They’ve made out a little -- okay, a lot. An embarrassing amount, actually. They’ve necked in almost every abandoned broom closet and dark alley in Beacon Hills.
One day, Stiles, lips swollen and flushed, says, “Let’s fuck,” while Derek’s busy mapping the moles on his neck with his tongue.
“Ow, God,” Stiles says as Derek’s teeth scrape over his skin and Derek mumbles an apology.
Derek’s not nervous, exactly, because he’s a grown man and it would be incredibly stupid to be afraid of sex. He has a myriad of understandable reservations is all.
What they have now is so -- it’s perfect; they kiss a little, they hug, sometimes lay together on Derek’s ratty couch, spoon when Derek can convince Stiles it’ll lead to more excellent kissing, they kill things. It’s more than Derek could have ever hoped for.
Stiles doesn’t really give him a chance to respond, because he’s palming the bulge in Derek’s pants, Derek’s body responding automatically, even while his brain is racing like a hamster in a cage, thinking how badly this can go for him, how great Stiles’ body feels against his, warm, whippet-thin, surprisingly solid.
Does he want this? Stiles obviously does and Derek wants Stiles however he can have him. His eyes, his mouth, his hair, Derek has possibly never been so infatuated with someone else, not since --
He won’t go there, can’t.
He closes his eyes, lets his limbs relax against Stiles and pulls him close while Stiles shucks off his jacket.
When Stiles gets to Derek’s jeans, his hands falter.
“Fuck,” Stiles hisses. “The zipper -- I think it’s stuck--”
“Here, Let me,” Derek says, trying to push Stile’s hands out of the way.
“No, I can get it,” Stiles says, voice gone high and a little desperate. “I can - I think I’m going to have to rip them open--”
“Please don’t,” Derek says, watching Stiles tug at the zipper, hands slick, wet with perspiration. This is not going how he imagined it would. And it’s a little embarrassing to say out loud, but: “I only have two pairs of pants.”
“Of course you do,” Stiles mutters, eyes closing.
“I can -- maybe if you jiggle the zipper?”
“This may be a lost cause,” Stiles says, eyes still closed, tilting his head back. “Pretty sure the universe wants me to die a virgin.”
“Or I can just rip them off,” Derek suggests, eyeing the long white expanse of throat.
Stiles licks his lips. “That’s a good idea, maybe the only good idea you’ve ever had.”
“Let’s not say anything we can’t take back later,” Derek says, irritated, but he gives his zipper one last hard tug and feels the zipper release.
Oh -- and Stiles’ hand around his cock, grip unsure, circling the head with his slim fingers, both of them backing up slowly towards the bed, when Stiles stumbles and falls with a strangled cry.
“Oh, ow! Fuck, oh my God,” Stiles yells.
“Stiles!” Derek says, “what--”
“I hit my funny bone, it’s surprisingly un-hilarious,” Stiles says, eyes watering. “I’ll be -- just give me a minute.” He sits up, cradling his arm and rocks gently. “Ugh.”
Derek sits down next to him, trying to surreptitiously rearrange his dick; it seems bad form to wave his boner around when Stiles is so obviously in pain. “Are you, uh, how long--”
“Just a minute,” Stiles breathes, tries to straighten his arm and cries out again.
Derek looks over at him, alarmed. He gently touches Stiles’ arm, fingers skimming the bones and pulling away when Stiles sucks in a pained breath. “Jesus,” Derek says, “it might be broken.”
“I just wanted to get laid,” Stiles moans. “Was that too much to ask?”
“Apparently,” Derek tells him, not a little mournfully.
“This is really sweet,” Stiles says, “but maybe we could talk on the way to the hospital?”
He helps Stiles with the paperwork, Derek reading the questions aloud and penciling in Stiles’ answers.
Under first name, Stiles hesitates, scowls, leans in close and whispers the name in his ear.
Derek feels his eyebrows try to crawl into his hairline. “Really?”
“Shut up,” Stiles says. “It’s a family name, okay?”
It’s been six hours, Derek feels grimy, tired. He wants to take Stiles home, tuck him in and then go home himself, roll around on his mattress a little and wallow.
When a nurse calls out his name, Derek helps Stiles up.
Derek watches Stiles gesture wildly while talking to the nurse, wince in pain, and then wave his good arm around again. He purposefully doesn’t listen in, because Stiles told him how fucking annoying it was, how Derek maybe has issues with personal boundaries. At the time, Derek had just shrugged, leaned over and sniffed Stiles’ hair.
“There’s a small issue with my insurance,” Stiles tells him after wandering back.
Derek sits up. “Is it money? I have money.”
“It’s--” Stiles rubs a hand over his forehead. “I might have to call my dad to clear a few things up.”
This is awful. Not the worst night of Derek’s life by far, but at the very least, in the top ten.
Derek waits outside on a bench partially hidden from the entrance by a row of bushes until Sheriff Stilinski leaves. It’s not his proudest moment.
Stiles texts him less than twenty minutes later: All clear :)
Derek texts back, Don’t care, wasn’t hiding.
It’s a blatant and not very good lie and Stiles clearly doesn’t buy it for a second.
A minute later, his phone lights up with an incoming message: Uh huh. Going back now for an x-ray. Will text when done.
Stiles comes home with a fractured elbow, a splint, and a generous supply of painkillers, which he tries to take immediately, fumbling with the bottle, until Derek takes it from him and twists off the cap, hands shaking. He drops the cap twice and Stiles says, “Calm down, dude. I’m the one with a fractured olecranon. Do you know how many things you need an elbow to do?”
“Not really,” Derek says honestly.
“Neither do I,” Stiles says and swallows two pills dry. “Elbow people out of the way, I guess. For at least a few weeks, I’ll be forced to yell at people to move instead.”
“You should enjoy that.”
“I’m already looking forward to it,” Stiles informs him smugly, and reaches out to put a steadying hand on Derek’s arm.
Derek helps Stiles up to his room, tucks him in bed, and if Stiles is too stoned to feel Derek slide a hand through his hair and kiss him on the cheek and forehead, all the better.
Stiles hums happily at the touch, eyes sliding half-open. “I’ve had dreams that began like this,” Stiles says.
“With you high on painkillers?” Derek asks doubtfully.
“Ah, no,” Stiles says, brow furrowing. “But with you and -- the bed, definitely, definitely.” He smiles at Derek, heart-breakingly sweet. “Stay here. In bed with me.”
Derek sighs and slides in beside him. Stiles curls his body towards him, face buried in his chest, mumbling about cheese and waffles, and Derek thinks, moodily, Finally in bed with Stiles and he’s thinking about gross combinations of breakfast food and dairy and also, My life seriously sucks.
Stiles snuffles a little and rubs his nose and Derek pulls him closer, careful of his arm.
Stiles gets his sling off after a month with an order to be careful, not lift anything over five pounds for at least a few weeks. Stiles lasts eight hours.
To be fair, they’re chasing down a cannibalistic monster of dubious Native American origins, or rather, they’re hiding in a janitor’s closet at the moment while Scott and Allison take care of the wendigo.
“Look, we can fuck in here,” Stiles whispers. “This closet is -- it’s nice, dark.”
“There are dirty mops in the corner,” Derek says. “And it smells like vomit and ammonia.”
“Just don’t concentrate on that,” Stiles says, eyes wide and little desperate. “There are shelves -- I can hold onto one of the shelves and we can--”
“The shelves full of urinal cakes?”
“Please, Derek,” Stiles says, and his eyes, fuck. They’re huge, pupils dark, nearly swallowing the color, his lips parted, and Derek has never, not in a million years, been able to turn Stiles down; it’s how they got into this ridiculous predicament in the first place.
Derek steps closer to Stile and hoists him up against the wall; reflexively, Stiles’ legs wrap around his waist, nearly uncomfortably tight and Derek kisses him, open mouthed, hot and messy.
Then the door flies off the hinges, sending dust and splinters flying everywhere, as Scott skids in, yelling, “I’m here to save -- Oh.”
Derek’s in the shower scrubbing himself hard, almost angrily. He’s tired, horny, has the smell of urinal cakes in his hair. He scrubs harder.
This was just -- it was a stupid idea, was all. Derek doesn’t believe in karma or anything, but he does believe in the law of averages and good things just don’t happen to him. Stiles sidling up to him one night, pressing close, asking if Derek maybe wanted to spend some time together, sexy time together, was too much good luck.
Derek had stupidly believed that after his deeply shitty life, the universe -- not exactly owed -- but might see fit to throw something nice his way, something good, maybe so good he didn’t deserve it.
Derek breathes hard, leans against the wall, soap and hot water stinging his eyes.
His eyes fly open and he jerks way from the wall. Derek was so lost in his own thoughts, he didn’t even hear Stiles come in -- sloppy, inexcusable. He turns off the water.
“What are you--” Stiles pushes open the door just as Derek steps out of the shower. “I, uh, wanted to make sure you were okay.” He swallows convulsively, his eyes skittering over Derek’s body. “You look…healthy, yeah.”
“I -- thanks?”
“Jesus Christ,” Stiles chokes out, “I have fuck you right this minute.”
Derek blinks, grabs a towel to dry himself off hastily and Stiles holds up his hands, palms out, says quickly, “Fuck, Derek, please don’t slip on the floor. Better yet, I’m going to go take off all of my clothes and lay down on the bed. Be careful. Like, carrying a Faberge egg across a bed of hot coals careful.”
Stiles leaves the bathroom and Derek -- he doesn’t believe in karma or bad luck or anything, really -- but he avoids stepping on the cracked tiles anyway.
Stiles is laying face down on the bed and Derek’s eyes greedily trace the long slip of his body, the narrow hips, his legs, tapering to silly, fragile looking ankles. Derek really, really wants to bite them. God, his mind is so weird sometimes.
He sits down next to Stiles, traces his hands over his shoulders. There’s a scar on his right scapula, raised and pink beneath his fingers, and Derek remembers how it got there, the swipe of another werewolf’s claws nearly a year ago.
“I can feel you brooding,” Stiles says, muffled, his face buried in his arm. “Stop it,” he says as he rolls over to face Derek. Dark smudges mar the skin beneath his eyes, his lashes dark swoops of color on a face dominated by huge, luminous eyes and Derek could never, ever imagine wanting anything or anyone else as much as he wants Stiles. It’s enough to take his breath away and it shifts in his belly, white-hot like a knife, the desire, overwhelming and dangerous.
“Stiles,” Derek says. It comes out all wrong, tight and needy and so fucking scared.
Stiles must see what Derek’s trying to say, maybe, because his eyes soften and he leans forward, kisses Derek softly, too softly. It makes Derek’s nerves jangle, unsettled, like Stiles is seeing something Derek doesn’t want him to see just yet.
Stiles pulls Derek down on top of him, between his legs. Everywhere their skin touches feels too hot, scalding, and Derek breathes deep to steady himself.
“Fuck me,” Stiles says, voice low and husky.
Derek drags his lips across Stiles’ jaw, fingers curling to tip his head back so he can kiss him back, lick into his mouth. Their tongues tangle and Stiles bucks up against him, his cock a hard, insistent pressure against Derek’s belly.
Stiles bends his leg, bracketing Derek, his feet pressed against the mattress so that Derek’s cock slides between his legs, brushes tantalizingly against his ass.
“Lube,” Stiles gasps. “Condoms, tell me you have--”
Derek’s entire body sags.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Stiles huffs.
“Look, it’s been a while for me and, uh,” Derek trails off. The truth is, as much as he’d been thinking about sex with Stiles, thinking about his cock, sucking him off, eating him out, Derek had just plain forgotten. He was too embarrassed to put condoms on his grocery list, but he figured he’d remember once he got to the store. And then he bought meat, eggs, frozen crinkle-cut French fries…and he forgot.
“How long has it been?”
“Six years.” Derek doesn’t even think to lie.
“Fuck,” Stiles breathes. “That practically makes you a virgin again.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“You don’t have to explain,” Stiles says. His head falls back on the pillow. “This may be the hottest and most tragic sex I’ve ever had.”
“I thought it was the only sex you’ve had.”
“Yeah, about that,” Stiles says and scratches a hand through his hair a little awkwardly, sheepish, the tips of his ears turning pink. “You’re practically a monk and I’m a virgin, so do we even need condoms? It’s not like I’m going to get knocked up or anything. Unless--”
“That’s not a thing that happens,” Derek reassures him.
“That’s incredibly comforting,” Stiles says. “It was really awkward googling it, you know.”
“Let’s never talk about this again,” Derek says, grimacing.
“Right,” Stiles agrees quickly, “so about that.”
“Are you sure? I mean, I’m clean and I’ve not. Since--” Derek would rather lose an eye than finish that thought. Fuck that, he’d rather lose both eyes and wander around like Deucalion, terrorizing teenagers and yelling improbable things at literal captive audiences.
“Yeah, I mean, if you’re sure, then yeah.”
Derek keeps lube to jack off with, usually to thoughts of Stiles, Stiles, Stiles.
He grabs the bottle, squeezes a generous amount on his fingers. He presses one firmly into Stiles, relishing his full-bodied shiver, then another, and another, until he feels Stiles loosen and relax around him, until Stiles is panting into his mouth and gripping Derek’s hips hard enough to bruise. It’ll heal quickly, but it’s still a comforting thought, that at least for a short time his body will be marked by Stiles in some way.
Later, he’ll be able to press his thumb into all the places that Stiles touched and still be able to feel the after-images, like a photo negative long after the subject has vanished.
Derek presses into Stiles, his eyes slipping shut against the incredible heat of his body as Stiles whines, twists against him, pushing forward, fucking himself on Derek like he can’t get enough. He angles his hips, dragging his cock in and out slowly, swallowing the hitching gasps Stiles makes with his mouth.
He grabs Stiles’ wrists and holds them above his head while he fucks deep into him, until Stiles throws back his head, eyes screwed shut, and moans, deep and hoarse as he comes, trembling, warmth flooding
over Derek’s stomach.
Derek speeds up, desperate, feels the pressure build behind his balls, and shoot through his dick as he follows, Stiles all around him, the smell of Stiles’ sweat filling his nose, pulse racing, sighing Derek’s name softly into his neck.
Stiles sleeps sprawled out like a cat, ignoring the laws of mass -- he takes up 90% of the bed, pushing Derek so far to the edge that Derek has to clutch the at the sides of the mattress to keep from falling off.
Stiles hums happily, it turns out, after a night of fucking. Even his fingers twitch happily.
“That was good,” Stiles says.
“Good is what I aim for.” Derek’s actually a little sad at being just good; okay, absolutely fucking gutted, but he manages to keep his voice steady.
He waits silently for Stiles to get dressed and leave, now that he’s sampled Derek’s mediocre sex skills. He’s been quiet too long. He needs to say something, but the weight of expectation hangs heavy over him. Kate never -- they had trysts, there was never time to talk after.
“Oh, my God,” Stiles says and pops up on an elbow. “Look at me.”
Derek does, but kind of stares somewhere over Stiles’ shoulder, his gaze tracking the cracks spiderwebbing across the wall. He kind of lives in a dump. His place resembles nothing so much as a crack den, a fact that's never embarrassed him until now.
“You were amazing. It was -- perfect,” Stiles says and grabs Derek’s face, forces him to meet his eyes. “It was perfect,” he says again.
Derek clears his throat, says as lightly as he can, “Are you trying to say I’m perfect?”
Stiles does snort at that, practically rolls his eyes back far enough that Derek’s seriously worried they’ll get stuck like that. “Far from it,” he says, “but you’re pretty perfect for me.” He drags the top sheet over them both. “I expect breakfast in the morning.”
“Whatever, idiot,” Derek says, hand resting on Stile’s chest, feeling his heartbeat: steady, strong, honest. What he means is, I think you’re pretty perfect, too.
He thinks Stiles hears it anyway.