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Derek is usually the last one out of the locker room. He prefers it that way, showering alone without the extra noise and smells of his teammates saturating everything. Plus, sometimes after a game like this, high off victory and endorphins, his control isn't necessarily iron-clad. Less chance of someone seeing him accidentally pop a claw or a fang. And if he takes advantage of the privacy to jerk off, well, that's his prerogative. He's 17-years-old, sue him.
He's just about to towel off and get dressed when something makes his senses prickle to alertness, and he hears someone coming. Someone with a heartbeat that's just a little too fast, breathing a bit too quick. Someone, he also realizes, whose scent is deliciously sweet, like warm cinnamon, and it fills his lungs so much so that he nearly wolfs out completely.
It’s a mix of instinct and curiosity that drives him to find the source, but he doesn't have to go far, because it ends up running straight into him.
His first thought when his eyes fall on the teen in front of him is pretty, followed quickly by want and mine. Because he's like every one of Derek's sexual fantasies come to life in one person. Tall and lanky, skin pale like milk and begging to be marked. Sharp collar bones that Derek can already practically feel between his teeth. And Jesus fuck, who is this boy and why the fuck does he smell so god damned good.
...
Stiles is going to kill Scott for this, because this, like most fucked up things in their life lately, is entirely his fault. Stiles was just trying to be a good friend, a supportive friend, and take Scott out to drown his sorrows in curly fries and milkshakes because that's what you do when your very best friend gets his ass monumentally kicked on the lacrosse field and hopelessly embarrasses himself in front of the girl he's completely in love with. And Stiles doesn't even give a shit about sports, thank you very much, but he can fake it. He can pretend for the sake of friendship.
Well, friendship is canceled. That's all Stiles can think when he walks into the locker room and finds it empty, with Scott's dumb werewolf ass completely AWOL despite the text message he'd received assuring him otherwise. Which wouldn't be that bad, if not for the fact that now Stiles is face to face with a very wet, very naked Derek Hale. Stiles might not know about sports, but he's not stupid, okay. Everyone knows who Derek Hale is – Beacon Hills' resident star athlete (and according to Finstock, the one who got away). If it's a sport, Derek plays it. No, not just plays it. Dominates it . And now Stiles can't breathe and he's probably going to pass out and die because why on earth would his brain use the word dominate right now when Derek is all tan and muscled and drippy and staring at him?
“Are you looking for somebody?” Derek asks, leaning against one of the lockers, completely at ease, like he's not at all phased by being half-naked in front of a stranger. Why would he, Stiles thinks, when he looks like that?
“Um –,” Words, Stilinski, he thinks desperately. Use them. “Scott...Scott McCall, my friend, he was supposed to meet me here.”
Derek arches an eyebrow and Stiles internally flails, because who the hell has eyebrows like that? “Obviously he's not here.”
Obviously. “Oh – uh – okay, I'll – just...” But when Stiles shifts, tries to move past the row of lockers toward the door, Derek's arm blocks the way. He's got this cocky grin on his face, and god that shouldn't be hot, but it is. It so is.
“You know, if I was dating someone as pretty as you, I sure as fuck wouldn't make you run around looking for me,” Derek says.
Stiles lets out a sound a bit like a startled rat, because he's pretty sure Derek Hale just called him, Stiles Stilinski, the eternal spazz, pretty. Nobody has ever called him pretty before. He feels his cheeks go hot. “Scott's not my boyfriend.” It comes out a lot more shrill than he intends it to, but Derek doesn't seem to care. Instead, he somehow looks pleased by that fact, which...what the fuck?
...
“Good,” Derek drawls. “What's your name?”
The boy's eyes, big and brown and impossibly bright, narrow in suspicion. And god, he looks so much like prey it would be almost funny if it wasn't driving Derek absolutely crazy. “Why?”
Derek smirks. “I've been told it's polite to find out someone's name before you ask them out on a date.”
The flush that blooms on the boy's pointed cheekbones is pretty, too, and he can't help but wonder what it would look like as it spread over his whole body. “Uh – Stiles. My name is Stiles.”
“Nice to meet you, Stiles,” Derek says. “I'm Derek H--”
“I know who you are,” Stiles says quickly, biting his lip in a way that absolutely should not be legal, Derek thinks. The wolf in him feels like it's practically trying to chew its way out of his chest, and it's not like he's not used to people throwing themselves at him, but where was the fun in that? Stiles is all sweet and nervous, and flirting with him feels a lot more like a chase, and christ, is he craving the hunt.
...
Stiles is pretty sure he's hallucinating. Or dreaming. Yeah, he's definitely had this dream before and he's almost ninety-nine-percent certain he's going to wake up in his bed with a serious case of morning wood. Because there's no way on god's green earth that Derek freaking Hale wants to go on a date with him.
“Did you just pinch yourself?” Derek asks, grinning, and rude, Stiles thinks because nobody should look that good when they smile. It's just not right.
“No – maybe,” Stiles sputters. “I was just checking because when I have this dream, I'm usually naked.”
Derek laughs. “You're not dreaming, baby. Trust me.”
Stiles is pretty sure he has ceased to exist. “Why the hell would you want to go out with me? I mean, look at me, I'm like 145 pounds of bones and sarcasm, and you're – “ he gestures frantically to Derek's entire being, basically, “ - that. I'm pretty sure your muscles have muscles. You could have anyone you want.”
...
“Maybe I don't want just anyone,” Derek says, already hating the way Stiles's creeping doubt is threatening to sour that sugar-sweet scent he wants to pretty much bathe in. “Maybe I find just anyone boring.”
Stiles blinks at him, wide-eyed. “But you don't even know me. I could be boring. I could be insufferable, and annoying. I'm weird and spazzy and I talk too much –“
“Maybe I wanna find out for myself,” Derek says, and it's not like he means to do it, but the unshakable urge to touch is becoming a little too much for him to handle. Pushing down another rumble in his chest, he finds himself moving closer, Stiles stepping back with every inch he gains until the boy is pressed up against the lockers with Derek all but caging him in. “You seriously don't know what you look like?”
Stiles's heart is rabbiting in his chest, his scent tinged with nervousness, but also with something else that Derek is very familiar with: arousal. And Derek can't help it, letting out a pleased little purr as he allows himself to lean in just close enough to sample the bouquet, so to speak, his nose just brushing that sharp slate of Stiles's jaw.
“No?” The boy says, voice a little wobbly, but he's biting that perfect swell of his lip and christ Derek's never been so jealous of teeth before, but here we are.
...
Stiles isn't exactly sure how he ended up here, with his back quite literally up against a wall. Honestly, he's never been more freaked out, and somehow also aroused, in his entire life. He's not sure whether he wants to kill Scott the next time he sees him, or thank him. The jury is still out on that one.
“People – ah – ,” He can feel Derek's breath on his skin, impossibly hot, and he can't help it, letting out a mortifying noise that there's no way he can deny is anything but a moan, “haven't been exactly chomping at the bit for a bite of, you know,” he motions nervously to himself, “ this.”
Derek makes this sound, a pleased sort of growl. “Good, I wouldn't want anyone else getting a bite of you anyway,” he says, grinning that shit-eating grin again. “More for me.”
“Oh my god,” Stiles finally says, because how is this happening to him? “How are you even a real person?”
…
Derek can honestly say he's never quite met someone like Stiles, who wears his emotions so plainly on his face, and clearly says whatever thought happens to pop into his head. It's fascinating, to be honest, and he can't really remember the last time he felt that way about any of the many people who threw themselves at him. Derek knows what he looks like, and he's not dumb, but most of the people who tended to hit on him were, well, boring. And Stiles is most definitely not that.
He watches, laughing, as Stiles's hands (pretty hands, too, he notes, with long fingers. Derek immediately wants to know how they'd feel in his mouth) fly to his face like he thinks if he stops looking Derek might disappear.
“Wanna find out?” Derek asks, and Stiles groans, but he's looking through his spread fingers like he wants to make sure Derek is still watching him. Which, of course he is. Like he'd look away right now. He's gentle, slow, and careful when he reaches up to pull Stiles's hands away from his face, replacing them with his own, cupped carefully around Stiles's jaw. “Is this okay?”
Stiles lets out a very cute, very high-pitched squeak, but he nods, chewing on his lip again. God, he's adorable, Derek thinks, and he's never wanted to devour someone more.
...
Jesus. Not only was Derek Hale quite possibly the hottest human being Stiles has ever seen, but he apparently possesses some kind of sex-magic-voodoo. He has to, because there's really no other explanation for why Stiles is practically spreading his legs for the dude. He's doing his very best to try to look anywhere but Derek's face, because he's pretty sure he'll keel over and die if he does, but he can't help it. Derek's eyes are as pretty as the rest of him, emerald green with freckles of gold, and Stiles isn't sure he believes in god or any of that shit, but he would like to sit down with whoever created him because Stiles has questions, okay.
He shivers a little, feeling Derek huff what sounds like a laugh into his shoulder. “You were right. You do talk a lot.”
“Oh my god,” Stiles says, wrenching his eyes shut. “I said all that out loud didn't I?”
Derek nods, but he's still smiling like Stiles is some marvelous thing he's just uncovered, so apparently he doesn't care. “You're adorable. And I'm going to kiss you now.”
Stiles whines and that must do something to Derek, because he's pretty sure his eyes are much darker than they were before, either that or he's hallucinating again. “I've never been kiss--”
“I don't care,” Derek growls, and Stiles barely gets the chance to breathe before the grip on his jaw tightens and he is intensely and thoroughly kissed for the first time.
...
If the boy wasn't alluring enough, he has to go and tell Derek that he's completely untouched which leaves that wolf in him practically howling in its pleasure to be the very first. Only , is the word that echoes that thought, which Derek can't even think about at the moment because it's a deeply primal truth he's unprepared to process at the moment.
Because he can't think of anything beyond how good Stiles tastes when he licks into his mouth and sucks on his tongue, how right it feels to sink his fingers possessively into the boy's boney hip and pull him close. And the sounds he makes, christ, these little whimpers and moans that feel like shocks under Derek's skin, sparking a fire in his blood that he knows is something he probably needs to get under control before he completely loses it. But he's a teenage boy, and a werewolf, and Stiles might as well be catnip. Werenip? Jesus christ, this boy has made him stupid.
…
Stiles finally breaks the kiss, gasping for air and letting his head drop against Derek's shoulder with a breathless whimper. “Holy fuck, what weird sex planet are you from, and are there more of you?”
Derek grins, and it's not just the wolf part of him that's preening now. “You're still talking,” he hums, and Stiles's throat is right there, all pale and unblemished and perfect, so how can he resist scraping his teeth down the cord of muscle there before following the path with his tongue. It's too easy for him to get caught up in it, leaving his mark so thoroughly on Stiles's skin that surely, he thinks and the wolf growls approvingly, no one would dare touch him.
Stiles lets out a strangled, choked sort of moan. “You're giving me a hickey? My dad is going to murder me.”
Derek pauses for a moment, but Stiles's scent is still that spicy-sweet that screams yes, more, please.
“I didn't say stop, big guy,” Stiles gasps, his hands searching for frantic purchase before he apparently finds it in Derek's hair, which he pulls on, hard.
“Brat,” Derek says, nipping at Stiles's mouth before claiming it again.
…
None of this should feel as good as it does, and Stiles knows he absolutely should not be doing what he's doing right now, with a stranger (not quite a stranger, because he knew who Derek was, his mind supplies unhelpfully). But it's like every time his brain throws up some kind of signal in an attempt to warn him of too much, too fast, his body doesn't seem to want to hear it.
And Derek's mouth feels criminally good against his throat, and Stiles can't help the way he rocks his hips against his when Derek's teeth scrape over his pulse point. And then they're kissing again, and that's also so, so good, the slide of Derek’s lips, warm and surprisingly soft against his mouth.
And his hands, Jesus. Stiles is pretty sure somebody should be writing an ode to Derek’s hands because they're big and hot and the way he grips Stiles's hip and his jaw is just the right side of rough. This time it's Derek who pulls away, and Stiles whines automatically, trying to chase his retreating mouth. Because why is he stopping?
...
It’s been a while since Derek’s been this close to losing it, and he didn’t think that control would be tested today by something like this. His jaw is starting to ache from that needling sensation of his fangs threatening to drop, and his fingers are itchy at the tips from holding back his claws. Worth it, he thinks, though having to pull away from a mouth that sweet was a tragedy. The needy little whine Stiles lets out, the way he automatically surges forward to try and kiss him again doesn’t do much to improve the whole control thing.
“Gimme a minute, baby,” Derek says, breathing shakily into the curve of Stiles’s shoulder. His voice is rough and sharp, ragged from the wolf that feels like it's trying to bust its way out of his skin if only to chase more of that mouthwatering scent he can’t seem to get enough of. “You’re too much.”
Stiles giggles and Derek really wishes he wouldn’t, because it should be illegal to be this fucking cute. All he can do for a moment is breathe, taking in the sugary sweet notes of arousal spiked with nerves. He’s not going to waste the opportunity in front of him though, so he licks at Stiles’s throat until that laughter turns into another wrecked sounding moan that he can literally feel fly out of the boy’s mouth.
“And you say I’m too much?” Stiles gasps, somehow managing to bare more of his ivory throat in a way that seems just unnecessarily cruel to Derek at this point. “You’re all -- “ and then Derek’s shivering as he feels Stiles’s palms, cooler than his own molten-hot skin, drag down the length of his spine. “ -- fuck, you’re naked. You’re naked, and I’m not, and we’re at school,” Stiles says, sounding bewildered by that realization.
Derek chuckles. “That’s a very astute observation,” he says, pulling at the neck of Stiles’s t-shirt before sinking his teeth hard enough to bruise into the newly revealed skin there. Stiles keens and Derek growls, satisfied when he feels how hard the boy is against his leg. He bucks his hips so they rut against the other boy’s and they’re both groaning now, biting back a hiss.
“We should definitely probably maybe stop,” Stiles stutters, but the way he’s digging his fingernails into Derek’s back like he’s worried he might let go suggests otherwise.
“Yeah,” Derek murmurs. “We should.”
But it doesn’t mean he’s going to.
...
Stupid Derek Hale with his stupid face and his stupid mouth and the stupid fact that he's not stupid at all, apparently. Because it wasn't bad enough that he looked like a freaking runway model, he was smart and funny and sweet. It's incredibly goddamn rude is what it is.
“You think my face is stupid?”
"Why do I keep doing that?” Stiles groans, “why can't I just shut the fuck up?” He doesn't have much of a filter on a good day, and right now he feels a little bit like his brain is going to start oozing out of his ears. There can't be much blood flow up there right now anyway since all of it's gone entirely to his dick.
Derek just laughs again and presses a shark-tooth grin right underneath Stiles's jaw and sucks.
“I'm going to have to wear turtlenecks for like a month,” Stiles gasps, “and I'm definitely going to come in my pants if you keep doing that.”
The other boy doesn't seem to mind this. In fact, he makes an encouraging sort of hum against Stiles's impossibly flushed skin and sucks harder. “You can,” he murmurs, and nobody's voice should sound that good. “I want you to.”
“Oh, fuck.” Something about the way Derek says that not quite a command, but it could be – Stiles is pretty sure he wants it to be – (and yeah, he's definitely going to have to seriously examine his kinks after this, because Jesus ) is enough to push him right over the edge. He cries out weakly, yanking on Derek's hair so hard that the other boy lets out a sound that Stiles can only describe as a snarl as Stiles comes harder than he thinks he has in his entire life.
…
When Derek hears that little cry, when the other boy shakes and shudders in his arms, he just about loses it right then and there. No human should smell this good, taste this good, be this good. The way he whimpers, soft and sweet, as he comes down from his high and nuzzles into Derek's chest is enough to make his hands shake and his teeth ache in his jaw again. The wolf and him are one and the same, two halves of a whole, but that wilder half of him has never felt so enthralled with another person so utterly before. It makes Derek feel off-kilter, woozy and out of control, like he imagines being drunk would be, though he's never experienced it (the closest he's been is running under the full moon, and he's not sure moon drunk is the same thing).
“I think you made me dumber,” Stiles whispers breathlessly, “and I still maintain your face is stupid.”
Derek rolls his eyes.
“I saw that,” Stiles hums. “What about you?”
It takes Derek a second to figure out what he's even talking about, too busy licking up the beads of sweat that have gathered into the bowl of the boy's collarbones and wishing instead that he could get on his knees and lick the cum off Stiles's skin. Then he remembers, oh yeah, he's hard as fucking rock still and hasn't even noticed the jerky, metered thrusts he's been making against Stiles's thigh. “I'll survive.”
Stiles's scent does a funny thing, and Derek's not quite sure what exactly he's picking up on until he feels Stiles's nimble fingers tugging insistently on his hair. That perfect mouth of his that Derek cannot even fathom as anything but sinful is twisted into what Derek can only describe as a pout.
“Are you pouting?” Derek asks, a little incredulously.
“Maybe.”
...
Stiles isn't sure why, but he feels a little cheated that Derek got to make him come, but doesn't seem all that concerned about Stiles returning the favor. It's more to the fact that he wants to, and it feels a bit like someone is denying him a treat they told him he was getting, denying him something sweet. Stiles is an only child, so he's kind of used to not having to share, to getting what he wants when he wants. Maybe that makes him spoiled, but he likes being spoiled, okay.
“Haven't you ever heard of the Law of Reciprocity?”
“Are you spouting psychology at me just so you can watch me come?” God, Stiles thinks, why does the fact that he knows that somehow make him even hotter?
“Maybe I don't want to just watch,” Stiles says softly.
“You,” Derek says, making that growling noise that Stiles isn't quite sure a human person should be able to make (but he's too sex-stupid at the moment to dwell on it), “are trouble.”
Stiles doesn't get the chance to comment on that before Derek is lifting him up in the air with an uncomfortable amount of ease (he's not that small, he thinks petulantly), his legs locking reflexively around the other boy's waist. Derek makes an approving noise against Stiles's mouth, catching his tongue between his teeth in a way that should probably hurt, but all it does is make Stiles want to kiss him even harder. So he does.
Somehow Derek ends up seated on one of the benches, Stiles straddling his lap. He squirms a little, nipping at Derek's lip hard enough that Derek makes this groaning sound that he files away for later, you know, for science.
“Definitely trouble,” Derek gasps, but Stiles ignores him in favor of sinking his teeth into Derek's shoulder.
...
Derek should absolutely be trying to reign himself in, should be doing a lot of things that aren't this, but that train has clearly left the station with very little chance of turning around. Stiles keeps rocking his hips in just the right way, a way that somehow seems to directly short circuit higher thought. He's not supposed to have the luxury of losing control, at least that's what his mother tells him, but dear god he can't think about her right now. He just fucking can't.
And then Stiles has to go and bite him. Derek can't do a damn thing to hold back the rumble in his throat as that slight flash of pain goes white and hot. Stiles's scent turns somehow even sweeter, honeyed, and cloying in that way that suggests he's entirely too pleased with himself. So Derek shouldn't really be surprised when he mouths his way up to Derek's throat and does the same. That's all it takes for him to shatter into what feels like a thousand pieces. As he comes, shaking and shuddering, he bites his own lips so hard that he tastes blood, has to in order to quell the roar that absolutely would have torn it's way out of his mouth otherwise. He's together enough to let go of his iron grip on Stiles's hips for fear of crushing him, and also because there's no way for him not to keep his claws in check, and he winces when he feels them digging into the splintery wood of the bench.
His eyes are squeezed shut, and he's honestly not sure how long it'll take it to be safe to open them.
“Are you dead?” Stiles asks, breathing heavily but obviously concerned.
“Shut up, Stiles,” Derek says, and he knows how gravelly and completely wrecked he sounds, and he wonders if it's too much to hope for that Stiles doesn't notice.
“Normally it's polite to – “ Stiles starts, sounding huffy, but he trails off sudden enough that Derek opens his eyes without meaning to. “Oh my god, dude. You're a freaking werewolf?”
…
“Don't call me dude,” Derek says.
Stiles rolls his eyes. And seriously, Stiles thinks, that's the first thing he says? Not, sorry for not revealing, by the way, that I'm a different species before sucking face with you. “That's all you have to say?”
He wasn't sure that it was possible for a person's eyebrows to get that furrowed, but apparently they can.
“I don't know,” Derek says, and the sort of hysterical, squeaky sort of way he's talking is the most human he's sounded so far. Stiles really should have been paying more attention. Whatever he can't be blamed for being blinded by Derek's ridiculous sex-magic. “This isn't really the reaction I expected. I've never shifted in front of anyone before, let alone someone I've, you know.”
“Do I have like, a sign on my forehead that says all werewolves welcome ?” Stiles asks, exasperatedly, because how can this possibly be his life? It's bad enough he has to deal with all this werewolf crap with Scott. Why does the dude who literally made him come so hard he saw stars have to be one too? Not that it's going to stop him from doing that again, he hopes, because yes, please. But still. The cosmic irony left a lot to be desired.
Derek growls. “Wait. What other wolves? You don't belong to someone else do you?”
“First of all, I don't belong to anyone,” Stiles says loftily, though there is a part of his brain that unhelpfully supplies, yet. Grimacing in disgust he adds, “Plus, ew, to Scott? No thank you. Besides, he's way too busy worshiping at the altar of Allison.”
“He shouldn't,” Derek says quickly and seriously. “They're hunters.”
“Wait...like werewolf hunters? ”
Derek nods.
“I'm surrounded by idiot werewolves,” Stiles groans, planting his forehead against Derek's shoulder before turning to glare at him. “I'm including you in that, by the way. Idiot.”