The heat is stifling.
Stiles has his window pushed wide. His door is propped open and the fan is on full power. He’s dressed in nothing but a pair of boxers and he’s still hot. It’s that kind of late-afternoon heat where you feel a little breathless, like you want to collapse in the coolest place you can find and sleep until the night comes and brings a little respite.
He’s sitting in the chair at his desk, googling for some information that he needs for a History paper. Well -- that was the original purpose of the googling but he got a little sidetracked. Something about the heat and the partial nudity has made Stiles horny. He’s seventeen, it doesn’t take much. So now, instead of doing homework, he’s scrolling through his likes on Tumblr looking for a video to watch. He shifts in his chair and winces as the leather seat sticks to the backs of his thighs, tacky with sweat.
His dick is already starting to thicken in anticipation. Stiles frowns as he notices -- not for the first time -- just how many of the videos he’s marked have guys in them who are dark and stubbly and kind of dangerous-looking. He doesn’t allow himself to examine the reasons for this too closely. Everyone has a type, yes? And so what if he sometimes has dreams about Derek. Stiles can’t control his subconscious and clearly, his subconscious has noticed that Derek is pretty hot. Hell, you’d have to be blind not to notice that Derek is hot. He’s pretty much the hottest thing that Stiles has ever seen; it actually hurts to look at him too closely.
The sound of movement behind him has Stiles slamming his laptop shut and spinning around on his chair to face the window.
“Still not got the hang of that little thing we call a doorbell then, huh?” He glares at Derek, while thanking his lucky stars that he hadn’t actually gotten down to business yet. What with the whole breaking and entering thing that keeps happening, Derek catching him jerking off is one of Stiles’ biggest fears. If Stiles is honest, it’s also developed into a kind of a twisted fantasy too; but definitely one that he’d prefer not to act out anytime soon, because he has no desire to die of embarrassment before he even gets to his eighteenth birthday.
“This is quicker.” Derek looks completely unapologetic as he swings his legs over the sill and drops to the floor, far more quietly and gracefully than should be possible for someone of his impressive build.
Derek straightens up and is still for a moment, his chest rising and falling steadily as Stiles meets his eyes and waits. Derek is never very forthcoming with explanations. But over the year or so that they’ve known each other, Stiles has learned that keeping silent is often the best way of getting Derek to speak. It’s a shame Stiles sucks at being quiet.
The sudden appearance of Derek was an effective boner-killer, but now that the shock is wearing off Stiles’ eyes rake over Derek and take in his unusually flustered-looking state.
Derek has clearly been running.
The slight elevation in his breathing implies he’s been running fast, for a long time. His gray wifebeater is sweat-stained dark in patches, and he’s staring at Stiles as though he’s a particularly difficult puzzle that Derek is trying to solve. He lifts an arm and wipes the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. Stiles’ eyes flicker down to the flash of dark hair in Derek’s armpit and get caught there for a fraction longer than is appropriate. Fuck. He could do with super senses right about now. Hot, sweaty Derek is extra hot, and Stiles longs to be able to catch the scent of him. He imagines pressing his face into that dark hair and breathing Derek in, and his cock starts to take an interest again. Stiles can feel the pulse of it as it begins to fill and he wishes he was wearing more clothes and not just these embarrassing boxers that are covered in cartoon characters.
Derek’s nostrils flare then and Stiles feels his whole body flush with humiliation at the sudden knowledge that Derek can smell his arousal, and hear the sudden spike in Stiles’ heart rate as the blood rushes to his dick in a heady and uncontrollable surge.
“Why are you here, Derek?” Stiles turns his chair back to his desk, ignoring his growing erection and opening a book. He flicks through it, trying to look as though he’s being purposeful. It’s easier now that he doesn’t have to look at Derek; but he can feel the prickle of the hairs on the back of his neck as they rise. It’s as though Derek’s eyes are raking over him, raising gooseflesh in their wake.
“I’m not sure.” Derek’s voice is rough, but there’s a genuine edge of confusion to it that makes Stiles turn back enough to see Derek’s face. His brow is furrowed and he lifts his arm again to wipe more sweat away. His breathing is still rapid and Stiles feels a spike of concern. That’s not normal for Derek, he normally recovers within a minute after running but his chest is still lifting visibly, his ribcage stretching the thin fabric of his tank as his breath rasps in the silence of Stiles’ room.
“Are you okay, dude?” Stiles focuses on Derek’s face again. There’s a glassy sheen to Derek’s eyes and an unnatural flush tints his perfect cheekbones.
“I’m not sure,” Derek says again. “I feel... weird. I was jittery all morning, couldn’t settle to anything. I thought running would help, and I ran and ran... but...” he trails off, shrugging helplessly. “I ended up here.” One of his hands strays down towards the crotch of his jeans and Stiles’ eyes follow the movement, but then Derek lifts it away again and drags both his hands through his hair, making it stick up wildly. Stiles’ eyes stay south, drawn by the movement and getting stuck on the bulge in Derek’s pants.
Derek’s cock is a hard line under the denim, rigid, angled slightly so that the zipper doesn’t hide anything. It’s fully erect, straining against the fabric and -- Jesus fucking Christ -- it’s pretty much as big as Stiles has always imagined it would be. Stiles knows he’s staring, but he can’t help himself. Does Derek even realize that he’s hard?
He drags his eyes back up to Derek’s face and suddenly Stiles knows something is very wrong with Derek, because Derek’s looking at Stiles with an expression that’s unlike anything Stiles has ever seen on Derek’s face before. He’s looking at Stiles like he’s something to eat -- but in the good way, in the definitely very-sexual-indeed way. Derek’s hand is on his dick now, pressing and rubbing through the denim, and if Derek didn’t know he was hard before he’s definitely working it out right about now. A low moan comes out of Derek’s mouth that makes Stiles’ toes curl and his dick ache in sympathy.
“Stiles.” His voice is almost a whimper; it would be pathetic if it wasn’t so confusingly hot.
Stiles stands. He’s not sure what he’s going to do; but he needs to do something, because Derek’s clearly sick, or poisoned, or under some kind of enchantment. He approaches Derek carefully, hands out as though to calm him. He’s aware of his own dick, inappropriately tenting his ridiculous boxers and he tries to will his hard-on away, but with little success because Derek is eye-fucking him with that hand on his dick and Stiles’ hormones are in overdrive right about now.
“What’s the matter with you?” He presses a tentative hand towards Derek’s forehead and the heat rolls off him, bleeding into Stiles’ fingertips before he even makes contact. His skin is burning, slick with sweat where Stiles’ fingers brush lightly. “You have a fever. We should get you to Deaton, you must be sick.”
But Derek shakes his head. Stiles jumps as he feels Derek’s hands grip his hips, hard and hot and very determined. He pulls Stiles in close and buries his face in Stiles’ neck, sniffing his skin blatantly in a line from collarbone to jaw before rubbing his stubbled cheek against Stiles’ and growling. “I don’t feel sick.” He pulls Stiles’ hips in further, making Stiles yelp as his cock smashes into Derek’s groin. Derek’s hands slip down under the waistband of Stiles’ boxers to grab his ass and squeeze.
“Jesus, Derek,” Stiles yelps. He’s torn between pushing Derek away and pulling him closer. He compromises with the deer-in-headlights technique of staying completely still, hands braced against the solid wall of muscle that is Derek’s chest, even while Derek starts to grind their cocks together. It takes all Stiles’ self control not to grind right back, because he’s only human and he’s been waiting a long time to get into a situation that involves grinding of any sort, let alone grinding against someone as hot and eager as Derek is right now. It’s fucking typical that now it’s finally happening, it’s clearly with someone who isn’t in their right mind.
Derek’s still nosing at his neck, and really Stiles feels like he deserves a fucking medal for self-control here because what he actually wants to do is climb Derek like a tree, and here he is doing his best not to respond to the press and rub of Derek’s denim-clad cock against his own. It feels really fucking good; he knows that when all this weirdness is over his dick is going to hate him for this. But he drags his brain back on track and manages to speak again.
“Well, maybe you don’t feel sick. But still I don’t think all is quite right in Derek-world right now. You’re not exactly behaving in a way that’s... fuck!” Stiles hisses and jerks as Derek pulls his hips even closer and he feels the unmistakable hot, wet swipe of Derek’s tongue on his neck. “Okay -- you definitely need Deaton!”
But then one of Derek’s hands slips determinedly around and fastens itself to Stiles’ cock and squeezes.
“No I don’t.” Derek’s voice is like black treacle, trickling into Stiles’ ear and across his cheek as Derek drags his lips over to Stiles’ mouth. Then he whispers, soft against Stiles’ lips, three little words that finally destroy all of Stiles’ good intentions. “I need you.”
Stiles’ knees literally go weak as Derek licks into his mouth and then there’s nothing soft about the way he’s kissing Stiles. It’s all need and hunger and the clash of teeth and rasp of stubble. The burn of Derek’s scruff on Stiles’ face and the dart of his tongue make Stiles moan and clutch at Derek for support. Derek’s fingers are still wrapped around Stiles’ cock and he’s achingly hard already, leaking slick into the grip of Derek’s fist as he pumps him, the slow and steady strokes a shocking contrast to the desperation of his kiss.
Stiles realizes that he’s going to come embarrassingly, humiliatingly fast. It’s barely been a couple of minutes even, and he tries to stop it -- to stop Derek -- but he can’t break away from the kiss to warn him. His stifled cry of protest turns into one of mortified pleasure as he spurts over Derek’s fist, his balls aching and cock throbbing with release. His legs give out for real then, and Stiles feels like the world whites out for a second as the room tilts around him. Then Derek’s mouth is gone from his and Stiles sees his bedroom ceiling and feels rumpled sheets under the bare skin of his back as he’s pushed down onto the bed. Derek’s there, kneeling between his thighs, literally tearing at Stiles’ boxers.
“Let me...” Stiles protests, about to help shove them down and off, but the sound of tearing stitches suggest he’s too late to save them. “Aw, dude. Those were my favorites.”
Derek pauses then, just for a fraction of a second, but the incredulous tilt of his eyebrow as he looks up at Stiles speaks volumes. Then Derek’s mouth is on Stiles’ still-hard and sensitive dick and giving Stiles a little perspective. Snoopy and Woodstock boxers vs. Derek Hale’s tongue doing that to the head of his dick? No contest. Derek can destroy all of the underwear that Stiles owns if he’ll just keep doing that forever. His mouth is like hot, wet velvet, and as he growls around Stiles’ cock, Stiles is aware that this is all really pretty awesome and not as scary as it probably ought to be.
“Fuck.” Stiles is losing it again. He never really came down from his first orgasm and he’s hard again -- still? -- and Derek sucking on him is too much. He twists his fingers into Derek’s hair and pulls, hard. “Derek... stop a minute; I need a breather.”
Derek pulls off, frowning his displeasure, and -- oh God -- there’s come on his lip and that makes Stiles’ cock twitch in a way that turns Derek’s frown into a smirk. He moves swiftly then, crawling up Stiles’ body to suck on his neck, caging him with his arms and Stiles pushes his hand up under the back of Derek’s tank. He’s still burning hot and Stiles’ hands slide easily over the taut muscle and smooth sweat-slick skin. It feels unbelievably amazing and Stiles wants more. Whatever the fuck this is -- this magic or force of nature that has made Derek want him -- now that Stiles has given into it, he’s going to damn well make the most of it in case it’s the only chance he ever gets.
“Off,” he gasps, pulling at Derek’s sweat-soaked top. “You’re not nearly naked enough.”
Derek doesn’t take much persuasion, he lifts up, straddling Stiles’ waist and raises his arms to pull it up and over his head. Stiles takes the opportunity to get to work on Derek’s fly, he scrabbles frantically at the buttons with more enthusiasm than success. But in his defense the thick outline of Derek’s cock is very distracting, and the wet patch at the tip of it even more so. Fortunately Derek’s manual dexterity seems unaffected by his obvious arousal and he lends a hand once he’s tossed his tank aside.
Stiles is mesmerized as Derek’s cock springs free, hard and uncut and perfect. He’s commando, and Stiles isn’t even surprised, because this whole afternoon is turning into one big sexual fantasy of epic proportions. Derek’s pants are down and off before Stiles manages to drag his eyes back up to Derek’s face, his stupidly-beautiful, usually-scowly face.
Derek’s not scowling now. His brows are drawn together but his expression is one of intensity and desire, not irritation. His face is flushed and his eyes are dark and desperate. He makes a sound that’s somewhere between a growl and a whimper and then he’s kissing and nipping Stiles’ neck again and there are teeth -- thankfully still human shaped -- scraping, and suction. Stiles is going to be covered in marks but he can’t bring himself to care, because Derek’s cock is rubbing against his and Derek’s hands are all over him and nothing else matters.
“God... Stiles,” Derek moans against the abused skin of Stiles’ neck. “I need...” He gets distracted, finding Stiles’ mouth again and plunging his tongue inside, fucking it into Stiles’ mouth in a way that makes speech impossible for a moment. His hand is on Stiles’ balls, cupping and squeezing and then a dry fingertip snakes back to circle Stiles’ hole.
Stiles squirms and makes a strangled sound into Derek’s mouth, and he’s not even sure if it’s a sound of protest or pleasure because Derek’s finger is pressing and pushing, catching on the sensitive skin. Stiles might not have much sexual experience to speak of other than the solo variety, but he knows that lubrication is desirable for this venture. He’s tried fingering himself without it, and it’s not something he’s keen to repeat. Derek’s fingertip is more insistent, and the burning stretch makes Stiles jerk and his legs squeeze Derek’s hips convulsively. Derek stills and breaks the kiss, his breathing harsh and heavy.
“I have to be in you.” His eyes flare red for a moment. “Stiles... please.”
The words sound as though they’re being forced out. He looks as though he’s in pain now, and Stiles believes that this is more than just wanting. Whatever’s going on with Derek he needs Stiles right now, he needs this, and he’s asking Stiles to help him. And compared to all the things that Stiles has ever done for Derek, this seems comparatively easy. It’s not like Derek’s asking Stiles to cut any limbs off this time. Stiles has wanted to lose his virginity for what feels like forever, and okay, perhaps he might have liked to have gotten to top for his first time and maybe been taken out for dinner first, but Derek is hot and more than willing, and beggars can’t be choosers.
“Okay,” Stiles says soothingly. He reaches out and grabs Derek’s face, holding it in both his hands, forcing Derek to stay focused on him. “Okay, we can do that. But we need lube; it’s in the drawer by my bed.”
Derek moves like lightning, returning with the bottle in his hand. He offers it to Stiles who frowns, confused. “I thought you’d want to do the honors, but okay.” He takes the bottle and squeezes some slick onto his fingers, then passes it back. “Put some on your dick too.”
“I don’t...” Derek pauses and his eyes follow Stiles’ hand as he reaches back to circle his hole with the tips of two fingers. “Fuck.” Derek’s eyes watch their movement. “I’ve never...” he tries again, but words fail him as Stiles breaches himself with his fingers and pushes his way inside. Stiles usually goes slower, one at a time, but he feels the urgency pouring off Derek and gets the feeling that he won’t be able to wait. He thrusts in firmly, ignoring the sting, knowing it won’t last long. He slides his fingers in and out, deeper with each press and twist and adds a third, hissing through the burn and stretch as he readies himself for Derek’s cock.
Derek’s wrapped a hand around himself. His cock is shiny-wet with lube and precome and Derek’s hand is still, just squeezing hard as though he’s holding himself back from coming already. “Jesus, Stiles. If you could see how you look right now.” His eyes are fixed on Stiles’ fingers as they slip in and out of the tight clutch of his body.
Stiles huffs out a laugh. “I don’t want to. I have enough complexes already without adding embarrassing sex faces to my list of things to worry about.”
Derek shakes his head. “You look hot.” From the expression on his face, Stiles can almost believe him. Derek reaches down, tracing his finger around Stiles’ hole where he’s stretched tight. “Can I?”
“Sure.” Stiles hisses as he lets his fingers slip free, and then grunts as Derek presses his in their place. He curls them in and presses up and Stiles jerks as they slide over what he can only assume is his prostate. He’s been looking for it for a while but obviously hadn’t gotten the angle quite right, because fuck. Now he knows where it’s been hiding he’s definitely going to be finding it again on a regular basis. Derek groans as Stiles writhes on his fingers, and Stiles can see how much it’s killing Derek to be inside Stiles with his fingers but not with his cock.
“Right. Have at me.” He hitches his hips encouragingly. “I’m totally ready.”
He yelps with surprise when Derek pulls his fingers out, then lifts him and flips him over onto his front. Derek pulls his hips up and Stiles gasps as he feels the hot, wet slide of Derek’s cockhead over his hole. This wasn’t even a thing that he knew he wanted, but now that they’re here and it’s happening he’s desperate for it, pushing back to meet the pressure. He can feel his body opening up for Derek.
Derek groans as he starts to push inside. He sounds wrecked, broken, and Stiles wants to see him.
“Stop,” he gasps out. Derek freezes, fingers bruising Stiles’ hips as he grips him tighter. But he stops pushing, pausing with the head of his cock right there, stretching Stiles wide. “Not like this. I want to see you, not my pillow.”
They both moan as Derek withdraws. The loss is almost painful for Stiles; he can’t imagine how hard it was for Derek to stop right then. He flips hurriedly onto his back and pulls his knees up toward his chest, offering himself. He feels more exposed like this, soft and vulnerable, but it’s worth it to be able to see Derek’s face as he finally sinks in slowly. He pushes steadily until he’s balls-deep and Stiles is full, his insides burning from the pressure and just-bearable stretch. He feels his body clench around Derek and tries to relax, to let Derek have this, have him. For once in his life Stiles struggles to make words happen, so he arches his hips instead and wraps his legs around Derek’s hips, pulling and encouraging him to move. “Slowly,” he manages.
Derek is gentle at first, his movements tightly controlled. Derek’s eyes are fixed on where they’re joined, watching as he sinks carefully into Stiles with every shallow thrust. Each drag of his cock burns a little less and Stiles starts to move with him, urging him on.
“It’s okay now.” He reaches up, curling his hand around the nape of Derek’s neck. “Feels good.”
And it does. It feels incredible. It’s nothing like Stiles’ fingers. Derek’s cock is smoother, gentler in some ways than the bony twist of knuckles and the jeopardy of fingernails. But it’s so much bigger; longer and thicker, and just better than anything that Stiles has ever felt. The stretch and fullness makes him gasp with every thrust, like he’s being jerked off from the inside out without even touching his dick.
Derek’s moving faster now and his skin is burning hot under Stiles’ touch. He runs his palms over Derek’s back. He’s slick with sweat, the muscles bunching and clenching as he fucks into Stiles, harder and harder. Derek’s mouth is on all of the parts of Stiles that he can reach, sucking and biting at his neck and shoulders, tongue dipping between Stiles’ lips for deep, searing kisses. His hands are tight on Stiles’ hips, fingertips pressing in like a brand, pulling him further onto his cock like he’s trying to climb inside him and stay there. He’s growling with every thrust, and when his teeth scrape over Stiles’ collarbones the sharp pain only makes Stiles moan and pull Derek closer, fisting his hand into Derek’s hair and hanging on.
Derek shifts, sitting back on his knees and hauling Stiles into his lap. Stiles flails for a moment as the change in position takes him by surprise, but Derek’s hands on his hips hold him up, supporting Stiles as he gets his legs around Derek’s waist. Derek’s cock feels even deeper inside him in his position, gravity pulling Stiles further down onto him with every lift and sink. Derek’s utterly in control, fucking up into Stiles as he lifts him like he weighs nothing. Stiles just wraps his arms around Derek’s shoulders and clings to him, pressing close so that his cock is squashed between them with every hot, slick slide of their bodies. He feels the pressure building deep inside, uncurling in his balls, tingling in his cock as Derek thrusts harder, faster.
“Oh my God... fuck... fuck!” Stiles babbles. “Jesus, Derek... fuck.”
His cock explodes, shooting hot, thick strands of come between them. Even Stiles can smell the bitter tang of it. It’s like a switch is flipped and Derek loses it, fucking into Stiles hard and then holding him down, pinning him on Derek’s cock as it pulses and swells inside him. Derek comes and comes, his face pressed into Stiles’ neck, his noises barely human. Stiles is aware of an increase in pressure that makes him gasp and freak out a little. It’s not like he has any frame of reference for this, but something feels weird. There’s a new stretch and burn and Stiles instinctively tries to lift himself off Derek’s dick even though Derek is apparently still coming, fingers curling into Stiles’ hips, thrusting up and moaning. But the stretched feeling increases exponentially when Stiles pulls away. He cries out in pain, not pleasure, and Derek yelps too.
“Stiles, no!” He grabs Stiles and holds him still.
They’re locked together. Stiles in Derek’s lap, limbs wrapped around him. He can still feel Derek’s cock twitching inside him; the pressure is almost unbearable. He presses his face into Derek’s shoulder and tries to breathe, pushing down the waves of panic that are building.
“What’s happening?” He grips Derek’s arms, feeling the flex of Derek’s biceps as he holds Stiles close. “What the hell is this?”
“Fuck.” Derek’s breath is hot across his chest where his face is buried. “I’m sorry... I didn’t know... I didn’t realize.”
“Didn’t realize what?” Stiles pants into his neck, trying to relax, resisting the urge to try and pull away again. He can feel the unforgiving pressure of Derek’s cock inside him, the tug of where they’re joined. “What the fuck’s the matter with your dick?”
Derek groans, a low pained sound and he pulses inside Stiles again, sending a new dart of pain-pleasure jolting through Stiles, making him shudder and grip Derek more tightly. “It’s called a knot,” Derek mutters, face still smashed against Stiles’ skin. “I’m sorry... I didn’t know this would happen.”
“A what now?” Stiles shifts in Derek’s lap and it feels like he’s got a fist inside him -- not that he’d know how that would feel, but Stiles has seen photos on the internet and he has an active imagination. “Fuck.” All the air in his lungs puffs out with the word and he stills again.
Derek’s arms tighten around him, holding him still. “A knot. It’s a wolf thing -- like foxes and dogs. You know... when they mate and they get stuck together. I had no idea...” his voice trails off.
There’s a long silence while Stiles digests this piece of information. They cling to each other, their bodies pressed tight in a position of extreme intimacy that they no longer have any choice about. Derek’s still so hard inside Stiles, pressing on his prostate and Stiles’ dick is trying to get hard again which really shouldn’t be possible. It makes it difficult for him to think.
“Fuck,” he says again. “We’re so fucked.” And that seems to pretty much sum up the current situation.
“I must be in heat.” Derek’s voice is barely more than a whisper now. “But I didn’t recognise it for what it was. It’s been so long. I’m sorry.”
Stiles lifts his head from Derek’s neck -- which smells totally awesome by the way -- and looks down at the dark head. He frees an arm and tugs on Derek’s hair, making him tilt his head back so that Stiles can see his face. He’s still flushed and Stiles can feel that unnatural heat, still pulsing through Derek’s body, under his skin and it all makes sense now. But the wild look in his eyes has calmed and Stiles can see shame and mortification as Derek’s eyes slide away from his.
“Hey.” Stiles leans down and presses his forehead against Derek’s. He brings both hands up to cup his face, Derek’s stubble is rough against Stiles’ palms as he holds him and stops him from hanging his head in shame. “It’s okay. You didn’t know.”
They rest like that for a moment, the tension ebbing out of their bodies. Stiles is adjusting to the stretch and ache of Derek’s knot; the pressure isn’t painful anymore. He wriggles slightly in Derek’s lap making both of them gasp, and Derek’s arms tighten reflexively. Stiles lifts his head again and rests his chin on the top of Derek’s head. The air in Stiles’ room is still hot and thick, the scent of sweat and come strong even to Stiles’ human nose.
“It’s a good job my dad’s working late tonight,” Stiles says. “Because this really wouldn’t be a fun thing to have to explain to him if he was expecting me down for dinner.” Derek’s laughter gusts warm against his neck. “Oh hey, Dad. I’ll be down later. I’m just impaled on Derek Hale’s dick right now and I can’t get off it for a while. That would go down well.” That suddenly makes him wonder. “So, how long will it be exactly? I mean... you didn’t know this would happen today, but you must know the basics of werewolf facts of life?”
“I’m not sure... maybe half an hour?” Derek shrugs slightly, his arms relaxing a little more around Stiles.
Stiles just lets Derek hold him up, thinking for a moment how utterly insane his life is. Just when he thinks things can’t get any crazier, something like this happens. He’s just lost his virginity to a werewolf, and now he’s literally stuck on said werewolf’s penis. Stiles has heard that it can be awkward in the aftermath when you have sex with someone, but this is a whole new level of awkward. The only consolation is that Derek is arguably more embarrassed than Stiles.
“Oww!” Stiles jerks, and the knot tugs inside him again. “Fuck… sorry, I’ve got cramp in my leg.” A muscle in the back of his thigh has seized up, pain shooting sharp and unbearable from his ass to the back of his knee.
Derek moves swiftly and thank God for superhuman strength, because somehow he manages to lie down on his back with Stiles on top of him. They’re still tied together of course, but Stiles can stretch his legs down a little in this position, so it’s more comfortable. The cramp eases and Stiles sighs with relief. He’s sprawled on Derek’s chest now, his face tucked into Derek’s neck. Damn, it should be illegal to smell that good; Stiles resists the urge to nuzzle in further. Derek’s other arm is laid loosely over Stiles, resting in the small of his back and Stiles relaxes against him.
“I’m sorry,” Derek says again. His voice rumbles under Stiles’ ear and the hand on the small of Stiles’ back shifts slightly, fingertips grazing his skin in an almost imperceptible movement.
“Hey, it’s not so bad,” Stiles assures him. “Now I’ve got used to your freaky dick, this is actually way more pleasurable than keeping you afloat in a swimming pool.” It’s true. He’s adjusted to the width of Derek’s knot and it’s starting to feel good again, all tingling pressure and fullness. Stiles’ dick is pressed against the hot skin of Derek’s abs and is thickening fast. Just the movement of their bodies as they breathe is enough to make the knot press deliciously into Stiles with every slight raise and dip. He can feel his heart rate pick up and his inner muscles cling to the knot, a reflex that he can’t control. Derek growls, a low rumble and his hands move to grip Stiles’ hips.
“Stiles,” he warns. “This isn’t going to help the knot go down.”
Stiles squirms and then gasps as the sensation flares out from where they’re joined, hot and bright and too much for him to resist. He moves again, deliberately this time. He can’t pull away to actually let Derek thrust so he grinds instead, pressing himself down against Derek and squeezing his muscles tight. “Oh God,” he mumbles into Derek’s neck. “Can I? It seems a shame to waste it.” He lifts his head and looks down at Derek, face flushed, mouth slack.
Derek nods and Stiles grins.
He sits back on his heels, cramp gone and forgotten, and tries to figure out how to make this work. The knot doesn’t allow an actual up-and-down fucking kind of motion, but Stiles manages to find a rhythm of wriggle-grind-squeeze that is working out pretty damn well for him. He goes slowly, letting it build, taking his time. From the increasingly desperate sounds that Derek is making he’s guessing that it’s working out okay for Derek too. But Stiles feels like he should check.
“Is this okay?” He moves faster and clenches his muscles more tightly. He brings a hand to his erection and starts to stroke, and fuck -- he’s close again.
“Yeah.” Derek’s breathless, his eyes rake over Stiles like he’s trying to learn every part of him to keep. They linger on his mouth, his nipples, his dick. He pushes Stiles’ hand away and wraps his own fingers around Stiles’ cock, thumb gliding over the head as he jacks it. “Yeah it’s good. I want to see you come again.”
“If you say shit like that it’s not gonna take long.” Stiles can feel his toes curling; the pleasure growing, spreading, making him desperate. He presses down hard, and Derek strokes him faster, squeezing and twisting just the sensitive head of his cock and Stiles is flying, crying out as his body spasms around Derek’s knot, and his overused cock shoots for the third time that afternoon and the fourth time that day -- a pathetically small white splash on Derek’s belly. “Fuck… fuck,” he moans, body shuddering with the force of his orgasm. Derek’s hips are thrusting up, pressing his knot impossibly deeper as it swells again and he comes with a roar, pulsing and spilling as Stiles twitches around him and collapses forward onto Derek’s chest when his muscles finally give out.
They lie, still locked together as their breathing steadies, and Stiles is dimly aware of Derek’s hands stroking him. His palms smooth over the damp skin of Stiles’ back, grazing his shoulder blades. Fingertips trace up the bumps of his spine and skate over the short fuzz of his hair. Derek’s slowing heart is a soothing beat that Stiles can feel in his bones as it vibrates through the both of them.
Unusually, it’s Derek who finally breaks the silence.
“I’m glad it was you.”
Stiles lifts his head to look at Derek and his stupid-beautiful face. It’s early evening now, and the light in Stiles’ room is dim, but Stiles can see enough. Derek’s face is open and trusting, peaceful in a way that Stiles has never seen it and Stiles is shot through with a stab of something tender and terrifying. Because no; he can’t have feelings like this for Derek. He squashes them down and away.
“Why was it me?” he asks. “Why not one of the pack? I’m sure Erica would have obliged, and I don’t think Isaac would be averse either.”
Derek shrugs, his face not giving anything away. “Instinct brought me here.”
Stiles doesn’t know what to say to that, so he lowers his head back onto Derek’s shoulder and breathes him in while they wait for Derek’s knot to subside and release them.
He hears soft footsteps and then gentle hands turn him onto his back and Derek’s there in the darkness, a stark silhouette against the light from the hallway, wiping the dried come from his belly with a washcloth.
“Hey,” Stiles murmurs.
“Hey,” Derek replies. He pushes Stiles’ legs apart to clean between Stiles’ thighs where he’s slick and sticky with Derek’s come that has spilled out of him while he slept.
When Stiles is clean, Derek pulls the sheet up to Stiles’ waist and takes the washcloth to the bathroom. Derek’s still naked, Stiles observes as he returns. His dick hangs soft and limp now, so harmless-looking, but Stiles can feel the sweet, burning ache where it was lodged inside him. He tries not to watch like a creeper as Derek pulls his clothes back on. They seem to have survived mostly unscathed, unlike Stiles’ boxers.
Derek sits on the edge of Stiles’ bed. “I guess I should go,” he says. Stiles can’t see his expression in the darkness and his voice doesn’t give anything away.
Stiles tries to ignore the stupid lurch of hurt in his belly. What was he expecting? Derek needed him, but now it’s over. He seems back to normal now; the heat must have passed. They need to move on from this and Stiles needs to deal with it. He turns to humor as a defense mechanism; it’s never failed him before.
“Well this was fun.” His voice sounds brittle to his own ears, like he’s trying too hard to keep it light. “Let’s do it again sometime.” He forces out a dry chuckle, but he doubts whether he’s fooling Derek.
“Actually, I was wondering…” Derek’s voice is gruff and hesitant, but he reaches out his hand and takes Stiles’ where it rests on the sheets, twisting their fingers together. Suddenly Stiles can’t breathe as he waits for Derek to continue. “I was wondering if I could maybe… buy you a coffee or something?”
Stiles’ burst of laughter is probably really inappropriate but he can’t help himself. Derek’s fingers tighten painfully around his. “Oh my God… sorry, dude. It’s just that I think you at least owe me a meal for helping you out. But yeah -- although actually I prefer milkshake -- but some sort of beverage would be cool.”
“Tomorrow -- after school?” Derek’s grip has loosened again now, and his fingers are drawing distracting circles on the palm of Stiles’ hand.
“Okay.” Stiles’ half-asleep fucked-out brain is still trying to catch up with exactly what’s happening here.
“It’s a date then.” Derek sounds pleased, like really pleased and Stiles suddenly works it out.
“Oh fuck, it really is. It’s an actual date. Okay then.” He’s grinning like an idiot and the words keep coming, because he’s Stiles and he’s over-excited and that’s how he rolls. “Now, I know I’ve already put out, but I think my ass will need some time to recover before we try that again, heat or no heat, just so you know… but I guess I might be able to manage a blow job?”
Derek leans down and shuts him up with a kiss. It’s soft and sweet but over far too quickly, and then he’s up and out of Stiles’ bed, swinging his legs over the sill of the open window. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Stiles.”