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In the low light of the rail depot, Stiles’s skin is cast in shades of yellow and the shadows of his face are different browns, and his eyes are something in the middle of the two. They’re brown, really, but against his darker eyelashes, they look much brighter than they really are.
Derek presses his thumb to the corner of one of them and his lips to the corner of the other and says, “Are you okay?”
Stiles shakes his head slowly. “My brain is rebooting. I’m relearning everything I ever thought I knew.”
Derek sighs and settles against the armrest of the couch, a sour expression on his face. “I’ll be here, then,” he says testily. “Waiting.”
“Shut up,” Stiles spits, flushing suddenly, like the awkwardness of the situation has just settled in and he’s finally got the clarity of mind to be embarrassed. He looks down at Derek from between Derek’s knees, worrying his bottom lip like he’s trying to concentrate.
“We can do this later,” Derek says as gently as he can. Stiles glares at him.
“Don’t baby me, asshole,” he says. “I just—I need a minute. This is a lot. I want it, but it’s a lot. Also, you really did reboot my brain. Like an automatic update that I would have liked to postpone, but I got up to make a Hot Pocket before the notice ever popped up, got distracted in the kitchen, and then came back to find everything already shutting down.”
“That’s… unsurprisingly detailed.”
“It happens a lot,” Stiles sighs.
He runs a hand over the curve of Derek’s bare hip—a sudden reminder that they’re both naked. Derek exhales sharply and swivels his hips into the touch just so.
Stiles smirks. “You seem pretty rarin’ to go,” he quips.
“Really,” Derek says, and there’s a moment where they both look down at his dick, where it’s hard against his lower belly, then when they look back at each other.
“Hilarious,” Stiles comments, then bends forward to kiss Derek, slow and sweet. When he pulls back, he says, “My boyfriend’s a funny one. Lucky me.”
“Boyfriend,” Derek repeats flatly. “Is that what I am.”
“Well, you’re not my girlfriend.”
Derek gives him a Look.
Stiles puts his hands up defensively. “What? Are we or are we not about to have sex?”
“I keep asking myself the same question,” Derek says, crossing his arms. Stiles narrows his eyes and shifts backwards a little.
“Well, would you like to have sex?” he asks, his tone condescending.
“Ideally.”
“With me?”
Derek nods.
“Then, suck it up, dude. We’re in a relationship. Congratulations,” Stiles says cheerfully. “You can call us whatever your freaky little werewolf heart desires, but I’m calling us boyfriends. Unless you’re planning on picking something up on the side, in which case—dude, not cool.”
Derek rolls his eyes and sits up to kiss Stiles stupid. Stiles grins against his mouth and wraps his arms around Derek’s neck, letting the kiss go on until their mouths are sore and Stiles’s skin is red and swollen from stubble burn. They stay there, foreheads pressed together, noses bumping and sharing air, for a while.
Eventually, Stiles says, “Okay. I’m totally down for having sex now.”
“Now,” Derek says flatly, teasing, and Stiles exhales through his nose and push-pulls at Derek’s shoulders and waist in what Derek thinks is supposed to be a sign for him to roll over. He does so while muttering, “Finally,” and Stiles huffs.
“You suck,” he says simply, like it’s a fact.
But he leans forward, gets on his knees, and runs his fingers down Derek’s sides. His touch is light and cool, his skin not quite as warm as Derek’s even after the so-called sloppy handjobs they shared not too long ago. It’s… nice.
There’s no comparison here for anything else Derek’s done with other people; Stiles is just… different. In every way. His touch isn’t shy, but it’s curious, mapping the curve of Derek’s ass and the curve down to his thighs.
“I—” Stiles starts, his voice sounding low and rough suddenly. He clears his throat and says, “I think you should just not wear clothes. That sounds like a good idea.”
Derek huffs a laugh into the cushion of the arm rest where he’s folded his arms and rested his forehead.
“No, really. Next time something shitty comes to town,” Stiles says, bending down to press his lips to Derek’s lower back, “we should just get you to walk around naked or something. I don’t understand how anyone could be mad or bloodthirsty looking at you like this.”
Derek’s ears burn with a flush, and he presses his face down into his arms, willing it to go away, willing himself to be a little cooler.
“You’re just—you’re awesome, man,” Stiles says, and he’s leaning over Derek’s hip, reaching down to the floor where the bottle of lotion fell earlier. “I swear I’ll shut up in a second, but I just—I had to say that. You look great like this.”
Derek wants to say No, this is good, you can keep saying stuff like this, because it makes him feel strange and funny and new, like he’s being looked at for the first time or something, but the words get caught in his throat, and he reminds himself that he’s supposed to be playing this cool, so he pushes his face against the flesh of his forearm and waits it out, wondering if his flush will ever recede.
When Stiles’s fingers come back, they’re cold and slick with lotion, and they find their way between Derek’s thighs quickly, making Derek jump.
Stiles says, “Sorry,” and sounds a little embarrassed.
“It’s fine,” Derek tries to assure him as gently as he can when he feels so strung out. “It’s good.”
Stiles makes a noise like he doesn’t believe that, but he trails lotion over Derek’s balls and cups them for a moment, feeling the weight of them, and groans softly. He kisses Derek’s back again and whispers, “Christ.”
Derek doesn’t whimper at that, but he does when Stiles moves his hand, reaches around Derek’s hips, and touches Derek’s cock with that same gentle, slick touch. It’s quiet enough that it’s not completely embarrassing, and Stiles seems too far gone to notice (or care, more likely). Derek pushes into Stiles’s touch, asking for more, more more.
Stiles kisses Derek’s back and pulls his hand away, though—shifts back some, even. But not for long. After a few seconds, he curses under his breath and says, “This is literally filling my spank bank for the rest of eternity. I’m never going to have to make a deposit again.”
Derek has a smartass remark for that, but Stiles is on him again too quickly, his hands on the outside of Derek’s thighs, urging them together, close and tight.
There’s a tell-tale slicking sound of Stiles working himself, getting his hand and the lotion on his dick, and Derek wishes he could see that from his angle, but even if he raised his head to look over his shoulder, his view would be almost completely obstructed by his own body.
Stiles goes quickly, anyway, and is pressing himself between Derek’s thighs after just a few strokes of his dick.
“Motherfucker,” Stiles hisses. “Holy mother of—sweet Jesus, Derek.”
“Please,” Derek finally says, hating himself for a second for breaking down and just begging for it, but it’s a second that passes quickly. “Please, Stiles, please.” He has a hand on his dick, and he really, really just needs this.
Stiles pushes forward into the clutch of Derek’s thighs, and Derek sighs, his head breath hot and wet against the skin of his arms. It’s an unsteady rhythm at first, both of them too eager to sync up the rolling of their hips, but eventually—naturally—it falls together. It’s slick and sticky, the brushing of Stiles’s cockhead against the tender skin behind Derek’s balls.
Stiles is all sorts of noise, noise, noise. He’s gasps and sharp inhales and little whimpers and curse words that he’s probably not even conscious of saying. His fingers can’t seem to decide where to go; sometimes his hands are on Derek’s hips, his fingers digging in as he thrusts forward and slides back in an easy (if not trembling) rhythm—other times one of his hands roams, touching Derek everywhere.
Like Derek’s tattoo, which Stiles traces over and over.
Like the muscles of his lower back, the dimples Derek has there.
Like the crack of his ass, the tight muscle of his hole. Stiles puts his finger there, pressing lightly, and Derek makes a rough, quiet sound.
“Would—” Stiles starts, chokes, and has to try again. “Would you let me, someday?”
Derek considers it as best he can when he’s grinding back into Stiles, raising his ass and shifting his hips just so as he tries to find the angle he’s looking for. He considers it, and, when he really realizes what he’s trying to consider, says, honestly and emphatically, “Yes.”
Stiles makes a broken noise and folds over Derek, his fingers going to Derek’s hips again, and Stiles shifts just so in a way that puts the hard line of his cock right against Derek’s balls, and he moves with a purpose. Derek cries out, a wrecked, wounded noise that’s pitched right out from the core of him, and he tightens his grip on his dick and with three— four— five pulls, he comes all over the couch.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuckfuckfuckfuck, Derek,” Stiles says, everything falling out of his mouth at once, his hips stuttering. He pulls back and comes all over the back of Derek’s thighs with a gasp.
Derek shifts himself back from the arm rest and collapses, giving zero notice to the fact that he’s lying in his own come. Stiles doesn’t fall, but he curls over Derek and peppers kisses all over his back, affectionate little things accompanied by small nuzzles of his nose and, occasionally, whispered phrases that Derek doesn’t have the energy to parse out.
They breathe together for a while, the rail depot otherwise silent.
Derek eventually says, “Since that’s your come all over the back of my thighs, boyfriend, you get the honors of cleaning it up.”
Stiles barks a laugh and says, “Oh my god, you just called me boyfriend. I need to text Scott, like, right now.”
Derek rolls his eyes but turns his head to watch Stiles, who gets up and stretches, seemingly at ease with his nudity. His knees are red, his hips and stomach and chest are all red, and his cheeks are red. It’s the most gratifying thing Derek’s ever seen. He wants to taste that flush—not even sexually, since he’s well spent for the time being, thanks—see if it’s as delicious as it looks.
Stiles comes back with jeans on and his t-shirt in hand—which is what he uses when he wipes at Derek’s thighs gingerly, a little smile on his lips.
“So, you called me boyfriend,” he repeats, looking a little more serious, his eyes carefully avoiding Derek’s. “I sort of… strong armed you into that one, didn’t I?”
Derek rolls his eyes and rolls over, gesturing for Stiles to come closer. Stiles considers it for a second before complying, stretching out over Derek’s body, catlike in a way. Derek kisses him, soft and sweet, and pulls back. He says, “Stiles, you couldn’t strong arm me if you tried.”
Stiles makes an affronted noise, pushes back, and pinches Derek’s thigh. “Just because you have crazy werewolf shit going on in your muscles,” he argues. “If we were on even ground, here, I could totally take you.”
Derek looks at him disbelievingly.
“Oh, screw you, Kujo,” Stiles huffs—then he considers it. “Again. Many times over, actually. A repeat date, if possible.”
“Very possible,” Derek says. “But I think you actually have a curfew to meet…?”
Stiles stiffens and looks down at the watch he discarded earlier when they were undressing (“No, fuck no, I refuse to have sex wearing nothing but a watch,” he’d said, trying to get the stupid thing off.), and he makes a miserable noise. “Crap, you’re right.”
“I know,” Derek says, smirking.
Stiles glowers at him but leans down for a kiss anyway. “Okay, boyfriend, whatever,” he says. “This was—yeah. Awesome. Really awesome.”
Derek snorts. “Teenager.”
“Uh-huh,” Stiles hums with a smug little grin. “Teenager with a curfew. Aaand I’m off. See you.”
He kisses Derek one last time on the lips, not exactly quickly since there’s tongues involved before long, but when the two of them part, he’s quick to take the stairs two or three at a time, his long limbs flailing to keep him balanced.
It’s not until just before he ducks out the door that Derek realizes that Stiles is wearing his burgundy shirt.