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It is not Stiles' fault if he notices everything. It is so not. It's called Attention Deficit Disorder and he has medication for it. It's kind of a problem sometimes but Stiles can deal. Sometimes he takes too much of his medication. (On purpose.) So he's distracted. *shrug*.
Stiles notices lots of things, all the time; his attention skitters from one thing to another. (He really, really can't focus sometimes.) Sometimes it seems like he notices fifty different things about a person or situation without really trying, though he can focus when he's kind of obsessed with something—and with extra Adderall.
But the things he notices are sometimes useful when he recalls them later. So in a way, though it has its downside, there are some weird advantages to ADD. Occasionally that distracted attention preserves a detail he forgets in the moment but later recalls to keep him, Scott, and their friends alive. Especially him and Lydia, since they don't have wolf powers of healing or special skills like werewolf hunter ancestry.
It is also not Stiles' fault that he is often compulsively verbal while he is noticing everything. *shrug*. There are worse things in life. Like being a virgin—which might be a death sentence right now, if Stiles is right.
It's been a long day when he finally gets home after school and detention (again). His bedroom is dark-ish and the first thing Stiles notices coming towards it, is that the door is open. He thinks he shut it, but maybe he didn't.
The next thing he notices is that his bedroom window is wide open, moonlight streaming in. Yeah, the moon is up though it isn't full anymore.
He's pretty sure he closed his window, though. He might have left it open but he doubts it. Not that it matters; it's a second-floor window that looks out onto part of the roof, and no one can... Well, some people can get in the window. Certain people. Any given werewolf, for example...
He walks through the door thinking let it be Scott, let it be Scott.
"It's not Scott," comes a low voice from the shadows by his closet. Derek's voice.
Stiles drops his book bag on his desk.
"I meant to say that out loud," Stiles sighs, because the compulsive verbal thing is, well, compulsive. "I talk out loud a lot, if you noticed."
"I noticed," Derek says, not amused.
Stiles sits at his desk and turns to look at Derek, who takes a step forward from the shadows where he was leaning against Stiles' bedroom wall.
"Dude, I'm tired," Stiles starts, to fend off whatever Derek is about to drag him into. "I don't have time for this. I'm the one without superpowers—no wolfitude, no hunter ancestry. I'm working on figuring something else out without Scott so look among your own kind, all those people with special skills I don't have."
"Scott told me about your theory," Derek says slowly.
"Which one? I got a lot of theories," Stiles replies, shrugging. "Theories about the literal smell of desperation—I call that my 'reverse pheromone theory'—theories about why smart girls like dumb guys, theories about—"
"The one about the virgin sacrifices," Derek interrupts.
"Oh, yeah," Stiles says. "That one."
"You might be right," Derek says.
Stiles just stares at him for a moment. "Really?" he asks, surprised at the little burst of validation he feels because Derek thinks he is right. But he recovers quickly. "I mean, yeah, 'course I am. It's the most logical theory—the way they were killed was, well, overkill. Not werewolf style," he adds.
"It's not werewolves," Derek agrees, nodding.
"Right! The M.O. is totally human. So you're gonna solve this?" Stiles stands up, excited.
Derek nods.
"Great!" Stiles exclaims. "I mean, no one's taking me seriously; Scott still thinks it's Boyd and Cora, and no one else is paying enough attention—"
Derek grabs one of Stiles' shoulders.
"Shut up," he growls, that mercurial mood change upon him.
"Okay," Stiles agrees hastily. Though he's never really known Derek, as if anyone could, it's the not-known Derek that Stiles knows best. Better the devil you know, than the devil you don't.
Derek stares at him.
Stiles hates (loves) that blank, unfathomable gaze. He has spent more time than he should wondering what's going on in the mind behind Derek's unreadable expressions, which never give anything away.
Derek doesn't talk much, either. But—when not blank and inscrutable—he has some readable facial expressions: Determined, annoyed, irritated... plus the you'll-never-guess-what-I'm-thinking unfathomable one. (Recently there's been a new addition to his facial repertoire: Oh-shit. The oh-shit expression almost looks guilty, like it's morphing from oh-shit into oh-shit-what-did-I-not-think-of-yet.)
Derek's also got a thousand-yard stare. That one looks like he's looking way into the future—or far into the past. Sometimes Stiles thinks it looks like the focus of that thousand-yard stare shifts from outward to inward. Or maybe he has only imagined that. He wonders where Derek's mind goes when the thousand-yard stare appears on his face. He's never had the nerve to ask, but it usually looks worse than when Derek's focused on the here and now.
"I might have a solution," Derek murmurs, stepping closer to Stiles.
"Great!" Stiles agrees. "What is it?" he gestures (flails) with his hands.
Derek's nearness right now is a little weird and creepy. But Stiles has experienced this with Derek before, too. Sometimes Derek deploys invasion of personal space to intimidate and/or scare people. (It works.)
Other times, Derek just doesn't seem to get 'personal space' or the need for it. Maybe it's because he's from a family of werewolves and their personal space is different from the personal space of non-werewolves. Or maybe it's because Derek has been such a loner since the fire that burned his family home (and family)—at least until they found out Cora survived (and of course Peter, the loose cannon), until he started making his own pack. Like maybe whatever Derek once knew about unspoken social rules and personal space he forgot during all his time spent alone; Stiles can sympathize. There are a lot of unspoken social rules Stiles isn't sure he gets either.
Plus, sometimes Derek's half-creepy closeness is—protective—which Stiles has also experienced before though not without the edge of fear he can't help having with Derek. It's hard to know how to take someone you can't really read.
Whenever Stiles is with Derek he notices all these weird little things. He tries to add them all up, to turn them into something understandable. But some of what he sees has nothing to do with understanding Derek. It's just noticing, like you notice when the sky is incredibly blue and cloudless. Or how amazingly green the grass is the day after a nearby lightning strike. Some of the things Stiles notices about Derek, he notices because they're—striking.
So, yeah, Stiles has noticed Derek's eyes: The clarity of their pale greenish gold color, the way his eye color changes depending on the ambient light—how sunny or dark it is, or what Derek is wearing... Or the way those eyes are still staring at Stiles out of that unreadable expression.
He's noticed Derek's stubble, of course. The scruffy five day beard Derek cultivates—or is it a three day beard? (Not that Stiles would know from cultivating facial hair. He only has to shave like once every three to four days.) The way the stubble frames and accentuates Derek's lips—yeah, Stiles has noticed that, too. He's not blind: Derek is incredibly good looking and, except for the fateful visit to the sheriff's when he was still an "innocent" Person Of Interest, he either doesn't know it or chooses not to use it to his advantage.
All of this Stiles sees now as he looks at Derek. The clear, pale eyes—darker and more green than gold in the moonlight from his window. The scruffy not-beard. The cheekbones. Under the close-fitting shirt Stiles sees the muscles of Derek's chest, arms, and shoulders.
Derek has a weird expression now—something Stiles isn't sure he's seen before. It doesn't seem to be in his mental library of Derek-expressions. It's half determined, half oh-shit. He doesn't think he's seen them combined together before.
"Derek, what's with the—" Stiles begins, but then Derek steps even closer and—
—Derek's lips are warm and dry but somehow lush and soft too, pressed tentatively against Stiles' mouth. The stubble around Derek's lips isn't nearly as rough as Stiles expected.
Stiles sinks into the kiss without thinking and suddenly it's rougher, more demanding. Derek's lips twist under his and his fingers now grip Stiles' shoulders. Hard.
Stiles doesn't quite know how, but his hands are fisted in Derek's shirt. Oh, God. He wants this so badly—way more (way worse) than he ever let himself admit—(And really, when his mind usually skitters like a skipping stone over so many thoughts so quickly, so much of the time) it should have been a dead giveaway. Because Stiles could think about Derek, focus on him, study him, for shockingly long periods of time. Which means he was—maybe kind of obsessed.
Stiles knows he's had sullen, resentful, distrustful, or fearful thoughts about Derek (or combinations of the above). But still he noticed all the gratuitous stuff. He's heard Derek's voice and obeyed not just because of the words but also because of tone and urgency.
He remembers holding Derek up in the pool. Remembers the way they needed each other but couldn't trust each other. He wonders what Derek thought while he sank to the bottom. Was he worried Stiles wouldn't dive back down for him after calling Scott? If so, God, that must have sucked. No matter how resentful, distrustful or fearful he might have been, Stiles could never have left Derek—or anyone, but even (especially) Derek—down there to drown.
These thoughts flash through Stiles' head in milliseconds as his lips mold to Derek's with a mind of their own. They part and let the tip of Derek's tongue in. Stiles' cock throbs to life like a second heart as he moans into Derek's mouth, then Derek's mouth pulls away.
Stiles' lips search for Derek's mouth with his eyes closed until he realizes it isn't coming back. He opens his eyes as Derek backs up and slowly pulls Stiles with him.
He sits down on the bed and looks up at Stiles, his expression somewhat more determined than oh-shit now, but still half-unreadable. Sitting, his face is about eye level with the fly of Stiles' jeans, which makes Stiles' cheeks warm and makes his cock harden more. (He hopes Derek doesn't notice). His mind darts away from what Derek's position and proximity could mean because no. No, surely not—no.
"What is this?" Stiles barely manages to say, tongue thick and stupid in his mouth.
His mind isn't quite keeping up with his body. His cock throbs, wanting Stiles-doesn't-want-to-know-what-oh-god. He has no idea what brought this on—from Derek, of all people. Is it a trick? Is Derek under some spell?
"The solution to your theory," Derek says, his expression shifting into irritation as if it should be obvious. (It's not, it's totally not.)
"My theory was about virgin sacrifice—"
"You're a virgin, right?" Derek interrupts him sharply.
Stiles' face isn't just warm now, it's hot. "Well, yeah, okay, technically," he says weakly. "But I—"
"—Don't want to die," Derek interrupts, "by garrote, throat cutting, and head injury, do you?" His eyebrows lift as he speaks.
"Uh, no," Stiles agrees. "No, I don't. That would be bad. But—"
"So," Derek says like it's utterly obvious. He grabs Stiles' wrist and yanks him down to straddle his thighs. Derek covers his mouth with his own again.
"Oh," Stiles mumbles into the strong lips against his own. He thinks he can be forgiven for being slow on the uptake.
This isn't how he ever envisioned losing his virginity, though Lydia was always a kind of long shot anyway (Stiles could dream). He'd been ready to do it with Heather with no plan or preparation other than scrabbling through every drawer, cabinet, and shelf in her bathroom for her brother's condoms.
So apparently Stiles is fine with the virginity-loss option suddenly sprung on him. (Again.) But this—Derek—Stiles definitely didn't expect. He swallows and thinks maybe he's been waiting for this practically since he met Derek (and determined he wasn't the one who turned Scott). He hopes Derek can't tell from his kiss. He wouldn't be surprised if Derek can tell. (Heartbeat or pheromones or something probably gives him away to the damned werewolf senses.) The realization makes Stiles shiver.
Maybe he wasn't expecting this but he is literally up for it. But he didn't jerk off in the shower this morning. He was running late. This is going to be over with fast, Stiles thinks.
Derek's hands slide all over Stiles—up his thighs, then up one arm and over the opposite hip, both hands meeting in the middle of his back before they drift slowly down to cup his ass. Derek's touch is sure and strong like his lips moving against Stiles'.
Suddenly he yanks Stiles forward. The movement forces him to shift and suddenly his cock presses up against Derek's stomach, and Derek's cock is hard under Stiles. He can feel it, firm and warm there.
Derek grips his ass firmly. His hands grasp Derek's shoulders while he moans into Derek's mouth again. Derek's tongue licks between Stiles' lips like all of this was never in question. Was it? Stiles thinks. No, not really, because: Derek.
Stiles leans down hard, pressing his mouth into Derek's. He's sitting a little above Derek and he wants it—he wants it so much—his lips parting to let Derek's tongue sweep inside.
Derek's hands knead Stiles' butt and they start a rhythm while they're kissing. He rocks on Derek's lap, pushing his cock against Derek's stomach. At first it's slow and jerky and then it's suddenly faster and needier, needing more—more.
The kiss becomes sloppy as Stiles rocks back and forth on Derek's lap. He greedily sucks Derek's tongue. He opens his eyes once—Bad form, Stiles thinks. You're not supposed to do that. But kissing—real kissing, this deep, intimate kissing—is relatively new to Stiles and he can't help it. Derek's eyes, half-lidded, have gone red. It makes Stiles' heart pound because he's not sure if that's good or bad. He shuts his eyes again.
But then one of Derek's hands slides between them to undo the button and fly of Stiles' jeans. And while his hand invades he's taking his tongue back. Stiles sucks it briefly as it retreats, disappointed at its departure.
"Wait, wait," he murmurs into Derek's mouth.
But Derek changes the angle of his head and moves his hand on the back of Stiles' head to hold him in place for deeper kissing. Derek's tongue enters his mouth again and then retreats like he's daring Stiles to do the same. He slides his other hand into Stiles' pants and takes hold of his cock and gives it one long, tight pull. Stiles' pleasure at the touch on his naked cock by someone other than himself is phenomenal, foreign, and perfect. He twitches all over, knowing it will be over fast. Too fast. Embarrassingly, pathetically fast.
"Derek..." he tries to say but it's muffled in Derek's mouth.
"I can stop," Derek says into Stiles' lips as he pulls away.
No, no, pulling away is not good, Stiles thinks. But he opens his eyes to look at Derek.
A shadow crosses Derek's face briefly but he sets his jaw. "We can stop all this, if you want." His hand stills on Stiles' cock. Just grips it, not moving.
Stiles' fingers clutch Derek's shoulders tighter.
"No, that's not... I meant, I'm going to, um, too fast—" Stiles blurts. There's a flush of heat and blood up his neck and into his face. Derek can't say he didn't warn him. Or didn't try, anyway.
"I know," Derek says. His voice is exasperated yet superior in a way that would be maddeningly arrogant at any other time. But his hand moves again, now even faster on Stiles' cock. His lips press to Stiles' mouth again, then move to Stiles' jaw, and then his throat. Stiles curls his body around the pleasure of Derek pumping his cock hard. His hips thrust up into Derek's hand. He can't help it.
Derek pumps his cock faster and faster while Stiles' thighs tighten around his. Stiles feels pleasure spread across his skin like a fever. He is hot beneath too much clothing; he can't seem to let go of Derek's shoulders...
It really isn't fair, werewolf speed and agility on a human cock—how is that fair?
But Stiles' cock is—oh, God—at the point of no return. The sound of Derek jacking him is slappy and moist now. Derek's teeth graze his collarbone and one hand grips the back of Stiles' neck tight, holding them together, while his other hand jacks Stiles' cock faster and faster. Stiles' pathetic whimpering and frenetic rocking on his lap crescendo.
"Derek—oh, fuck!" Stiles cries.
He comes hard, his cock and Derek's hand still inside of his shirt. His dick pulses rhythmically, now hypersensitive, Derek's hand still stroking inhumanly fast over it. He feels hot, wet spurts on his stomach under his shirt. The collar of his T-shirt is damp from Derek's breath and his arms slid around Derek at some point. He's slumped on him now, still straddling him. It's over so fast.
"That was," Stiles manages to mumble as he twitches with aftershocks, "fantastic. But how is this...? I mean, don't get me wrong—it was amazing," he says fervently, and he means it: This is all way more than he ever expected. "But I don't think this will save me," he sighs.
"Maybe not," Derek agrees quietly under him. He slides his hand off Stiles' cock and Stiles twitches all over again. Derek wipes his hand on Stiles' denim covered thigh.
"Great," Stiles whispers. "I can come in my pants all by myself, thanks. But in terms of virginity—"
Suddenly, Derek turns and shoves Stiles off his lap and down on the bed. He pushes Stiles' shirt up and pulls his pants down to mid thigh, then props himself up over Stiles with one hand. His other hand strokes Stiles' bare stomach where it is exposed, sticky with semen.
Derek's cool, clear gaze is unforgettable in the moonlight from the window. His eyes are back to normal. His expression is inscrutable once again. The bliss and warmth of orgasm spread slowly through Stiles' limbs. He's fairly sure if they weren't, he'd find the (non) expression on Derek's face a little alarming. The physical exhaustion of the day settles on Stiles as his pleasure simmers just beneath the surface, a strange combination of tired, truly spent, and aroused.
"I was sixteen once, too," Derek says. He looks down at Stiles and reaches for his spent cock.
"What does that mean?" Stiles murmurs, honestly perplexed—brain definitely no longer firing on all cylinders. His cock predictably hardens again in Derek's hand. His body's clear eagerness is embarrassing.
"It means you can basically go again right away," Derek murmurs. He leans down to kiss Stiles, stroking his cock again.
"Oh," Stiles says stupidly into Derek's lips.
Pleasure climbs up through him again as Derek strokes his cock faster. A strange combination of languor and excitement overtakes the sleepy bliss Stiles already feels. His heart starts to race again.
Derek pushes Stiles' jeans and briefs down past his knees. He pauses in stroking Stiles' cock only to lift the shirt off of him. He holds his arms up to help because what else would he do? Then Derek kisses him hard and deep again. He's so incredibly warm through his clothes that Stiles feels the heat on his naked chest. Derek's mouth moves to Stiles' neck and then to his collarbone.
Between their bodies, Stiles feels the cool air of his bedroom waft over his exposed skin—his chest and abdomen, but mostly over his cock, balls, and lower stomach. Derek's mouth sucks his nipple now and, honestly, Stiles had no idea his nipples were so sensitive. (They never seem that sensitive when he touches them himself.)
Derek sucking and nibbling on his nipple is half-scary (Stiles has seen Derek's teeth; he knows what they can do.) but it nevertheless sends sparks of pleasure to the root of Stiles' cock and somewhere even deeper. Derek's tongue moves to Stiles' navel and the rhythm of his hand speeds up on Stiles' cock. His pleasure slowly spirals up as his breathing speeds up.
"Oh, God," Stiles moans when he feels Derek's breath on his cock.
Derek holds the base and sucks in the head tight and slow and just barely (but not quite) too rough over his teeth. Stiles jerks with the sudden, excruciating pleasure. Derek takes his hand off Stiles' cock and uses it to hold his hip, sucking Stiles' cock head in again.
Derek's mouth goes all the way down Stiles' cock. Sudden tight heat and tongue and—yep, Stiles is pretty sure those are teeth on the upstroke. It all combines to make Stiles shiver and moan so loudly that Derek puts his other hand over Stiles' mouth.
Even as his cock—his entire body—responds and his balls get heavier (again), a dim part of Stiles' brain wonders if getting a blow job means he isn't a virgin anymore. Do blow jobs count as de-virginizing? Deflowering? Whatever. He always thought of losing his virginity as putting his cock in someone. Which, okay, a blow job definitely does that. But—
Oh, who fucking cares. Derek's mouth sucks him faster and faster, tighter and tighter, hotter and hotter—damn werewolf abilities. Stiles tries to thrust up to meet the tight, sweet mouth but he can't because Derek's other hand pins his hip down. And, though Derek still has a hand over his mouth, Stiles knows he is making all kinds of noise—muffled moans and groans and pants. He hopes his dad doesn't hear. It would be bad enough for his dad to walk in on him with a girl—that'd be embarrassing. But for his dad to walk in on him with a werewolf—a guy werewolf... He's pretty sure he'd be grounded into the next life. Maybe the next two lives.
But it's okay, it's all good: Derek's mouth is fucking amazing. It makes Stiles moan, whimper, and beg through Derek's stiff fingers clamped over his mouth. Derek goes so far down on his cock that Stiles feels himself bottom out in the back of his throat—not once, not twice, but again and again. Christ, he had no idea of Derek's hidden talents, the depth of which is kind of frightening at this point, not that he's complaining...
Stiles knows Derek can't understand what he's saying because his hand is still over his mouth. But that's okay, it's barely coherent because he's almost there—
Derek's throat tightens around the head of Stiles' cock one last time and the heaviness in his balls gathers itself and reaches that inevitable point once more—
Stiles comes again, harder than before, hips bucking with every spurt. The strange keening in his throat (Has he ever made a sound like this before? He doesn't think so.) is muffled under Derek's hand over his mouth. Derek swallows all of Stiles' come—which is really nice of him, just amazingly sweet. (Who knew this badass, pissed-off werewolf was so giving in bed?) He sputters through Derek's hand and shakes and shivers under him. Derek's grip on his hip is like iron and his lips still move up and down Stiles' cock. If they don't stop, Stiles thinks his entire body might explode with the sheer mind-blowing pleasure.
Euphoria spreads through Stiles like a drug, his limbs like honey and his heart beating triple time. He can't catch his breath. Derek still has a hot hand on Stiles' hip, not that he needs to hold him down anymore... Stiles couldn't muster the posture of a wet noodle at this point.
Derek's other hand finally lifts cautiously off Stiles' mouth and he can finally pant through his open mouth instead of snorting through his nostrils over Derek's hand. He has no idea what to say or how. Because how do you respond to this (this!?) situation, where the local alpha werewolf—a badass, broody guy who looks and sounds angry much of the time—has not once but twice now gotten you off. First with his hand and then with. his. MOUTH.
For once Stiles figures he'd better keep his own mouth shut. All kinds of weird things could come out of it under the circumstances if he doesn't. Plus the circumstances are so amazing Stiles really doesn't want to fuck it up. (Not that he's counting on it ever happening again—but it would be so fucking awesome if it did!)
Derek leans over him and Stiles watches him lick his lips. Maybe it's not meant to be but Stiles thinks that's a bizarrely romantic gesture. To Derek, though, it probably means something more like, You are tasty which is kind of frightening if Stiles considers the full possible meaning behind it. Which he doesn't.
"Ready?" Derek asks, his voice husky.
His expression shifts into yet another new once Stiles has never seen: wary but hopeful... sixty/forty wary/hopeful, Stiles thinks.
"More?" Stiles asks, but it comes out almost a squeak.
"Well," Derek admits slowly, "That might not qualify as losing your virginity." He lifts one shoulder in a shrug.
Stiles realizes it is like Opposite Day here now. He's the one half naked, his jeans only covering his legs from the knees down, and Derek still has all his clothes on. In a delayed reaction, he thinks about what Derek just said and comes up with—what are they about to do?
"Sure," Stiles agrees weakly, not at all what he meant to say.
Derek just nods. The wary/hopeful ratio of his expression seems to shift to forty/sixty. Maybe thirty/seventy. Isn't that a mind fuck. Derek stands up and takes off his shirt. Stiles just watches, in shock and too slack with bliss to do anything else. It registers suddenly that Derek's jeans bulge with his own erection, which Stiles had totally forgotten about until now except for when he was sitting on it.
This, Derek's hard-on, is somehow both flattering and a little frightening and Stiles suddenly realizes Derek hasn't gotten off at all. Stiles has no idea what he's supposed to do about that. Is he supposed to return both favors—a hand job and a blow job—in addition to whatever they're about to do? (He tries hard not to think about it but at the same time another part of his mind tries to picture it... And all he can come up with is porn.)
"Why?" Stiles finally whispers after Derek has his jeans and underwear off. "Why are you doing this?"
Derek stands there next to Stiles' bed bathed in bluish moonlight, his torso like a sculpture except for the not porno gigantic but nevertheless kind of alarmingly large erection below it. Mainly alarming because Stiles doesn't know where it's going. It twitches a little when Derek clenches his fists.
"Someone had to," Derek says, almost defensive.
That's a combination of totally insulting and kind of sweet but totally, utterly insulting.
"I can get someone on my own!" Stiles protests. "I totally can. I've been busy! With a lot of supernatural crap, I might add!"
There's a suspiciously long pause.
"Okay," Derek finally says.
"Oh, you fucking asshole," Stiles groans, throwing an arm over his eyes so he doesn't have to look at Derek and Derek can't look at him. "I'm the pity fuck to the local antisocial alpha werewolf who—until recently—broods alone, smothering his ungovernable rage? That's great. That's just fantastic."
Stiles' body jerks as his shoes are yanked off, hard. Then his jeans are roughly ripped the rest of the way off. He takes his arm off his eyes. Hot embarrassment floods his cheeks. He sits up on his elbows to glare up at Derek, but that only brings Derek's beautiful body and perfect erection into better view. Stiles tries not to look at either. He tries keep his eyes locked on Derek's eyes. He fails because Derek's cock is just, just fucking beautiful—long and thick and tapering toward the head. Stiles would like to look more closely at it, as his overloaded brain imagines and simultaneously tries to forget the idea of it going inside him. But he doesn't. He drags his gaze back up to Derek's face.
"You're not a pity fuck," Derek finally says, his expression uncertain.
"Really," Stiles sighs. " 'Someone had to do it' ?"
"I meant," Derek growls, annoyed, "Someone who cares."
He abruptly drops heavily on the bed beside Stiles before Stiles can say anything else. He props his head up on one elbow and leans his face down to Stiles' like he does this all the time.
This time his kiss is brutal.
However pissed off and hurt and humiliated Stiles is at the idea that he's a pity fuck—and however apprehensive he is of what's coming, what with Derek's superior werewolf strength—other parts of Stiles (like his mouth... his whole body... and especially his cock) are totally fine with this. He suddenly finds he's clinging embarrassingly tightly to Derek while his mouth is ravaged. His hands move over the smooth muscles of Derek's chest... shoulders... back... hips. Derek changes tactics and sucks Stiles' tongue into his own mouth. Stiles worries for a split second if Derek's teeth nick his tongue—will he be turned? But not enough to stop kissing him.
Derek does all this with his head propped up on one hand supported by an elbow, like it's just that casual. Like he does this every day.
While his mouth takes Stiles', his free hand roams all over Stiles body. From his throat and neck, to squeezing his shoulder, to stroking his chest and abdomen, curving over Stiles' hip to his butt and then down the back of Stiles' thigh. Derek hooks Stiles' leg over his own hip and then rolls over onto him, between his legs.
He kisses Stiles harder. His beard is a strange combination of soft and rough. He thrusts between Stiles' legs, his cock alongside Stiles' hard cock, each thrust powerful and determined.
When Derek's mouth moves off of Stiles' mouth and down to his nipple again, Stiles thinks he ought to get some things out in the open. He's never had to do this before, actually verbalize sexual shit. (Even when he imagined such conversations, he'd always imagined being the one told what he couldn't do.) Which, okay: Stiles admits to himself if to no one else that he's not sure what he wouldn't do with a partner—let alone what he would deny Derek, if anything. That's somehow a scarier thought than any of the others he's had since he came home to find Derek in his bedroom. Including all the other things he's not thinking about that have popped into his brain since Derek first kissed him.
Now that Derek's mouth has moved to his other nipple—which feels incredible, making his cock throb—Stiles clears his throat.
"Not that I don't appreciate this, Derek. I do..."
Derek's mouth moves back up to nuzzle Stiles' neck. His hand strokes the nape of Stiles' neck, almost caressing it.
"It's just I didn't expect to do all this in, uh, one night," Stiles explains quietly.
Derek's teeth press into his neck and his hand strokes Stiles' shoulder.
"It's been amazing and I don't want that to change," Stiles continues, thinking, Spit it out.
"I won't hurt you," Derek interrupts quietly, reading Stiles' mind. His words and breath are hot against Stiles' neck. "Much."
"Much?" Stiles blurts. "If you're about to do what I think—"
"I know what I'm doing," Derek murmurs. His lips move ticklishly against Stiles' skin. The warmth of his voice vibrates against his neck when he speaks.
"Okay, sure," Stiles protests quietly but sarcastically. "Only like fifty bajillion guys have said that since the dawn of time. Maybe a few were actually telling the truth."
Derek stops moving his lips on Stiles' neck and goes very still. He lifts his head to look at Stiles.
"I'm one of them." His voice is dark, his face its frequent dead serious, unreadable expression.
"Prove it," Stiles challenges, looking at Derek. Then he looks away and stares up at his ceiling.
His ceiling is somehow totally the same, over Derek's shoulder, yet utterly different. Like it's suddenly someone else's ceiling in someone else's bedroom. In fact, the whole room looks different with a naked Derek in it—not to mention in his bed.
Derek holds a breath for a long moment and neither of them speak. Then he lets it out, hot and moist, against Stiles' neck. It sounds and feels exasperated.
"Fine," Derek says shortly. He pulls away from Stiles and sits up. "Roll over."
"Roll ov—no, I am not rolling over," Stiles objects.
Before he can finish, Derek's broad hands and strong arms have manhandled him over onto his stomach. He lays down on Stiles and Stiles feels the weight and strength of Derek on top of him.
"Hey—" Stiles begins. He pushes against the mattress to throw Derek off, but Derek's body covers his and he can't move—then Derek slides down. The warm skin to skin contact, the delicious friction, makes Stiles shiver even as he's still trying to push Derek up off him. But the weight of Derek's body moves down to the back of his legs. The next thing Stiles knows, Derek's strong hands part his cheeks.
Derek licks him. There.
"—y-you—" Stiles freezes and stutters.
Derek licks him again.
"—oh. my. GOD," Stiles moans.
He can't believe how good it feels. He wants to melt into the bed and let Derek do whatever the hell he wants. And hasn't that worked out really, really well so far?
Derek's tongue is strong and sure (back there!). With every sweep of it across Stiles' hole, he feels himself give in, give up, relax.—
If Stiles could think, which he kind of can't, he'd be thinking Derek totally called his bluff. But thinking is hard right now. All he can do is feel. Somewhere in the back of his mind it occurs to Stiles the variety of sexual things that seem vaguely gross or even disgusting in the abstract but are so fucking fantastic in reality.
Derek's strong hands hold his ass open. He feels Derek's tongue and breath there, so good: Hot, slow, strong sweeps of wet tongue stroke over his hole. He feels the tickle of Derek's breath in between licks; feels the rough warmth of facial hair on sensitive skin there, flesh that has never known such a sensation before.
Derek speeds up his licking and the pressure and pretty soon the tip of his tongue gently enters. It feels incredible, even better than the licking if that's possible. Stiles is more and more okay with this with every passing second. He's not sure he could move if he wanted to, and he doesn't want to.
His cock throbs, wanting sensation too—he thinks he's leaking pre-come onto his bedspread. It's all Stiles can do not to shove his ass backward to Derek's mouth and tongue. That would reveal all his secret wanton thoughts. Isn't it enough that he can't move, that he must submit to this unbelievable caress because he can't not?
He gives up and lays his cheek flat on the bedspread as Derek licks and tongues his hole. His arms slide down and relax, no longer poised to push himself up or Derek off. Now that he has relaxed completely, there's a pause in Derek's licking.
Derek asks quietly, "Should I stop?"
"Oh, why stop now?" Stiles sighs weakly.
What he thinks is, I'm all yours. But he doesn't say that. Can't. That would be admitting way too much. That he'd had this secret man-crush on Derek for who knows how long.
"I'll go slow," Derek says, voice low. After a few more licks and a bit more tonguing, he speaks again. "What do you use to jack off?"
"What?" Stiles murmurs dreamily.
"Lotion? Lubricant?" Derek adds.
This should alarm Stiles, it really should, but it totally doesn't. He demanded Derek prove he knew what he was doing and, to the best that he can tell, he totally is.
"Oh," Stiles replies slowly. "Yeah. I, um... left drawer of the desk."
Then Derek is up and off him and Stiles' moist ass-cheeks are back together in only a slightly uncomfortable way. He hears Derek open the drawers of his desk.
Stiles looks over his shoulder so he can watch Derek go through his desk drawers. "Top left," he adds helpfully.
Derek finds the lotion and comes back to the bed. He doesn't look Stiles' in the face but he has his determined expression on, which is somehow confidence-inspiring even while it's also intimidating. Stiles thinks he should probably be panicking and can't understand why he's not.
He hears Derek flick up the flip-top of the lotion bottle (for easy, one-handed use) and then one of Derek's hands pulls his cheeks apart again. Cold lotion hits him right on his hole and he jumps. Figures Derek would have perfect aim. Then something a lot firmer than a tongue pushes inside him. It feels indescribably weird—and exciting—and so unbelievably good.
"Damn," Stiles breathes, feeling his heart kick into a faster rhythm. Derek's finger is all the way in, and then he just keeps it there, not moving, while Stiles adjusts.
"Okay," Derek says.
His finger moves slowly out and then back in. Stiles twitches all over with the sensation. Derek's finger fucks him a little faster. It feels so unbelievably good Stiles thinks for sure he's going to come again, his pleasure suddenly ratcheting up—
Derek slows down, then pulls his finger out and rubs Stiles' hole again several times. Stiles relaxes again.
This time when he feels Derek's touch back there, he's ready for it. He feels more cold lotion dribble onto his hole and then Derek penetrates him shallowly. But still it's—it must be—two fingers. Stiles lurches forward a little as his ass accepts the increased thickness.
"Oh,” he groans.
It feels good but it's too much, just on the edge of painful but not quite hurting. But Derek's two fingers aren't all the way inside yet. Derek pushes his fingers deeper in slowly and—fuck—it's almost too much. But, just as before, he leaves them there; not moving for a moment while Stiles gets used to them. Then they pull back out and push back in, and Stiles' cock throbs.
Derek pulls his fingers out and rubs Stiles' hole again. He puts both fingers in again, shallow at first, then pushing them slowly deeper. Stiles shivers, the fullness too much but the friction of their movement and penetration unbelievably pleasurable. Derek pulls his fingers back out. H e does it again and this time Derek spreads his fingers apart a little. It hurts, this time it hurts along with the pleasurable sensations. Stiles' ass clenches around Derek's fingers; he can't help it.
"Uh," he groans inarticulately.
A warm hand strokes down his back. "Easy," Derek murmurs. "You're okay." It might be the kindest thing he's ever said to Stiles.
Derek holds both fingers there inside Stiles, not moving, not spreading apart—just inside Stiles, still and calm and there, waiting for Stiles' to relax around them again. To accommodate them before he moves and spreads them again. Stiles thinks he is either incredibly lucky or incredibly doomed because Derek is doing everything right as far as his body is concerned.
Seconds (maybe minutes?) tick by while Stiles shivers and sweats and tries not to moan or move. Derek keeps both fingers inside him but they just wait. He strokes Stiles' back repeatedly, long slow strokes—soothing and relaxing. Stiles hears the crickets outside his open window.
He breathes shallowly, waiting. Getting used to those two fingers while Derek keeps stroking his back with strong, firm strokes.
He could stop this if he wanted to. Just say, No. We're done. I can't. Stop. But he doesn't. (Oh, just admit it: Doesn't want to.) He just waits, that hand stroking repeatedly down his back and those two (two) fingers inside him, not moving.
Then they do move: back a little and then in deeper, spreading apart.
It's too much. It's on the edge of painful, right before it hurts. But it's good, too. Surprisingly good. Amazingly good.
"Okay," Derek murmurs, his voice calm but also a warning of more to come.
He pulls his fingers almost all the way out and Stiles wheezes a breath out because, fuck, it shouldn't feel that good but it does. It totally does: shallower penetration and less girth lets the pleasure spread.
He feels more cool lotion and this time he feels it move into him with Derek's fingers. He's not really ready for it but it's not as shocking as last time—like he might actually be getting used to this. Derek pulls them almost all the way out again, then thrusts them back in—and now it's better and better as he increases the speed of his fingering. Then Derek changes the angle, somehow pressing and stroking over something deep inside Stiles and—oh, God, it's fantastic now. Stiles knows he's going to lose it again, he can't help it—
"Derek—" Stiles begs. He's not sure if he means stop or don't stop.
The pleasure suddenly ramps up to bright sparks behind his eyes and a volcanic urge surfacing hard and fast, bursting out of him—
He comes again, spasms forcing him to clench on Derek's fingers again and again. It's a combination of the most mind-blowing pleasure he'd never have imagined in a million lifetimes, and the most intimate pain he's ever felt, clamping on Derek's fingers. Stiles grabs a pillow to muffle the deep groans that he can't stop making.
"You're okay," Derek murmurs above and behind him, still stroking down his back.
"Oh, God," Stiles' moans raggedly into his pillow.
He is lost, doomed in an ecstasy he's never known. Aftershocks wrack his body as his ass twitches on Derek's fingers—balls churning out the last of his semen in deep, weak spurts. This time when Derek pulls his fingers out, the absence is what Stiles notices, the wish for them to be back inside him, deep inside, moving inside like before. Derek touches him again back there, smearing more cool lotion around Stiles hole and if Stiles' pillow were alive it would be dead now from the way he's clutching it.
"Breathe. Easy, slow," Derek orders quietly. "Shove your pillow under your hips," he adds. He speaks firmly but gently.
Derek has never sounded like this. That it's directed at Stiles makes something turn over in Stiles' chest. He obeys, breathing deep and slow. He doesn't get the pillow thing. He wants to look over his shoulder at Derek but he's not sure he could meet Derek's eyes right now.
"You open up more," Derek explains quietly.
The heat of embarrassment hits Stiles' face. The bed will be a mess anyway; what difference will a come-smeared pillow make? Stiles pushes his folded pillow down under his spent cock. With the new angle of his pelvis—yeah, his cheeks open up more. It's more evidence Derek knows what he's doing and Stiles can't help feel a surge of jealousy of the unmentioned lovers (men? women?) Derek's done this with before.
Then Derek's got more than two fingers at his hole. Considerably more. Must be three. The three fingertips enter Stiles slow and sure until Stiles feels the stretch and pain of too much. Too much again—and then they cleverly retreat.
Derek does that again. And again. And again, until Stiles has lost count. His body knows only one thing: the rhythm of oh-god-yes-more-wait-too-much-wait-it's-okay-now-yeah-more. It's hypnotic. It feels so fucking good until it doesn't—then that magically goes away when Derek pulls his fingers back and it feels so fucking good again.
Derek—oh, God—knows what he's doing.
"Keep breathing," Derek urges quietly, stroking his back with his other hand. "Slow. Deep."
He pushes all three fingers deep into Stiles and he keeps them there, not moving. It's a lot, that girth. It feels strangely good to be filled but it hurts too. But the good is more than the hurt, good enough for Stiles to stand a little pain because the good is so good and even though it's not the mind-blowing good of before, it somehow has more power side by side with the hurt. Stiles files away the information that somehow pain doesn't necessarily cancel out pleasure during sex, one of those counter-intuitive things he'd never have guessed from masturbating to porn or imagining various sex acts.
He breathes like Derek told him—deep, slow breaths. The pleasure is greater than the stretchy pain. He keeps breathing and waiting, hearing the quiet night and crickets outside, breathing slowly until the pleasure has dwarfed the pain. Until the pain is almost gone, like a bad dream you've forgotten and you're better off for it. Derek's fingers pull out slowly. Stiles groans and fairly swoons with the pleasure of it.
Derek pushes his fingers back in slowly and up to the hilt. It's all pleasure now—nothing but pleasure. He withdraws his fingers and pushes them in again and slowly increases the speed of the in-and-out movement until Stiles is squirming involuntarily on his fingers, muffling his groans and moans by mashing his face into a mercifully unsullied section of his bedspread.
"Okay," Derek says. He sounds a little hoarse but Stiles' can't tell why.
There's a sound in the hall outside Stiles' door just then.
Stiles freaks, trying to jerking out from under Derek. Derek's other hand on his back suddenly, fiercely pins him down. He pulls his fingers out of Stiles and lays down on him, covering Stiles' body with his own. He grabs Stiles' wrists and holds them. Stiles' heart pounds with fear of being caught by his dad. Having sex. Having sex with a guy. Having sex with a guy werewolf.
"Stiles?" His dad says through the door.
"Don't come in, Dad," Stiles blurts urgently, voice ragged.
A dozen thoughts flash through him in milliseconds before his father replies. It's not the first time they've had a through-the-closed-bedroom-door conversation. His dad is pretty understanding about the numerous times when Stiles' bedroom door is shut and he shouldn't intrude for any reason, or for no reason. (It's always the same reason: Stiles is jacking off. It's embarrassing how often he masturbates, really, but he can't help it. He's so fucking horny so much of the time and he's a virgin and he's not getting off with anyone else, so what else is he supposed to do?)
Stiles hopes his dad respects the door-needs-to-stay-closed precedents they have previously set together.
But Derek holds him down and imprisons his wrists. Stiles silently tries to yank his wrists free but Derek is wolf-strong now so of course it doesn't work. Derek's grip and weight aren't violent or cruel, simply immovable. Stiles keeps struggling, breathing hard with the useless exertion of trying to free himself from Derek who pins him down like stone.
"Say I forced you," Derek whispers in his ear, barely audible. He squeezes Stiles' wrists to emphasize his point.
Still breathing hard, heart pounding, Stiles relaxes under Derek, slightly stunned. Thoughts flash through his mind too quickly to catalog. Derek has given him an excuse. A criminally liable excuse. So if his dad walked in and caught him in bed with Derek's fingers in his ass, Stiles wouldn't have to admit that he enjoyed it. That it was deeply pleasurable. That he wants it to continue because to be the subject of Derek's relentless sexual focus is somehow amazing and strangely sacred.
Honestly, Stiles had no idea he was anything to Derek but Scott's occasionally useful but frail and human friend. All this tonight seems fragile and fantastic. Stiles isn't sure how long it will last. or if it will ever happen again. It's frightening how much he wants it to happen again even though it's never happened before and it's not even over—though it might be if his dad walks in right now. It's overwhelmingly good. And he still doesn't really know Derek, but Stiles thinks he knows things about Derek now that he didn't know an hour ago, from everything Derek has done and the way he's done it. Like that deep down inside Derek is a sensitive and kind lover and maybe even cares way more than he's ever let on. Why didn't he ever say anything? How would Stiles ever have known? If this situation with life-threatening virginity hadn't come up, would Derek ever have said anything at all?
Stiles feels the weight of Derek's body on his and realizes Derek's cock is hard, and hot, and snug in the cleft of his ass. Several things have felt bizarrely right tonight. Derek on top of him firmly but gently holding him down is one of them.
He nods silently in agreement with Derek's suggestion, his cheek against his bedspread, staring off into the dark. Derek relaxes a little on top of him at Stiles' nod.
"Okay, I got called in," his father says outside his door. "Multi-car accident. I don't know when I'll be home." Stiles hears the velcro of his father's vest through the door and the click of him clipping on his holster. "You get to school on time if I'm not here. There's eggs in the fridge. Have some eggs, not just cereal."
"Okay, dad," Stiles agrees, trying to control the tremor in his voice. "Thanks."
"See you later," his dad says.
"See ya," Stiles replies, still a little tense under Derek.
He hears his father walk away down the stairs and out to his car. He hears the car start, pull out of the driveway and drive away. Derek's body is a warm weight on him. His grip on Stiles' wrists is looser now. After a few moments of quiet with only the sound of crickets, Derek releases Stiles' wrists and slides off. He sits up next to Stiles.
Stiles lays on his stomach, missing the weight of Derek on him, his racing heartbeat slowing back to normal. He presses his face down into the bedspread and breathes deeply, inhaling his hot exhalations—this is like one of those first aid moments when you're supposed to breathe into a paper bag because of shock or something. He feels exposed because he's naked and his ass is still propped up on the pillow tucked under his cock, which has gone soft under threat of parental invasion of his room in the middle of sex. Sex with Derek.
Derek clears his throat but doesn't speak for a moment. When he does, his voice is positively uncertain.
"Should we stop?"
It's the unexpected 'we' that gets Stiles. It drops his heart into his stomach and turns it over. He wasn't thinking in terms of 'we'—more that Derek is doing stuff to him. That Derek thinks 'we' is so unfathomable and sweet.
He can't look at Derek. He can barely make himself say what he's about to say. But he's sort of on autopilot, too. Pleasure has short-circuited his autonomy and taken over his brain. Once committed, once started down this road, he can't bear to turn back. He gets that it's a little urgent—to save him, to lose his virginity so he doesn't become the next sacrifice—but that's not the real reason he says what he says.
He turns his head so his cheek is against the bedspread. Still lying on his stomach, not looking at Derek sitting on the other side next to him, he stares off into the mottled darkness and moonlight in his room and speaks.
"No," he murmurs. "No, don't stop."
Derek's swallow is strangely audible. "All right," he finally says. His voice is a little hoarse again.
He climbs back between Stiles' legs and pushes them apart with his knees, and Stiles lets him. Then Derek's hands on his hips urge Stiles up onto his hands and knees.
"Okay," Stiles says quietly, getting up on all fours.
"It's better," Derek says quietly, "the first time."
He pulls Stiles' hips back further. The backs of Stiles' thighs, his hamstrings, feel the stretch. One of Derek's hands leaves his right hip. Stiles hears the flip-top of the bottle of lotion again, but he doesn't feel anything and wonders why for a moment.
Oh. He hears Derek stroke his own cock. Derek must be putting the lotion on himself. At the cool touch of lotion at his hole, Stiles shivers. He knows it's the head of Derek's cock.
"We go slow." Derek's voice is low, serious. "You move—on me when it's okay, off when it's too much. And breathe."
"Okay," Stiles whispers at the bedspread, squeezing his eyes shut tight.
Derek pushes the head of his cock in and Stiles' ass reflexively tightens. It's a little stretchy but not the pain he expected. It feels pretty good. Stiles takes a deep breath and lets it out as Derek pushes in a little further.
That's too much. Stiles moves forward to relieve the stretch but not so far forward that Derek comes out all the way. He feels Derek back there, not moving, just holding still. He can hear Derek breathe, but otherwise he remains silent, stroking Stiles' low back and hips.
Stiles backs harder onto Derek's cock this time, letting it stretch him, letting it hurt more than a little. He eases off a bit and pleasure seeps in behind the stretchy pain. His cock throbs, hardening again.
"Don't hurt yourself," Derek murmurs. "Go slow." His hands are slippery on Stiles' hips.
Stiles nods silently and eases off. But then he pushes back onto Derek's cock, hard and strong, one smooth move. It hurts, it really hurts, Derek deeper in him, even though it feels good. Stiles' ass reacts, squeezes down on Derek and that hurts, too. But it feels strangely good. Stiles keeps himself there and takes it because being filled feels so good; it's somehow part of and yet separate from the pain of accommodating Derek's cock. He wants to get it over with, wants Derek all the way inside him; the pleasure is a secret hidden behind the stretching pain, about to burst forth—
Derek's hands, slippery on his hips, urge Stiles off a little and the pain is replaced by the pleasure of Derek's cock moving inside him. Stiles groans. It's a small mercy he doesn't have to muffle it now that his dad is gone; he can just groan out loud and he does. Because this is so. Fucking. Good.
Stiles backs onto Derek's cock again. Why Derek's hands are slippery on his hips is unknown. He isn't sure but Derek feels so big inside him and the stretch is so good that most of Derek must be inside him now, right? Because it's amazing—
"You in?" Stiles pants. "All the way?"
He feels the hands on his hips slip and realizes it's sweat. Derek's hands are sweating.
"No," Derek replies, voice tight. "Not yet." There is the slightest bite to Derek's fingers on Stiles' hips and Stiles opens his eyes. Those might be claws.
He pauses and then pushes back harder on Derek's cock. The shocking pleasure of the friction, of being filled, overlays the increased stretch. He feels full of Derek back there.
"How much more?" Stiles whispers.
Stiles pulls off a little and then pushes farther onto Derek's cock, groaning with the increased girth and the sweet friction. His cock throbs again, at the root, deep inside.
"Halfway." Derek's voice grits, low and tense with a slight growl.
The slight prick of ten claws on Stiles' hips is a grounding counterpoint to the spreading pleasure of Derek deeper inside him. He moves off Derek's cock a little again and then pushes back harder and farther, each time trying to get more and more of Derek's cock in. He could have sworn it was all the way in, it feels that big. Claws at his hips graze the skin but don't break it, Derek's palms slippery with sweat. Stiles' own sweat drips from his temples through his hairline as he hangs his head on all fours. He moves a little rougher, a little faster, backing on to and then moving off of Derek's cock. It feels so fucking good, going deeper and deeper into him each time, stretching him farther and farther, the ratio of pain to pleasure shifting overwhelmingly into pleasure.
Derek just holds still and doesn't move and lets Stiles—
Stiles suddenly realizes what he's doing: he's fucking himself on Derek's cock, pushing back and moving forward while Derek doesn't move—
Derek's slippery grip on Stiles' hips—his claws that are there but don't break Stiles' skin—that's control, Stiles realizes dimly. It's phenomenal control. It's Derek's iron grip on himself. Stiles is surprised and grateful. He wants to give something to Derek, the only thing he can right now—
If Derek can hold himself, his wolf, back like this for Stiles (But that's what he's always been about, right? Control over himself, his wolf, teaching control to Scott and the others.) then Stiles can take the plunge and the pain of all of Derek inside him. Right now—
He thrusts himself back onto Derek, shoves back all the way as hard as he can. It's too big. It's too much. It hurts. But he can take it if Derek can. The sudden full painful girth makes Stiles' ass react, clenching reflexively on Derek's cock. Derek's breath bursts forth with an edge, almost a whine but not quite. Stiles feels his butt and the backs of his thighs up against the heat of Derek's thighs and hips.
Derek's grip on Stiles' hips tightens but he doesn't move. He moans.
It's the first time Stiles has ever heard Derek moan in pleasure. It's good.
Stiles holds still. He stays where he's impaled himself on Derek's cock. Lets the pain rush ahead of the pleasure for once, not sure which will win.
"Okay?" Derek asks hoarsely.
"Yeah," Stiles gasps, lying his ass off.
Gradually his ass gets used to the full girth. Slowly the pain recedes. Stiles moves forward just a little and it feels incredibly good. The friction and sense of fullness is unbelievable. His cock throbs and his balls tighten and he needs more. He backs fully onto Derek's cock again. Now it's nothing but pleasure. His ass is flush against Derek again, relaxing around his full girth. Derek moans again through his teeth.
Stiles likes hearing Derek moan. So he does it again: slowly, moving forward and off of Derek and then pushing back onto him. The pleasure spreads from his ass to somewhere deep inside and through to his throbbing cock. His balls shouldn't feel heavy because they're probably empty, yet they do.
Derek shivers behind him but his grip on Stiles' hips never changes; the claws never break Stiles skin. Stiles wonders what color Derek's eyes are now.
"Derek," he says quietly.
"What," Derek replies, voice thick.
"Come on," Stiles whispers, slowly pulling off Derek's cock. It's excruciating. It's amazing. He pushes back onto Derek's cock again, a little faster.
"Ready?" Derek moans.
"Yes," Stiles insists, moving back and forth on Derek's cock faster and faster.
Derek could hurt him if he loses control, Stiles thinks, maybe even permanently damage him. But in Derek's moans he hears pleasure wearing down control. Stiles wants pleasure to win.
Finally Derek's grip on his hips tightens and the bite of his claws pulls Stiles back from the overwhelming pleasure. Derek pulls Stiles' hips back hard and shoves himself slowly deep into Stiles, to the hilt.
"Yes," Stiles whispers.
He wants to say fuck me 'til you can't stop, 'til you come. Come in me or on me, whatever, just come with me so we're in this together, so I know it's not just a pity fuck and it's not just me—I couldn't take it if this is only me, only in my head.
But he doesn't say that. And with his one word—"Yes"—Derek seems to let go a little. He doesn't lose control, not completely. Stiles dimly wonders what that would look like even though he's grateful Derek has such great control. It can't be good for Derek, to be so tightly reined so much of the time.
Derek's hands grip Stiles' hips harder and he finally fucks Stiles. Faster. Harder. Deep and thorough. His speed increases as his movements grow wilder. It's so good to be taken this way: Filled again and again, fucked like an animal by a beast, taken.
Stiles' hands grip his bedspread so tight it would be shredded if he had Derek's claws. His pleasure steadily rises as Derek pounds into him. It's exquisitely agonizing and Stiles doesn't get why unless it's because he's headed for his fourth or fifth orgasm—having lost count.
The excruciating pleasure climbs up his spine, up from the ass-pounding, up from his tightened balls, spreads from inside where Derek's cock strokes over a certain spot—over and over like a finger curled around a trigger but not pulling it yet, not quite yet.
Spiking pleasure makes Stiles' ass involuntarily clench on Derek's cock as he fucks in and out. The incredible sensation pushes Stiles to that edge, a sharp edge where bright, hot things beckon—
"Stiles—" Derek gasps behind him. His voice pulls Stiles back from that edge.
"Wha—" Stiles pants, shaking with Derek's pounding.
"Touch yourself," Derek groans.
Stiles releases a handful of bedspread slowly. The pleasure of Derek moving inside him is like a drug slowing him down. He's not quite there but so close to the edge—
He sweats and shakes and gasps in slow motion, feeling every sensation: The sweat dripping off Derek onto him; his own sweat dripping from his temples; the prick of claws at his hips in Derek's fierce grip; the incredible rush of Derek's cock moving in and out of him with long, hard strokes, faster and harder, almost all the way out and slamming back in to the hilt—
Stiles drags his hand to his cock, squeezes instinctively and slowly strokes himself—
It's too much. That's it, it's inevitable. He quivers and comes, cock pulsing in his hand. With each spurt his ass clenches involuntarily on Derek's moving cock. The helpless clamping on Derek's moving girth is like no pleasure Stiles has ever known before. The bright, warm edge from which Derek's voice dragged him rushes to meet Stiles, pulls him over and down like a dark wave.
Eyes squeezed shut tight, frozen in an arc of pleasure, dark blossoms bloom on Stiles' inner eyelids; he can't breathe—feels like he stopped breathing. Ejaculation and orgasm force him to twitch and clench again and again on Derek's cock inside him—
Finally Stiles feels the surge up through Derek's cock in his ass; he can feel that level of detail. And Derek comes, spurting inside him—
Derek's moan behind him turns into a howl, a full blown wolf howl that rises to deafening. The howl vibrates through Stiles' body and wrings the last spasms of orgasm from him, even as it dwindles back into Derek moaning softly.
Stiles can't hold himself up any longer. He sinks down onto his stomach, expecting Derek to pull out. But Derek follows him down, still inside him, and lays on top of him. They gasp and pant, their breath out of rhythm with each other, Derek a heavy, sweaty weight on Stiles.
He feels Derek's cock slowly shrink inside him as they catch their breath, as their racing hearts slow down, as their sweat dries except between them and their bodies cool. Finally Derek's cock slips out on its own. Stiles is faintly disappointed. For a little while there it felt like Derek could stay in him; big and hard and filling him completely, for the rest of his life.
Derek rolls slowly off Stiles, to the side.
Stiles' eyes are closed and his breathing is normal now, well and truly spent, blissed out. Even if his eyes weren't closed, he doesn't want to accidentally say something stupid to break this spell. He honestly doesn't know what to do or say right now. To the extent that he can muster any desperation (not much right now, which is kind of awesome), he desperately doesn't want to say the wrong thing. Plus, he can hardly move anyway.
Then Derek's firm, strong hand is on him again. It strokes Stiles from his shoulder down to his hip, one long strong stroke. Derek moves closer to lie on his side behind Stiles. He slides an arm under Stiles' and then across his chest. He pulls Stiles close and breathes into the hair at the back of Stiles' neck. Stiles presses back wordlessly against him. Derek doesn't talk all that much anyway. That they're spooning is weird but ...nice. The breath at the back of his neck makes Stiles think Derek is scenting him. Derek's upper leg slides slides over Stiles possessively and Stiles has never felt so... enveloped before.
There's a noise outside his window and it makes Stiles' body jerk. He doesn't open his eyes or move, though. He couldn't be safer in Beacon Hills now if he tried.
"Derek?" Stiles hears Scott's whisper.
He feels Derek slowly lift his head behind him. Stiles barely opens his eyes to look out the window where Scott crouches, hands on the sill like he's about to come in. Derek's arm and leg tighten around Stiles and Stiles relaxes into Derek's touch.
"I didn't call," Derek says roughly.
Scott's eyebrows lift. "You howled."
"That was claiming." Derek sounds irritated that he has to explain it.
Scott doesn't reply but can't suppress the corners of his mouth twitching up.
"Oh, fuck you, Scott," Stiles says weakly and closes his eyes again.
Derek's nose returns to the back of Stiles' neck, dismissing Scott. "Keep it to yourself," he orders Scott. "Stiles is safe."
"Okay," Scott whispers. "But I doubt I was the only one to hear it."
Derek curses softly into Stiles' hair.
"See you tomorrow," Scott whispers and climbs back down.
Stiles is too relaxed to let the million thoughts trying to crowd back into his mind get the upper hand. Derek is still behind him, arms and a leg around him, body hot and possessive.
"Sleep," Derek murmurs, so Stiles does.
~ ~ ~
When Stiles starts awake hours later, the window shows the bluish twilight outside before dawn. It's cool all down his backside where Derek was warm behind him before.
Derek stands at Stiles' window, nude, looking down at the rest of the silent neighborhood—everyone still asleep.
Stiles' brain tries to get in gear, but he's still groggy.
Derek's got that thousand-yard stare of his. But there's something else, too, something vulnerable and cautious.
Stiles half sits up on his elbows. Derek hears him and turns. He quickly schools his face into its usual blank and detached expression.
"Go back to sleep," he tells Stiles.
It's a bit gentler than an order but he still clearly expects Stiles to listen. Stiles doesn't think he can. Derek's nude, muscled body in the twilight of his bedroom makes his throat close and his heartbeat speed up. This may be the last time he'll see it, and now that he's awake he wants to stay awake and look at Derek. He wants to memorize this sight in case it never happens again.
But he doesn't say any of that, doesn't even say I can't go back to sleep to Derek. He just sits up and looks at him.
There is the most minute softening of Derek's expression and he takes a few steps to Stiles. He bends down to brush his lips against Stiles', who can't help himself: He reaches up and puts a hand on Derek's hip, slides it up his flank as their lips touch. And Derek lets him.
Stiles gets up on his knees in the bed and his arms slip around Derek to crush them together. Derek's arms come down around Stiles' shoulders and he lets Stiles kiss him fully and he kisses Stiles back. It's not lusty or chaste, it's somewhere in between, simmering with possibilities even as Derek's body is taut with suppressed motion. Maybe he wants to leave, to be gone already.
When Stiles' lips move from Derek's, faintly disappointed, Derek looks at him. He doesn't speak but his hands come up to Stiles' face, his thumbs on Stiles' cheeks, Stiles' jaw in his palms.
He looks Stiles in the eye and his eyes shift to red. Stiles thinks maybe this is somehow Derek's way of telling him something, but he has no idea what. Maybe if he were another werewolf he'd get it but he's not and he doesn't. He's too proud to ask what it means though. Maybe what it means isn't meant for words.
He's too nervous to ask if this will happen again. Derek's gaze is too direct and penetrating and maybe he's already guessed that's what Stiles wants to know. He kisses Stiles again, slow and deliberate and thorough. Stiles' cock stirs.
When their mouths part Derek's whisper is uncertain like he's trying to speak more lightly than he feels and maybe that's a good sign.
"Shower?" Derek whispers.
Stiles swallows. "Together," he says.
He's not asking. It's his bedroom, his house—and maybe Derek did save him from a virgin sacrifice death, but—his rules.
"Okay," Derek nods, pulling out of Stiles' arms. He turns away and picks up his clothes from the floor. "Your father's not home, yet."
"He won't come in the bathroom if he hears me in the shower," Stiles reassures.
He grabs a clean track suit that he thinks may flatter him and leads Derek to the bathroom, pausing to grab towels for them both. They get in the tub together and the spray is horribly cold at first and then rapidly super hot. Stiles gets wet, body and hair. He shyly tries not to look Derek in the face or ogle his body, but it's just so amazing and unbelievable that they are here together in his shower.
Derek squeezes past him to get wet under the spray while Stiles soaps up. He's got his back to Derek, when he feels Derek's hands on him, reaching for the shower gel. He hands it to him and Derek soaps himself up and then hands it back while Stiles washes his own hair. Derek tilts his head back into the spray, washing his own, rinsing it.
Stiles' eyes are averted but not so he can't see the ripple of muscle on Derek's chest and abdomen as his hands move over his head. Stiles sighs, feeling soapy but not needing to move, thinking this is another thing he may never see again—so he might as well get an eyeful.
Derek's hands are on his shoulders, suddenly, and his hands slide over his shoulders and his upper arms through the slippery soap, over his chest. He pushes slightly, then, and Stiles turns to face away. Derek steps out of the water and closer to Stiles, reaching around him for the shower gel. He pours some into his hand and then he's washing Stiles back and soaping him up again. His soapy hands glide firmly and slowly over Stiles' body, washing under his arms, down his sides and flanks, down to his hips.
They hesitate just a moment and then soap up Stiles' ass too. One of Derek's hands slips into the cleft of Stiles' butt, lightly touching his hole but not probing, sliding down behind his balls to his taint. Though Derek's hands move gentle and slow and don't reach around for his cock, it gets Stiles hard again. He wonders if they're going to do it again in the shower.
But then Derek pulls Stiles back and steps back himself. They are both under the shower spray now. Derek's hands sluice water over Stiles' shoulders and back, rinsing him. One hand slides between his butt cheeks once more, washing away any remaining shower gel. Stiles shivers at the touch, fists clenched by his thighs so he won't grab his stiff cock even though he wants to.
He feels warm, wet lips on the back of his neck, then on his shoulder. He leans back against Derek, his hands reaching up to feel Derek's arms come around him once more. But they hold him so briefly and then Derek moves away again, pulls Stiles into the shower spray and squeezes past him to stand in the back of the tub. Stiles closes his eyes and lets the shower pound down on his head. He feels the hot water and Derek's hands on him but only on his shoulders once more.
He turns and shakes the water out of his hair. He wipes his eyes as Derek moves back further. His hands falter and slide off Stiles as Stiles opens his eyes, water still pounding the back of his neck and upper back.
Derek is erect, too.
Stiles finally looks up at Derek's face and is surprised to see him looking slightly embarrassed.
"Sorry," Derek mutters. "You're—" He gestures something unreadable and sighs.
"I'm...?" Stiles replies, something hopeful dawning in him.
Derek shrugs awkwardly.
"I can—" Stiles begins and then he cuts himself off.
He reaches out and touches Derek's cock, hot and firm and slippery in the wet. Derek's cheeks flush and his eyes flash red and Stiles decides to run with it. He strokes Derek's cock and Derek shivers. Stiles feels his own cock throb. He watches Derek closely as he strokes his cock. Derek's got this half-terrified, half-helpless expression that Stiles has never seen before. He sighs with relief and presses forward, kissing Derek. Derek's lips move tentatively against Stiles' until he pulls away.
Stiles kneels in the shower so he can take the head of Derek's cock into his mouth. He has no idea what he's doing. But from the way Derek's breathing shifts and the tension in his body, he thinks maybe he's doing okay. Better check, though. He takes his mouth off the head of Derek's cock for a moment.
"I've never—" Stiles admits. "This might suck." He honestly didn't mean that as a double entendre.
Derek's hand is on his jaw again and Stiles looks up into Derek's face. Desire and uncertainty are there but also something else.
"It's fine," Derek says. "If you don't want to..." he trails off.
"I'm going to," Stiles says and now he is the determined one.
He puts his mouth on the head and moves it down, taking more of the shaft. Derek inhales sharply. When Stiles moves his mouth back up, he sucks extra hard on the head and Derek's breath is short and explosive.
He looks up at Derek with his cock still in his mouth. He takes his mouth off of it long enough to say, "Show me. Make me."
Derek shakes his head.
Stiles' fingers tighten around the base of Derek's cock, his other hand on the back of Derek's thigh. "Show me how you like it," Stiles sighs, exasperated. "I want to—"
Derek's hand slides to the back of Stiles' head and there is slight pressure and thank God Stiles doesn't have to figure this out all on his own. It's not force, the hand on the back of his head, it's just a little firm.
He lets the firm touch push his mouth down. Derek's cock seems really big now that it's in his mouth and Stiles worries he might gag when his lips meet his own fingers circled around the base of Derek's cock. But he doesn't because Derek urges his mouth up off his cock before that happens.
Derek gently, hesitantly, guides Stiles' mouth down again the same way.
Okay. Stiles kind of has a stroke and a rhythm now.
Derek's other hand gently slides over Stiles' hand at the base of his cock. He holds both his cock and Stiles' hand there while he guides Stiles' mouth back down his cock with his other hand on the back of his head.
Stiles isn't sure what he was expecting but Derek's cock doesn't taste any different than, say, his own fingers when he gnaws a nail or a knuckle or sucks on the webbing between his index finger and thumb. It's just flesh. Pretty soon Stiles has the right stroke, the right rhythm, the right speed. He's even added a couple swirls of his tongue on the head as he's coming off it, which makes Derek inhale sharply and then sigh. Now Stiles tastes the slippery, slightly salty taste of Derek's pre-come when he briefly tongues the slit.
His jaw starts to ache and feels like its stuck in one position but Stiles keeps at it. Derek's cock seems to get harder and then his hand on his cock moves Stiles' hand away so he can stroke his own cock in rhythm with the way Stiles' mouth moves up and down on it.
Stiles just focuses on maintaining suction and breathing through his nose and swirling his tongue when he can. Both his hands are on Derek's thighs now and he can feel them tremble. It feels like Derek wants to shove his cock down Stiles' throat but he doesn't. He's faintly disappointed but also slightly grateful. The water pounding on his neck and shoulders is a kind of helpful thrumming.
Derek's breath is fast, panting now like he's running. Stiles can't see his face, focused on the cock moving in and out of his mouth, hitting the back of his throat—almost—
"Stiles—" Derek gasps. "I'm—"
He never finishes. He pulls his cock out of Stiles' mouth and spurts hot semen on Stiles' chin and cheek, neck and upper chest. The warm spurts are immediately washed away by the shower, which is maybe starting to get a little cooler now.
Derek shakes, shudders and pants above Stiles. Now that he's no longer sucking Derek's cock, Stiles looks up at his face. Derek's expression is lost and vulnerable and kind of dazed.
His hand is on Stiles' shoulder and his other hand slides the head of his cock across Stiles' wet lips. Stiles licks his lips but the taste of Derek's semen is gone, washed away by the water cascading over them.
Derek looks down at him and then his hand is under Stiles' jaw, tipping his chin up. He leans down to kiss Stiles hard. It feels like there's more than a few things in the kiss—gratitude and pleasure and happiness and that is just so weird coming from the sourest werewolf, like, ever. Stiles' chest warms because he did that. He did that. Ain't that a kick in the head.
Derek straightens up and offers a hand and Stiles takes it and lets Derek haul him up, into his arms. Their embrace is hard and intense for all that it is so brief. Then Derek steps away and looks anywhere but Stiles' face.
Stiles says, "The water's getting cold." It isn't yet, but he knows from long experience (long showers spent jacking off) that it will be soon.
He rinses off one more time and puts his hands on Derek and pulls him into the spray with him. He slides his hands over Derek's body once more so he can have it memorized by touch in case this never happens again.
Then he shuts off the water and pulls back the curtain. They both look away from each other, grabbing their towels. As they silently dry off, Stiles realizes the blue light outside the frosted bathroom window has turned into sunrise. They don't speak and slip into their clothes quietly.
After dressing, Stiles wipes away the steam at the bathroom mirror and combs his hair. He hands his comb to Derek, who quickly combs his hair, too. Stiles looks down when Derek presses the comb back into his hand. Stray hairs cling wetly to it, his brown hair mingled with Derek's black.
"Food?" Stiles asks quietly.
He wipes the comb on his towel and tosses the comb into a drawer, then he throws the towel over the shower curtain to dry. As Derek does the same with his towel, Stiles opens the bathroom window a little for ventilation. He notices how much smaller his bathroom is with Derek in it.
"I didn't hear your dad come home," Derek says. "I should—"
"Go, yeah," Stiles agrees quickly and shrugs.
He hopes it sounds neutral and not disappointed because he knows he's stretched this out as long as he can, and it has to end and it's ending now. The bright light of a new day is here to chase away all the possibilities that glimmered in his mind in the dark with Derek touching him.
They go back to Stiles' bedroom and Derek puts his jacket on and then stands there awkwardly while they both look anywhere but at each other.
"So," Derek says uneasily.
"Yeah, see you around," Stiles sighs.
He hates that he sounds casual and it sounds forced and disappointed. Derek pauses and Stiles can feel him looking at him. He doesn't look at Derek because what's the point.
"I..." Derek begins, and trails off. "You forget—?" he tries again and stops.
He shifts his weight and he seems impatient, now, more like the old Derek—the one so easily irritated, so annoyed all the time.
The devil you know, Stiles thinks.
"It's okay," Stiles says, trying to keep his voice even and expressionless. "I get it. First and last time." He shrugs.
"No, you idiot," Derek snaps, suddenly angry.
Stiles hears the anger and there's the Derek he knows. What a relief, really, because he doesn't even know how—
—wait. What?
His head jerks up to look at Derek, who looks half annoyed and half—well, something else. Hurt, maybe?
That's a new one.
"I claimed you," Derek snarls.
"Wait," Stiles says slowly. "What?"
Derek tosses his head. "Claimed!"
"As in, 'yours'?" Stiles asks, dumbfounded.
"Some other meaning to 'claimed'?" Derek growls.
"I—you're the werewolf; you tell me!" Stiles stutters.
"You're claimed by me," Derek scowls, brows together over his suspicious eyes, golden in the brightening sunrise. "Okay? Better be okay. Because it can't be undone."
The way he says the last part, his anger is bravado, a veneer over something, something else—
"So," Stiles says, realization dawning. "So this, uh," he swallows. "I'm yours?"
Derek's fists clench at his sides. "To protect and—" he grits through his teeth, then stops and starts again. "Unless you don't want to."
He's so defensive. Stiles forgot about that, somehow. Relief floods his body and makes his knees weak. Steeling himself for the inevitable was the only thing keeping him upright. Now he wants to collapse with relief and also strangle Derek.
"Of course I want to!" Stiles shouts, surprised by his own outburst but unable to stop. "Can't you tell, you big dumb wolf? Isn't it in my heartbeat and my sweat or whatever, for all your wolfy senses to sense? Isn't it obvious, you complete ass? Now who's the idiot?"
Derek looks shocked. Stiles flings out his arms, flailing wildly. There was so much he didn't say last night and now he's completely awake and relief has loosed his tongue—because the verbal, the compulsive.
"I can hardly stand up!" he yells at Derek. "Maybe you, wolf and all, didn't—but I slept like a rock because you exhausted me. You banged me like a screen door in a thunderstorm, you made me come I don't know how many times. I'm sore all over like the exact opposite of lacrosse practice and it. Was. Awesome!"
And, oh, shit, way to give it all away—how huge this was for him. Fuck it. Stiles steps closer to Derek, getting in his face. Derek's never looked exactly frightened, but if he did, Stiles wonders if it might look a little like this.
"I thought it was just this once, I thought that's all I get! You didn't say any different! You don't have a clue, do you? How can you not have a clue?" Stiles runs his hands over his face and through his hair. "Yes, it's all right you claimed me! Claim me again—and again and again, I never wanted it to stop! Couldn't you tell? God, why do I have to say it? I don't even know what we're doing! You're older, you said you knew what you were doing—"
His mouth is stopped by Derek's, firm but somehow soft and lush.
"Not just your body," Derek murmurs into Stiles' lips.
The kiss twists and deepens and then relaxes. Stiles' forehead is pressed very hard against Derek's and Derek gives no ground.
"You are, like, the dumbest wolf ever," Stiles whispers. "My mind—my heart—are in my body. If you smell it and hear it on me, it's there in all of me. It was in my mind before last night ever happened. Did you not know that?"
Derek hesitates. He slowly shakes his head 'no.'
Stiles takes a slightly disbelieving step back and his arms cross over his chest.
Derek's head-shaking slowly stops. He looks away, then he nods twice. He has the grace to look a little embarrassed. He avoids Stiles' gaze even as he leans in for another closed-mouth kiss.
"Well, there's that," Stiles sighs, uncrossing his arms, hands on his hips. "At least you knew."
Derek turns away then just as quickly turns back to Stiles. He presses his lips to Stiles' once and then again, one last time. He steps to Stiles' window, looks around outside to ensure no one will see him, and then gracefully climbs out.
He looks back through the open window as he crouches on the roof outside. The inscrutable isn't so inscrutable anymore, Stiles thinks. That just might be longing on Derek's face.
"I'll," Derek shrugs awkwardly, squatting outside the window, "be around."
"Yeah, you will," Stiles nods, hands in his track pants pockets. "You better be."
He acts way more confident than he feels. But he's secretly glad Derek seems to be as bad at this as he is.
Derek looks down to check where he'll land when he jumps down. He looks back at Stiles one last time, clenching his jaw. But his gaze softens.
"I will."
And then he's gone. Stiles stares out the window, heart pounding, filling with the warmth of the rising sun.
He wonders if (hopes) Derek meant tonight.