,” Derek snarks back, not missing a beat.
Never one to back down from a challenge, despite his feelings-that-might-be-real for Derek, Stiles takes the bait and darts forward to lick a drop from his cheek, barely noticing the bittersweet taste of his own come as he silently delights in the feel of Derek’s soft-but-sharp beard on his tongue. It’s dangerously close to kissing, but that doesn’t stop him, even though it probably should.
He leans back to look at him, licking his lips, smiling widely despite himself.
“You’re ridiculous,” Derek says, shaking his head, voice full of reluctant affection.
“Like you’re not,” Stiles answers, smiling, his hands falling easily, naturally, to Derek’s bare hips.
They hold each other’s gaze again, this time no mirror between them, face-to-face, watching each other’s eyes glitter in the dim bathroom light, that electricity still buzzing between them.
“We should get back downstairs before they notice we disappeared,” Stiles says eventually, looking towards the door, the music from downstairs reaching them in muffled bursts.
“Yeah,” Derek agrees, but he doesn’t move, just keeps his gaze locked on his, beard still dripping with come, eyes locked on Stiles’ mouth.
Stiles swallows hard and tries his best to tear his eyes away from him, a truly impossible feat. “So, I’m gonna go now,” he says, cringing at his sudden awkwardness.
Derek finally steps away, the loss of his touch sparking a swooping wave of hollow disappointment deep in Stiles’ chest.
Stiles tucks himself away and zips up, steps toward the door, straightens out his shirt. “See you down there,” he says, throwing one last glance in Derek’s direction, trying not to think about how it’s becoming harder and harder to walk away from him.
After that night, Stiles gives up his half-assed attempts at avoiding Derek, and gives in fully to the fact that he can’t quit the bastard even if he wanted to. Derek seems to have at least gotten over his need to be righteously furious at him in order to fuck; he’s a long way from coming out, or even admitting to himself that he’s queer as fuck, but Stiles figures that at least there’s been some progress.
After the night in the bathroom at Erica’s, Stiles is thrilled and Derek is stunned to discover that he has both a natural talent and an affinity for giving head; whether it’s his competitive nature, his unhealthy need to always be the best at everything, or just because he’s that fucking homo, Derek can’t enough of sucking Stiles’ cock.
He corners him in the station one Sunday morning and drags him into a supply closet so he can go down on him, sucking hungrily until Stiles is biting his lip to keep from crying out when he comes down Derek’s eager throat.
The following week, Stiles spots Derek’s Camaro speeding along the backroads, and when he pulls him over, he jokingly suggests that Derek find a creative way to get out of the ticket, which leads to Derek sucking him off right there in the passenger seat; Stiles returns the favor and in his excitement, ends up with Derek’s come all over his uniform shirt.
When Stiles wanders by the firehouse on his day off and sees Derek, Mason, and Kira washing the ladder truck, he makes small talk with the rookie and the senior firefighter until Derek can slip away; when he does, he yanks Stiles by the shirt and drags him into the nearest ambulance, where they use the gurney in back to sixty-nine until they’re both gasping for air.
They’re out for drinks again with everyone and Stiles announces that he has to leave early, and not fifteen minutes after he gets home Derek pulls into his driveway and lets himself in the front door, peeling off his leather jacket, and is naked by the time he makes to Stiles’ bed, where he fucks him with frenzied, perfect precision.
At the annual Firefighter’s Ball, they sneak away from the drinks and dancing, stumbling into the coat room with their hands tangling and twisting at their starched shirts and slacks, spitting good-natured vitriol at each other; Derek bends Stiles over a satin settee and eats him out voraciously, fingers him until he comes with an aching grunt into Derek’s waiting palm, so he can coat his cock in his mess before shoving into him, fucking him fierce and quick.
After the interdepartmental softball game, the two of them, sweaty and dirt-stained, blood hot and tempers amped up from the fierceness of their competition on the field, wait for everyone else to leave and then hurriedly suck each other off in the dugout, yanking at jockstraps and still arguing over whether or not Stiles was out at third in the fifth inning.
Derek shows up on Stiles’ doorstep at midnight after a forty-eight hour shift, dark circles under his eyes; he’s so tired he let’s Stiles take complete control for once, let’s him spread him out on the couch and delight in the perfect curves and hard lines of his body, gives Derek his very first rimjob, and then rides his cock until they’re both shaking.
A few days after that, Stiles makes his way to Derek’s after a night of dancing at Jungle again, drunk and demanding to fuck, and Derek takes his dear sweet time getting Stiles off with his mouth before he even goes for his ass, fucking him so perfectly hard and rough that it’s all Stiles can do to not propose to the man while in the throes of it.
They never make plans ahead of time, never agree on when or where; they just always find each other, seeking each other out when the desire strikes.
They never spend the night together; Stiles always bottoms, and they never, ever kiss.
Stiles is totally fine with it.
Sometimes they end up hanging out and talking afterwards, an occurrence that becomes more frequent as the months go on, usually watching sports, eating and drinking whatever food is easily at hand.
One night, when Stiles goes to order Thai delivery post-fuck and Derek, getting dressed, is incredulous that there’s decent Thai in Beacon Hills, he orders extra food and and makes Derek stay so he can be proven wrong, and they somehow end up watching Daredevil.
They both fall asleep on the couch sometime during the fourth episode, and Stiles wakes with a start hours later in the early morning light, his head lolling heavily on Derek’s shoulder. Disoriented, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he looks down at him, studying his face, marvelling at how tender, how sweet he looks. His lashes are as inky black as his hair, long thick smudges resting gently against his pale skin; his beard long enough these days to be just-this-side of unkempt, and his muscled chest rises and falls in a deep, steady rhythm. In sleep, Derek’s mouth is soft and kind-looking, even fuller, sweeter.
Stiles sighs, fighting the urge, the need, to wake him with a kiss, to cross this unspoken boundary and give in to the feelings he’s been fighting.
He’s not sure how long he watches Derek sleep, indecision and frustration churning in his chest alongside the warm blossoms of dangerous affection. Long enough for Derek to wake up, eyes limpid and bright, sparkling their array golden greens and blues, blinking owlishly.
Stiles has been caught, and he should be moving away, stammering an excuse, doing anything other than just sitting here, so close that all he has to do is lean forward the tiniest bit and then he’ll finally know the taste of his lips and the feel of his tongue, the rough brush of his beard against his chin.
But he doesn’t; he remains still, silent, eyes falling back to Derek’s mouth.
The silence hangs there between them, heavy with potential and expectation, Derek’s expression unreadable as he searches Stiles’ face.
And then suddenly Derek is moving, sliding away from Stiles and rising to his feet, clearing his throat. “Sorry I crashed,” he says, voice entirely too neutral, too controlled, as he pulls on his boots and leather jacket.
Stiles knows him well enough by now to know that he’s freaking out and trying his goddamn hardest to keep it together. For both their sakes’, Stiles looks away. “See you later,” he says, trying to sound casual, cool, unaffected.
“Later,” Derek answers, barely a grunt, and then he’s out the door, leaving Stiles alone and hating himself - for letting him leave, for wanting him to stay.
Are these idiots ever gonna kiss???
Because Stiles is ruining ruiner who fucking ruins things, he fully expects to be the one to fuck everything up.
Whatever he and Derek are, as messed up and weird as it is, it’s been pretty damn great, all things considered. Sure, they’re sneaking around (unsuccessfully, Stiles is pretty sure, judging by the looks he’s caught Allison and Erica and even Boyd throwing their way); and sleeping with a closeted kinda-sorta homophobe isn’t nearly as exciting as it looks in porn once the novelty and bad-wrong-good of it wears off. And yeah, Stiles has been struggling with his stupid feelings or whatever, but he’s done a good job of keeping himself in check.
The point is, whatever it is he and Derek have been doing these past months, Stiles doesn’t really care - he’s just happy he gets to have any piece of him at all. And as much as he might want to push Derek for more, he knows better than that, knows that anything resembling romance or the notion that there’s something between them other than the need to fuck each other senseless will send Derek running even farther into the closet.
But then Derek is the one who goes and fucking ruins everything.
It’s been almost a week since they’ve seen each other, and they’re on highway thirty-two, in the middle of the day, but with heavy clouds and incessant rain that makes it seem like it’s nearly night, everything gray and heavy with trepidation.
It’s only a single-car accident, but it’s a nasty one. An SUV of indeterminate make and model, twisted and gnarled, seems to have rolled at least half a dozen times before coming to a brutal stop against a tree, tangled metal twisted around the trunk. There are three people in the car, including the driver, a young man in his early twenties, whose legs are crushed, pinned under the steering column; he’s awake and moaning loudly in pain, while the two passengers are unconscious.
The scene is one of controlled chaos, all of the first responders rushing around with intense purpose, the sheriff and the fire chief barking out orders to their crews, emergency lights flashing in rhythmic swirls that slice through the splattering rain.
By now, it’s second nature for Stiles to always be aware of where Derek is when they’re on a call together, an awareness of his presence that sticks in the back of his mind along with all of the other details and considerations he has going through his mind at the scene of an emergency.
He’s just getting back from driving a half-mile down the highway to set flares and warning flashers, and, on instinct, he scans the scene for Tall, Dark, and Grumpy. When he left a few minutes ago, Derek had been leading the crew using the jaws of life to start freeing the driver; but now he’s nowhere to be found, and Erica is the one wielding the hydraulic.
“Where’s Hale?” he asks the nearest person, a paramedic named Greenberg.
“Not sure,” he answers. “He was working the wreck but he took off. Chief wants to know where he is too.”
Greenberg walks off towards the wreckage, and Stiles scans the road again for Derek, stomach starting to twist with worry. In all of the months they’ve been working together, Stiles has never known Derek to disappear mid-call - no, he’s always the one right in the thick of the action, leading the charge, putting life and limb at risk to save whoever needs it.
But he’s nowhere to be found, and the longer he goes without seeing him, the more anxious Stiles becomes. The extraction of the passengers seems to be fully under control, so Stiles turns his attention to the surrounding forest that flanks the highway. He catches a glimpse the telltale yellow of the firefighters’ pants peeking out from behind a tree about twenty yards from the side of the road, directly across from the wrecked SUV.
Stiles jogs that direction, grateful that everyone seems busy enough to not notice that he’s leaving the scene - but, to be completely honest, the twisting in Stiles’ gut tells him that he’s needed at another emergency.
He slows down as he approaches the tree, close enough now to see that it is in fact Derek there, jacket on the ground at his booted feet, red suspenders over a dark blue t-shirt, attached to his heavy canvas pants. Derek is partially leaning against the trunk, hunched over with his hands on his thighs, gripping tight and breathing hard, ragged breaths. There’s a sickly pallor to his face, and slight sheen on his forehead that might be sweat, might be rainwater. Although it’s been awhile since he had one, Stiles knows a panic attack when he sees one.
He glances back over at the wreck, the twisted and flipped SUV, the pinned driver, the unconscious passengers, the thick smell of blood in the air: it’s not hard to see what may have set Derek off, triggering a memory, or even a full-on flashback, of the explosion that wounded him and made him a hero.
Stiles approaches him cautiously, careful not to startle him and make things worse. When he sees Derek’s eyes flit toward him, widening in recognition but not fear or anger, he steps closer, almost close enough to reach out and touch him. Stiles doesn’t dare, not yet, but he takes another small step, hands up to show Derek he means to comfort him, like he’s approaching a spooked, beaten dog.
“Derek,” he says evenly. “It’s Stiles.”
He glares at him from under his lashes. “I know who you are.”
“Good,” Stiles answers, letting himself smile a bit. “You're not hallucinating or having a flashback then.”
“Just a fucking panic attack,” Derek huffs out between rapid, shallow breaths.
“You need a distraction,” Stiles tells him, stepping closer. Derek seems to be doing a pretty decent job of calming himself down - it makes Stiles wonder, with a pang in his gut, just how many of these Derek has gotten himself through alone. “That always helped me with mine, a distraction of some kind.” Stiles smiles and steps closer. “Hell, one time in high school when I was freaking out Lydia just flat out kissed me -”
Derek lunges fast, so fast Stiles barely sees him move, and then Stiles is the breathless one, because Derek is pressing his mouth against his, fiercely, hungrily.
His mouth is hot and wet, his beard roughly soft; the kiss isn’t suave or smooth, but Stiles is melting under it anyways; Derek kisses him desperately, like his touch isn’t just a distraction, but a lifeline, a reckless, fraught acquiescence to everything that’s been simmering and sparking between them all this time.
Stiles is the one who’s been hovering on the cusp of kissing him all this time, but it’s Derek who’s pushed them off this edge. And fuck, he’s sent them off the precipice with a ferocious hunger, like maybe there’s more than just the need for a distraction that’s driving Derek’s wild, passionate kiss; that maybe, just maybe Derek has been on this cusp with him this entire time, that the feverish push of his tongue and eager press of his lips are the first of many kisses Derek has been wanting.
But no sooner does the thought cross Stiles’ mind Derek pulls away, his breathing mostly normal now and an awed, barely controlled look of shock on his face. His eyes are wide, searching Stiles’ face, frantic almost, like he’s aching to find the answer to some urgent question there.
What he needs to know, Stiles isn’t sure, and he’s too stunned to talk, to do anything but stare in awe and confusion and hope and fear. “Der—” he starts, but is cut short.
“Fuck,” Derek spits out, shaking his head slightly, like he’s coming out of a trance. His shoulders rise from their slump and his back goes ramrod straight, almost like he’s standing at attention. Stiles hasn’t seen him look this severe and unforgiving in months.
He swallows hard, anxious bile rising in his throat, stomach dropping in the worst way. “Derek,” he says again, cautious again, maybe even more so this time. “It’s okay, it’s not a big deal,” he tries to reassure him, even though his own mind and heart are racing, his blood in pounding, his entire body telling him that this moment, this kiss with Derek, is everything.
But then Derek walks away, and Stiles is alone, again, with nothing.
My apologies for this chapter being so short, my lovelies, but I really wanted The Kiss to stand on its own. Hope you enjoyed it, thank you for reading! XOXO
Many thanks for your eternal patience, lovely readers! As usual please be sure to read the tags. Thank you for your lovely comments and kind kudos!
Stiles has done a lot of stupid things in his twenty-nine years. There was the time in eighth grade when he “borrowed” the keys to the neighbors Trans Am and went on a joyride around town for hours until he was caught; and trying to ask Lydia Martin to the Homecoming dance with a flash mob freshman year was an utterly embarrassing disaster; and of course there was the time in college when almost died doing a keg stand in the back of a speeding El Camino.
As he got older, Stiles calmed down, his risk-taking behavior becoming limited to what the job requires, and in the most recent years, his stupid decisions have been of the beer-goggled, regrettable hookup variety.
But all the dumb decisions of his past absolutely pale in comparison to the utter and complete stupidity of falling in love with Derek Hale.
All of the excuses, defenses, and walls he put up against his feelings for the man came tumbling down the moment Derek’s lips touched his in the forest, driven by panic, and just maybe, by something else too, Stiles hopes.
Hope, that most foolish of emotions, has Stiles wondering, constantly, what it might be like if Derek kissed him again, this time when he’s not driven to it by fear, but by desire. To know what it’s like to touch and be touched by him not out of frustration and ashamed lust, but out of affection, love even.
Because he does love the bastard, as fucked up as whatever-it-is between them is, thinks maybe he’s been falling in love with Derek since he glared down at him and shoved a tampon up his nose.
And now, after months of sneaking around and not-so-gently pushing Derek towards accepting his sexuality, of their hate-filled rendezvous that somehow turned into nights of intense passion and reluctant affection and comfort, for Christ’s sake, of Stiles tiptoeing the line between fuck-buddy and silently yearning for more, now...it’s all over.
Because of Derek’s kiss. Because Derek seems to have gone and caught feelings too, at least enough to kiss Stiles - while coming down from a panic attack, sure, but kissed him nonetheless, and then freaked the fuck out about it.
Stiles doesn’t actually know for sure why Derek freaked out, but freak out he did, and it’s been nineteen Derekless days since then and Stiles hates it.
He’s goes about his usual routine, working as much overtime as possible to stay distracted; he always makes sure Derek’s car is gone from the parking lot before he leaves; Allison and Jordan and even the sheriff all comment on his morose attitude, but they don’t press him on it. He makes excuses when Erica invites him out, and even the idea of going to Jungle or scrolling Grindr for a hookup sounds completely unappealing.
The thought of seeing him makes his gut twist with anxiety, but Derek is also the only person he wants.
God-fucking-dammit, he fucking loves Derek Hale, and there’s not a damn thing he can do about it.
When Stiles finally does see him again, it’s such a shock, so unexpected, that he almost doesn’t recognize him. He had been fully expected to see him at the station or on a call, but no - this time, after twenty-four Derekless days, Stiles sees him at the damn movies of all places.
On a date. A fucking movie date.
The woman Derek’s with - of course he’s with a woman - is gorgeous, tall with dark hair and stupidly attractive cheekbones. She’s all smiles and fluttering eyes and flipping hair, pretty slender hands wrapping around Derek’s waist like they’ve been there before, and he smiles when she whispers in his ear while they wait in the concessions line.
Stiles, who’s there alone to see Civil War for the fourth time, cringes at the sight of Derek with someone else, but he can’t seem to look away.
He sees every kiss, every familiar touch, sees the gentleness with which Derek presses his hand to her lower back, murmurs something into her hair.
It would be unbearably mundane, If it wasn’t so gut-wrenching, heart-twisting, achingly painful for Stiles to watch.
Stomach churning, he spins on a heel and leaves the line, stalks out of the theater entirely.
He’s nearly gasping for the cold night air by the time he makes it to his Jeep, where he manages to at least get inside and close the door before he begins to cry.
After that particularly low low, Stiles swears to himself that he’s not going to let Derek fucking Hale, that asshole, affect him anymore.
He throws himself into his work even more, working cases even when he’s not on the clock, focusing on the Alpha Pack, whose drug manufacturing and other activities seem to be ramping up, now with four murders in three counties linked to the gang. There’s talk around the station about a multi-agency task force being formed with the US Marshals and the Stateies, maybe even Homeland Security, and no one, especially Stiles, is too keen on non-locals coming into to clean up their mess, so he’s bound and determined to solve the case before the interlopers are called in.
Despite his near-constant, borderline obsession with his work and his determination to avoid all things Derek Hale, he still finds himself talked into going out for drinks with Boyd a couple weeks after his breakdown upon seeing Derek with someone else - an outing he agreed to only after Erica had casually mentioned at work that Derek was out of town for the weekend.
He and Boyd are sitting at the bar making quick work of their third round of Jack and Cokes when Derek’s name comes up. “On a romantic getaway with his girlfriend,” Boyd says. “Or more accurately, his ex-wife,” he adds, his normal stoicism giving way to a dismissive eyeroll.
“His ex-wife?” Stiles squeaks,unable to hide his indignation and surprise. From everything he’s heard, and from the few things Derek had said about his ex, she didn’t seem like someone he’d ever get back together with.
Boyd sighs and shakes his head. “I don’t know what he’s thinking.”
“The same ex-wife who cheated on him when he was deployed, and then emptied their bank account of almost all of his combat pay before divorcing him?”
“Yeah, Jen’s a real piece of work,” Boyd says, finishing his drink.
Stiles flags the bartender for another round, tapping his booted foot against the foot railing. “So what’s Derek doing back with her?” He asks, even though he already knows the answer.
Boyd shrugs. “She’s been calling him since he moved here -” now that’s news to Stiles, Derek never having mentioned it - “apologizing and asking to get back together,” Boyd continues. “He always said no, until the last time for some reason.”
“Loneliness maybe,” Stiles suggests, trying not to gulp his drink, trying not to see the look of fear mixed with longing he saw in Derek's eyes when he kissed him.
“It’s not like women around here weren’t always throwing themselves at him,” Boyd says. “Shit, man, I’m glad I asked out Erica before he got into town. She’d definitely jump him if she were single,” he laughs. Shaking his head. He sips at his drink and goes on. “Not that he’d say yes to her, the fool.”
“Because you like her?”
“Nah, man, because he always says no, always. I’ve seen some drop-dead gorgeous women straight up offer him him no strings attached sex, and he turns them down, every time.”
At the word straight, Stiles snickers into his glass, which Boyd definitely notices. “Maybe none of them were his type,” Stiles suggests, smirking even more, the booze hitting him all at once suddenly, making him feel too warm, too soft, like his edges are starting to blur.
Boyd flags down the bartender to close out and pats Stiles on the back. “Let’s get you home, Deputy.”
Stiles nods and throws down his cash and follows Boyd outside into cool night air. He could drive himself home, he thinks, he’s not that drunk, but he knows Boyd won’t hear any of that nonsense, so he bypasses his Jeep for the passenger side of the other man’s pickup.
Boyd is quiet for most of the short drive to Stiles’ house, tapping his thumbs along the wheel in time with the music. Stiles rolls down his window to feel the night air, sighs deeply while it flows over his too-warm he never got to feel. “Is he really that desperate to prove....” he drifts off before he says anything else that he might regret - the last thing he needs is to drunkenly out Derek to his best friend.
They pull into Stiles’ driveway, and, surprising him, Boyd puts the truck in park and turns towards him a bit. “Back in high school,” he starts, confusing Stiles even more. Apparently it’s Vernon Boyd Storytime. “Sophomore year, in AP English, we read 12 Angry Men. Derek loved it. The next year, the drama department was putting it on, and I could tell he was dying to audition.”
Stiles smiles, trying to imagine Derek at seventeen, less rigid and sharp-edged, but surely still unnaturally gorgeous. He wonders what he would have thought of him if they had known each other then, if things would be better or worse between them if they had met as teenagers.
He realizes belatedly that he must have that glassy, dreamy-eyed look he gets when he thinks about Derek these days. He clears his throat, fidgets in his seat, refocusing on Boyd.
“I asked him one day after football practice why he wasn’t going to audition, since he loved reading the play so much, and he just looked at me like I was nuts. He said that there was no way he could be in a play and still be taken seriously as an athlete. That everyone would laugh at the football player trying to act.”
Stiles feels his eyebrows scrunch together. “That seems like a really stupid reason not to do something.”
Boyd nods. “That’s when I realized something about Derek. He cares a lot about what other people think of him, about keeping up a certain image. It makes sense, with the way he was raised, the pressure his parents put on him to be their idea of perfect.”
Stiles nods, having figured this out about Derek too. Turns out maybe he hasn’t changed all that much since he was seventeen, despite everything he’s been through.
“So he didn’t go out for 12 Angry Men?”
Boyd’s smile is bright in the moonlight. “He did, actually. He finally realized that what he wanted mattered more, and got cast as Juror Number Seven. And the entire football team was there on opening night to cheer him on.”
Stiles is fairly certain young Vernon had something to do with that, and he smiles back, suddenly very grateful that Derek had - and still has - a friend like Boyd.
“That’s a sweet story,” he says, mostly sincere, unable to ever fully keep the sarcasm out of his tone, even when he doesn’t mean it.
“I just wanted you to know that Derek can eventually come around to something he’s scared of. It just takes him some time.”
Stiles swallows hard, realizing now, without a doubt, that Boyd knows everything - he assumes from careful observation, because there’s no way Derek would actually tell him that he’s been fucking Stiles for months now and refuses to come out, even to himself.
“Um, yeah, okay. Thanks man. Appreciate the ride home too.”
He jumps from the truck and Boyd nods, and Stiles heads into his house, trying not to stoke the flames of hope starting to burn in his chest.
Stiles treats his slight hangover the next morning with a long run through town and then the Preserve, trying to sweat out the whiskey. His path takes him around the edges of the Hale compound, the huge mansion on a dozen acres of pristine forest.
He tells himself that it’s pure coincidence that his jog has brought him here, into the orbit of the formidable Hale family and, muttering at himself in frustration, turns his back on the state-of-the-art security fence and picks up the pace for his run home, trying to outrun his feelings for the scion and golden boy of the state's most powerful political family.
When he gets back to his house, Stiles is shocked, and incredibly pleased, to find the man himself on his front steps, glistening with sweat and wearing running clothes, clearly waiting for him.
“Thought you were out of town,” Stiles says cautiously, grateful he has the excuse of running for his panting breaths. He doesn’t say anything about how he knows that, or Jennifer, or the fact that the last time they saw each other, nearly a month ago now, they kissed for the very first time and Derek ran away.
“Got back late last night,” he answers, standing up, his damn basketball shorts slung obscenely low on his waist, faded USMC t-shirt clinging to his abs.
It takes all of Stiles’ self-control not to throw himself at the tower of muscled perfection standing between him and his home; instead, he brushes past Derek as nonchalantly as he can manage, butting his shoulder against his as he steps up to his front door.
“And your first stop this morning is me?” He tries his best to keep the bitterness from his voice, bites his tongue to keep from saying more, from asking about his girlfriend, his ex-wife, the woman who screwed him over royally but who he’d rather be with than admit his attraction to Stiles.
“Shut up and let me fuck you, Stilinski,” Derek answers, not waiting to be invited in, just follows Stiles right over the threshold.
Once inside, he kicks the door shut behind him and seizes him by the back of the neck, kicks his feet apart and pushes him face-first into the wall. Stiles groans, irritated at how fucking much he loves it, being manhandled by Derek, who rocks his hips into Stiles’ ass, nestling his half-hard cock against him. “Fuck, I’ve missed this ass,” he grunts, a hand tugging mercilessly at Stiles’ sweat-soaked hair.
Then why in the fuck did you leave it, he wants to yell, but bites it back.
Derek’s breath is hot on his sweat-cooled neck. “You miss my cock, Stiles?” He grinds his hips harder, pins him there with his sturdy weight while tugging at the waistband of Stiles’ shorts and then his own until both of pairs are puddled around their feet. His hands drop to his hips, thumbs digging into the small of his back. “I miss fucking your mouth too,” he whispers into his ear, so quiet, so perfectly pitched to drive Stiles wild. “You miss it too, don’t you, fag?”
The tremor of heat runs from his neck to his nipples to his cock, rapidly hardening, and he pushes back from the wall and spins around to face Derek, hungrily drinking in the greens and golds of his eyes that have haunted his dreams for weeks now, and drops to his knees before he goes and does something stupid like kiss him.
He teases the tip of his cock as long as he can before he wraps his mouth around him and sucks him down hungrily, angry at Derek for being right: he has missed this, the taste of his cock, the smell of his sweat and the feel of the rough scars on his skin, has missed that thrill of pleasure that lights him up from the inside out when Derek grabs him by the hair and fucks his mouth.
Unconcerned with his own throbbing cock, determined to somehow one-up Derek for being right, Stiles tears himself away from that huge dick hammering the back of his throat and pushes Derek away by the hips, surprising them both with the strength and determination in his shove.
“Go up to the bedroom, take your shirt off, and get on all fours on the bed,” he orders, heart racing, because he just gave Derek an order like a bossy top, just treated him like a bottom, and he’s pretty sure Derek isn’t gonna have any of that.
Apparently the jerk is just full of surprises, because he gives him a sly, downright devious smile, yanks his shirt over his head and tosses it in Stiles’ face before he walks up the stairs, glorious bare ass flexing invitingly with every step.
“I fucking hate you,” Stiles mutters under his breath, following him up, knowing damn well that neither one of them believes it.
Derek, naked, on his hands and knees in the middle of his bed, waiting for him: it’s the most breathtakingly beautiful and erotic thing Stiles has ever seen. He stands there at the foot of the bed and just stares, takes in every strong, graceful curve of chiseled muscle, pores over his gloriously hairy body, trying to memorize every line and scar, every little piece of him.
“You just gonna stand there with your dick in your hand, Stilinski, or are you gonna do something?” He teases, smiling beautifully, mischievously.
“Asshole,” Stiles mutters, grabbing the lube from the nightstand and crawling on his knees onto the bed behind him, rubbing the slick between his fingers to warm it before grazing the tip of one over Derek’s pretty, tight hole, lightly furred with dark hair. He reaches down to circle his other hand around Derek’s cock while he teases at his rim, pressing just hard enough to make Derek twitch.
Keeping up sure, steady strokes on Derek’s dick with one hand, Stiles pushes a finger into him. Derek groans and rolls his hips, like he’s trying to get more; Stiles grins and obliges him, letting his lubed finger slip farther in, all the way to the last knuckle, until Derek is breathing hard and biting his lips, quietly demanding more. “You like that, big guy?” He teases, slowly bending his finger to stretch before pushing second finger against him.
He grunts a response that Stiles takes as an affirmative, and he continues on, adding more lube and sliding in a second finger, curling and reaching to find his prostate. Derek squeezes around him and cries out when he hits the right spot, drops to his elbows, further presents his ass, practically begging for more.
Stiles keeps at it, fingering him while licking his lips, aching to taste him. “Fuck it,” he mutters, hoping Derek won’t freak out too much, and dives in.
The first lick, just a slow drag around the fingers stretching him open, makes Derek keen and moan in way Stiles has never heard before, and fuck, that’s hot. He teases his rim again and again, is rewarded with more new sounds, whining grunts and confused gasps, and finally, when Stiles shoves his tongue into him next to his curling fingers, a long, low moan that nearly makes Stiles come untouched, it’s so deep and carnal. Derek’s cock leaks precome into his hand, giving him more slick to jack him with, but he’s barely moving that hand now, focused as he is on Derek’s ass.
Derek finally gives in to the strangeness of this new sensation and has fallen farther to the bed, and is lying on his chest now, arms splayed out, back arched up, rolling his hips into Stiles’ fingers and mouth, biting at the sheets beneath his sweating face. He’s fucking gorgeous like this, more vulnerable than he’s ever been with him, more intimate, more everything, and it hits Stiles like a slug to the chest, just how fucking gone on him he is, just how badly he wants this with Derek, for real, maybe forever.
He shakes the stupid idea from his mind and refocuses on his task, determined to make Derek’s first time getting rimmed something he’ll be sure to remember. He pulls back to spit onto his rim, holds him open with his spread fingers and slides his tongue back in, twisting and twirling, fucking him with his mouth like his life depends on it, because fuck, every moment with Derek is starting to feel this way, like he can’t breathe if he’s not touching him, not giving him all this love that’s got him feeling like his chest is full to bursting.
Stiles is barely touching Derek’s cock when he comes, his fingers ruthlessly massaging his prostate, his tongue still delving into him. Derek shoots hard and thick all over the sheets, panting and moaning, ass clenching around Stiles’ fingers and tongue, hips jerking.
When he’s done, he collapses on his stomach onto his mess, and Stiles’ hands go to his own cock, stroking hard and rough until he’s coming too, his own aching moans echoing Derek’s, spilling heavily onto his ass and lower back.
Stiles falls in an exhausted heap next to him, breathing hard, skin still tight and tingling with the aftershocks of his orgasm, and after a moment he gathers the wherewithal to get up and shuffle naked to the bathroom, where he brushes his teeth, pisses, and grabs a towel for clean up.
When he returns to his bedroom, he expects Derek to be up and looking for his clothes, maybe even on his way out the door already; instead he finds him just where he left him, in the bed, but now his face is half-buried in Stiles’ favorite pillow, asleep.
A quiet, surprised gasp escapes from his mouth. By Derek’s hyper-hetero logic, he probably thinks sleeping in a man’s bed is gayer than fucking one, but here he is, naked and covered in come, strewn across Stiles’ bed on his belly, back slowly rising and falling steadily, beautifully.
As gently as he can so he doesn’t wake him, Stiles cleans up Derek’s back and tosses the towel aside and then slowly lowers himself to the bed, where there’s just enough room left for him to stretch out on his back next to him. He’s barely breathing, he’s so nervous that he might disturb Derek and ruin this, whatever this is.
But he doesn’t. Apparently, Derek isn’t just one of those people who can sleep at the drop of a hat, he’s also a heavy sleeper, or maybe he’s just exhausted, because he doesn’t wake up, just keeps dozing in Stiles’ bed.
It’s not long before Stiles calms down and drifts off to sleep too, curling towards a peacefully sleeping Derek, who's looking dangerously like he belongs here.
When Stiles wakes up, sunlight is pouring in through the windows and cutting brutal, bright lines across his eyes.
He rolls over into the empty space beside him, the mattress still vaguely holding Derek’s shape, the sheets the last remnants of his body heat and his scent.
Stiles breathes him in deep.
Eyes hot and stinging, he goes back to sleep.
Two days later, it finally occurs to Stiles to be angry. Livid, actually. Pissed enough that, on his day off, he drives to the fire station and stalks in the front door, not giving a good goddamn who sees him or if he’s making a scene.
Greenberg is at the front desk, and he looks up from his phone in wide-eyed surprise. “Deputy Stilinski?”
“Where’s Derek?” Stiles demands. Greenberg gives him a look of utter confusion, not all that different from his usual expression, but still exasperating. “Hale?” Stiles clarifies for him.
“Oh, Hale, okay. Last I saw him he was upstairs lifting weights.”
He grunts something like a thank you and storms past the desk, ignoring Greenberg’s protests that he at least has to sign in as a visitor since he’s off-duty, but Stiles ignores him and throws open the swinging door separating the front entrance from the rest of the station house.
He passes the kitchen, where Erica has her back to the door, stirring a big pot of something on the stove, and then the TV room, where Mason and Liam are watching The Bachelorette, and finds the back staircase that leads up to the third floor. It’s quieter up here, and Stiles doesn’t see anyone on his way to the weight room, which he finds by following the sound of hard-edged rock music pouring from shitty speakers.
The room is small and cluttered and smells absolutely awful, thick with the odor of burly firefighters sweating all over the place for who-knows how many years. Derek is the only one in there, wearing only low-slung basketball shorts, stretched on his back on the bench press, lifting what looks like a ridiculous amount of weight.
Stiles resolutely ignores the utter hotness before him - Derek, practically naked, rippling and sweating and for fuck’s sake this isn’t fair, he should get a damn Nobel Prize for not straddling him - and flips off the stereo.
“What the fuck, Derek?”
The bar clatters to rest and Derek sits up, legs splaying on either side of the bench, not looking nearly as surprised as Stiles hoped. Derek grabs a towel and mops the sweat from his face before answering, his voice frustratingly calm. “What are you doing here?”
“Oh that’s fucking bullshit, Derek, and you know it. You really thought I wouldn’t be pissed about the other day?”
“The other day?” He stands and crosses his arms, making himself a wall of immovable muscle.
“Cut the shit, Hale,” Stiles snarls. “You know damn well what I’m talking about. You know, when you showed up at my place after disappearing for weeks and had the best damn orgasm of your damn life when I rimmed you, after which we took a nap together. That day, Derek.”
Finally, Stiles gets the reaction he wants. Derek steps forward swiftly, getting in his space with two long strides, eyes narrowing. “Be quiet. Someone might hear you.”
“Who, Derek? Your wife, perhaps?”
“Ex-wife,” he seethes
“And current girlfriend,” Stiles bites back. “Who you have no problem cheating on, and making me help you.”
“I didn’t make you do anything you didn’t want to do,” Derek snaps.
Well, he’s got Stiles there. But it’s not like he’s going to let Derek know that he’s right, so he presses on, stepping closer to him. “And what, it wasn’t cheating because I’m a dude? Is that how your fucked up straight guy logic works?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Derek answers through clenched teeth. “Because it’s not going to happen again.”
It’s not like Derek’s never said that before, but this time the words stab into Stiles’ chest, piercing his heart, sinking into the pit of his foolish, unrequited feelings. “Yeah, right,” he scoffs, rolling his eyes, hoping to hell that Derek can’t tell that his heart is breaking.
“It’s not going to happen again,” Derek repeats. “It was a mistake.” He holds Stiles locked in his gaze, green eyes dark almost desperate, and Stiles know he’s not talking about the rimming or the cheating, but the undeniable fact that Derek slept in Stiles’ bed, that Derek woke up next to him and then disappeared, probably completely freaked out at the comfort and intimacy between them.
“It wasn’t,” Stiles says, trying not sound too imploring himself, trying not to sound, trying not to be so completely in love with him.
“What do you want from me, Stiles?” Derek whisper-yells, turning away from him in frustration.
“I want you stop fighting this and accept who you are,” he pleads, voice thick with desperation. I want you to love me.
“You know I can’t do that.” There’s so much resigned defeat in his voice that Stiles steps forward to hug him before he realizes what he’s doing and stops short, drops his arms.
“I really think that if you just took a chance and - “
“I’m done with this,” Derek interrupts, turning back to face him with air of stern finality, that infuriatingly stoic look of his returning to his too-perfect face. “I’m done with you,” he says, words clipped and sharp, nails in the coffin. “This whole thing with you has been a mistake,”
Stiles ignores the feeling of his chest exploding, of his heart breaking into a thousand Derek-shaped pieces, and holds on for dear life to the only thing that can save him now: his anger.
“Fuck that,” he spits out, stepping forward, close enough that his chest butts against Derek’s crossed arms. Derek doesn’t move, and his eyes fall to Stiles’ lips, which makes him smirk with bitter satisfaction. Spurred by rage and pain and arousal, always arousal with Derek, Stiles drops to his knees, heart pounding; he pulls Derek’s shorts and underwear down with a furious yank and circles his stiffening cock with one hand. “You’ll never be done with me,” he sneers, and takes him into his mouth.
“Fuck, Stiles,” he moans, desperately, hands twisting into his hair, pulling him closer.
Stiles looks up at him and sneers, his anger deep and petty, filling him with the burning desire to make Derek hurt, in the only way he knows how.
He’s done this enough times to know exactly how to bring Derek to the edge, taking his cock as deep into his throat as he can and squeezing, sucking and slurping furiously, until he can feel his orgasm rising in the tightening of the balls cradled in his hand, in Derek’s ragged, heavy breaths.
Pushing back against the fierce grip Derek has on his head, he pulls off roughly, licking away the strings of spit and precome stuck to his lips. Stiles rises to his feet, eyes narrowed and, hopefully, just as brutally fierce as Derek’s were when he said he was done with him.
“What the fuck?” Derek grunts, looking down at his straining cock and then back up at him expectedly.
“Why don’t you go get your girlfriend to finish you off,” Stiles spits out, and then turns on his heel and storms out, hopefully before Derek can see that he’s shaking.
Okay, so maybe leaving Derek with blue balls wasn’t the most mature, but damn, it sure felt like a victory - a victory Stiles desperately needed to hold on the shreds of his dignity, maybe even his fucking sanity.
Afterwards, he vows to never let Derek take advantage of him again, to never again be tempted by his beauty and his strange, harsh affection, the look of pure desire he gets in his kaleidoscope eyes when he looks at Stiles.
He goes back to avoiding him as much as he can, always makes sure to find a task as far away from him as possible when they’re on calls together, always asks Boyd if Derek will be there when Erica invites him out.
He can’t avoid Derek entirely though, and about a month after their confrontation in the station weight room, Stiles is back at the firehouse, this time for the Fireman’s Pancake Breakfast, which he tried to get out of, but no luck - the sheriff always makes all of the deputies attend, even if they’re not on shift, like Stiles, who has today and the next two days off after working seven twelve-hour shifts in a row.
It’s a popular event in town - who doesn’t want to be served pancakes and bacon by a bunch of gorgeous, muscled firefighters? - so there are enough people around for him to mix in with the crowd milling about the station parking lot where the event is held, but his hunger betrays him, and he’s forced to be face-to-face with Derek when he goes through the line to get his breakfast.
Erica is serving bacon, which she heaps on to Stiles’ plate with a wink, and Derek is flipping pancakes on an electric griddle set up on the buffet tables. While he waits, Stiles watches him, grip tight on his compostable plate. Derek chats with the locals, even smiles as he greets them and slides perfectly cooked pancakes onto their plates and thanks them for supporting the department. He’s wearing a BHFD t-shirt, the sleeves straining against his biceps, forearms rippling and unbearably sexy even when wielding a spatula.
Stiles loves him so much, he hates him.
“Deputy Stilinski,” he says curtly, flopping a couple pancakes onto his plate. Only Derek fucking Hale could manage to make serving breakfast so disturbingly aggressive.
Stiles is about to snark something terribly witty, but stops short when a woman, dark-haired and wickedly beautiful, sidles up next to Derek behind the table.
Jennifer is wearing a BHFD t-shirt too, oversized and tied at her tiny waist, clearly Derek’s. “Deputy Stilinski,” she muses, giving him a thorough once over. “I’ve heard so much about you.” There’s a barely-concealed clipped edge to her tone that tells Stiles she doesn’t like what she’s heard, and that’s interesting.
“And you are?” Stiles asks, smiling sweetly through his tensed jaw, absolutely delighting in the way her pretty features twist at the insult.
Jennifer looks up at Derek expectedly, but he doesn’t say anything - just goes on serving pancakes to the people crowding in line behind Stiles..
She scoffs and looks back to Stiles, wrapping her arm around Derek’s waist. “I’m Jennifer Hale,” she smiles, with no friendliness at all.
“I was under the impression that Derek here was divorced. Guess I was misinformed,” Stiles says, feigning ignorance but not bothering to hide the fact that he has absolutely no fucks to give about this woman, or about how what he says to her might affect Derek.
“We’ve recently reconciled,” Jennifer tells him, as if he should know. “We’re even talking about re-marriage.”
That gets Derek’s attention, his head snapping over to look at Stiles. “We haven’t decided yet,” he says quietly.
Seemingly out of nowhere, Boyd appears at Stiles’ side. “Allison is saving you a seat,” he says, patting him on the back and nodding a hello to Jennifer and Derek, who gives his best friend an assessing, curious look.
“Well, she’s armed so I better not keep her waiting,” Stiles answers, trying not to hug Boyd for saving him from this hell. “Nice to meet you, Jennifer,” he lies, nodding to her, unable to keep his gaze from flitting up to Derek, who’s assessing him now.
Once at a table with Allison, Lydia, and Boyd, he feels a little calmer, even though he deliberately chooses a seat that lets him keep an eye on Derek from across the parking lot. Jennifer seems to have wandered off, having thoroughly staking her claim to Derek, which makes Stiles wonder even more just what exactly Derek has told her about him.
He tries not to get too wrapped up in his thoughts, or what are surely longing glances Derek’s direction, and works hard to keep his attention on Lydia, who’s telling him about her latest article on String Theory. Boyd tells them about cases he working at his job as a social worker, and after a bit Jackson and the guy he’s been dating, Danny, join them. It’s nice, being with his friends like this, and soon he’s so caught up in the conversation that Derek and his wife slip from his mind entirely (well, not entirely).
But his reprieve is short-lived. When Stiles returns to the buffet line to get seconds, he steels himself, but it’s for naught - Erica is no longer serving the bacon and Mason has taken over pancake duties. When he gets back to the table with his new plate piled high, he sees that Erica has found a seat on Boyd’s lap, and Derek and Jennifer have pulled up chairs to join their group.
Swallowing down his irritation, Stiles takes his seat and gets to work on hisf food, resolutely ignoring the new additions to their table - with the exception of Erica, of course, who starts chatting him up immediately.
“Stiles fucking Stilinski!” she hollers, flicking a piece of scrambled egg at him. “Is that really you? Where in the hell have you been?”
He shoves a huge piece of pancake in his mouth to give himself time to answer. “Been busy with this Alpha Pack case,” he says finally, pointedly not looking at Derek.
“Mmmhmm,” Erica smiles. “Whatever you say, Deputy Hottie. I think you’ve got yourself a sweet little piece of ass that you don’t want to share with anyone else,” she teases, smiling, her voice rich and full of mirth.
Stiles has to bite his lip to keep from breaking out in hysterical laughter at how right and how wrong she is. “Nope, no sweet ass for me,” he smiles, not technically lying, because there’s absolutely nothing sweet about what he and Derek have - had.
Coming to his rescue again, Boyd playfully pinches Erica. “Speaking of a sweet ass,” he teases, and then she’s throwing her head back in laughter and kissing him.
Erica sufficiently distracted and Stiles off the hook for having to explain his frequent absences, he gets back to focusing on his food, hoping that the conversation will turn away from him.
It does - but, fuck, it’s because Jennifer speaks up. “Lydia,” she coos. “I understand you’re a professor at Berkeley. That’s quite impressive.”
Lydia smiles a smile that Stiles recognizes as her fake, I’m-just-barely-tolerating-you smile. “I am, in the Physics Department.”
“Do you know anyone in the graduate program in Political Science? Derek needs to go back to school soon.”
Lydia looks confounded and terribly irritated, and Stiles adores her for it. “I’m afraid I don’t.”
“I didn’t know you were considering that,” Erica says to Derek. “Are you gonna bail on me, Hale? Just when I finally have you trained to follow my every order?”
Derek smiles at her, but it’s strained. “It’s something I’m thinking about,” he says evenly. “I haven’t decided yet if that’s what I want to do.”
“Well you’ve got to do something,” Jennifer scoffs. “You can’t be just a firefighter your whole life.”
Everyone tenses at that, and Erica rolls her eyes so hard Stiles thinks they might fall right out of her head.
“Yeah, it’s just saving lives and helping people,” Allison chimes in, her voice thick with sarcasm, and Stiles adores her so much in that moment he could leap across the table and kiss her.
“I just mean,” Jennifer goes on, smiling primly at Allison and then looking back to Derek. “With everything Derek’s family has accomplished and all of their connections, it seems like a waste to not take advantage of the opportunities he has for real success, you know?”
Real success, Stiles thinks in dismayed astonishment. The man has Purple Heart and a Medal of Honor. How does she define success?
He’s about to say as much when Lydia speaks up. “And how do you think Derek should ‘take advantage’ of his parents’ accomplishments?” She asks, all faux-sincere curiosity, smiling sweetly-but-lethally at Jennifer.
Jennifer soldiers on, either oblivious to the tension she’s created or simply not caring. “Politics, of course. Derek is the perfect candidate,” she purrs, smiling at him and smoothing his hair. “Incredibly electable. But he needs something more prestigious on his resume first.
Her hand drops under the table to Derek’s thigh, and Stiles has to look away.
“We’re thinking the Senate first,” she continues, “and then the Governorship. And who knows after that? And of course, he needs a wife,” she smiles playfully. “Voters are suspicious of single men,” she adds, looking right at Stiles.
Derek, who has been silently eating his breakfast this whole time while his extremely public and tragically heterosexual future is planned, finally looks up, throwing a dark look at Jennifer. “I’m still deciding. For now, I’m happy here at the fire department.”
“Good,” Erica says, before Jennifer can object. “Because I’m not training another partner anytime soon. And I kinda like ya, Hale.”
She punches him on the arm again and Jennifer purses her lips, and Stiles wants crawl across the table and kiss Erica too. Instead he cuts his losses and stands, offers an excuse about needing to go into the office to pick up some files, and says his goodbyes.
Jennifer watches him the entire time, but then again, so does Derek.
Stiles does in fact go to the office to grab the last box of the Alpha Pack files to add to the collection he’s already amassed at home. The boxes of paperwork and photos, even a few pieces of cataloged evidence, are sprawled across his living room, having been liberated from the office so he could study them more during his days off.
He’s usually not so obsessive about investigations, but this one has been just the distraction he’s needed to keep himself together during the ordeal that started the day his life collided with Derek Hale. The prospect of three lonely days off with nothing to do makes him terribly anxious, so he plans to use his time as productively has he knows how. He sets up a whiteboard in the dining room to help him map the incredibly complex web of evidence and incidents connected to the gang, trying to relax and take it all in, let his mind settle and sort through all of the disparate information.
His attention gets pulled away every once in awhile, thoughts drifting to Derek, and inevitably, Jennifer. She’s clearly selfish and narcissistic, and blatantly taking advantage of Derek and his family for her own gain. And if that wasn’t infuriating enough, he’s pretty damn sure Derek is completely aware of it; the man’s not stupid - far from it - and he’s definitely not the kind of person to let himself be easily manipulated. Which, Stiles reasons, means that Derek simply doesn’t care, that he’d rather subject himself to Jennifer’s machinations for the sake of maintaining his hetero facade. As much as this dismays him, he can’t help but feel sorry him too, for the amount of pressure Derek must feel to be putting himself through this.
The day after The Great Pancake Breakfast Incident, he catches his thoughts drifting towards Derek again in the early morning hours while he sips at his coffee and stares at the now-cluttered investigation board.
“Get the asshole out of your head,” he admonishes himself, picking up the autopsy reports he’s read dozens of times now.
It works, because the next thing he knows it’s nearly noon and he’s rustling through a box that’s been haphazardly stacked on a chair, searching for a file folder he put in there yesterday, following up on a possible lead his hours of work have finally revealed.
Fingers flying through the papers and folders, he finally finds what he’s looking for - the report detailing the GPS records of the phone belonging to one of the low-level dealers they arrested a few weeks back, along with the guy’s statement about his interactions with other members of the Alpha Pack organization.
The dealer, a shithead named Aiden, had said that he would meet his supplier at one of several predetermined spots all over the county, rarely using the same location twice. Aiden had only seen the gang leader - a guy he called Duke - once, when they picked him up from one of the drop spots and brought him, blindfolded, to their headquarters. Aiden hasn’t been able to provide any useful information about where he had been taken, so they had moved on to other parts of the investigation.
But now, mapping the locations recorded on Aiden’s cell, Stiles notices a pattern he didn’t see before. All of the locations on Aiden’s cell are centrally located within or immediately outside of towns and cities, with the exception of one - a location more than forty-five miles from the Beacon Hills city limits, on an abandoned logging road. He double checks Aiden’s statement and cross references the few details about meeting dates he provided, and yeah, Aiden was almost certainly picked up from this location to be taken to the headquarters.
Which, Stiles reasons, suggests that the headquarters might be near this spot. It’s a long shot, but it’s the only lead he has at the moment, so Stiles runs with it. Not bothering to grab a coat but making sure to bring his badge, sidearm, and secondary piece in his ankle holster, Stiles leaves the mess in his living room and heads out, eager to follow up on what’s feeling more and more like a solid lead. He knows he shouldn’t go alone, especially off-duty, but he’s too damn determined to ride this wave of focus and energy, too determined to keep himself going, to keep himself distracted.
It’s dusk by time he gets to a small clearing, circled by a young forest, his Jeep easily navigating the rough, unpaved road. He parks and hops out, taking his flashlight. He plans to walk the perimeter of the clearing to look for any possible clues as to where they may have taken Aiden from here, and hopefully, something that will lead them to the headquarters, or at the very least some more senior members of the Alpha Pack.
He’s about halfway through his first walk through of the clearing when the snap of a twig from behind a tree alerts him that he’s not alone; he stills immediately, hand going to his holster, but not drawing his weapon quite yet.
That, it turns out, is a mistake. He takes one more step towards the trees to investigate the sound, and he’s barely shone his light in that direction when a large man dressed in dark clothes steps out from behind the tree and directly into his path. Heart pounding, Stiles releases the snap on his holster, but it’s too late - another dark shape comes at him from the side, strong hands yanking his wrist away from his weapon, other arm raising the butt of a pistol towards his head.
He watches the pistol butt come at his face as if in slow motion, powerless to stop it, and for some goddamn reason, his mind jumps to Derek, wondering if he’ll even miss him upon what is looking to be his untimely demise.
The pistol butt lands with a sickening crack, and everything goes dark.
TWIST! RUH-ROH!! I hope Stiles is okay!!!
FINALLY AN UPDATE! Thank you all so much for your patience with me - Life stepped in for a while and I had to take a brief writing hiatus, but things are getting settled now and I'm back to it. As I mentioned over on the Tumbles, I decided to split the conclusion of this story into two chapters, so there will be another chapter of these two idiots getting their shit together! Thank you all for your support and wonderful comments! XOXO
Derek nuzzles into his side, nose-to-ribs, hips bracketing his thigh, one leg wrapped around his calf. “Don’t get up yet,” he mumbles, soft lips and rough beard whispering against Stiles’ sensitive skin. “Stay with me.”
Stiles runs a hand through Derek’s hair, longer than he remembers, a few unfamiliar rogue strands of gray at the temples. “I have to go to work,” he sighs, scratching Derek behind the ear in his favorite spot. It makes Derek snuggle him even closer and hold him tighter, and Stiles smiles.
“Quit your job,” Derek answers. “Devote yourself completely to satisfying me.”
“Okay,” Stiles acquiesces, shifting to settle deeper into the mattress, even closer to Derek, so close it feels like he’s melting into him.
“This is what forever feels like,” Derek says, quiet and serious. “Do you feel it?”
Stiles opens his mouth to answer, but no words come out; his mouth is suddenly dry and rough, his throat raw and aching like he’s been screaming. He tries to say Derek’s name, but it gets caught behind his teeth, refusing to come out, and his mouth is starting to burn, like he’s been lit up from the inside.
“Do you feel it, Stiles?” Derek asks again, this time pleading, desperate almost, and his grip on Stiles’ waist is getting harder, almost painful, so firm it starts to feel like his fingers are sinking into his skin, the terror starting to build in his chest along with the sour panic rising like a tidal wave …
Stiles jolts awake with a gasp, bile rising in the back of his throat, sour and sharp. He rolls to his side, gagging and hacking until the nausea wanes. He lies there shaking, sweating, disoriented, the cold concrete floor he’s lying on a stark, brutal contrast to the warmth and softness that surrounded him in his dream.
He steadies his breathing, gathers his wits, and manages to sit up and lean against the cinderblock wall at his back. Pushing the memories of the dream away, even though he wants so badly to hold on to it - Derek holding him, loving him - and begins to take in his surroundings - his cell, to be more precise, because yeah, he’s gone and gotten himself kidnapped.
And drugged, apparently, judging by the cloudy, dense fog of confusion he feels and the nausea, not to mention the needle marks he finds on the inside of his elbow. He pushes fears of contaminated needles out of his mind - he’ll worry about that later when he’s not actively being held prisoner - and refocuses on assessing his prison.
The room is small, dark and dank, with an oppressively low ceiling that tells him he’s probably in a basement of some kind, but there are no windows, so he can’t be sure of anything. The only light is from a flickering old bulb in the ceiling, and the door looks to be heavily reinforced - no busting through that without some serious firepower. There’s nothing in the room except a bucket in the corner, which he assumes was left for his bodily functions.
“Considerate kidnappers then,” he mutters to himself, struggling groggily to his feet so he can piss in the bucket. Thus relieved, he feels a little more clear-headed, and gets to more thoroughly inspecting his prison.
His careful search of the small room is incredibly frustrating; there doesn’t appear to be any possible escape routes, nor any clues about where he actually is. He doesn’t know how long it’s been since he was attacked in the forest, which is the last thing he remembers before waking up here; he is fairly certain though that the Alpha Pack is responsible for his predicament, and that at least makes him feel slightly more at ease, knowing who’s got him.
He paces the room, frustration and anxiety rising. “Drug-cooking, murdering, kidnapping sons of bitches,” he yells, pulling futilely on the door until the muscles in his arms are burning, hands raw from gripping the knob.
Exhausted, he collapses back on the floor in the corner opposite the door, where he had woken up. Whatever they had shot him up with to knock him out is still in his system, making him feel groggy again after his exertion, unable to hold on to his thoughts for too long.
Despite his best efforts to fight it, he falls back asleep, hoping to again see Derek in his dreams.
He’s jolted awake again by the sound of the door, heavy and solid, scraping open against the concrete floor. More alert this time, he jumps to his feet quickly, defensively, although the only weapons he has are his clenched fists.
“Deputy,” a mocking voice calls. “You’re finally awake.”
“Aden?” Stiles asks, confused. The last he heard, Aden was still in the county lockup, awaiting trial for drug charges.
“Ethan,” the man corrects. “Aden’s twin, obviously. You’re the asshole who arrested my brother, yeah?”
“I’ve arrested a lot of scumbags, you’ll have to be more specific,” Stiles smiles back.
“You think you’re real fucking cute, don’t you Stilinski?”
“I think I’m adorable.”
Ethan, utterly indistinguishable from his brother, grins a mirthless smile. “You won’t be so cocky once we figure out what we’re going to do with you.”
“You idiots kidnapped a cop without a plan?” Stiles does his best to sound incredulous and mocking. “How have we not busted every single one of you by now? Honestly, I’m a little embarrassed.” He hopes his snark is enough to cover up just how unsettling it is that they don’t have a plan for him. Criminals with no plans are unpredictable, more dangerous.
“You’re the idiot that came on to our territory alone. Ennis saw you and couldn’t resist. Of course, now Kali and Duke have been arguing over what to do with you, which between you and me, Stilinski, is getting pretty damn old.”
Stiles recognizes the names Ennis and Duke from the Alpha Pack investigation, but the name Kali is new, and he mentally files that away.
“How long have I been here?” He asks Ethan, who’s leaning against the opposite wall, arms crossed.
“Going on three days now,” he grins. “Think anyone has noticed you’re gone yet? I’m guessing not. You don’t really seem all that important, Stiles.”
“Well then why don’t you just let me go, if I’m so useless?”
“Not completely. Kali wants to kill you and leave your mutilated body on the front steps of the Sheriff’s station as a message to back off, which, while messy, could be effective.”
Stiles narrows his gaze at him. “And the other option on the table?”
“Duke seems to think you’re more valuable alive. Thinks we might be able to get something from the cops if we hold you hostage for a bit longer.”
“We don’t negotiate with criminals. Might as well kill me now.”
“Believe me, I’d love to deputy, but that’s not my call. I’m just supposed to give you these so you don’t die before Duke makes his decision.” Ethan pulls something from his pockets and tosses them at Stiles’ feet.
A granola bar and a tiny bottle of water. “Wow, you shouldn’t have,” Stiles says dryly, hoping Ethan can’t hear the hollow grumbling of his stomach, which he’s suddenly, painfully aware of now that he’s been reminded that he hasn’t eaten in days.
“Don’t get used to it,” Ethan smirks.
Three days. Three fucking days he’s been in this room, drugged and passed out, while these fucking assholes decide if he’s worth killing or not.
Three days. Surely someone must have noticed his absence by now. Allison, of course, since she would have been alarmed that Stiles didn’t show up for his shift after his two days off. She would have notified the Sheriff, who hopefully has sent someone to his place looking for him by now.
Or hell, maybe they’ll just assume that Stiles is on a bender (okay, yeah, it happened once before) and they’re giving him an extra day to dry out with no questions asked. Curse his damn understanding colleagues.
Stiles thinks about his cluttered and messy house...and how he left no evidence at all of where he went. That’s why you always leave a note, he thinks wryly.
He wonders if the Alpha Pack left his Jeep in the woods, or if they had the smarts to move it, and he’s legitimately torn between hoping Roscoe has been taken care of and that he’s been abandoned and left as evidence to his whereabouts.
Stiles doesn’t want to eat the granola bar Ethan left; but fuck, he’s so hungry and goddamnit, he’s thirsty as hell. He gives in, trying not to bask in how delicious the mediocre bar tastes and how good it feels to have something in his belly, how utterly incredible the water feels on his parched throat.
Three days, and no one has come looking for him.
The granola bar suddenly feels dry and sandy in his mouth, and he tosses it aside. He swallows the last of the water and throws the empty bottle across the room.
“Stiles, wake up.”
The urgency in Derek’s voice is upsetting, and Stiles turns toward him, wanting to reassure him, wanting to pull him close to comfort them both.
“I got you, Der,” he mumbles, reaching for him.
This time he wakes up slowly, dry eyes cracking open painfully. “Fucking bullshit dreams,” he mutters to himself, this time irritated at his taunting subconscious, giving him Derek when he can’t have him for real.
“Yeah we can talk about your dreams later, but now I need you to wake up so we can get the fuck out of here.”
Derek’s voice is a loud, harsh whisper, nothing at all like the sleepy tenderness from his dreams, and the hands on his shoulders feel so incredibly real that Stiles, startled, jerks to full wakefulness.
“About fucking time,” Derek mutters, relief written all over his face, looking down at him from a crouch next to where Stiles is lying on the floor.
“Derek? You’re here? For real?”
“For real, big guy,” Derek answers, a tiny smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Are you hurt?” He asks, voice spiked with what sounds like genuine concern, which confuses Stiles even more. Derek’s hands move from his shoulders down his arms and ribs, probing gently, examining.
“They’ve been drugging me, but I’m not injured,” Stiles manages to tell him, his foggy mind trying to catch up with what’s happening, with the fact that Derek is here, concerned about his well-being, saving him.
“Good. I’m going to need your help to get us out of here, okay? I’m guessing these assholes have probably figured out I’m here by now, so we might have to shoot our way out, okay?”
“You’re here?” Stiles asks, still incredulous, still half-convinced that he’s dreaming.
“I’m here, Stiles. Here to get you out.”
“Where’s everyone else? Where’s Allison, your backup?”
“It’s just me. Can you walk?”
“What...yeah I can walk...what do you mean it’s just you? Where’s the TAC team?”
“Allison figured out that you had gone to the pick up site in the woods, but they were taking too long in getting a team together to track where they took you, so I did it myself.”
“Yourself?” Stiles finally takes a good look at Derek - beyond his alert, imploring eyes - and sees that he’s dressed head-to-toe in black, in full special forces gear, complete with a Kevlar vest, thigh holsters and an AR-15 on a strap slung over his back. “You came looking for me alone?”
“We’ll talk about it later,” Derek says. “We need to get moving.”
“Why?” Stiles asks. “Why did you come for me?”
The pleading curiosity in his voice is enough to make Derek pause. His eyes catch Stiles’ and he holds his gaze, his expression more open than Stiles has ever seen, his hands dragging tenderly up his neck to cup his face.
Derek leans closer, lips hovering close to his. “You know why,” he whispers, and then places a soft, gentle kiss on Stiles’ chapped lips.
It’s nothing like their first kiss, their only kiss, which was panicked and fevered and driven by desperation and frustration; there’s urgency now, yes, but it’s aching and tender, sweet even. Stiles, stunned and awed, sighs and presses his mouth farther against Derek’s, exhausted body and mind sparking back to life. Derek lets him deepen the kiss, opens his mouth and slides his warm tongue around Stiles’, sighing too, with what sounds like relief, maybe even happiness.
Finally, Derek breaks their embrace. “More of that later, once you’re safe, okay?”
“Lots, lots more of that,” Stiles smiles, overjoyed. “Now let’s get the hell out of here before these assholes kill us and I don’t get to kiss you again.”
Derek smiles too and rises to his feet and clasps him by the forearm to help bring him to his feet. Stiles sways slightly, but Derek holds him by the elbow for a moment until he steadies.
“Can you shoot?”
“Yeah, I’m good.”
Derek grunts and hands over one of the pistols from his thigh holsters, an HK .45, and hands it to Stiles, grip first. “You’re locked and loaded. Stay behind me okay?”
Stiles nods once and settles his grip on the gun, feeling immediately comforted by its hefty weight. The heavy door is hanging open, a set of keys dangling from the lock. Derek, rifle at the ready, checks to make sure it’s clear before stepping out and nodding for Stiles to follow. Stiles is about to ask how Derek got the keys when, after he steps out of his prison, he sees Ethan sprawled out unconscious on the floor just on the other side.
“He’s not dead,” Derek tells him. “Just had to knock him out to get the keys.”
“I really wish I could have seen that,” Stiles replies. “Take anyone else out on your way in?”
“Three more guys outside,” Derek nods, nonchalantly, like silently taking out four ruthless criminals is all in a day’s work for him. Of course, given his past and his abilities, it's likely is no big deal.
Stiles is still a little lightheaded from hunger and dehydration, not to mention the kiss, and he gladly lets Derek lead him through the damp, dark basement to a flight of steep, narrow stairs. He pauses to listen at the door at the top, and after a moment, nods again and turns to him.
“We’re in an abandoned resort and we’re going out through the banquet room. It's big, and there's furniture that can be used for cover. We’re heading for the exit at the southwest corner of the building. None of our people are here, so if it moves, shoot it.”
Stiles nods and shifts his shoulders, readjusts his grip on the gun and clicks off the safety.
Derek pushes the door open and stalks over the threshold silently, rifle first, turning left. Stiles follows, his own weapon raised, and quickly turns right, making sure both directions are clear before turning to follow Derek.
Just like Derek said, the room is cluttered with furniture, and the long wall of windows in the west wall is mostly boarded up, small streams of gray light spilling in from the very top and between the cracks. It's clear the resort used to be pretty nice one, judging by the sturdy tables and expensive-looking wallpaper. As far as criminal hideouts go, it's fairly opulent, if run-down and tattered.
“Where the hell are we?” Stiles whispers, his throat scratchy from days of not speaking,
“A few hundred clicks from Sunnydale.”
“Damn,” he mutters under his breath. Sunnydale is nearly two hours from Beacon Hills.
He’s sure to stay far enough back from Derek that they’ll both have room to open fire if need be, but Stiles is sure to follow in his footsteps, taking comfort in the swift surety of his movements.
They’re about halfway through the massive room when Derek stops and turns, taking aim with the rifle towards the double doors north end of the building; a moment later, the dim overhead lights flicker on to reveal a cadre of people striding in, advancing towards them, guns raised. There are six of them, led by Duke, who Stiles recognizes from his mugshot, and they’re all armed to the teeth.
“Fuck,” he mutters under breath, following Derek’s lead and aiming his pistol at the group, focusing on the one he thinks is Kali – the one that wants to mutilate and murder him, according to Ethan. He glances over at Derek, who’s eyes are swiftly scanning their attackers, assessing and calculating their limited options. They’re outnumbered and outgunned, and Stiles’ gut sours with dread. He’s not sure they’re going to make out of this alive.
“I believe you’re trying to take something that belongs to me,” Duke calls out, glass-edged voice echoing through the room.
“He doesn’t belong to anyone,” Derek barks back. “And you’re not getting him.”
“And you are?” Duke asks, almost causal, like he doesn’t have a care in the world.
“I’m the sonofabitch who’s going to shoot every single one of you if you don’t let us leave.”
Stiles keeps his weapon trained on the Alpha Pack, keeping his focus on Kali but watching Derek out of the corner of his eye.
“That’s very cute,” Duke answers. “But I’m afraid I can’t let you leave, although your attempt to rescue the young deputy here is quite admirable. You must care about him deeply, since you came here all alone.”
Derek’s eyes flick towards Stiles, a dead giveaway that Duke is absolutely right, and Stiles is either so out of it or so far gone on Derek that he smiles, his chest warming, thankful to this brutal criminal for his insight.
“We’re leaving,” Derek answers. “Whether you’re alive when we do is up to you.”
“I’m afraid I can’t let you do that. Deputy Stilinski here is the collateral I need to make some…requests from his superiors.”
Derek is quiet for a moment, the standoff growing even tenser as his ever-alert eyes scan the Pack, and then slide over to Stiles. He turns back to Duke, lowering his rifle to let it hang from the strap across his chest and putting his hands up in apparent surrender.
“You want a hostage? Take me. Let Stiles go.”
“Derek, what are you doing?” Stiles mutters, the fear in his gut twisting harder.
Derek glances over to him again, this time giving him a soft, sad smile. “It’s okay, Stiles. I’m going to get you out of here.”
“You?” Duke calls out. “My people tell me you’re a firefighter. No offense, but I think I’m much more likely to get what I want from the police if I have one of their own.”
“Well, your people fucking suck at research,” Derek says, stepping closer to Duke, hands still raised. “Because I’m not just a firefighter. My name is Derek Hale.”
Duke cocks his head, assessing and curious. “Hale? That name does sound familiar.” He jerks his chin towards Kali who pulls a phone from their pocket and begins typing at it.
The moments of tense silence while Kali researches Derek feels indeterminable, watching the back of Derek’s head, wishing more than anything that he could touch him, knowing that it would calm him, anchor him, and maybe even Derek too.
“He is Derek Hale,” Kali announces, flashing a pic of Derek on her phone towards Duke. “He’s a war hero,” she tells him, voice thick with derision, fingers still scrolling. “Holy shit, Duke, we hit the jackpot. His mom’s a Congresswoman, and his dad works for the Governor.” She grins evilly then. “And their reported net worth is…fuck.” She hands over the phone to Duke, whose smile is even more alarming than Kali’s, almost feral.
“Well, well, well, it looks the young Hale here is a much more profitable investment. I imagine your parents would pay a pretty penny to get their Golden Boy back.”
“Derek,” Stiles hisses. “This is a bad idea, don’t do this.”
He looks over his shoulder and smiles at him again. “Shut up and let me save you, Stilinski.”
Duke jerks his head again and a couple of his lackeys approach Derek, guns still trained on him. One of them takes Stiles’ pistol, and then they grab Derek roughly, stripping him of all of his weapons, including the two lethal-looking knives he has in his boots. Using Derek’s rifle, Ennis pokes him in the back with a hard shove, forcing Derek to walk over to Duke, weaponless.
Yet again, Stiles can do nothing while Derek risks his life.
This time for him.
Stiles can’t really process what that means, what this all means, but he feels, maybe even knows, that Derek just might love him too.
Ennis barks at Derek to stop when he’s standing directly in front of Duke, who looks him up and down with a nasty grin that makes Stiles flare with even more anger and fear for what they might to do him to get a ransom from his family.
“What a noble sacrifice you’re making, Hale,” Duke muses, almost casually. “You do indeed care for the young officer here very much.”
Stiles can’t hear Derek’s response, but whatever he says seems to amuse the druglord.
“Well this will be even more fun then,” he smirks, eyeing Stiles from over Derek’s shoulder. He turns and walks away, nodding his head towards Kali, whose grin is even more feral and frightening than Duke’s.
Acting on pure instinct, Stiles dives for cover behind an overturned table just as the shot rings out. A jolt of pain echoes through his shoulder, rattling him to the bone, a hot burst of blood splattering over his neck and face.
He’s distantly cognizant of the fact that he’s been shot, but that realization and the searing pain radiating down his arm is nothing compared to the fear he has for what might happen to Derek.
He hears a loud, muffled curse, and, uninjured arm clutching the gushing would in his shoulder, ignoring the pain, he looks over the top of the table, just in time to see Derek spin around so fast it almost makes him dizzy. Derek seizes the rifle at his back by the barrel, and viscous and swift, swings the butt across Ennis’ face so hard Stiles can hear the crack of bone from across the room.
Before Ennis even hits the floor, crumpling with a heavy thud, Derek is rapidly approaching Kali. She swings the pistol towards him, but he’s quicker, and, dropping the AR, he knocks the gun out of her hands, grabs her by the hair and headbutts her in the face, planting the top of his skill right into her nose. She falls to the floor too, and Derek goes on to make quick work of the others, kicking and punching with brutal efficiency, so fast Stiles can barely track his movements as more unconscious bodies drop to the floor in rapid succession.
When only Duke remains, unharmed in the corner while Derek annihilates his crew, Derek grabs his HK from Ennis’ waistband and stalks over to the cowering bastard and shoves the nuzzle of the gun right between his eyes.
Stiles stands up, and between the near-starvation and dehydration, not to mention the damn bullet hole in his arm, he’s so dizzy and lightheaded he has to grip the edge of the toppled table for support; but he can’t take his eyes off Derek, towering over a shocked and frightened Duke.
“We’re leaving,” he declares, voice even but steely, terrifying. “If you or anyone one of your piece of shit lackeys comes for him again, I will hunt down every single one of you and kill you like it’s my fucking job.”
Duke nods, completely subdued and frightened, practically a different man than the one who just moments before was sneering and gloating, thinking he had bested them.
He shoves the pistol even harder against his forehead. “And if I ever hear that you’re cooking and selling your shit around here again, I will bring the full force of my family’s power down on you and everyone you know, you got that, asshole?”
Duke, sufficiently threatened, nods again.
“Good,” Derek says, then pulls the gun away and delivers a fierce, swift punch to his face, rendering him unconscious like the rest of them.
“Holy shit,” Stiles mutters, impressed with Derek anew.
“Stiles,” Derek calls out, turning to run to him, his gorgeous features transforming from vengeful and ferocious to panicked over the effusively bleeding bullet wound in his shoulder.
“It’s okay, I’m okay,” he says, the wooziness hitting him full force now, his body swaying, falling.
He passes out again, but this time, Derek is there to catch him.
Thank you all so very much for your patience! I hope you enjoy this last chapter. Much love to you all, and my eternal thanks for reading and your wonderful comments. <3 <3 <3
The pungent, stinging smell of ammonia yanks Stiles from unconsciousness, a startling clarity zapping his drug-and bloodloss-addled mind. He coughs, eyes flying open to see Derek, an expression of worry and concern on his face that he’s never seen before, one hand cupping the back of his head, the other holding the smelling salts under his nose.
The relief and happiness of seeing Derek is rivaled by the piercing pain in his left shoulder, brutally reminding him that he’s been shot. “Fuck,” he mutters, grimacing.
Derek smiles down at him. “You’re awake,” he says, relieved, the hand cradling his head coming forward, thumb stroking his blood-spattered cheek.
“You’re really here,” Stiles answers, suddenly terrified that Derek’s heroic rescue and his loving kiss in his basement prison had been another drug-induced dream.
“Yeah, I’m really here.” Derek leans down to kiss him again, chaste and sweet. “We need to get you to the hospital,” he tells him. “I stopped the bleeding, but the bullet’s still in your shoulder.”
Stiles nods, and slowly, with Derek’s assistance, sits up. They’re on a dirt road, sitting on the ground behind Derek’s Camaro, weapons and an emergency medical kit scattered around them. Stiles looks down to the bullet hole high on his shoulder, right in the joint of his arm, a surprisingly neat, small wound that Derek has cut off his t-shirt to get to, the filthy fabric now hanging off his other shoulder in tatters. There’s a familiar-looking cotton string trailing out of the bullet hole, and Stiles snorts a laugh, memories of the first night they met rushing back.
“Did you really plug my wound with a tampon?”
Derek smiles. “I told you, they’re great for bullet wounds.”
“I hate you,” Stiles says with a smile, knowing the lie is written all over his dirt and blood smudged face.
Derek laughs, still stroking his cheek. “Yeah, I hate you too.”
The next morning, Stiles awakes in a hospital bed, woozy again, this time from the morphine drip in his arm. His left shoulder is bandaged with thick gauze, and his mouth is dry and bitter tasting, but he doesn’t care, because Derek is still at his side.
“Hey,” he says quietly as Stiles’ eyes flutter open. “How do you feel?” His places a hand gently on Stiles’, fingers lightly clasping his.
“Like I’ve been kidnapped and shot,” he mumbles, intertwining his fingers with Derek’s.
Derek smiles, squeezing his hand. “The surgery went well. They got the bullet out and there wasn’t any major damage. They gave you a blood transfusion and are treating you for dehydration, but you should be out of here in a day or two.”
Stiles nods, which seems like an extraordinary effort, his head feeling like it’s made of stone.
“Have you been here the whole time?”
“Yeah, mostly. The Sheriff and the Marshalls interrogated me for a bit while you were in surgery.”
“And they didn’t arrest you?”
Derek grins. “Nope. I used my own weapons, which are all legal, I didn’t kill anybody, and they seriously doubt Duke’s going to press assault charges, so it’s all good. They’re not thrilled that I did their job for them, but they’ll get over it. Everyone’s just happy that you’re okay. Allison, Erica, and Boyd have been here a lot.”
“Thank you for being a big damn hero and rescuing me.”
“I’m a sucker for a damsel in distress,” Derek replies, smiling again.
Stiles thinks he’s seen Derek smile more in the past two days than he has in all the time he’s known him, and it’s such a strikingly different expression from the knife-edged fierceness he’s accustomed to it cuts through the fog in his head and fills his chest with a comforting, exhilarating warmth, but there’s a lingering doubt creeping in.
“Is this real?” he asks, the thrill of Derek’s smile not quite enough to assuage his fears about his difficulty acknowledging his sexuality, his refusal to come out to his family. “Do you really want to be with me?” Stiles is grateful for his current condition to excuse the tremor in his voice, the fear that this might fall apart at any moment.
Derek holds his gaze for a moment, his hand still clutching his. “Yeah, this is real. I ended things with Jennifer, because I want to be with you and only you.” He swallows hard. “I’m scared as hell…finally accepting this about myself. I’ve been in denial about being gay for so long.” Derek pauses, and then smiles again, with huge sigh. “That’s the first time I’ve said it out loud.”
Stiles remembers, back in high school, the first time he said it out loud, to his best friend Heather, can recall the mix of fear and relief like it was just yesterday. “How does it feel?” he asks.
Derek responds by leaning over to kiss him, sweet and tender. “It feels good,” he smiles, pressing his forehead to Stiles’, smiling. “Scary, but good. And knowing that I’ll have you with me as I figure this out, tell my family…that gives me hope, makes me feel like it will all be okay.” Derek stands up then abruptly, brow furrowed, traces of fear in his impossible gorgeous eyes, the flecks of gold in them flashing in bright contrast against the sea-green. “I mean, if you want to. I could understand if you wouldn’t want to be with me, after everything. After the way I’ve treated you.” There’s a tremor in his voice too, worry written across his expressive face.
Stiles pulls him back into his embrace. “That’s in the past. We’re starting over, and I’m sure as hell not letting you go. You’re stuck with me, big guy.”
Derek smiles again, so blindingly bright and beautiful, happier than Stiles has ever seen him, positively glowing, and he feels the same light, the same rush of happiness, and all of the pain and frustration of the past months fades, like there’s no room in his heart for it anymore.
Derek answers him with another kiss, hands cradling his face again, and Stiles kisses back eagerly, unable to contain his joy.
One month later.
“You don’t have to do this, you know,” Stiles says again. “You know I love to bottom, I don’t need to top.”
“Stiles, for the hundredth time, I want to. I’ve wanted to since the first time we had sex.” Naked, Derek rolls on top of him, straddling Stiles’ waist. “Now shut up and fuck me already, Stilinski.”
Stiles cackles, throwing his head back onto the pillow. “All right, big guy, on your back.” He slaps him on the ass, and Derek laughs too, bends down to kiss him before rolling off, careful not to disturb his almost fully-healed wound.
Licking his lips, heart racing and cock throbbing, Stiles stretches out on top of him, kisses him hungrily, tongue seeking Derek’s, whose mouth opening eagerly for him. It still stuns and mesmerizes Stiles when they kiss – which they do constantly, like they’re making up for all the times they wanted to but didn’t, stuck there hovering on the cusp of it.
Slowly, he moves his mouth down, burying his kiss-swollen lips in Derek’s beard, so full and soft he rubs his cheek against it like a cat, practically purring. He drags his lips and tongue down his neck, smiles at Derek’s happy sigh and shiver. He lays a string of kisses across his collarbones, sucks softly at the hollow of his neck, slides down his body, delighting in the hard muscle under soft skin dusted with thick black hair. He takes a nipple into his mouth, sucking just hard enough to make Derek gasp, then moves on to the other until Derek's lightly panting, his erection pressing into Stiles’ stomach, leaving streaks of precome.
Stiles continues to slide down his body, worshipping each and every inch of him. With the most tender of touches, he moves farther down and traces his mouth over the web of scars on Derek’s right side, the smooth, raised skin slightly tough on his lips and tongue. Derek shudders underneath him, and Stiles continues his loving caresses, kissing each long-healed wound with reverence until he hears a small, choking sob, oh-so-quiet, like Derek’s trying to hide it. He slides back up so he’s lying atop him again, chest-to-chest, presses himself firmly against him. He cradles his face, stroking his beard, and in the dim light, he sees unshed tears shining in his eyes, making them glitter even more than usual.
“Hey,” he says softly. Derek takes deep, steadying breath, closes his eyes. “Hey,” Stiles says again, thumbs stilling on his cheeks. Derek opens his eyes and meets gaze, looking at him with such wonder, such affection and awe, Stiles can barely breathe. “I love you,” tells him, for the first time, without fear or worry. Derek sighs and smiles, a single tear slipping from one eye, sliding down his temple. Stiles kisses it away, places a gentle kiss on each of his eyelids, shivering at the brush of his long lashes against his lips.
“I love you,” Derek says, voice quiet but strong despite the tremor. “God, Stiles, I love you so much.”
Stiles feels his own eyes grow hot and wet, overwhelmed with the flood of joy and wonder, heart feeling so full of love for this beautiful, flawed-but-perfect man, his man, his love, awed and infinitely grateful that Derek loves him too.
They’ve fucked countless times, but it’s never been like this. Never been so intense, yet so languid and sweet, so gentle and loving, something altogether different from the feverish anger and frustration that drove all of their previous encounters.
Derek gives himself to Stiles completely, letting him take control, which Stiles wields gently, lovingly. He kisses down his stomach and takes him into his mouth, sucks him softly before moving further down and spreads his legs, grips his thick thighs and pushes them up towards Derek’s chest so he can get at him. He slowly, teasingly circles his muscled rim with the tip of his tongue until Derek is moaning, then slides it in and out until he’s gasping. His spit-slick finger slips in easily, and he slowly stretches him, crooking his finger just so, reaches for the lube to open him further when Derek begs for more.
When Derek's ready, open and wet, panting, both of them achingly hard and throbbing, Stiles rises to his knees and drags a hand up the inside of his thigh and lightly circles his cock, strokes him while guiding himself in with his other hand. Stiles breaches him slowly, the head of his cock stretching him more. Derek throws his head back and grasps at the sheets, and Stiles knows the pain-tinged pleasure he’s feeling, the aching ecstasy of the first time.
“Stiles,” he moans, wanting more, part plea, part demand. Unable to deny him and his own urgent need, he sinks farther into him, faster now, until he’s buried deep, all of him inside his tight, hungry heat.
“Der,” he groans, wanting to go slow, make this last as long as he can, but he’s full-to-bursting with pleasure, overwhelmed with how amazing he feels, how incredible it is to have Derek’s legs splayed around his hips, to see the tightening of his sculpted abs as he rocks against him, to hear moans and gasps he never has before, so sweet and deep he can feel their reverberations with each thrust.
He angles his hips down and rocks harder into him, seeking his prostate, is rewarded with the most beautiful sound in the world, Derek’s loud cry of pleasure as he hits the spot. It only takes a few more hard thrusts, a few tight strokes of his cock, and then Derek’s entire body goes rigid for a long, long moment, then shudders and shakes as he comes, still crying out, spilling thick and hot over Stiles’ hand, across his flexing stomach.
Stiles’ own orgasm hits him like a fierce wave, rising and cresting with such force he collapses across Derek’s chest, hips losing their gentle rhythm and spasming hard, hot rushes of ecstasy filling him from head to toe, his entire body licked with the flames pleasure, coming deep inside of him, filling him up.
Both of them spent, Stiles collapses on top of him, splays cross his chest, spreading Derek’s warm mess across his own belly. Derek wraps his arms around his back, pulling him closer, and buries his face in Stiles’ neck, breathing deep.
They’re quiet for awhile, hands lingering and dragging across each other’s bodies, familiar yet new, utterly content and blissed-out.
Finally, Stiles speaks. “So, was it good for you?” he teases, smirking into Derek’s shoulder.
Derek snort-laughs, groaning. “I hate you,” he teases back.
“Yeah,” Stiles answers, certain that this is the beginning of forever. “I hate you too.”