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“Scott told me you think your roommate is one of us,” Derek says when Stiles picks up, instead of ‘hello, Stiles’ or ‘how are you, Stiles’ or ‘how is the scary world of university treating you, Stiles’ like a normal person.
“Yeah,” Stiles says. “It’s so great to hear your voice, Derek. I’ve missed you so much. Nothing is the same without you.”
“Shut up. How do you know?”
“He acts like one,” Stiles says. “He sniffs everything. His eyes flash in the right light and all his family photos look like they were taken in a mirrorball. He’s really strong. He ordered a burger at our dorm welcome dinner and he was sad that it was overcooked, even though it was practically mooing.”
“Right,” Derek says.
“Fine, I hacked into his computer and went through all his stuff,” Stiles says. “It's pretty clear if you know what you’re looking for.”
There’s a silence. “What did you write on that accommodation form, Stilinski?” Derek says doubtfully.
Stiles looks at his phone, then bashes himself on the forehead with it a couple of times. The phone issues a tinny, “I can hear you doing that, you know,” in his direction.
He puts it back to his ear. “I wrote ‘my life won’t be complete without werewolves’,” he snaps. “Obviously.”
“You were born under a bad moon,” Derek declares, helpfully. “I’ll see you Saturday.”
“What? You’ll what? Crap,” Stiles says. The dial tone doesn’t have anything to add.
* * *
“So what we have to ask ourselves is why this would happen,” Stiles says, watching Derek sniff his roommate’s pillow thoughtfully and deeply regretting every life choice that led him to this room, on this weekend, with this person.
“Because the universe hates you?” Derek suggests. Most days Stiles enjoys how much Derek’s loosened up compared to when they first met, but he does occasionally think nostalgically of the days when he was the strong, silent type.
“I don’t think - do not lick that pillow Derek Hale I will stab you in the face with a wolfsbane knife - the universe hates me,” Stiles says, although actually he can think a lot of supporting evidence for the theory. “I think someone, somewhere, hates me, and they’ve put me in this room on purpose.”
Derek gives him one of his blankly unimpressed stares. “Yeah? What purpose?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Maybe you should ask your roommate,” Derek says. “Speaking of wolfsbane, do you have some in here? I can smell it.”
“Yeah,” Stiles says. “What? It’s part of my general stock. You guys get shot all the time, sooner or later it’s going to happen when you’re visiting and then you’ll be glad I thought ahead.”
“Stiles. Which humans both know about werewolves, and keep stuff around that kills them?”
“Hunters. Oh.”
“Yeah, hunters. He's from Minnesota, right? I've heard the name, they're some tiny quiet pack that hasn’t bothered anybody or been bothered in decades, the kid’s probably terrified you’re going to try and take him out.”
“Shit. What would you do if you thought your college roommate was a hunter who was going to try to kill you?”
“I smothered him in his sleep,” Derek says, straightfaced.
“Ha ha,” Stiles says sourly. “Can you do some alphing and help me, please? What do I do?”
Derek shrugs. “Switch rooms.”
“I can’t switch rooms,” Stiles whines. “They gave us this whole speech, the dorms are oversubscribed so I’d have to find off-campus accommodation and I wouldn’t know anyone or hear what was going on or get invited to anything and my whole college career would be ruined.”
Derek sighs in a way that says Stiles is a huge affront to his life and dignity. He knows that sigh well. “Fine. How subtle do you want to go, here? Do you want to get mixed up in another pack’s business? That’s what’ll happen if you talk to him about it, I know what you’re like.”
“I thought you said his pack has no business. Wait, do you want me to get mixed up in another pack’s business?” Stiles says suspiciously.
“You can do what you like,” Derek says, but a muscle twitches in his jaw. It’s the muscle twitch of if you were a werewolf member of this pack I’d drag you back to the den by the scruff of your neck and ground you. Stiles knows that well too.
“You’re being weird!” he says. “Why are you being weird?”
“I'm not being weird!” Derek says. “You're the only one this would happen to, you know. Maybe I just want a quiet life.”
“You want a quiet life?” Stiles says, offended. “Man, my life was so quiet before you happened to it. I'd have been delighted with a nice, normal, human roommate. Thrilled.” So it's not entirely true – well, not the part about the human roommate, that was what he wanted, but he's not actually sad that he doesn't have a quiet life anymore. Sad that 'not quiet' turned out to mean 'nearly fatal on practically a bimonthly basis', yes. But the whole werewolf life-infestation isn't too bad in a general sense. “And anyway, this is not helping.”
Derek rolls his eyes so exaggeratedly he'll probably wake up tomorrow with eyestrain. “Fine, I have an idea.”
“Great,” Stiles says. “I love your ideas, I do. They always turn out so well. Go on, amaze me.”
Derek glares at him, strips off his shirt, and throws it at Stiles. And it is amazing! Stiles has seen Derek with his shirt off a lot of times now – when they first started screwing he's pretty sure a whole month went by before he saw Derek with a shirt on again, or for that matter pants – and it's never anything less than amazing. Derek just seems to get more and more muscled and smooth and gleaming, but then if Stiles was an older guy who hung out exclusively with high-schoolers he'd have a lot of spare time to work out too, so he doesn't let himself feel too impressed.
Okay, so he skips impressed and goes straight to slack-jawed lust every time, fine. Nobody's keeping score.
He steps forward and gets his hands on Derek's belt, nudging Derek's head up so he can press a slow, easy kiss to the hollow of his throat. “Well, okay,” he says. “But after this we're going back to fixing my problem.”
Derek gets a hand onto his head and pulls; Stiles goes with it, letting his throat be bared, not bothering to hide his smirk when it makes Derek's pupils dilate and his eyes flare briefly red. “This is going to fix your problem,” he says. “He comes back, one sniff and he knows you're on really good terms with an alpha, he doesn't bother you again, nobody has to even say anything. Problem solved.”
“Multi-tasking, I like it,” Stiles says. Derek's belt is open and he flips the button with a practised hand and reaches into Derek's shorts, gratified to find Derek already hard for him. “Wait, when you say he doesn't bother me again, I don't want my roommate not to speak to me, dude. I want to make friends with him.”
“Fine,” Derek says. “Friends. Just friends. Now shut up,” and Stiles knows what that means and he opens his mouth for Derek's kiss, letting Derek's tongue in to stroke at his own and moaning into it.
“Hang on just – just one second, I just need to-” he says and he darts away, ignoring Derek's complaining grumble, and grabs the trash can from beside his desk. Is it supposed to be a trash can? Should it be a sock? But he doesn't have a sock to hand and Derek has plastered himself to Stiles' back and reached around to rapidly unbutton Stiles' shirt, so fuck it. He opens the door gleefully and sticks the trash can outside as a warning of sexytimes going on, which is a college milestone he hadn't expected to reach until at least mid-semester, and it's only his second weekend, and it's with Derek, which maybe isn't so much the whole idea – Derek being an import from home and all – but who is he kidding, Derek is pretty much the hottest guy Stiles is going to make it with in his whole lifetime, and actually it's pretty much perfect that it's here, and now, and him.
Derek shoves him back against the door as soon as he's done, hands pinning his wrists at his sides, which by now is something Stiles has an embarrassingly pavlovian reaction to even without Derek's naked body hard up against his, jeans and underwear abandoned somewhere on the floor. The kiss turns into something a little sweeter, Derek's mouth moving carefully on his, biting gently on his lower lip, familiar and good. Almost like – well, and why shouldn't Derek have missed Stiles? Stiles has missed him, he's not afraid to admit it, he's in touch with his emotions.
“Clothes,” Derek grunts, pulling off and drawing Stiles back without really moving more than half an inch away from him, and excellent, he's more or less non-verbal already, and Stiles hastily helps Derek pull his shirt over his head before Derek gets impatient and just claws it off of him. He unbuttons his jeans and yanks them off with his boxers, letting them fall to the floor as Derek picks him up, two steady hands under his thighs taking his weight easily for the last couple of steps (small steps – he likes his dorm, but big it is not), and falls them backward onto the bed.
It feels like forever since he had his hands on Derek and he runs his palms down Derek's sides greedily as he leans down, chest to bare chest for more kissing. Derek is breathing in big gulps through his nose the way he does when he's almost unbearably turned on by Stiles' scent, panting out against Stiles' mouth and kissing him deep and wet, one hand on the back of his head and the other resting on the small of his back, holding Stiles in place along the full length of Derek's body. It's close and sweaty and so fucking good and Stiles spreads his legs out over Derek's slim hips, gets his knees onto the bed so he has some leverage to grind down, getting pressure on their cocks together where he needs it, Derek's hard length leaking against his.
“That good?” he says breathlessly when he gets a second with his mouth away from Derek's, grinning when Derek honesttogod heavenstobetsy whimpers, low and pleading. “Yeah, you like it? You want this?”
“Want you,” Derek growls and then that's his finger rubbing careful at Stiles' hole and he reaches over, enjoying some good friction on the way of his nipples against the solid contours of Derek's chest, which is so built that privately even Stiles would consider it excessive if he weren't the one to reap the benefits. He bites down on Derek's bicep as he fumbles in the bedside cabinet for lube, hard, worrying at the skin with lips and teeth until Derek wails and Christ, forget about his roommate knowing what's gone on in here, the whole freaking campus is going to know but with Derek coming undone under him, because of him, with him he just can't make himself think of a little public agony as important.
He sits up and grabs one of Derek's hands, flipping the lid off the lube and drizzling it down over Derek's fingers. “You need to open me up, okay?” he says clearly. This might be one of those times where he ends up doing it himself, Derek too lost in instinct and hunger to be gentle or thorough enough, but what the hell, give the boy a chance. “Come on, Derek. Put your fingers in me. Want to feel you- fuck yes come on,” as Derek fingers him on a long slow glide, enjoying the always-weird feeling of opening around the invasion, Derek letting out a low hum-whine, his breath hitching in time with Stiles' rapidly-speeding heartbeat.
“More,” Derek demands, his voice roughened, and Stiles leans forward to give him more room, more skin-on-skin contact. Another fingers slips inside, stretching him slow and delicious, and Stiles grabs his own cock, pushes it down gently until the sensitive underside rubs along Derek's taut stomach, the hard ridges of his abs. Derek screws up his face like it tickles and Stiles runs his fingers lightly around the reddened head of his cock, collecting the fluid gathering there to drip down onto Derek's skin and offering his fingers to Derek, watching Derek's tongue flicker pinkly out from his kiss-bitten lips and lick the pre-come away.
“You ready?” he says quietly, shifting forward so Derek's fingers drop easily out of him. He's learnt to keep talking during this part, keep Derek with him and at least a little in his head. He always regrets it a bit, not being able to let Derek fully loose with him, but Derek is strong, strong enough that Stiles' body which is sturdy enough in other respects is delicate to him; there was some of the pain that's not fun for either of them the first couple of times they did this, before Stiles realised how his voice anchors Derek. “I'm ready for you, you can feel that, right? Yeah, you know it,” he lets his mouth just run away; it's how he says it, not what he says, Derek watching his mouth as he talks with eyes gone pale and heavy-lidded. “Want this so much, Derek, want your cock inside me, missed it, missed fucking you,” and as he talks he's reaching back and positioning Derek's thick cock, teasing himself with it for a second before God yes finally the head splits him wide and he's sinking down in a slow teasing glide, and he hovers for a second, Derek's cock nearly fully seated but not – quite – there – and Derek grabs his hips and gives a throaty punched-out groan and Stiles drops his hips down at the same time Derek pushes up and, “Yes, fuck, that's it, come on, so good for me, fuck me – want to feel it, give it to me-”
Stiles clenches at Derek's chest as he rides him, hands slipping on the warmth and gleaming sweat until he digs his nails in, watching Derek go blissed out at his touch. He sets a fast pace, too wound up by their time apart to be leisurely, hungry for the hot-good pleasure of Derek's cock in his ass, angled to rub his prostate with every powerful thrust of Derek's hips and Stiles' counterpoint slams down. Derek bends his knees up and Stiles leans back against them, listening to Derek's pleased rumble at the added ]contact of lean thighs to back. The new angle makes it harder to move but juts his cock towards Derek, hard and damp with pre-come and Stiles says, “Gonna make me do it myself? Come on, grab my dick – Derek, make me come, want to come on you, want to give it to you-”
For all he's the werewolf Derek fucking loves to be marked, goes crazy for Stiles' come on his belly and in his ass and over his face, and he moans and takes his hands off Stiles' hips to jack his cock and cup his balls. Stiles sits firmly onto him instead, biting off a yeahthere curse as the motion makes Derek's cock stretch and twinge him inside, starts clenching deliberately on Derek, circling his hips with tiny teasing motions. Derek's hand is big and warm and right around him, moving fast and sure, giving the twist around the head he loves that makes his hips jerk and his balls tighten and oh God yes and fuck and Derek and Stiles is coming, choking out breath and scrabbling at the familiar silk of Derek's skin, black swimming across his vision, and at the scent of his come Derek snarls and pounds upwards once, twice, and Stiles can feel Derek's cock twitching and coming inside him and this, this is what he's been missing, how good this is, how much he needs Derek's body next to his for his to feel real.
He collapses on Derek after, sticky and affectionate and happy-exhausted, but now the angle feels all wrong and he slides over onto his back, tugging on Derek to encourage him to roll on top. He loves the feeling of being pressed under Derek after sex, heavy and safe, and he's found that feeling Stiles beneath him helps Derek come back, to pull his senses back into himself and off their single-minded focus on Stiles after the intensity of sex. Lying under him, Stiles' hands are free to roam and soothe over Derek's broad back and shoulders and his mouth is right there to capture Derek's and gentle him down with tender lips and tongue.
After a while Derek stops lapping lazily at Stiles' skin and raises his head from where it was buried in the crook of Stiles' neck. “I shouldn't be here when your roommate gets back,” he says, sounding like himself, soft and a little cranky. His tone is reluctant and Stiles doesn't really want to let him go, so it takes a while for him to drag himself out of bed, but he manages it eventually.
“Give my love to Beacon Hills,” Stiles says, flopping back down into the damp and frankly fairly disgusting sheets. Who cares, he's a teenage boy, he's supposed to be gross. Derek is going to drive all the way back to Beacon Hills reeking of sex, Stiles' come still tacky on his stomach, that's grosser. Hot – he resolves to text Derek later, find out how many times he had to pull over to jerk off to the smell of Stiles all over him - but grosser.
“I'll get some curly fries in your honour,” Derek says. He pauses with his shirt in his hand and Stiles makes a sleepy, pleased noise and pushes his head into it when Derek pets him, fingers combing delicately through the short hair. “I think the chicken place is going under without you.”
“They better still be in business when I get back for Christmas vacation,” Stiles says. And it better not be his dad keeping them in business.
“Look after yourself, okay?” Derek says when he's ready, leather jacket in place and laces tied. “Let me know if you need anything.”
Stiles is pretty tired, which is totally his excuse. “I need to get fucked, like that, in this bed. Regularly. How about it?”
“Stiles...”
“Derek.” He cracks an eye open. Derek looks weird from this angle, but the pensive, sexy-brooder look on his face is familiar. “I know you're thinking all like, oh, my massively advanced age and Stiles's brilliant new life at school hitting on everything that moves or whatever. But it's an invitation, okay? Door's always open. Although not literally. Because who knows what might walk in.”
“Okay,” Derek says softly and Stiles nods into his pillow, murmurs when he feels Derek bend over him and press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. Who ever knows what he'll do but – it's Derek, and after everything Stiles can't imagine a time when he'd turn him away.
The door shuts quietly – an arm reaches around first and deposits the trash can back inside – and he drowses for a while. Even to his boringly human nose the sheets smell comfortingly of Derek and his distinctive werewolfy musk and it helps him adjust the way he hasn't just yet to everything that's different, the sounds and the way the light plays off the walls.
He wakes up when his roommate comes in.
“Did you... have you had a visitor?” Gabriel says. He sounds kind of strangled in a way Stiles recognises, the way somebody talks when they're trying really, really hard not to take in any of the air in the room at all. (Not that Stiles lives to torment Scott with the olfactory evidence of all the fantastic sex he has with Derek or anything.)
“Yup,” he says peacefully. “Friend from home.”
“Oh, somebody from home?” Gabriel says. He seems to perk up a bit.
“Yeah,” Stiles says. He levers himself up and Gabriel gives him a slightly nervous, friendly smile. “Hey, you want to play Call of Duty?”
“Yeah,” Gabriel says. “That'd be nice.”