There’s something about the way Derek turns his back on Stiles that gets his teeth grinding every time. The arrogant cant of the powerful shoulders. The dismissive shrug as Derek walks away, tossing back a snarled, snarky putdown for Stiles to fumble and drop. Stuff like that. Lots of stuff like that.
He hates it so fucking much. Fist slammed into lockers much. It makes him feel impotent, though that’s a dangerous word to have floating around in his head, free-associating with God knows what else, like ‘cock’ and ‘my’. As if he hasn’t got enough to worry about without fretting that Pinky might not get perky when the world spins widdershins and he finally gets laid. Sheesh. Scratch impotent, and say hello to the online thesaurus. Let’s see… Okay, how’s this? It makes him feel like he’s not seen as a threat. Yeah. Better wording, though it still sucks that he’s not registering on anyone’s radar as scary.
He has to face facts, though. Hand to hand, Derek would kick his ass without disarranging a strand of that thick dark hair Stiles sometimes thinks about pulling hard just to get Derek's attention (a tornado wouldn’t do much to it either. The guy sure likes his product).
S’okay. Strength isn’t all about muscles. The brain’s a muscle too.
Okay, not technically a muscle, but it’s a valid point. Metaphor. Analogy. Whatever.
Now, though, he’s reconsidering the whole hating it when Derek turns his back thing. When it’s done like this, a slow, graceful shift of position, the bed creaking (but it’s Derek’s bed and the woods around are lonely, dark, and deep, just like the poem, and hopefully very, very empty of people with binoculars, super-senses, or directional mikes – and when all of the above are possible in your town, maybe it’s time he and his dad move away. Far away. Can you volunteer to join Witness Protection, sort of like signing up for the Foreign Legion?) there’s something about it that makes his throat muscles work overtime to deal with the drool.
Naked isn’t making Derek seem vulnerable. Why would it? No love handles or beer guts for Mr. I-Could-Be-A-Model Hale. The guy’s a god. Clothes on him are a sin and a shame and the way he’s always shedding shirts, Derek clearly agrees with Stiles on that. But with his head hanging low, exposing the back of his neck to Stiles' gaze, the curve of his back screams submissive and it wakes Stiles’ protective side even as something darker stirs inside him.
Stiles swallows and touches the ink swirling over smooth skin, following the spiral tattoo someone drew onto Derek in blood with a fingertip, willing his hand not to shake. Derek whines, the sound needy, soft, throat-caught, but his head stays lowered and he waits for Stiles’ hand to move wherever Stiles decides it should go next. No impatient instructions snapped out, no dragging him around until Derek finds a nice hard wall to slam him against.
No protests, limitations, questions, nothing at all but a waiting silence after that awkward, angry conversation that slid from confrontation to…not flirting, no, but…something?
No one’s ever tried to seduce Stiles, so he doesn’t have a benchmark, but he’s fairly sure telling someone to fuck themselves isn’t usually answered with "I’m feeling tired after saving your life three fucking times in one week. Do it for me."
He’d laughed, more in shock than amusement, a choked-off giggle, the mere thought of which is shaming enough that he’d blush if he hadn’t blown his blush circuits at his first sight of Derek with nothing but air between his skin and Stiles’ gaze.
Stiles hangs out in locker rooms too much to get worked up over limp dicks and the musky stink of sweat, but Derek naked, smelling clean beyond a whiff of leaf mold and smoke (this house is never gonna lose the reek of ashes and death) is a whole new sort of challenge to Stiles’ belief that he’s straight.
Okay, that belief has been eroded from a goalpost to a matchstick by a lot of other stuff, like not being able to come when he jerks off unless he’s got another guy – or guys – sprawled out across his fantasy, but the Derek-inspired boner is spectacularly impossible to dismiss.
And now it's here, and it's now, and Derek wants Stiles’ dick in his ass. Up his ass. In? Up? It’s suddenly vitally important to have a consensus on this.
"You want my, uh, me, in your – you want me to fuck you? Really?" Okay, he can’t do it. Can’t start a babblefest about ‘up’ versus ‘in’. Not when his hand’s somehow found the perfect place to rest on Derek’s hip -- and Jesus, Derek’s naked and on all fours in front of him. Can we pause, World and contemplate that, along with the inferred existence of unicorns and burgers that look like the ones in commercials?
Stiles is naked too. Getting that way is a memory he wants to lose. No one looks good taking off socks and tripping on his shorts is totally down to Derek showcasing a dick so, well, real-looking that Stiles couldn't pretend this was a dream. Derek’s big enough, but no one super-sized him, and Stiles thinks his dick might even be thicker. Go figure. Would Derek let him take some photos with his phone just to compare – no. No, he wouldn't.
Derek turns his head and there’s the familiar incredulous stare that says plainly, ‘hey, you’re stupid’ and Stiles knows he’s not. His hand moves before he tells it to – he swears it does – and slaps Derek’s ass with a clean, flat sound, crisp and definite.
Don’t mess with me, it says. I’m in charge.
Derek smiles. Oh God, that smile. Satisfied, smirkful, but just a little hopeful, too, as if getting his ass spanked is a sign he’s going to get it fucked too. Is it? Is that how this works?
"You want lube? A condom?"
"What? Oh!" Stiles nods and can’t stop his head from bobbing up and down. "Sure. Yes. Absolutely. Lube and a condom." He can't help humming 'shave and a haircut…two bits', struck by the matching rhythm, and then he's driven to say it aloud to kill the earworm and feels forced to explain himself. "Not that you need one – the stubble looks great, really -- and mine's really short – my hair's really short, not my – well, you've seen it, so you know it's normal. I'm normal. Perfectly normal."
"That's not the word I'd use."
"What is?" Stiles chews down on his lip and doesn't wait for an answer. "Why are we doing this? Why do you want me to do this? You don't like me. I'm not, uh, pack."
Two words and it all clicks into place. Alpha. Into guys. Could fuck someone in the pack, sure, probably one of the perks that come with the job – but getting fucked? Maybe not. Something tells Stiles that werewolves are on the traditional, unenlightened side.
"So we do this, it's secret, totally, completely between us?"
It kinda sucks that if he does finally get some, he won't be able to tell Scott. Scott who's going on and on and on about his encounters with Allison until it feels like Stiles has had her too.
Which is gross and weird and God help him if he ever shares that with anyone before he's dead and buried or Scott will kill him.
"I'm not much of a talker," Derek says, clearly aiming at understatement of the century and winning it by a mile, even if there are another eighty-eight years to go. "When it comes to fucking me, you'd better not be either."
A threat from Derek is reassuringly normal. Being asked to tango, so to speak…not so much.
Stiles purses his lips, his feet on the chilly side metaphorically. "Look, I just came here to tell you to stop following me around like a –"
"If you even think the word 'puppy', I'll rip your dick off since you're not using it any time this decade, and deep fry it for supper."
"Okay, that's disgusting. You're disgusting."
Derek rolls to his back and scratches his stomach, low down, where Stiles' gaze can't miss what's an inch south of Derek's hand. On his back, belly exposed, Derek should look even more submissive, a kicked dog placating an angry master, but he doesn't and Stiles is hit by a pang of loss for something he'd held only briefly.
"You've never done this before," Derek says with utter certainty.
"I'm not gay." Stiles bites his lip. "Okay, maybe I could be. Maybe I might be…something that isn't straight."
"With anyone," Derek clarifies, ignoring the backtracking. "I thought – never mind."
"Thought what? No, don't tell me." Stiles' dick is making a half-hearted attempt to stay in the game, but even being in bed with Derek isn't working because though the view's sending out green lights to his balls, the expectation in Derek's eyes is too much. Overwhelming. He can't do this.
He says it aloud and the glow in Derek's eyes goes out, blown out, gone. "Then get dressed and get the hell out."
Oh. Somehow he'd expected a protest. Why? Why would Derek want this in the first place, let alone beg for it?
God, how would Derek look begging? Not for his life; Derek would snarl defiantly with his final breath, but for this, for sex with Stiles?
How far would he go?
Stiles wants to know more than his six-year-old self wanted to meet Santa Claus. Which was a lot. He'd had plans to sell the big guy's autograph at school, maybe negotiate a swap on some of the presents he knew were going to suck for something worthwhile.
"You're still here."
"You want me to be." He's sure of it. Or maybe he wants to believe it so much, that he's warping the universe with the power of his mind to make it be true.
"I wanted you to fuck me raw so I can sleep without waking up every five fucking minutes. I need it to get some rest, okay?" Derek rolls his head, scowling like getting laid is up there with cavities and shots. "Talking to me might put me to sleep as well, but it's not as much fun."
"But me fucking you would be?"
Derek shrugs. "If it sucks, I can snap your neck and bury you someplace quiet."
"Is that your idea of sweet-talking me?" Stiles demands. "Don't ever ask Hallmark for a job. Ever."
Derek shifts closer. "You want seducing? Or do you want to get a piece of me?"
"You think you're something, don't you?"
"I think every time I'm around you, you go into heat and don't think I haven't noticed."
Stiles sucks in a breath to use when he launches a rebuttal, insulted, embarrassed, but it's the truth after all, and maybe werewolves can smell capitulation because Derek smiles as Stiles exhales.
"Yeah," he says.
"I thought if this ever happened it'd be you doing me," Stiles ventures a short time later, when he's made the discovery that lube on fingers means those fingers are useless for doing anything else until the lube's been used (hot inside Derek. So. Freaking. Hot).
Derek shrugs and that does things to Stiles because the liquid shimmy of Derek's shoulders makes his ass clench around Stiles's fingers. Such a hungry, eager clench.
Things blur right about then. There's a condom on his dick, there's a body under his, and he's inside Derek, they're linked, and it was easy in the end, so fucking easy.
Derek's hair is soft against his fingers when he grabs a hank of it, twist, tugs, and Derek whines and pants, his hands, hands Stiles thinks look…different, scrabble and claw at the sheets.
Tight. Hot. Yielding to the stuttered strokes of Stiles' cock until Derek's ass is open for Stiles to fuck as hard and fast as he wants.
He closes his eyes and he doesn't have to imagine it's Derek, because it is, it is and that truth is the fuse that blows his mind.
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