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(don't) blame it on the alcohol

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Stiles learned in college that the best and quickest way to bond with someone is to get drunk with them.  He’s never actually done that with Scott, because by the time he had access to alcohol, the guy was a fucking werewolf, but their friendship is solid enough that no co-drunkenness is necessary.  They have other things to cement their love, like constantly being near death and crying a lot over bodies.

But now—now Stiles works in a brewery.  He’s actually got a degree in Criminology from Davis, and Scott is in vet school and Kira is weeks away from getting her teaching degree.  Lydia lives in San Francisco now, but Stiles doesn’t doubt that she’ll be back soon.  Jordan is probably worth coming back for.  The pack has grown now, is big and comfortable and Stiles likes them all, sure, but he’d rather spend most of his time brewing beer and watching procedural cop shows than pretty much anything else. He’s learned to prioritize, and reading about supernatural stuff is way low on his list now that they have effective wards to protect from creepy things that go bump in the night.  (He’s also kind of a warlock now, but they don’t talk about that.)

The brewery where Stiles works is connected to a bar.  On weekends, he’ll bartend to pick up some extra cash—Scott and Kira usually come by, some of the betas too.  Isaac’s back, and Derek’s apartment building is nearby so he’s actually there a lot.  He’s Stiles’ taste tester when he’s trying to come up with new ideas to present to his boss.

One Friday night, Brett Talbot walks into the bar, sits down in front of Stiles, and says: “You have Y-strand wolfsbane growing in your garden.”

It’s not a code-phrase, although it sounds fucking similar to something James Bond might whisper to a blonde in a cocktail dress.  Stiles only leans across the bar, nodding.  “Yeah.  We have a whole bunch of types of wolfsbane.  We’re a well-prepared pack.”

Derek is sitting two seats down from Brett, obviously listening.  He’s sipping a mango-jalapeno brew from a paper cup, eyes turned down.

“How much would you sell it for?” Brett asks, and Stiles’ eyebrows fly up.

“It’s pretty gross, dude.  We only keep it around because it protects the garden from scavengers.  You must know that stuff is basically skunk weed.”

Brett purses his lips.  “Satomi’s pack has been using Y-strand wolfsbane for decades in drinks, and our stash just got destroyed.”

“They plucked out the roots?” Stiles guesses.

Brett taps the tip of his own nose.  “Ding.”

Stiles shrugs.  “I mean, sure, dude, I’ll sell you some, but I have to ask—why would you put it in drinks?  Does it have some medicinal property that I can’t find?”

The smirk that grows on Brett’s face can only be described as devilish.  “Depends on what you mean by medicinal.  The poison in it isn’t strong enough to kill wolves, but it breaks down their blood in a heartbeat.  There’s an old recipe Satomi has for grinding that stuff up into alcohol—it’s the older generation’s solution to drunkenness.  Or the lack thereof.”

Stiles can’t help the way his heart fucking soars at that.  “You’re kidding.  You guys have a way for wolves to get drunk?”

“I’ll trade you the recipe for a strand that I can plant in my own garden.”

“Fucking deal.”


The first time he makes it, he gives it to Scott, just to test.

“It’s not gonna kill you,” he says, sitting on Scott’s counter and swinging his legs.  “I followed the recipe exactly, and assuming that it was written correctly, you should be fine.”

Scott looks dubious.  “What’s the worst case scenario?”

Stiles shrugs.  “You puke a bunch and then sleep for a day.  So kind of like what’s gonna happen if it works anyway.”

Scott pulls a face.  “Well.  Here goes nothing.”

An hour later, they’re both sitting on the floor of the kitchen, slurring their words as they sing along to a Taylor Swift song playing off of Stiles’ phone.  Their legs are intertwined and Stiles has had four shots of non-wolfsbane whiskey and Scott has had five shots of wolfsbane rum.  (Brett recommended it because it would be slightly sweet and put off the gross taste of the plant.)  Stiles’ entire world is dizzy but he’s thrilled because Scott is drunk! He got Scott drunk!

Kira comes home eventually and takes Scott to bed, and Stiles passes out on their couch, like the adult that he is.


“I have a proposition,” Stiles says, pushing past Derek and into his apartment.  He’s holding a six-pack of his newest concoction and a bottle of Svedka.  “Feel free to say no, but it just seems to me that a guy who spends all of his work time hunting down Beacon County’s criminals and all of his free time looking after itty bitty werewolves deserves a night of drinks.”  He sets the stuff down on Derek’s kitchen counter and opens the fridge, finds the cranberry juice he knew would be there.  “So, I would like to offer to take your drunk virginity.”

Derek, who followed Stiles into the apartment, blinks at him.

Stiles smirks.  “You know.  Get you drunk for the first time.  Your drunk virginity.”

“I’ve been drunk before.”

Stiles’ mouth turns down, frowning deeply.  “What?  C’mon, when?”

“When I was fourteen.  Peter gave me a wolfsbane beer at a family barbeque.  I got sick in my mother’s roses and was on gardening duty for a month.”

“That is quite possibly the best story you’ve ever told.”  Stiles pulls one of his beers from its cardboard container.  “This is an apple beer—perfect for the wolfsbane, you can’t even taste it.  I have it on good authority that it’ll take about three of these to mess you up.  Alternatively, I also infused some vodka, because I know brown liquor makes you queasy, and you can drink it with the cranberry juice.”

“What are you gonna drink?” Derek asks, reaching for the beer bottle.  He opens the cap, sniffs it. 

Stiles can’t help his grin.  “I hid a bottle of Jack Daniels in your cupboard last time I was here, and Mason left Coke in your fridge, so I’m all set.”

Derek sighs.  “C’mon.  Let’s watch something,” he says, and he grabs the six pack before heading to the couch.


He shouldn’t be surprised that he ends up on his back on the couch, one sock on, one somewhere across the room.  He can’t stop giggling, too delighted because Derek is sitting on the floor on front of him, playing the air drums to the song coming through the speakers on his television. 

“You look ridiculous,” Stiles laughs, watching as Derek’s hair flies around, the gel losing its hold.  He almost has bangs now, and Stiles is reaching out to touch before he can stop himself.

Derek bats his hand away, sticking out his tongue.  “I look awesome.  You look sloppy.”

“Because I am,” Stiles says, grinning.  “I’m totally fucking sloppy.  Are you?”

Derek is sitting up perfectly straight, legs crossed.  His shirt isn’t dirty, his jeans are clean and hole-less, and his beard is neatly trimmed.  The only fucking hint at all that Derek is drunk is his eyes, and the way they’re drooping—not to mention his mouth, set in a weird, wobbly line.  He looks adorable, and Stiles is reminded full force why he used to have the biggest crush on Derek Hale.

Derek blinks at him, licks his lips.  “You smell.”

“That’s your fault,” Stiles says defensively.  “Stop sniffing me and I wouldn’t smell.”

“It’s okay,” Derek mutters.  “You smell like affection—like you do for Scott.  It’s nice.”

Stiles’ heart thuds in his chest.  “Oh.  Oh, that’s…good.  I do have affection for you, you know.  We’re friends.”

Derek nods.  “Yeah.  Friends.”

They stare at each other for a long moment.

“Wanna play a Buffy drinking game?” Stiles finally asks, barely keeping his voice a normal pitch.  “I promise to go easy on you.”

“Easy on me?” Derek teases.  “If anyone here is a lightweight, Stilinski, it’s you.  I’m twice as big as you.”

“Liar,” Stiles says, and he shoves Derek’s shoulder but doesn’t stop him from climbing onto the couch.  He even sits up to accommodate him, pressing his feet into Derek’s thighs.  “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’ve grown since high school.  I am not the wee boy I used to be.”

“Yeah.  I’ve noticed.”

Stiles laughs, hands him a beer as he scrolls through Netflix.  “Alright, Hale.  Try to keep up with me.”


It becomes a thing that they do.  When Stiles makes a new flavor, he brews some with wolfsbane to bring to Derek.  They drink, they watch movies, and Stiles fall asleep on his couch some time in his sleepy, drunken haze.  They play stupid games that they find on the Internet, dare each other to pull pranks on Derek’s neighbors, and sometimes they just sit on the floor and look each other—Derek wins every staring contest, of course.  The guy’s a supernatural being.

One night, Stiles comes over after a truly horrible first date.  He sits on Derek’s couch, having finished a beer already, and says, “Sometimes it feels like Beacon Hills is too small to find someone to fall in love with.  I mean, I can’t date anyone I work with.  I can’t date someone too young or too old—I can’t date anyone who works in public services because they all know my dad and that is not something I need in my life.”  He huffs out a sigh and knocks his head back against the couch.  “We should be dateless bros for the rest of our lives, Derek.”  He lifts his head, looks at where Derek is standing in front of him, holding out another bottle.  “If I’m single when I’m thirty-five, you’ll marry me, won’t you?”

“That’s assuming that I’ll be single,” Derek points out.

Stiles nods weakly.  “You’ll obviously have to break up with the incredibly high-functioning, normal human adult you’re dating to be with me.  It’ll be a sacrifice, but you’re part of the pack, Derek.  It’s your duty.”

“Uh huh,” Derek says dryly, sitting down beside him.  “What are we watching tonight?”

There are times when they don’t get drunk together, of course.  Derek brings him lunch at the brewery a few times a week, and when the new Guardians of the Galaxy movie came out they went to see it together.  Derek came to the last barbeque his dad held (even though that was probably more because they work together and less because of Stiles) and they went to the batting cages last week on Derek’s day off just to fuck around.

They’ve been spending more time together lately, and now that Scott’s crazy busy with school and lives forty minutes away, that’s probably a good thing.  They get along really well and Stiles likes to see Derek loosen up.  Over the past few years, with no death and destruction knocking on their door, Derek’s been personable, relaxed, even fun.  He gets along with his coworkers, says hi to people at coffee shops and in the grocery store, saves kittens from trees and helps little old ladies cross the street.  He’s a regular hero around Beacon Hills now.  Everybody likes him.

Which begs the question: why is he still single?  Anyone with eyes knows that Derek Hale is a fucking ten, muscular and beardy, with bunny teeth and charming green eyes.  He’s tall—but not too tall—and broad, so solid and strong that he could probably hold you up against a wall while you fucked.  But he’s also distractingly sweet.  He’s kind to everyone, unless they give him a reason not to be, and even then he doesn’t shout anymore.  He’s just and patient, and he would probably make someone really happy.

So Stiles sets him up on a date.  The girl is twenty-six, only a few years younger than Derek.  She’s a lawyer with legs that go on for miles and a face that men would kill just to look at.  She comes into the bar a lot with her friends, and so when Stiles sees her on Friday night and asks if she wants to go out with his friend, it’s not that weird.  What is weird is that Derek comes in just before closing on Saturday night, still dressed in the date clothes that Stiles helped him pick out.

“We’re closing,” Melanie, the owner, says without looking up.  When she does, though, she only smiles.  “Hey, Derek.  C’mon in.”

Derek comes up to the bar, sits down in front of where Stiles is packing away unused glasses.  “What are you doing here?” Stiles asks, half distracted.  “Where’s your date?”

“I dropped her off at home,” Derek says, reaching over the bar to grab an olive.

Stiles raises his eyebrows.  “Dude.  You didn’t get the invite inside?  Bummer.  I thought you guys were gonna hit it off.”

Derek nods.  “She was nice.  That wasn’t the problem.  I wasn’t interested.”

“Not interested in a lawyer who could simultaneously be a Victoria’s Secret model?” Stiles asks, frowning.  “I mean, to each his own, man, but seriously.  Well,” he says, “I’ll just have to try again.”


Derek’s next date is with a vice cop from Beacon Heights.  She’s cute, bouncy curls and dark skin, and when Stiles tells her about Derek, it’s obvious she knows exactly who he is.  So Stiles gets them together for the following weekend, and waits dutifully in his apartment for news.  He’s expecting a text, something that lets him know it went well, but instead he gets a soft knock at his front door.

“Again?” Stiles asks, letting him inside.

Derek shrugs, sitting down on Stiles’ couch.  “Nothing in common besides work.”

Stiles huffs, digging through his fridge for his new honey brew.  “That sucks, dude.  Oh, well.  You know what they say.  Third time’s the charm.”


The third date isn’t any better apparently.  She’s an elementary school teacher that Stiles knows through Kira, and she’s quite possibly one of the sweetest people that he’s never come into contact with.  Stiles makes sure to find common points of interest before setting them up, though, so that it’s more natural:

She gardens.

She likes craft beer.

She watches Buffy.

She’s practically perfect for Derek, and so Stiles can’t see where it would go wrong.  But sure enough, Derek calls him from the car afterwards and is walking through his front door a few minutes later.

“She snorted when she laughed,” Derek says, and Stiles frowns.

“Maybe you’re too picky.”

Derek shrugs.  “Do you have any more of that stout?”


After the seventh subpar date, Derek says: “What about guys?”

“What about them?” Stiles asks, stuffing pizza into his mouth while Clueless plays on the screen.  They’re in Derek’s apartment, sitting on the couch together.  They’ve each had a few beers already, and Stiles has a comfortable buzz going on.

“Why don’t you set me up with one?” Derek clarifies, and the bottom of Stiles’ world falls away.

He blinks, swallows his bite.  “You like guys?”

Derek nods.  “Yeah.”

“Since when?”

“Since always.”

“You’ve never dated a guy.”

“Just because I haven’t dated a guy in the seven years we’ve known each other—”

Stiles holds up a hand.  “No, sorry, I wasn’t trying to be a dick.  Yeah, dude, I’ll set you up with a guy.”  He considers his pizza for a long moment.  “How do you feel about Danny?”

Derek shakes his head.  “No.  No one you knew in high school.”

“The age difference bother you?”

“No,” Derek says.  “But they all seemed like jerks.”


There’s a guy who works at the auto shop in town.  He’s nice, and he comes into the bar occasionally.  Stiles is about to ask him, the words almost tripping off of his tongue, if he wants to be set up with Derek—but he stops himself at the last moment, something leaden and sick settling in his gut.

Then there’s the guy who owns the coffee shop off the corner of the Beacon County Community College campus.  He’s hipstery and funny, and he wears rainbow bracelets.  But Stiles decides that he’s not quite good enough for Derek.  Better to hold out for something really worthwhile.

A firefighter, who’s a friend of the family.  A pharmacist, who he knows through Scott.  A photographer he went to college with.  And a handful of other guys who Stiles knows like guys…  But none of them are good enough.

His phone rings in the middle of the day, when he’s working on a recipe for a new brew.  He sets down his notebook, slides his thumb across the screen.  “Hey, Der,” he says, tapping his pencil against the table.  “I’m sorry I haven’t found you someone yet—”

“That’s fine,” Derek says.  “You wanna come over tonight?  The new season of Jessica Jones came out this morning, and I know you get scared when you watch it alone.”

“Fuck yeah, dude,” Stiles says.  “I’ll bring something from the bar.  I don’t have any new ones, but I think I have some of the honey ones that are wolfsbane infused.”

“Sounds good.  I’ll see you later.”


Stiles doesn’t find a guy to set up with Derek.  He—stops looking, kind of.  Mostly.  If he could have ever been said to be looking in the first place.  He and Derek spend every weekend together anyway, and so they don’t really do anything without each other.

They go to lunch.  They cook dinner together.  Derek brings movies over to his apartment.  Stiles brings adult coloring books and a 50-pack of coloring pencils over to Derek’s.  They talk about each other’s work and their days, and somehow, in the middle of all of that, they start sleeping in each other’s beds.

It starts with Stiles.  He’s over at Derek’s really late on a Tuesday because it was Derek’s day off and they spent the day at the brewery, fucking around with flavors and goofing off.  That had turned into a bowling night and then a few beers back to Derek’s, and he’d fallen asleep just past midnight, snoring into Derek’s pillow.

Derek stays at his two nights later, walking in the door after he gets off work.  He’s still in uniform, tired, and Stiles has been cooking dinner for the past hour and a half, and so he sets a plate down on the table with a tall glass of water, and they sit and make polite conversation about their days.  Derek falls asleep fifteen minutes after he’s finished eating, spread out on Stiles’ bed like a starfish.

Soon it’s every day, swapping back and forth randomly between their places. Stiles doesn’t think much of it, except that they’re such good friends that they can just do this now, have sleepovers the way Stiles and Scott used to in high school.

There’s a Halloween party in Davis, at Scott and Kira’s apartment, and Derek stays sober to drive them back to his apartment afterwards—he practically carries Stiles up the stairs and deposits him in bed.  That’s the first night that they sleep curled together.  Stiles wakes with Derek’s arm around his middle, Derek’s face pressed into the back of his neck.  And Stiles never wants to leave.

The next time they get drunk together, Derek falls asleep on top of Stiles, one hand tucked up under his shirt.  Stiles knows that wolves are constantly fighting their instincts to be close to people—he’s had plenty of cuddles with Scott while they talked about it—and so it doesn’t bother Stiles that two hundred pounds of muscled werewolf serves as his blanket that night, but what does bother him is that, when he wakes up, Derek’s morning wood is pressing into his ass.

Bother is the wrong word.  Bother doesn’t precisely capture all of the emotions running through Stiles that morning.  Excitement, because Derek is the hottest human being on the face of the planet.  Guilt, because he’s enjoying the completely natural bodily function of one of his best friends.  Sadness, because Derek wouldn’t actually be hard for him, not really.

Stiles slips out of bed before Derek can wake, makes coffee and turns on the news in the background.  They’re in Derek’s apartment, so he finds eggs and bacon and sausage in the fridge and cooks them breakfast—the smell must wake Derek up, because he sticks his head out of the bedroom and says, “Bacon?”

“Enough to feed a small army.”

“Then what are you gonna eat?”

Stiles smirks to himself as Derek heads into the bathroom.  When he comes out a few minutes later, Stiles has plated their food and is currently contemplating making love to Derek’s sublime coffee maker.


They go out to dinner the next Friday night.  In a week, it’ll be Thanksgiving.  Scott and Kira will be in town for a few days, even Lydia will be back to see her mom.  They’ll do pack things, be a big group again, and Stiles can’t help but be looking forward to it.  That’s what he’s rambling about while they’re waiting to be seated, hanging out at the bar of the restaurant. 

They don’t look like they’re on a date.  Derek is in jeans and long sleeve Henley.  Stiles is in wrinkled khakis and a sweater and they’re standing not even leaning into each other as they talk.  So really, there’s no reason for Stiles to be offended when some guy just walks up and starts chatting to Derek.  For all this guy knows, Derek and Stiles are cousins or something.  There’s no reason for Stiles to be offended…except that he is.  And not only that, there’s something fierce and horrible in his chest that is terrifyingly reminiscent of jealousy.

Derek does something to dismiss the guy, but Stiles isn’t really paying attention anymore because he’s realized: he’s in love with Derek.  Again.

He’s distracted all through dinner, picking at his food and barely looking Derek in the eye.  When they go back to Stiles’ place, he spends a few minutes in his bedroom, pacing, trying to decide what to do.

He could tell Derek.  Maybe saying it out loud would get it off his chest.  And besides, Derek needs to understand—there’s no way to Stiles to get over him if they keep hanging out every day.  If Stiles needs to get over Derek—and he obviously does—then he needs to be able to spend time away from him.  A lot of time.

Alternatively, he could keep it to himself and wallow in self pity for a number of months, if not years, like he did as a teenager.  He could go out and find someone to hook up with to try to distract himself.  He could call Scott, ask his friend to talk some sense into him.

Derek knocks on Stiles’ door, pushes in.  “Hey,” he says, hovering in the doorway.  “I can go.”

“No,” Stiles says, dragging a hand through his hair.  “Don’t leave.  Sorry, I just… I’m having a weird day.”

“Do you wanna talk about it?” he asks, stepping into the room.  “Did—did something happen at the brewery?  Or with your dad?”

Stiles shakes his head.  “No, nothing like that.  Do you wanna watch a movie or something?”

“Sure.  I’ll make popcorn.”


So Stiles doesn’t tell him.  He doesn’t call Scott.  He doesn’t try to find someone to hook up with.  Instead, he spends the next three days with Derek, faking it.  It hurts more than he expected it to, given the circumstances.  He’s an adult now, not a seventeen-year-old with a crush on the swoon-worthy monster, the broken, angsty, tank-top wearing anti-hero.  He’s an adult with romantic feelings for a guy who calls his sister every week, who wears sweaters with thumbholes in them, whose eyes crinkle when he laughs, and who has very serious opinions about beer.

And it still hurts just as much as it did when he was younger.


“The Friends drinking game,” Derek says, sitting down on the couch with a beer bottle already in hand.  He hands Stiles his phone, where the rules are pulled up on the screen.  Stiles, sitting cross legged beside him, can’t help but think that he’s made a monster.

They play.  They laugh and drink and Derek has his right arm stretched out over the back of the couch, hand barely brushing Stiles’ shoulder.  Somehow, Stiles ends up plastered to Derek’s side four episodes in, Derek’s arm firmly around his shoulders.  They’re—cuddling.

Derek looks over at him while Stiles is examining the side of Derek’s face.  It’s a nice face, obviously.  The best face, in Stiles’ opinion.  Therein lies the problem.

Stiles wants to say that it’s because he’s drunk that he kisses Derek.  But he’s not—he’s only had a beer and a half, and Derek’s only had one drink himself, so he doesn’t have an excuse for kissing Stiles back.  Which he does.  Stiles’ only excuse for kissing him is that he wanted to, and he didn’t have a good enough reason not to.  So Stiles slots his mouth over Derek’s between one breath and the next, and Derek only hesitates for a heartbeat before he’s responding, leaning in close and cupping the back of Stiles’ head.

Stiles licks into Derek’s mouth, grabbing onto Derek’s shirt.  He feels like his brain is leaking out of his ears because of how warm he suddenly feels, overwhelmed with the fact that Derek is kissing him back.

He ends up on his back, Derek between his legs.  Stiles can’t stop himself from arching into his heat, wanting to bury himself under Derek’s body, his scent, all of his warm muscles and sweet pull of his mouth.

That mouth pops off only a moment later, Derek’s face moving to nuzzle into Stiles’ throat.  And Stiles’s breath catches, his heart pounding as Derek explores.

“Fuck,” Stiles decides eloquently, head tipped towards the ceiling.  “Fuck, Derek, you feel so good.”  He hooks a hand around the back of Derek’s neck, bringing him in to kiss again.  He wraps his arms around Derek’s shoulders and Derek grips his thighs, pulling him further down on the couch, pulling him closer so that they can grind against each other.

Derek’s mouth reattaches itself to Stiles’ neck almost as soon as Stiles turns his mouth away to breathe.  Stiles can feel him leaving a mean hickey, right at the junction of his neck and shoulder, but he can’t bear to do anything to stop it.  He wants it, wants Derek to mark him up, to claim him.

He arches his hips, trying to get Derek to keep moving against him, trying to find the friction.  Derek groans, deep and guttural, and thrusts right against him, keeping his hands tight on Stiles’ thighs.  Stiles tangles his fingers in Derek’s shirt and just follows the thrill in his gut, the desire that has him shamelessly rutting against Derek, both of them still fully dressed, and both of them rock hard.

“Oh,” Stiles says weakly, because Derek is biting him.  He hasn’t broken the skin but it’s—it’s disturbingly hot, and Stiles is probably going to come any second if he doesn’t do something first.

So he puts his hands firmly on Derek’s chest and says, “Do you wanna fuck me?”

Derek shudders, hips rolling once more before he stops himself.  “You sure?” he asks, the first thing he’s said since they kissed. 

Stiles nods immediately.  “Yeah,” he says.  “I’m so fucking sure.  I want you.”

Derek pulls his head back, and his eyes are bright blue, shining in the dim light of the apartment. When he blinks, they go back to green.  “Okay,” he says, and he leans in for a soft, tender kiss before he stands.  “C’mon.”

Derek’s bedroom doesn’t feel any different now that he’s in it for a different purpose.  He knows that he could lie down and fall asleep and Derek wouldn’t mind a bit, that they would still be good.  There’s no extra pressure, nothing for Stiles to be afraid of.  And it’s the best feeling in the world to stand at the foot of Derek’s bed and kiss him, hands squirming under the hemline of his T-shirt.

“We don’t have to,” Derek says, and he lifts his arms so that Stiles can pull his shirt over his head.  “Or we could just—do something else.  I could blow you.”

Stiles feels faint.  “I mean, I’m not gonna say no to that, but I do want you to fuck me.  And then I also want to fuck you later, if that’s a thing you’re into.  I want to do everything with you—we should probably get a kama sutra and a delivery service and just stay in here for a month.”

Derek’s smile is tinted with the blush on his cheeks, all the way up to his ears.  It’s so fucking beautiful that Stiles just has to kiss him again, hands on his face, tongue in his mouth.

Derek doesn’t break the kiss when he walks Stiles backwards towards the bed.  He keeps Stiles close and doesn’t stop kissing him until Stiles is lying on his back and Derek is hovering over him on his hands and knees.  Stiles is already unbuttoning his jeans, trying to squirm out of them, and Derek helps, fingers tucked under his waistband so he can pull them down and off.  The shirt is next, and Stiles panics for a hot second when he realizes—he hasn’t done this in a long time.

Derek, who’s standing at the foot of the bed with his jeans around his ankles, freezes when he notices Stiles’ fear in the air.  “Stiles.”

“We’re probably gonna have to go slow,” Stiles says.  “It’s been a few months since I, uh, did this with anyone.  I’m just saying, don’t expect to be able to just flip me over and plug me in after three minutes of fingering—”

“I’ll take my time,” Derek promises, stepping out of his jeans and crawling back up the bed.  The picture he makes is one reminiscent of a fucking jungle cat stalking its prey, and Stiles is arching up off the bed without even meaning to, because he’s so desperate for Derek’s touch.  “I don’t want to rush a single second of this.”

Stiles’ heart flutters in his chest, thrilled with the idea of Derek wanting him just as badly as he wants Derek.  He pulls Derek close, kissing him deeply so that he can revel in what it feels like.  If he could go back and tell his teenage self that he would one day get to kiss Derek Hale on the mouth—that he would get to grind against Derek Hale on his couch, that he would get to feel Derek Hale on top of him, skin pressed to skin and hearts pounding out a violent rhythm—he’s not sure the kid would survive the excitement.

When Derek kicks away his underwear, Stiles’ lungs stop working for a second.  That’s why he can’t help his infantile gasp, his childish amazement at something as simple as a penis.  He shouldn’t gasp for something like that but in his defense, it’s attached to Derek, so naturally, it’s perfect.  It’s perfect and uncut, red with blood, thick.  It’s silky to the touch, Stiles knows, because he’s reached out and touched it without even thinking about it, wrapping his fingers around the length and watching it fit in his palm.

Derek makes a soft, pained noise, thrusting into Stiles’ grip.  “Ung,” he says, and Stiles would laugh if he weren’t totally captivated.

He drags his fist up to the head and back down again, matching Derek’s movements.  He’s ridiculously sexy to watch, the way he pumps his hips, the way his shoulders strain, the way his eyebrows scrunch.  Stiles is head-over-heels in love with this guy, totally gone, absolutely bonkers.  And he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Derek drags himself away from Stiles’ touch, groaning as he pushes Stiles’ hand away and backs up, still hunched over as he catches his breath.  He’s trembling a little bit, hands shaking on his thighs.  “Sorry,” he says weakly.  “It’s been a really long time and I—and you—”  He licks his lips.  “I don’t want to come yet.”

“Okay,” Stiles says.  “Do you want to—”

“I want to blow you,” Derek says.  “And open you up on my fingers.”

Stiles can’t help his moan.  He nods, already pushing down his boxers, kicking them away.  “Yeah, c’mon—let’s do that.”

They shove the covers down off of Derek’s bed, all the way to the floor.  Derek gives Stiles a pillow to put under his hips and he digs a half-empty tube of lube out from a cluttered drawer by the side of his bed, and Stiles endures all of this while presses kisses into the most readily available parts of Derek’s skin—his ear, his jaw, his stomach at one point, even his hip.  He kisses Derek’s warm skin and lets himself bask in the knowledge that he’s naked in bed with this man.

There’s a little less basking a few minutes later.  No, a few minutes later, Stiles isn’t really basking in anyway.  He’s grinding onto Derek’s fingers while the head of his cock is caught in Derek’s throat, squeezed by the motion of his swallowing.  Derek has four fingers tucked up inside of him, slick with lube and fucking him, slow and patient, without hurry.  Stiles didn’t get the memo though, because he’s full of hurry, fucking Derek’s mouth while he jerks his hips, trying to get Derek’s fingers deeper inside of him.  He’s completely overwhelmed by the onslaught of sensations, grasping at the sheets to try to anchor himself.

Derek is disturbingly good at this for a guy claiming he hasn’t done it in a while.  He’s maybe a little sloppy, slobbering down Stiles’ cock, but Stiles likes that.  Blowjobs aren’t meant to be pretty.  (But God, Derek’s pretty anyway, mouth stretch around him, head bobbing up and down, slurping as he pulls off and licks up Stiles’ length, root to tip.)

Stiles moans brokenly at the ceiling.  “Okay,” he says, squirming.  “Fuck me now—please.”  Derek doesn’t move.  In fact, he sucks harder on Stiles’ cock, like he’s trying to wordlessly demonstrate to level to which he is ignoring Stiles’ plea.  “Derek,” he whines.  “Now, before I come—oh, God—”

Derek taps against his prostate pointedly, a move that he’s been interspersing with his other ministrations, few and far between.  Now, though, it’s purposeful, Derek stimulating that gland with expert fingers, and Stiles feels like his whole body is shaking.

“I’m gonna come,” he gasps, scrambling at Derek’s shoulders.  “Ah, Derek, I—I’m gonna—”

He comes so hard that he sees stars.  His orgasm wracks through his body like he’s a wet towel being whipped.  He feels like it’s reached into his stomach and pulled on his guts.  And he can’t remember ever being happier in his life.

When he’s lucid again, Derek is on top of him, nuzzling at his throat.  It takes almost no effort to roll him over and clamber on top of him, hands pressed into his shoulders.  Derek doesn’t stay flat, though, choosing instead to sit up and wrap his arms tightly around Stiles’ middle and continue rubbing his beard against Stiles’ skin.

Stiles reaches for the lube, only a foot or so away, and is stroking Derek’s cock rather impatiently when Derek grips his hips and says, “I don’t have any condoms.”

Stiles doesn’t stop, adding a twist at the end of his stroke that has Derek canting his hips up and shuddering.

“Stiles, seriously—”

“Derek,” Stiles interrupts, “if I cared about condoms, I wouldn’t have let you blow me without one.  If you don’t want to, that’s fine, but I don’t care about a little mess.  It might even be fun—I’ve never done it bareback.”

Derek moans so quietly that it might as well be silent.  But Stiles can hear it, can feel it vibrate through him, and he kisses Derek quickly, to try to push back any hesitation.  “Okay,” Derek says, rubbing his hands up and down Stiles’ thighs.  “Okay, let me—”  He reaches back around Stiles’ thigh, tucks two fingers up inside of him again, and Stiles squirms.

“I’m already prepped,” Stiles protests, but Derek doesn’t stop, twisting three fingers in now, purposeful.  Stiles has to bite off a weak moan as he moves his hips, chasing what Derek is giving him.  “C’mon, Derek, fuck me.”

Derek holds onto his hip as he guides Stiles down onto his cock, and even though the points of his fingertips are a grounding force of their own, Stiles can’t help but feel lost, the second Derek is seated inside of him, bare and hot and so big that Stiles feels so full he can hardly breathe. 

It’s only fitting that the best sex he’s ever going to have should be with Derek.  It’s only fitting that this guy destroy him for anyone else, because if Stiles has ever been honest with himself, he fucking knows that Derek is it.  Derek is the end.  Derek is everything.

“Oh, fuck,” Stiles moans, letting himself adjust to Derek inside of him.  “Oh, God, of course—of course you’re fucking perfect.”  He wraps a hand around the base of his dick, squeezes just barely. 

You’re perfect,” Derek counters, voice low, almost embarrassed, and Stiles’ heart swells. 

“Fuck, I need to kiss you.”

Derek jerks forward, slamming his mouth into Stiles’, hot and wet and excited.  Stiles can’t protest, wouldn’t want to, because he loves kissing Derek, probably never wants to stop. 

He doesn’t waste any time after that, rising up on his knees and falling down again, fucking himself on Derek’s cock, over and over and over—he never stops kissing Derek either, mouth open against his, letting him swallow moan after moan.  Everything is just heat and skin, Derek lifting his hips just as Stiles drops his.

It feels like it lasts forever, the waves of pleasure moving through him, the sensation of Derek’s hands on his skin, his mouth, his breath.  Stiles is completely overwhelmed by Derek, and he never wants it to end.  He wants to bask in it, in the easy pleasure of his body, because didn’t think that he was ever going to get this.

When he leans forward, trying to chase Derek’s kiss, he finds the head of Derek’s cock fucking right up against his prostate as he slips deeper inside.  When their mouths meet, Stiles is too busy moaning to bother with the kiss, immediately replicating the angle, the thrust.  It feels like his joints have turned to jelly, like his muscles are electrified with pleasure.

“Fuck, Derek,” he moans.  “God, so good—so fucking good for me—”

Derek gasps out a breath, hips quickening, hands tightening.

Stiles is so close, so close to coming that he doesn’t even bother to touch himself.  He just meets Derek’s thrusts as best he can and—and when the stars burst behind his eyelids, he cries out, holding onto Derek’s arms so he doesn’t lose his balance.

Derek’s orgasm is accompanied by a quiet roar, vibrating through Stiles as he shoots inside, holding Stiles’ hips down so that he can grind deeper into him as he comes and comes.  Moments later, he’s still breathing heavily against Stiles’ collarbone.

“Stiles,” he mutters.

“Yeah,” Stiles says, brushing his fingers through Derek’s hair.

“Stay with me.”

Stiles nods, squeezes the back of Derek’s neck.  “I’m not going anywhere.”


Stiles wakes up on his stomach, which is normal.  He also wakes up with Derek half on top of him, his face pressed into Stiles’ shoulder, his arm slung over Stiles’ back.  It doesn’t seem very comfortable, but he’s snoring away, soft and snuffling, and Stiles’ swells with warmth.

“Hey,” he says, rolling onto his back, letting Derek’s chin fall to the mattress.  “Wake up.”

Derek grumbles, scooting closer so that he’s nuzzling into Stiles’ throat now. 

“C’mon, seriously.  It’s Saturday, which means I’m bartending all afternoon and I want to go to breakfast.”

“Call in sick,” Derek mutters.  “I’ll make you breakfast.”

“And let me eat it off your abs?”

“Don’t try to be funny.”  He lifts his head, kissing Stiles softly.  “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” Stiles echoes and he ducks back in to deepen the kiss.  “Hmm, you make me want to stay here all day.”

“You could,” Derek tells him.

Stiles snorts.  “Maybe I’ll stay forever.”

“You could,” Derek repeats, and Stiles’ heart launches into his throat.


“You could stay forever.”  His eyes meet Stiles’ evenly, unblinking.  “Stiles, we sleep at each other’s places.  We see each other every day.”

“And that means what?  That we should—”  He swallows tightly, cutting himself off.  “I like you, Derek.  I like you so much that it hurts, and last night was the best night of my life, but just because we did this doesn’t mean we get to just jump ahead—”

“Why not?” Derek insists.  “We’ve practically been dating for months.  Stiles, you leave the bathroom door open when you pee.”

“I wanna make sure I don’t miss anything important on TV.”

“I know your favorite things,” he continues.  “I get along with your dad.  I know exactly which aisle to go to get your hair gel.  We’re completely enveloped in each other’s lives, and there’s no reason to slow down.”

Stiles blinks.  “So then what do we do next?”

Derek smiles softly, his mouth tilting in such an easy, relaxed way.  Stiles’ heart swells with warmth.  “Next, we make breakfast.  You go to work.  And when you’re done, I’ll be here.”


“I want to move in together,” Derek says.  “Probably soon.  That—that should be the first step.”  He moves in, dropping a kiss on Stiles’ mouth.  “I got you, Stiles.  I’m not letting you walk away without a fight.”

“Good,” Stiles says without hesitation.  “Me neither.”