It all sort of happens on accident.
For reasons. A lot of reasons. Most of them Stiles isn’t too sure about, but he knows that since the beginning, it’s had something to do with Chris Argent being involved.
The problem with Chris Argent being involved is that he’s weird about Scott. Has been from the start. Not only does he totally see through the “Oh, no, sir, we’ve moved on” but he’s actually, for reasons unknown, starting to like Scott now. So Scott’s at the Argents’ having the most awkward dinner ever, considering that his texts are saying that Chris is actually trying to set him up with Allison, which means that Scott’s spending all dinner trying to apologize to her for it.
And Stiles, well, Stiles is where he always is when Scott’s having uncomfortable dinners with Allison — stuck with a sulky werewolf. At least this time there’s no life-or-death situation. Not that anyone would know by the way Derek’s carrying on.
“Seriously, Stiles, just go away.”
Stiles sighs, looking up from the book Peter left for him. “Dude. I need to read this, and you won’t let me take the book home. Your fault that I’m here, big guy.”
“Whatever,” Derek mutters darkly, like he’s about thirteen and pretending he hates his mom. Who, in this situation, might be Stiles. Which is kind of an uncomfortable thing for reasons. (Derek’s a hottie with a body, alright, Stiles is very aware of that, and even a hypothetical pseudo-Oedipal angle is freaky deaky.)
“When’s Cora coming back? She was getting a pizza, right?”
“No, she said she was getting a Hawaiian,” Derek says, like this is incredibly meaningful.
Stiles sighs, leaning back in his chair. “And what, exactly, is so portentous about pineapple and ham?”
“It’s code, idiot,” Derek says like he’s about two seconds from throwing himself dramatically onto some horizontal surface. “She’s not coming back tonight.”
The look Stiles gives him is, after a good minute, enough to get him to explain.
“It’s a…thing. For personal space. Laura made it up on accident. If we ever needed a break from the family, we’d just say we were getting a Hawaiian. You know, like a vacation.”
“So, what you’re saying is that I’m not getting any pizza tonight,” Stiles says with a heavy sigh. Damn. He’s hungry. Well, he’s always a little hungry, unless he’s taken his Adderall in the last couple hours. Right now, he could probably put away a pizza by himself.
“You could always leave,” Derek offers.
“Not until I can figure out what the hell kind of thing is going after virgins, dude. Heather…I was there, okay, I was right there and I couldn’t protect her, so it’s my responsibility to figure out what took her.”
Derek doesn’t say anything, but he wanders over to the secondhand couch and sprawls like he’s the king of his fucking abandoned hovel. There’s a hole in the wall, alright, and that’s not exactly what you’d call nice digs, but he gets so proud of the place. Whenever they’re here, he, like, struts around his stupid werewolf territory—
Okay, so Stiles is a little pissy. He’s been reading this book (a handwritten book with shitty script penmanship) for, like, four hours, since he left school, basically, and he’s gotten nothing except a massive headache and the munchies. Not even the good kind of munchies. And he’s fucking tired of doing this. He needs a break, for his eyes and his brain.
Derek should have let him just take the book home. Because then he could have a Stilinski Study Break and get right back on track. But for some reason, he thinks that jerking off within like a mile of Derek would probably be equivalent to asking for a slow death, so he’s not going to do it. Obviously. That would be really stupid.
It would make his headache go away, though. And a post-jerk off snack is the best kind of snack.
No. There’s absolutely no way to get away with it, anyway. It’s not like he can just duck into the bathroom for a few minutes. Derek would kill him. There’s no way—
“Hey, how far can you hear? Like, what’s your range?”
Derek lifts his head up and eyes Stiles suspiciously. “Why do you want to know?”
“Just hypothetically, jeez. I’m just procrasturb— procrastinating,” he says, and no, he does not blush because he’s sixteen, and a sixteen year old boy’s best friend is his dick, and he’s not going to be ashamed of that enduring love. Or his Freudian Slips.
“See, and this is why you can’t take the book home,” Derek says, like this is why you can’t have nice things. “It’s a family heirloom and I don’t want it to be covered in jizz stains.”
Stiles chokes and yeah, he goes a little flushed. “Hey, I have way better aim than that, thank you very much.” He crosses his hands over his chest like he’s not uncomfortable. “I’m a little offended, actually.”
“Well, I guess you’ve had plenty of practice,” Derek cracks and oh my God, he’s making jokes about masturbating. And Stiles is going to pretend he’s not at all interested in the pants area because thoughts of touching penises plus Derek usually means a happy ending for him.
Not that he jerks off to his not-enemy/sort-of-ally.
Well, not that he’d admit it to anyone ever.
“Practice makes perfect,” Stiles says primly. “Anyway, I don’t think you have room to talk. Your bachelor pad hasn’t exactly been put to use, has it?”
“Oh, shut up.” Derek gets up and heads into the not-kitchen. Not a kitchen because it’s not even enclosed, it’s just, like, four feet of counter, a fridge, shitty microwave, and a coffee maker. Stiles makes sure his sims are better equipped than this, alright. It’s just sad.
No, what’s sad is how Stiles watches Derek’s back when he opens the fridge and bends a little to get something from the middle shelf, wonders if that’s how he bends into himself when he gets himself off, or if he arches instead, which Stiles has a great visual of, even though he’s not sure what it says about him that he once popped a boner when someone was maybe dying.
(It says he’s kind of fucked up, but hey, he already knew that.)
“Jesus Christ, Stiles,” Derek says as he crosses the room with a Gatorade. “You have hands. You can just take care of that.” He waves a hand in the general direction of Stiles Jr. Yeah, okay, Stiles looks down, just to check, and you can’t tell that he’s mostly hard, okay?
“How can you even tell?” Stiles ask. Does Derek have special boner senses? Do they tingle? And where, exactly, would that tingling be happening?
Derek gives him a dry look. “I can smell you from across the room, idiot. Why don’t you go do something about it so it doesn’t reek like horny boy in here?”
“I don’t need your permission to jerk off, you know.” He shifts a little, adjusting himself because even though he should be totally mortified right now, his dick is starting to throb a little. Yeah, he has a problem with fear responses. His are broken or something.
“Then just fucking do it so I can take a nap without suffocating.”
“Where? I mean, do I have to go outside? Or can I just use your bathroom?”
Derek pinches the bridge of his nose. “Anywhere.”
That’s totally the wrong thing to say because he’s pretty sure it makes his dick twitch in his pants because anywhere could be right here or on your bed and fuck, this is really messed up. This is going to be one of those things they don’t talk about, like when they were paralyzed and Stiles totally unintentionally (because he was paralyzed, dammit) touched Little Derek and well, Stiles does have something of an understanding of what a limp dick feels like, and that was not exactly soft. There were no nails in danger of being pounded or anything, but Little Derek might have been perusing the hardware section.
It’s been thirteen hours since his last Adderall, he has more of a boner than he’ll ever admit to under water torture, and Derek said anywhere.
And he didn’t take it back.
He’s not going to jerk off in the middle of Derek’s loft. That’s way unclassy and weird and he’s not into being murdered. Maybe shoved against a wall a little and threatened some, but not killed. So Stiles does the smart thing and he gets up, zeroing in on the bathroom, and very casually adjusts the goods as he goes.
“You better open a window!” Derek calls and Stiles takes that to heart. It’s the least he can do.
Only the fucking window won’t open.
And every time he tries, the corner of the sink presses against his junk and he’s making an effort not to just grind against it. But the fucking window is, like, welded shut.
“Can I just break the window instead?” Stiles yells because he’s going to murder this window dead. It’s the one thing standing in the way of his hand and his dick coming into sweet, sweet contact, and it’s going to pay.
“Do I have to do everything myself?” Derek grumbles and heh, Stiles has a little image of telling him yes, and also my hands aren’t working, can I borrow yours? Okay, but he’s not going to do that, obviously, because he values his life.
When Derek leans over the sink to work on the window, it’s like his ass is on display and his jeans, Christ, his jeans are painted on, aren’t they? There’s no way a person could actually pull on jeans that tight, like, Stiles can see musculature and fuck, okay, Derek’s back is to him, he’s not able to see that Stiles has to press the heel of his palm into his crotch to tell his dick to calm the fuck down.
But Derek’s shoulders rise a little, and he says, “Seriously? Could you not wait, like, two minutes?”
Which means that Derek thinks he’s getting himself off right now (he’s not) and that’s a little offensive. He’s not that thirsty, Christ.
But that also means that Derek’s reaction to him getting himself off not two feet away is just to complain that he couldn’t wait a little while longer, and that is interesting. Must be a werewolf thing. They must have different personal space rules for jerking it. Or something.
Stiles is not going to do anything based on that theory.
Okay, he just thumbs open his button. That’s nothing. Everything is still one hundred percent covered. It’s no big deal. Sometimes if he and Scott go too crazy at the five dollar Chinese buffet, they’ll go for the zipper, too. For breathing room.
He’s not going to go for the zipper. This is not the Chinese buffet. This is the Derek buffet and Stiles wants a plate of that.
Shit, he’s got no game. It’s a really fucking good thing he doesn’t accidentally say his thoughts out loud because he would probably never get laid for the rest of his life for that line.
Derek bangs his hand on the window, not hard enough to break it, and makes a noise of utter frustration. “You know what? The window can go fuck itself,” he says, and just hangs his head over the sink. “For the love of— Stiles, can you just put it away? I can’t—“
“Dude, everything’s in the pants,” he says, hands up defensively. Derek looks at him over his shoulder, even though he can tell that Stiles isn’t lying.
“Well, it doesn’t smell like you’re wearing pants.”
“So you can totally smell my dick right now,” Stiles says, smirking a little, “because that’s good. I mean, in case I ever come home at five in the morning and you think something’s going on.” Derek gives him a look then, just a hint of the old Alpha eyes.
“I have no fucking clue what you’re talking about, but you need to shut up and do something about that.” His hands grip the edges of the sink, knuckles popping white, and Stiles just stands there. Because he’s not sure if that means he needs to will his boner away or put his hand in his pants and he’s really not sure what’s going on here, why Derek is still standing there, why Derek is standing there and not looking at him, or why all of this has him so hard he just wants to make some sort of noise.
“Fuck,” Derek hisses, and he’s breathing deep, slow, like he’s trying to control himself, and fuck it, Stiles has no idea what that means, but his fingers find his zipper and pull. Slow, but even Stiles can hear the tab knock against each of the teeth. There’s a sharp inhale, almost like a whine, and Derek shifts his hips a little against the sink. Like it’s involuntary.
Shit, that shouldn’t be so hot, but Stiles is pretty sure his dick pulses out a drop or two at that.
That’s a whine alright, and Stiles is about to say something (who fucking knows what) when Derek spins around and yanks Stiles in by the belt loops, then jerks his pants down. Stiles makes a stumbling noise, and he’s weirdly embarrassed because whatever this is is happening and because the head of his dick is poking out of the slot in his boxers. When Derek rubs his thumb against it, Stiles groans, head dropping to his shoulder.
Derek just slides that thumb over him, presses against the slit a little. Even if his thumb wasn’t shiny, Stiles would know it was wet by the way it goes so easy, slick.
“Are you always this wet?” Derek asks, and it sounds like it’s supposed to be rude or something, but it breaks in the back of his throat. He trades his thumb for the palm of his hand and just coats his hand in Stiles’ pre-come.
Yeah, that’s too fucking much.
Gasping, Stiles nods into the junction of Derek’s neck and shoulder. “You gonna do something, or are you just gonna play with it?” he asks cockily, trying to regain a fraction of his dignity.
“Fucker,” Derek hisses, but he pushes Stiles’ boxers down below his balls and gives him a rough stroke that makes Stiles keen and tip forward onto his toes. His hand is slick enough that it doesn’t quite chafe, but it’s just a little sticky. It’s a good sort of friction, the kind that makes him get off fast. Not that he needs any help there.
Stiles looks down between them at his cock disappearing in Derek’s fist, fuck, his fist. This might be a dream, a fucked up memory trick of the Alphas, but it’s hot like burning. The outline of Derek’s dick is making his mouth water, like, almost to the point of drooling. He’s proportionately big. Of fucking course he is. And he probably fucks like a porn star.
At that thought, and at Derek’s thumb smearing some more of his pre-come around, he whines a little. In a manly way.
His fingers are apparently twisted in Derek’s t-shirt, but he lets go and palms Derek through his jeans. Yeah, that’s something Stiles wants to get to know a lot better. He’s thick and hot and when he grinds against Stiles’ hand, he groans in a beautiful way. He does everything in a beautiful way, and that’s the worst part. He is what he is and what he is is too beautiful and dangerous and fucked up and mean for Stiles, and even when Stiles realizes that he’s about to come, he’s thinking about how this is never going to happen again.
But he comes all over the chest of Derek’s shirt and all over his hand, and Derek pulls him through it just past the point of too much, until his hand is sticky and white and Stiles is fighting for breath against his collarbone. He allows himself four deep breaths before he pulls away. With a little noise, Derek wipes his hand on his shirt.
Stiles goes for his zipper before he loses his courage or his afterglow. Hands close around his wrists and Stiles looks up. Derek’s eyes are flickering red.
“It’s only fair,” Stiles tells him, and Derek presses against his hands a little.
Stiles gives him a look. “Dude, the blue balls are gonna be murder. Let me give you a hand.” He smirks at himself for that one. With a roll of the eyes, Derek lets go, grabbing the sides of the sink instead. The position juts his hips out a little. When Stiles unbuttons his jeans, the zipper ratchets down the first inch or so on its own. Left-handed, he does the rest of the way while he licks his right hand. With a groan, Derek’s head falls back.
There’s a crack as the sink loosening from the wall when Stiles finally wraps his hand around Derek’s dick. It’s a beautiful dick. Most aren’t, and Stiles admits that as someone who’s pretty fond of them in general, but his is nice. It’s thick, uncut, though, and Stiles has only gotten his hands on his own, so that’s different. The way his hand slides up and down is different, but he doesn’t get a great working knowledge of it because on the third upstroke, when he swipes his thumb across the head, Derek comes. With a strange fascination, Stiles jerks each pulse of jizz from him. It’s the first time he’s seen someone else come in real life and yeah, maybe he’d like to have watched Derek’s face for it, but this isn’t like that. It’s not a tender moment. It’s just a couple of orgasms.
Derek’s shirt is a lost cause.
“You should really go change that,” Stiles tells him as elbows him in the ribs to get at the sink. He turns on the faucet to clean his hand when Derek moves, glances over his shoulder to see if he’s watching; he’s looking down at shirt. Stiles moves, very casually and very subtly, to lick his hand. Derek’s come tastes mostly like his own, but it’s a little different. He can’t risk a second taste, even for science reasons, because he gets the feeling that’s not a totally cool thing to do, so he washes his hands really good while Derek goes and changes his shirt.
After, Stiles makes sure he looks normal and he gets to work; in another hour, he should be halfway through the book, and then he’ll give himself permission to go home.