“What’s the word, hummingbird?” Stiles says when he answers the phone, and Derek rolls his eyes extra hard to convince himself that he doesn’t find the dorkiness even a little bit cute.
“You shouldn’t send me text messages like that,” Derek says, making his voice firm. “What if your dad saw?”
Stiles hums dismissively. “So what? He already knows we’re dating. I’m pretty sure he can extrapolate from our current situation that I find you sexually appealing. He’s pretty sharp.”
“He solves crimes—hmmmmm—for a living,” Stiles adds, and his breathing is…
“Are you…” Derek slows to a stop and leans against a tree. “Are you actually. Right now?”
“I told yooooooooou,” Stiles says, moaning out those vowels in an unnecessarily showy way that has Derek sighing in exasperation even as he adjusts the renewed hardness in his still-damp jeans. “Mm, yes, I was gonna ask you to send me a picture with your shirt off, but—”
“Absolutely not,” Derek breathes. But only because he doesn’t want to take the phone away from his ear.
“—but it doesn’t, it doesn’t even matter because, fuck, just your voice is—are you home yet?”
Derek flushes, the sharp sting of his embarrassment helping to cool his ardor a little. “Uh, no. I’m not.”
“Hmmmmnnn? Why not? I dropped you off… forever ago.”
“I had to go back to the theater to get my car,” Derek admits, hoping Stiles will be too caught up in his pleasure to ask questions, but—
“Huh?” Stiles has stopped; Derek can tell, because his voice has lost its vagueness and the barely-there sound of skin brushing against skin isn’t going on in the background anymore. “You drove to the theater? But… you let me drive you home! Or, you know, partway. When I asked, you—”
“I didn’t…” Derek lets out a gusty breath, closing his eyes. “Things were going well.”
“Almost magically so, yes,” Stiles agrees, and Derek loves that he can picture the particular shape of Stiles’ smile, just from his voice. He wonders how long he’s been able to do that; it’s not a standard feature of his enhanced hearing, that’s for sure. “So you just, what,” Stiles is saying, and Derek hears a sliding, rustling noise that suggests he’s is digging around the shelves behind his bed. “You didn’t want to take separate cars, because you thought we could keep our awesome beginner’s luck going a little longer?”
“And look how well that turned out.”
“Hey.” There’s a creak of springs, like Stiles is squirming around and rearranging himself on the mattress. “None of your self-deprecation crap. It was awesome. We were awesome. Not once in my most creative bored-at-school fantasies did I ever imagine it would be so easy for me to get you off. I mean, seriously. ”
Derek grinds his teeth, wondering what Stiles fantasies were like before reality interceded. Maybe he used to imagine Derek being confident and sexy and sure, throwing him down and taking it hard and fast. Derek definitely imagined it that way—or at least, he imagined getting to see Stiles gasp and groan and shiver under him, too far gone for teasing or wisecracks, lovely and wrecked and undeniably Derek’s.
But after all, this isn’t the first time Derek’s plans have gone horribly awry.
“You’re quiet,” Stiles says. Derek hear a faint snap, and then a wet, squelchy sound. “I didn’t mean to make you quiet. I won’t talk about the Jeep anymore if it embarrasses you.”
“It doesn’t embarrass me,” Derek lies. “What are you doing?”
“I thought we already covered that.” Stiles gasps, more loudly than before, and then lets out a long, ecstatic moan. “Ooooohhh man. So, I bought this, aaaah, this sort of, fancy warming lube? On the internet, a while back. And I was saving it for a special occasion, I guess. I figured, fffuck. I figured ‘first date plus life-altering makeout session’ probably qualified. Derek.”
“Are we, I don’t.” Derek takes a deep, shuddering breath and abruptly gives up on trying to stay upright, sinking onto the soft dirt and leaning back fully against the tree. “Are we at the stage in this relationship where you can just tell me these things?”
“Of course. We’re having… phone sex,” Stiles says, and then actually whines softly. Derek thinks he’s not even hamming it up, this time. “I thought that was really obvious, god, oh my god, Derek.”
“I’m not even doing anything,” Derek protests, palming himself through his jeans. He hopes desperately that none of the betas decided to take a run through this part of the woods tonight, because he is not at all presenting an image of authority right now.
“You don’t have to, you don’t… just talk to me. You could read me the fucking obituaries, and I’d still, it would still be… just knowing you’re there, oh fuck, your voice.”
Derek is suddenly a little self-conscious about how he sounds—wonders if he should try to make his voice smoother, or put more bass into it, maybe a rumbling growl, or—
And then Stiles whimpers, like he feels so good he actually can’t stand it, and Derek thinks, fuck it.
“I’m hard again already,” he tells Stiles, straightforward and honest. “I haven’t been this horny since I was your age.”
“Wow, oh wow,” Stiles says giddily. “That, just like that, keep going.”
“It’s not very convenient,” Derek continues, smiling a little into the darkness, imagining the sharpening color on Stiles’ cheeks and listening avidly for every hitch of his breath. “I have a pack to run. I can’t be this distracted forever.”
“I managed to pass AP Calculus, that month you were teaching me t’ai chi with, unnnh, with your shirt off. If I can handle it, so can you.”
“I still haven’t seen you with your shirt off,” Derek points out, and now he can’t stop picturing it. “Will you… next time, maybe we can…”
“Oh, okay, Hale, what happened to your keeping-it-legal plan, huh?” Stiles tries to laugh, but it doesn’t sound like he can quite get enough air. “Not that sliding to second base doesn’t sound fantastic, trust me, I’m down.”
“I could just look at you,” Derek reasons. “Without touching.”
“Not much… to see. I mean, compared to—”
“I’d want to touch, though,” says Derek, because it seems less creepy than saying I’ll love your body and your skin and your growth-spurt stretch marks and whatever else, because they’re yours. “Yeah. Sliding to second. We can do that. I want to do that.”
“You—say it again. Tell me…”
All at once, Derek realizes how unaccustomed he is to using the phrase I want. He thinks it might finally be time to change that. “I want to see you. Your body. I want to touch you, everywhere, I want to put my mouth—”
“Jesus christ,” Stiles yelps, and then he’s coming. Derek can tell, because Stiles lets him hear all of it, noisy and unselfconscious and exactly how Derek always thought he’d be. “Derek,” he murmurs at the end, heaving a deep, satisfied sigh, and Derek tamps down on the urge to run straight over to his house and climb through his window so he can clean him up with his tongue.
“The beginner’s luck is still in effect, I think,” Derek says instead, and Stiles laughs.
“Well let’s hope it continues,” he sighs, sounding, god, completely fucked out, “because you’re coming over for dinner tomorrow. Or did you forget?”
“Fuck.” Derek’s euphoria evaporates instantly into terror.
“Mmmmmm.” Stiles doesn’t seem to be having that problem. “See you tomorrow night, stud.”
“Don’t call me that,” Derek says, but he’s smiling again when he hangs up the phone.
Derek brings a bottle of Scotch to dinner the next night. It’s the most expensive one he could find in Beacon Hills, single-malt and 18 years old, and by the time he starts panicking about it being way too much, John is already opening the door.
“Hey there, Derek. You look… kind of like you’re about to interview for a job at the bank.”
Derek frowns down at his clothes. He wanted to make some kind of visible effort, but swiftly realized that the only nicer outfits he owned were things his sister bought him back in college. In retrospect, the sweater vest was probably a mistake. “I brought you this,” he says, shoving the bottle in John’s face. He wonders if he can make it to the bathroom in time to take off the sweater vest before—
“Hey Dad, is Derek—mother of god.”
Derek sighs deeply. “Hi, Stiles.”
“Heeeey, Marion the librarian,” Stiles says, grinning. “Oh my god, do you have glasses? Glasses would really tie this whole look together, I think.”
“Oh lord, Stiles,” John groans, taking the bottle from Derek and patting him on the shoulder in thanks. “Give it a rest. He looks fine.”
“No, he looks fiiiiine,” Stiles corrects, looking him up and down. “I was serious about the glasses, by the way. If I got you some would you wear them? For me?”
“I am standing right here,” John complains, and Derek wonders if it’s too late to run.
Mercifully, Stiles waits until John goes into the kitchen to put the Scotch away before he kisses Derek hello. “Mmm,” he says, smiling right up against Derek’s lips. “You smell like cinnamon.”
“Oh, that’s not me. I brought dessert.” He hefts the bag in his other hand, and yeah, he definitely went overboard. “From that new bakery by the post office? They’re cinnamon rolls.”
Stiles groans longingly, and Derek has a sudden full-on fantasy of him licking icing off his long, slender fingers. His brain runs straight past second base and careens toward third, and he’s genuinely never been so glad to be the only one with werewolf senses in the room.
“Empty carbs and excessive sugar,” Stiles says, kissing Derek approvingly as he takes the bakery bag from him. “Excellent choice, sir.”
Fifteen minutes into Stiles’ vegetarian lasagna—which is, as predicted, disgusting—Derek still can’t relax his shoulders. The sheriff is a lot like his son, but he’s different in a lot of ways too. Where Stiles is all noise and color and ripples of motion, his father is downright placid.
Derek can’t help feeling like it might be a trap.
“Do you work, Derek?” John asks, and Derek is wracking his brain for an appropriate lie when Stiles cuts right in with the truth.
“He lives off the insurance money, you know, from…” Stiles gestures subtly with one hand. “From what happened.”
“I’m taking some graduate courses online,” Derek blurts, just to keep everyone’s attention away from the fire. Stiles drops his fork.
“I might finish my History degree,” Derek says, feeling smug over Stiles’ obvious shock. “I don’t know what I’d do with it, but…”
“You don’t always need a practical reason to keep learning,” John says, looking pleased. “What’s your focus?”
“Wartime in ancient civilizations,” Derek says, and Stiles sighs long-sufferingly.
“Of course it is,” he says, reaching over to grab Derek’s beer and getting his hand slapped away by his father. “Ow, fine! You’re so predictable, Derek. What’s your thesis going to be, a bullet-point battle strategy for the overthrow of Sparta?”
“I actually kind of thought I’d write an epic poem,” Derek says, keeping his face carefully blank. “Like the Iliad?”
“No.” Stiles squints at his face. “You’re messing with me. That was a joke.”
“Hmm. Was it?” Derek casually takes a pull from his beer bottle, wondering how long he’ll wait before he tells Stiles that he’s got twenty pages of the poem already written. John looks like he’s trying desperately not to laugh, and the tension finally goes out of Derek’s muscles.
They’re in the middle of dessert when Derek feels sticky fingers nudging against his under the table. His skin knows Stiles’, yearns for it already to a truly ridiculous degree, so he hasn’t even fully processed what’s happening yet when he turns his hand over and slides their palms together.
“Oh,” Stiles says, and then blushes when the sheriff raises an eyebrow at him. “Um, it’s just. These cinnamon rolls are amazing.” He takes an oversized bite and slips his fingers between Derek’s.
“It’s the bakery’s specialty,” Derek says, and strokes gently at the soft webbing between Stiles’ thumb and forefinger. Stiles shivers, and John clears his throat pointedly.
“Well, it’s a school night, so—”
“I’ll head home,” Derek assures him, standing. “Thanks, Sheriff. John.”
“Good to have you, Derek. You want me to wrap up some of Stiles’ lasagna for you?”
Derek isn’t stupid. “I would love that,” he says, and the way Stiles beams at him is totally worth it.