Work Header


Work Text:

Class starts with a colorful bang as Professor Hagen settles on his usual pitch of monotone to introduce the chapter on Max Horkheimer, and by the five minute mark at least a quarter of the 80 students in the room are asleep.

Not that he’d know; the guy isn’t even facing the class, just slumped in his desk chair, clicking a remote to go through slides on a powerpoint show he obviously put together around five years ago, and has never bothered to update.

Heavily distracted by the thick ebony hair in front of him, and feeling brave, Stiles leans forward over his desk, and taps Derek’s shoulder with his pen.

Derek shuts his eyes, like he’s praying for patience, or maybe for a hole to open beneath him, and swallow him into the Earth.

He doesn’t even turn his head to let Stiles know he felt the tap.

Stiles must be able to tell he’s been acknowledged just by how rigid Derek’s body language gets.

Stiles is typically met with irritated silence by Derek, and it hasn’t slowed him down yet.

“Hey, so…”

And Derek knows what’s about to happen, and he has every ability to stop it from happening, but he also knows he won’t stop it from happening. Because he never stops it from happening.

“…you want a blow job after this?”

Derek’s jaw works, and a barrage of practiced excuses come banging at the back of his teeth; “I have a girlfriend, this needs to stop,” “I’m not even nice to you, why do you keep doing this,” “I already told you – last time was really the last time,” “we can’t do this anymore,” “I can’t do this anymore.”

They all faint, and fade on his tongue (like they always do), and with a dejected sigh, he says what he always says, “yes.”


Mount Rushmore is something Derek has always wanted to see.

Just the idea of being so close to such a gigantic work of historical art excites him - it’s existed for so much longer than him, and will be there for so long after he’s gone.

He’s also wanted to see the Southern Lights in Antarctica, maybe be far enough from city light to see the Milky Way, and he’s always wanted to view the Sphinx, and the Great Pyramids in Egypt.

He doesn’t believe seeing any of those things in the flesh would satisfy him the way seeing Stiles going down on him does.

Stiles is possibly the most enrapturing vision Derek’s eyes have ever been met with; on his knees like he’s worshipping, his freckled cheeks going blotchy with blush - his shining lips getting fuller, and darker around Derek’s cock, the satin sheen of his chestnut hair, and the devilish way he sometimes looks up at Derek from under his thick lashes.

Derek’s head falls against the closed closet door, wondering how long he can keep himself from coming.

This is the last time, make it count, Derek tells himself (like he always does), don’t bust, don’t bust, don’t bust – not yet – it’s too good to end so soon.

He sort of wishes he could keep Stiles there, between his legs, and on his knees, for the rest of their lives. Or maybe he could freeze time, and keep them there for however long it takes for Derek to just fucking let this go.

His hands drift downward, like they normally do, and while they usually go there to grip viciously at Stiles’ scalp as a warning, this time, he gently combs his fingers through Stiles’ hair.

He brushes his thumbs back and forth, cups the back of Stiles’ head, but applies no pressure. Touches him for the sake of touching him.

Stiles blinks up at him, his plush tongue coming to rest beneath the weight of Derek’s cock, his lips loosen, and his jaw slackens a touch. He pets up Derek’s jean-clad thighs, silently asking, “what are you doing?”

And Derek doesn’t really know.

He wants to tell Stiles that he looks – more, so much more than sinful, and more than wanton, and more than fuckable – that he looks beautiful. He’s so goddamn handsome, and Derek wants to tell him that for some ungodly reason.

His knuckles move gently over Stiles’ pronounced cheekbone, and he thinks about admitting to Stiles that he finds Stiles irresistible, that he’s given Derek the best sex of his life with just his mouth, that he’s a fully realized boyhood fantasy on tall legs Derek wants wrapped around his waist.

He wants to tell Stiles to come get dinner with him after Stiles’ last class of the day (sociolinguistics, and God, why does Derek remember this shit?), he wants to tell Stiles to dress nicely so Derek can treat him to something refined, and new.

He wants to tell Stiles to pack an overnight bag, he wants to ask if Stiles has as much of a sweet tooth as he does, because they should split an oversized crème brûlée at this restaurant he’s thinking of.

He wants to see what Stiles looks like in the passenger seat of his Camaro, and he wants to know if Stiles will think he’s an asshole for driving a Camaro.

He wants to recline that passenger seat, climb on top of Stiles, and kiss him until their lips are swollen, and numb, and their brains are only overheated, firing synapses screaming fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!

He wants to see how blotchy, and flustered Stiles gets when he’s had a few drinks, and he wants to see Stiles naked on his bed with those tall legs spread wide, and that shining hair tousled, and that lithe, but strong back arching against his bed sheets.

He wants to hear Stiles moan, and whine for him, and he wants to taste Stiles’ sweat, and cum, and he wants to twine their shaking fingers while he ruts into Stiles, breathing in at the hollow of Stiles’ neck, licking Stiles’ jugular, and biting Stiles’ lip.

And he wants to ask Stiles to sit next to him in class from now on.

And he wants to hold Stiles’ hand.

And he wants to share notes with Stiles, and he wants Stiles to wear his leather jacket, and he wants to give Stiles a channel on his Netflix account, and he wants Stiles’ phone number, and maybe his first name…

He wants to take Stiles to the park he likes jogging through during the spring and fall semesters, and he wants to take Stiles to the rundown drive-in theater an hour away, and he wants to take Stiles to Mount Rushmore, and Antarctica, and Egypt, and home.

And that’s a real big fuckin’ problem when there’s a girl under the impression her relationship with Derek is romantic, honest, and monogamous, and even the gut churning guilt of remembering her doesn’t drain the blood from his cock.

Because Stiles is beautiful. And Derek wants him so badly and can’t fucking have him, and he’s genuinely considering switching schools just to escape Stiles’ whiskey eyes, and turned up nose, and smattered beauty marks, and searching gaze…

The sensation of Stiles’ hands on his thighs come back into focus, and Stiles slides his mouth gently off him, asking in a raspy, low voice, “are you okay?”

Derek nods; his left hand fingers are still tangled in Stiles’ hair.

“You’re being weirdly gentle…”

Derek wishes that weren’t so true.

Typically, they find a secluded place, and Derek fucks into Stiles’ mouth, gets off on the groans of pleasure Stiles emits, keeps his hips moving at an unforgiving pace, sometimes even holds Stiles’ face in place just to thrust into it as aggressively as he can. Like he’s testing Stiles. Like he’s warning Stiles to stay away from him.

But Stiles’ throat is always relaxed, and willing, and Stiles always offers again, and Derek always follows him to that dark, secluded place.

Derek makes some sort of aborted shrug in response, and Stiles’ brows curve in.

“You’re really thinking this is the last time, aren’t you?”

Derek tries to make a dry look, as if to say ‘of course it is, that’s what I’ve told you,’ but he misses dry by a mile, and lands somewhere between disingenuous, and apologetic.

“I have a girlfriend,” Derek supplies, and he feels like it should wrench his heart more to say out loud, like he should at least be going soft recalling her, “I’m… fuckin’ evil for doing this.”

And Derek really does believe that.

Stiles smirks dangerously at him, his eyes shimmer with envious ire.

His voice goes smooth, his devious charm igniting like a physical spark, the bizarre, and nearly otherworldly threat in Stiles’ very nature that Derek is equally infatuated with, and terrified of beats under Derek’s skin like a drum.

Stiles shifts gracefully, like a snake uncoiling; Derek’s pupils widen at the curves of Stiles’ winding, and unwinding spine.

Stiles’ breath is scorching against the head of Derek’s cock, and his purr is so alluring when he mutters, low and treacherous, “and I know you have a girlfriend.”

He digs his fingers into the hard muscle of Derek’s thighs, his body aching with want, and he drags the flat of his tongue against the underside of Derek’s cock, his lips twitching up to one side when it jumps eagerly at his touch; “so what does that make me?”

Stiles wraps his mouth around Derek again, as if to emphasize his point; his tongue swirls, and spreads the wet heat of his mouth over Derek’s blood-darkened skin.

He flashes his eyes up at Derek, knows and adores the way Derek’s legs shake when he looks up at him this way, and finds Derek making some kind of effort to give him a disapproving look. (He’s failing miserably.)

Stiles pulls his mouth up, sucking, and massaging Derek’s head with the roof of his mouth, and the body of his tongue in a way he knows Derek loves.

“I love her,” Derek says lamely; it doesn’t even sound sincere to Derek’s ears.

Stiles slips off him again, and gives a quiet, dark laugh, “you wouldn’t be here if you loved her.”

“That’s not –“

“What?” Stiles smiles sardonically, “You just here cause she doesn’t swallow like I do?”

Stiles’ fingers spread, and he moves his hands over the waist of Derek’s open jeans, onto the smooth skin of Derek’s hipbones.

He sucks Derek’s length down again, turning his head on his way back up so his tongue can dance along all the sides of Derek’s throbbing cock.

When he slides off again, there’s a shining thread of drool connecting Stiles’ bottom lip to the head.

Stiles’ hands press into the incline of Derek’s hips, and he rests his forehead against Derek’s lower waist, burying his nose, and lips in the dark curls there.

He breathes in deeply, and looks up at Derek to take in his flushed, pained, and somehow adoring expression.

Stiles wants Derek.

He wants Derek, and that want is so consuming, so overpowering, that it awakens the darkest parts of himself.

He wants Derek in some controlling, possessive, primitive way he can’t voice without feeling ashamed.

So, instead of voicing anything, he rakes his nails down Derek’s skin, elicits a small gasp as they drag down Derek’s thighs, and he swallows Derek down again until it aches in the back of his throat.

He wants Derek to want him, he wants Derek to lust after him, and obsess over him the way he does for Derek. More than any and all of that, though – Stiles does not want this to end.

He’s spent months fucking yearning for Derek.

From the first moment he saw Derek in the library; he had been standing by one of the expansive windows, and it was late in the evening. Summer was just ending, but the sun was still taking a long while to set most days. The sky was dark orange, and the clouds looked purple, and red, and the dying rays of the sun were spreading over the glass of the windows in the library, and warping around Derek’s silhouette.

His hair looked like stressed hands had been touching too much at it, there were circles under his bright eyes that Stiles could see, even from a distance.

Stiles was in one of the entry doorways, bolted to the spot, staring wide-eyed as if he were receiving a divine vision. And maybe he was.

Derek was leaning against the ledge of one of the tall bookcases, his legs crossed by the ankle, an open book in his hands, and those broken rays of gold, and white framed him like a work of art. His eyelashes cast long shadows down his cheeks, his clavicle was showing out of the loose collar of his t-shirt, and his eyes almost glowed with vibrancy.

For the first time in Stiles’ life, he let fear keep him from approaching a beautiful person.

Stiles’ entire existence has been an exercise in rejection and patience, but just the thought of disturbing that beautiful man felt wrong.

Stiles had come in to look for a specific book he knew would be on the third floor, but instead of going there, he walked forward quietly, and sat down at a table, where he could watch Derek.

He often thought, in retrospect, that in a perfect, or cinematic world, Derek would have caught him staring, and approached him, but Derek never saw him.

Derek didn’t move until the sun was mostly set, just a dim, yellow glow at the bottom of the window. The sky was a dark plum by then, and after Derek put the book back onto the shelf, and walked out of the library, Stiles sat there for about ten minutes, wondering why he was so effected.

Beautiful people are easy distractions to Stiles, but he had never been stopped in his tracks like that, unable to move. He had never felt attraction like that before.

Then the next semester brought Pop Culture class, and lo and behold, his library deity was sitting in one of the middle rows, typing on his phone.

Stiles steeled himself, petrified, and equally grateful for the opportunity to sit near him.

He sat behind Derek, only learned his name when the professor took notice of Derek, and mentioned Derek’s sister having been his favorite student.

The professor had checked his online roster, and asked, “Hale? Derek Hale?”

And Derek had awkwardly waved a hand.

“Any relation to Laura Hale?”

“Yes, she’s my sister.”

The professor had smiled, and said something about one of her papers being so memorable that he’d kept a copy for himself.

Stiles didn’t really catch the rest, because he was looking at Derek’s broad shoulders, the delicate hairs at the base of his skull, thinking to himself Derek, Derek, Derek, Derek, Derek.

Stiles sat behind him day after day, memorizing the shape of Derek’s upper-back, the way his shoulder blades moved when he’d lean over his notes, wondering if Derek wore cologne, or if that’s just what he smells like, wanting so badly to reach out, to touch, and sometimes just to tuck in a stray shirt tag.

Then Professor Hagen partnered them for some sort of comparative discussion, and when they ran out of things to say, and Stiles was quite sure this was the only circumstance in which Derek would even acknowledge his existence, he awkwardly asked,

“Hey, so… uhm… could I… go down on you after class?”

Watching Derek emote so much with his thick brows, and shining eyes was almost laughable – he was usually so stoic, but it would have seemed that Stiles had caught him off guard. Not that Stiles was known for tact, but Stiles liked to think of his offer as very generous.

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah,” Stiles had answered, clicking his pen compulsively, “If you don’t –“

“I do,” Derek interrupted, his peanut ears, and sculpted cheeks getting red, and Stiles was smitten.

That’s when the darker part of himself came out to play.

He had these sort of twisted thoughts when Derek would look so innocently at him, like I want to make him come until he cries, I want to ravish him, I want to get him lost in pleasure, I want to be his fantasy, I want him to think of only me.

That first time giving Derek head, Stiles used every trick he knew, and made it last for an obscene amount of time.

Stiles could tell by the way Derek’s body moved, and reacted that his acceptance of the offer was an anomaly; there was something that had influenced him to follow Stiles into an empty classroom on that particular day. It was blatantly clear to Stiles that this was not something Derek did often, if at all before.

It was only after Derek came, and had sunk down to rest on the floor with Stiles that he admitted he had a girlfriend.

“Or I maybe don’t?” Derek had muttered, holding his forehead, and looking away, “We’re fighting? I don’t know. I don’t know if we’re on, or off, or… I don’t know. But… I think I have a girlfriend.”

And Stiles thought viciously, I don’t care.

He didn’t say that, though. He just shrugged.

And then two days later, asked Derek if he wanted head after class, and Derek did.

Soon, it was commonplace, and the more time he spent listening to Derek gasp and moan, the more he felt Derek’s skin under his tongue, the more he wanted.

Even when it became apparent that Derek was back ‘on’ with his girlfriend, Stiles didn’t stop offering, and Derek didn’t stop accepting.

And now he’s on his knees, as usual, and he stresses his jaw, and he rolls his tongue, and bobs his head, sinking down to the root, and pulling up with soft lips, and hot breath.

He feels, and hears Derek warn him that he’s about to come, like he always does.

And Stiles appreciates the concern, but stays put, like he always does.

He sucks Derek through his orgasm, milking every drop, swallowing the excess slaver, pressing, and twisting his tongue around Derek’s cock as it throbs, and spills.

Derek’s fingers always shake a little in Stiles’ hair, and Derek always stays hard after coming, the blood never quite ready to leave.

Stiles likes to think his skill has something to do with that, sometimes wonders if Derek might be able to have multiple orgasms, but he’s never been brave enough to ask.

He listens to the way Derek pants, and he keeps Derek’s hard cock in his mouth while Derek enjoys his afterglow, until he finally begins to soften.

And then he looks up at Derek again, like he always does at the end, but before he can say something to dominate the space between them, and steer their interaction, the pad of Derek’s callused thumb presses against his bottom lip.

Derek looks down at him almost lovingly and before Stiles registers that anything has happened, he’s alone, and on his knees in the storage closet, touching at his lip, feeling at the ghost of Derek’s touch.


That same night, Derek lies in bed, squeezing his eyes shut against the bend of his arm, his entire body stiff, and uncomfortable.

The portion of his brain that is still in touch with basic morality, and not dedicating every neuron to remembering the veins in Stiles’ hands is begging him to tell Sara the truth. Scolding him that it’s only fair, that it’s only right that she know what he’s been up to, that she realize his disloyalty, and his dishonesty.

He’s not really scared to admit to his flaws, and his errors; he’s never been scared of his faulty humanity. He is more fearful of what will follow his confession.

He knows Sara well – they went to high school together, she was there for him when his family was destroyed, she has invested so much time, and care into him - as he has for her. And in knowing her, he knows what she will do, and say, and what she will ask.

The room will feel too small, the air won’t feel right, her blonde hair and brown eyes will hurt him rather than comfort him as they used to. He’ll say his piece, and she will feel angry, betrayed, and she’ll raise her voice at him, and then say something cutting under her breath. Something malicious that she says in anger, but it’s always something ugly, and at least partially true, and will haunt Derek for months.

But the worst is yet to come, because she’ll take some time to be silent, she’ll touch at her face a lot the way she does when she’s upset, and then she’ll ask him what his intentions, and feelings are.

She’ll ask something like ‘was it just sex?’

She’ll say something like, ‘we can get through this, if it was just sex.’

She’ll offer something like, ‘we can work on this – if you want more, or something different –‘

And he’ll have to say, “no. That’s not it at all.”

He doesn’t need more of anything from her, he doesn’t need anything different from her, and it wasn’t just sex, but he’s too frightened to say that out loud.

The first time he saw Stiles, Stiles was sprinting past him down a hall with an asthmatic young man cursing him, and trailing behind.

He only got a glance at Stiles as he zoomed past, two folded Eggo waffles in his mouth, a can of Monster in one hand, two textbooks in the other. His shoelaces were undone, his hair was going in every direction, and while he looked sort of worried about being late to class (that being the bit he could pick up from the floppy-haired friend Stiles was leaving in the dust), he looked bubbly.

Stiles seemed ecstatic, really. Not about class, or running, exactly.

He looked quite delighted to be existing at all.

His palpable exuberance warmed the blocky cold of Derek’s apathy in a way very few things can.

If Derek were more forthright with matters of his sensitivity, he’d admit that he noticed Stiles even before he ran past.

He noticed Stiles before the door to the building even opened.

He felt Stiles’ energy like a growing bubble that could only expand, and bounce against the walls, and doors, and rattle the knobs, and windows of every room he passed.

When he came in the door to the hallway, Derek felt his presence like a wrecking ball to the chest, and he had a curious impulse to follow after Stiles.

Seeing Stiles that morning put him in good spirits the rest of the day, like secondhand happiness.

When Stiles took the seat behind him in Pop Culture, Derek felt his gut go weightless, like at the start of a rollercoaster ride.

He wondered if Stiles intentionally chose to sit near him – there were plenty of empty seats, but he had chosen to sit close enough to Derek that Derek could smell his body spray, listen to the anxious clicking of his pens, the unreal speed of his note-taking.

And Derek felt Stiles’ eyes on him everyday.

He felt Stiles’ eyes boring into the back of his head, searing the length of his neck, tickling every knob of his spine.

He was tempted to pass a note to Stiles, but he didn’t know what to say.

Hi, I’m Derek, and your presence soothes a howling in me that I’m so used to that I don’t notice it until it vanishes within a certain proximity of you.

Hi, I’m Derek, and you give me secondhand happiness.

Hi, I’m Derek, and I think you and I might be kindred spirits.

As the weeks passed, Derek’s note ideas leaned more toward a different genre of writing. He was tempted to say things like,

Hi, I’m Derek, and I am very interested in seeing you naked.

Hi, I’m Derek, and I feel like I can physically sense your pheromones taking up residence in my nostrils, and on my tongue, and maybe we could schedule some time, and place where I can fuck you over a desk? Tuesdays work best for me.

Derek considered asking Stiles to study with him for an upcoming test, but the day he started writing out the note on his looseleaf (hand shaking visibly), they were partnered together for an in-class discussion.

He was thinking to himself that he ought to take this chance, and ask Stiles to drop by his off-campus apartment with study material, maybe he should lie, and say he needs help with a certain subject.

Even then, Derek knew he didn’t have the courage to make a move on Stiles.

So, he said nothing. Barely even made eye-contact.

But then Stiles blinked up at him, licked his bottom lip, and casually (also quite politely) asked if Derek might allow Stiles to give him oral sex after class.

Derek was fairly sure he heard incorrectly.

He thought to himself, ‘I’ve either heard him incorrectly, and he will correct me, but know my mind was in the gutter – or! I fell asleep in class, and this is all a product of my imagination, anyway.’

When he and Stiles parted afterward, all Derek could think of for the whole afternoon was that he was sorry he didn’t kiss Stiles.

Derek has never claimed to know much about romance, but he’s pretty certain that the general population considers it traditional to at least kiss before shucking your pants off in an unlit lab room.

Not only that, but Derek didn’t like this one-sidedness.

He hated the fact that he hadn’t reciprocated, but Stiles always seemed like he was in a rush to leave once he was finished with Derek. He always had to have the first, and last word, and Derek is already crap at verbal communication, so he hadn’t managed to just force out ‘but what about you?’

He’s a giver in the bedroom.

In the few relationships he’s been in, and the many he has watched blossom into life, and eventually crumble into dust, he has learned that there is generally a bedroom Giver, and a bedroom Receiver.

Neither role is entirely exclusive, of course; there are always exceptions, and negotiations, and near equality.

The Giver is the partner that typically gets off on giving, though, and tends to give more for that very reason.

A major downfall of the role of the Giver, though, is that despite enjoying all the giving they do, Givers have a tendency to feel as if they are somehow less desirable than their partner. As if to say, because their partner does not give as much, or is not as aroused by giving, their partner must not feel the same level of attraction.

A lot of insecurity can fester there, and Derek knows personally that it is very difficult to ask a partner for more… enthusiasm.

The Giver feels joy, and excitement when they are giving; the Giver is not to be confused with the Obligated (the person who thinks they must give more, or will otherwise lose something/be punished) or the Bargainer (the person who gives more for the sake of having it as a bargaining chip for some later argument).

The Giver gives, because the very act of giving pleasure to their partner arouses, and satisfies them.

Derek is within that school of partner, and he’s never had a partner that got off on getting him off. He’s always been with Receivers.

That is, until Stiles.

Derek knows the feelings are misplaced, but he sometimes feels guilty when others give him pleasure. Not as if he’s undeserving exactly, but as if he is a burden. He figures that’s a lasting effect of being the Giver to others.

But Stiles.


Stiles looks at Derek like he’s a gift.

Stiles actually prefers that Derek stand up against the wall so that Stiles can get on his knees for Derek.

Stiles, from the very start, has wanted to give, and has not thought of receiving anything in return, not even once. Derek would have felt it in the air by now; he even predicted when the expectations might come, but they never did.

Stiles makes Derek feel coveted, craved, and powerful. Beautiful. Worthy.

Derek groans into his arm, and turns over onto his stomach.

That’s the problem with Derek’s sensitivity – it leaks into everything. His entire life, people (particularly other men) have made sex seem so casual.

Sex is easy, sex is fun, sex is a challenge, or a game, and not to be taken seriously unless it’s for the sake of procreation. Only in that situation is it okay to get emotional over sex.

Derek’s emotions run high in sexual situations, though.

He had early trauma with an older woman, and no one was willing to talk to him about it. No one who loved him was willing to sit down, and tell him it wasn’t his fault – no one was willing to talk about it at all, actually. No one wanted to.

His classmates talked about it a lot.

He got pats on the back, he got invitations to parties from people who hadn’t given him the time of day before. It was all ‘you lucky dog!’ ‘what a way to lose your V card!’ ‘you’re the man!’ and thousands of other whispers, or comments, or shouts, or scribbles on the bathroom stalls that congratulated him, mocked him, or otherwise misrepresented him.

If anyone had bothered to ask him, he’d have confessed that he felt dirty.

He felt like when he walked into public spaces, strangers could tell he was damaged goods; like they could see her handprints all over him. He’d have told anyone that he felt marred, and injured, and unsure of himself, paranoid over others’ expectations of him, fragile, and ugly, and used.

But no one did ask.

Giving good sex is something he likes, because it puts him in a position of control, and he trusts himself to be kind, and gentle, and conscientious of his partner’s limitations.

Being on the receiving end gives him mixed, and often conflicting feelings made up of a lot of shame, and guilt, and insecurity, but he’s also desperate to feel worthy, and wanted.

And he isn’t sure how else to get those feelings but through sex.

That’s how everyone else around him seems to get it.

And then there was Stiles.

Stiles looks at him -- just looks at him, and Derek gets hot all over, feels like if he were to kiss Stiles, Stiles might melt against him.

When Stiles’ hands run over him the way they do, he believes Stiles wants him, and wants him badly.

And he wants Stiles.

So, so, so badly.

How in the world does he say all of that to Sara, though?

How does he explain that he doesn’t believe this is something she can give him, that just some young man he met in Pop Culture class can give him that he can’t find in anyone else, anywhere else?

How does he explain that he wants to feel in control, he wants to feel powerful, and desirable without her accusing him of needing to feed his ego?

How can he rationalize giving up on years of a committed relationship for a guy he hardly knows?

What if none of that matters anyway?

People will think whatever they want to about him, and he can’t stop them. He learned that many years ago, when people spoke about him like he was a hero when he felt like a victim.

Derek sighs into his pillow, shuts his eyes, and sees the sadness, and surprise in Stiles’ eyes from earlier that day.

Stiles really did seem shocked that Derek had some sort of moral code.

Maybe Stiles doesn’t have one.

Maybe Stiles is using Derek like Derek has been used before.

That thought makes Derek’s stomach sink, and he realizes suddenly that this crossroads is a test of his faith.

It’s at that moment there’s a knock on his door, and he knows it’s Sara, because it’s always Sara, and he knows what happens next.


Derek isn’t in Pop Culture class, and Stiles is more than unsettled.

He’s sort of heartbroken, actually.

He doodles on his looseleaf for most of the lecture, wondering if Derek will drop out of class entirely just to avoid him.

That thought feels awful.

He desperately hopes it’s untrue.

There are still things Stiles wants to ask Derek, things he swore he’d somehow get around to asking.

Like why Derek allowed Stiles to touch him at all.

Stiles would like to know what went through Derek’s head that day, and Stiles wants to know if it was the best Derek had ever had (and he wants to hear that).

He wants to ask if Derek has ever fantasized about him, or if he’s ever mistakenly (or maybe even purposely) thought of Stiles when he was with his on-and-off girlfriend.

His blood gets hot with possessiveness all over again, possessiveness he has no right to feel.

He rubs at his forehead in frustration, and stares at the empty seat in front of him.

He knows Derek’s shape so well that he can almost see it there. The slope of his shoulders, the curvature of his back, the big shifting muscles in his arms, and his shoulder blades.

His heart starts racing, and cold panic rushes through him.

Why is he having a panic attack over Derek Hale??

Why is he having a panic attack at all??

He doesn’t know, he can’t think straight, but he’s having a crisis, a very real crisis when this was just supposed to be…

What in the hell was it supposed to be, anyway?

I wanted to reduce the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen to trembling knees, and sweaty panting. I wanted to give him the most pleasure anyone can, or ever will.

He hates his greedy heart as he rubs his throat compulsively. His fingers are shaking.

Why is he this way? Why is it always about being the most, being the height, and why does he want Derek to think of him for the rest of his life?

And he does.

He wants Derek to do well in his classes, fuck his girlfriend, and think of Stiles.

He wants Derek to graduate with job offers coming out the ass, and when he gets congratulatory head from his girlfriend-likely-turned-fiancée, he wants Derek to lean his head back, shut his eyes, and see him.

He wants to haunt every bed Derek falls into, he wants his hands to brand Derek so that anyone else’s fingers retracing Stiles’ steps will only tickle memories of him in Derek’s mind.

He wants Derek’s desire, he wants Derek to ache, and yearn for him the way he does for Derek.

The way he thinks he always will for Derek.

Because Stiles knows that every hook-up from here on out, he’ll be thinking of Derek.

Every time someone touches his hair, he’ll feel Derek’s grip, hear Derek panting, and whining, “Stiles, I’m gonna cum.”

He knows that every time his tongue touches someone else’s skin, he’ll be shutting his eyes, and seeing Derek, feeling Derek, smelling Derek, and his bed, and his mind, and his heart will be haunted by Derek, and why, why, why, why, why?

Stiles shakily takes out his phone, and texts the smartest person he knows.

Stiles: Do you believe in love at first sight? Do you think that it’s something that can happen in reality?

Lydia: Hello to you too, Stiles. I’m doing so well, thank you for asking, and no, I haven’t noticed at all that you haven’t answered my last email for four days, don’t even sweat it.

There’s a few minutes that Stiles thinks about apologizing, but he’s just panicking too hard, and he wants to leave class, he’s so wired, and then he can almost feel Lydia’s defeated sigh in her following text.

Lydia: Frankly, Stiles, there’s too much we don’t know about reality for me to even make a call on that. I’d say yes, but that’d be influenced by my romantic biases, and wishful thinking. But I’d think it’s fair to say /maybe/ because there’s no proving it does, or doesn’t exist. I once read a paper about someone’s multiverse theory, and they talked about soulmates, actually. She wrote that she thinks when people claim to find their soulmates or true loves, that they are people they’ve had strong ties to in other planes of reality. Maybe time is just channels of reality all sitting on top of each other, and when you see that certain person, two of those channels meld a little. Whether there’s science behind it or not, people have claimed to fall in love at first sight. Soooo, does love at first sight happen? Yes, and no, and maybe. In infinite universes, it doesn’t. But maybe you’re living in one of the infinite universes where, yes, it does.

Stiles: I think there is an actual real possibility that I fell in love at first sight and now I’m in deep and he might never speak to me again. What the fuck should I do??

Lydia: Jfc Stiles, you’re going to give me a condition.

Stiles: Don’t even act surprised you know that I’m trash

Lydia: Omg just call me after your last class of the day. We’ll figure something out, Romeo.

Stiles shoves his phone back into his pocket, and spends the rest of class thinking about Cinderella, and different planes of reality, and soulmates, and the odds of the sun’s setting light hitting Derek just right upon that very moment that Stiles walked into the library, and Derek, Derek, Derek, Derek.


Stiles is depressed, slumped in his seat, and over his desk in Perspectives on Gendered Bodies, which is usually one of his favorite classes.

The professor is really interesting, and the material is fascinating, but today, it just isn’t enough to pull him out from the fog.

He’s worried about talking to Lydia afterward. Usually he’s worried about how much she’ll yell at him over his bad decisions, but right now he’s just worried he might actually cry.

The door to the classroom opens quietly, and the professor is pretty forgiving about tardiness, so Stiles just keeps doodling, and bouncing his leg up, and down anxiously.

He feels the person walk past him, and hears them sit directly behind him.

Chills run up his back, because he knows that aroma, and he can feel that familiar heat.

Somehow, the back of his neck feels more vulnerable and naked than any other part of him has ever before in his life.

Heat grows along his right shoulder, and close to his ear, and then Derek’s voice whispers,

“Hey… do you want to fuck me after this?”

Stiles’ heart jumps into his throat, and he inhales incorrectly, making him cough conspicuously.

He can feel his ears, and neck burning, and he just knows Derek is smirking at the red of his skin, because he can feel that too, somehow.

“You’re not even in this class,” Stiles rushes out in a raspy whisper, eyes wide, and body tightened in anxiety, and an equal measure of joy.

“I’m aware of that,” Derek snarks, “Something else I’m aware of is that this room is empty for three hours after this class lets out.”

The implication is evident, and Stiles is so nervous there are butterflies in his stomach for the first time since grade school.

Something about having spoken about Derek with Lydia, and discussed the word ‘love’ in all seriousness, and thought about it for even longer than that has put him on edge.

“You weren’t in class today,” Stiles murmurs stiffly, trying to sound annoyed, but falling short, and revealing a little bit of his hurt.

There’s a pause to indicate that Derek hears that little pain of betrayal, and then Derek utters back apologetically, “let me make it up to you?”

Stiles is gradually able to breathe properly again, and after a thick swallow, he turns his head a little, just an inch, and he can see dark hair in his periphery.

He can feel Derek’s eyes focused on him like lasers.

Derek’s eyes are watching his jugular bounce. He can feel it.

“Uhm, I… yes. Yes,” Stiles whispers back.

Derek makes some kind of nod Stiles only partially sees, and then leans back in his seat so Stiles can feel his eyes traipse along all of Stiles’ back, and neck for the rest of class.

Derek decides he likes the way Stiles’ skin gets so dark.

The professor lingers, but doesn’t even notice them on their way out.

Once the door is shut, Stiles sits perfectly still, staring down at his desk, unsure of what to say, or do. Which is frighteningly unlike him.

He hears Derek stand, and his heart starts racing.

Derek moves into the aisle, and Stiles swivels his chair to face him.

Stiles is quite sure Derek can hear his heart beating from there. He opens his mouth to say something, to say anything, but he’s shocked into silence when Derek kneels down between his legs without a word.

Stiles swallows loudly, and expects Derek to acknowledge it with a laugh, or a smirk, or something confident, and unnerving like Stiles might do.

But Derek only stares up at him, face open, and simultaneously unreadable. His hands come to grasp at Stiles’ calves, and Stiles gives a jump of surprise at the contact.

Derek stares long into Stiles’ eyes before asking, softly, and earnestly, “have you ever wanted to kiss me?”

Stiles feels his face get hot, and he knows from years of teasing in middle and high school that his face is going blotchy.

He nods shakily, his vocal cords uncooperative.

Derek tilts his head curiously, never breaking eye-contact, and moves his hands up over Stiles’ knees, onto his thighs.

“Why didn’t you?”

Stiles’ face turns to confusion, heart still pounding, and body growing hotter.

“I… I was, uhm, nervous, I guess…” Stiles admits.

Derek slides his hands up to the buckle of Stiles’ belt, eyes shifting to Stiles’ throat when he asks, “I make you nervous?”

Stiles nods again, unsure if any of this is really happening, or if he’s in his bed, about to wake up to sticky underwear.

The look in Derek’s eyes is so predatory, and Stiles is starting to feel like a wild thing that wants to get caught.

“Are you nervous right now?”

Stiles lets out a quick breath that he means to sigh quietly, to allow to go mostly unnoticed, but it jumps out of his throat when Derek begins unbuckling his belt, and unbuttoning his jeans.

“Y-yeah,” Stiles stutters, “I’m pretty nervous right now.”

“Do you like that?”

Stiles doesn’t realize he’s staring at Derek’s hands undoing his belt until he has to look back up to see Derek’s eyes.

“Do I like… what?”

“Do you like the way I make you feel?”

Stiles pauses, and considers his blood pressure, then answers whole-heartedly, “yeah.”

“Do you think you’d like it if we kissed?”

Stiles has never heard Derek speak this much.

Derek taking an interest in him, asking him questions in a voice so candid, staring so intently with those fierce, shining eyes – it’s almost too much to bear.

He nods again, then says out loud, “I just… aren’t those things, like kissing, reserved for… you know, lovers?”

“Are we not lovers?”

The rebuttal comes so quickly, Stiles feels like he gets whiplash from it.

He manages to mutter, “I…” but trails off, unable to vocalize the mess in his head.

He decides to mention to Derek later that interrogations are unfair when all the blood is leaving his brain, and headed to his groin.

Derek has never used his strength on Stiles. Unless he was pummeling someone outside a bar, he’s never really used his strength on anyone. But he uses it now, curling his hands around the waist of Stiles’ jeans, and boxers, and pulling them down, and out from under Stiles’ ass, and thighs in one, fluid motion.

The noise Stiles makes is highly rewarding.

Derek unconsciously licks his lips, and then flashes his eyes back up to Stiles’ face.

His cheeks, and neck are flushed, his eyes are glossy, and low-lidded despite his arched brows. His jaw is slack, and his shoulders are high, Derek notices his hands gripping the arms of the chair anxiously.

“I want to make you feel good, Stiles,” Derek starts, regaining Stiles’ attention, “So, if I do anything you don’t like, or you want me to stop, you just say so, okay?”

Stiles nods again, and when Derek’s mouth closes around Stiles’ cock they groan in unison.

Stiles throws his head back, clutching the arms of the chair harder, knuckles going white. His toes are curling in his shoes, his Adam’s apple bobs, and his teeth grit, muffling his noises of pleasure that could be mistaken for those of tragic pain.

Derek’s mouth is hot, and so wet, as if Derek’s mouth had been watering in anticipation. His tongue is broad, and flexible, bending, and twisting around Stiles’ entire length as he takes Stiles deep into his throat. Then he pulls up, tongue rubbing along the underside, and sweeping back and forth under the head.

His drool wets his lips, and slides down Stiles’ cock, drips down onto Stiles’ sac, and it’s filthy, but it’s gorgeous at the same time.

Stiles has not gotten any action in months, and the religious experience of Derek’s mouth on his skin is so much more than his lotion-slicked hand, he knows he won’t last long.

Derek seems to know this too, because he doesn’t drool, and suck on Stiles for long before coming up to breathe properly.

He rests his lips against the side of Stiles’ length, and he watches Stiles’ cock redden, and grow even more under his gaze.

“I want you to fuck me, Stiles.”

There’s a quick second that Stiles thinks he may have blacked out.

Derek’s rough, deep voice murmuring “I want you to fuck me, Stiles,” will replay in Stiles’ head for the rest of time. He will be on his deathbed, and that is all he will hear. He wishes he could have recorded it, and made it his ringtone, set it as his alarm, dedicated an entire playlist on iTunes to just that on a loop. He wants it engraved as his fucking epitaph.

In just seven words, Derek Hale has made Stiles the most wanted man on Earth.

Just seven words, and Stiles’ insides feel like melted gold.

Seven words, and Stiles is coveted by an Earth-walking angel whose sole desire to consume everything Stiles has to offer burns stronger, and brighter than the gold in Stiles’ blood, or the deep yellows, and oranges of the setting sun through that library window.

Desire was a stranger Stiles didn’t know he didn’t know until he saw it swimming in Derek’s eyes.

“Oh God, I want to fuck you,” Stiles answers in a rasp, body still tight, and anxious.

Derek leans back, and pulls his shirt off by dragging the back collar over the top of his head.

Stiles is attempting to memorize the fucking architecture of Derek’s clavicle when he hears Derek mutter something.

He meets Derek’s eyes again, and asks, “sorry, what?”

“It’s my first time,” Derek confesses, “I need you to be gentle.”

There’s a moral part of Stiles’ brain that still functions that wants everything to come to a screeching halt.

Or maybe not a halt.

Just to take the tempo down a little.

Stiles wants to slow down for Derek’s sake, offer Derek time to think this through, think about if he really wants Stiles to be his first, but he’s far too selfish for that.

Derek wants him, and it’s everything Stiles had dreamt it would feel like, and more.

Derek stands up, toes off his shoes, and socks, unbuckles his belt, and slides it out of the loops of his jeans slowly, like he knows exactly what it’s doing to Stiles. Maybe he does.

As he’s pulling his jeans down, he turns away, and Stiles starts to object, because he wants to see Derek’s beautiful cock, and he wants to put his mouth on Derek, and he wants to see all of this skin Derek has never let him see, or touch before.

Once Derek’s jeans are a puddle on the floor, and he’s turned away from Stiles, Stiles realizes why that is.

The colorful twinkle of a jeweled plug catches light, and Stiles’ breath is knocked out of him.

Derek looks over his broad shoulder at Stiles, his arms sort of pulled up by his chest, stretching out his torso, and accentuating his ass, and the crystal protruding there.

“I bought it this morning, spent all day working up to it.”

“That’s why you weren’t in class,” Stiles realizes in an awed whisper, “Holy shit.”

Derek’s back is something carved in marble, his skin is tan, and smooth, and there are even some beauty marks along his shoulder blades.

There’s a tattoo in the center of Derek’s back that Stiles wants to ask about, but he has to save it for later, because Derek’s perfect, round ass is level with his face, and Derek has prepared himself for Stiles.

For Stiles.

Stiles reaches his hands out slowly, touches Derek delicately, and is amazed by how still, and comfortable Derek seems when his fingers trail the hot skin of the small of his back.

He feels sort of powerful, in a strange, new way.

He’s mostly dressed, seated, and the most beautiful man to have ever graced his eyes is naked before him, offering himself like a present under the Christmas tree.

Curious, and feeling far too brave for his own good, Stiles touches at the jeweled end of the plug, nudging it forward.

Derek gives a small breathy noise, and pleasant chills run up Stiles’ spine.

He splays his hands over Derek’s cheeks, and spreads them, smiles when the pink, shining skin around the jewel tightens.

He mindlessly toes off his shoes, and socks while he plays with the end of the plug, pushing it in, twisting it around, and Derek reigns in his noise as well as he can.

“You have lube? A condom?”

Derek bends to reach into the pocket of his jeans on the floor, and Stiles tells him to stay like that.

And Derek obeys.

The power rush is making Stiles dizzy, and he can feel the addiction to it coming to a boil inside him.

He rolls his chair a few inches closer, so he can press his lips against the plush of Derek’s cheek, and he hears a beautiful gasp when he bites into the flesh hungrily.

“You walked to my class, and sat for the entirety of it with this inside you, the entire time…” Stiles says mostly to himself.

Derek doesn’t reply, but he doesn’t move either.

Stiles runs the pad of his thumb down Derek’s perineum, and it seems like Derek’s entire body responds immediately.

His back tenses, the a sparkle of the jewel changes as it’s clamped around, his balls draw up more tightly, his legs tremor, and everything in Stiles’ body responds in kind.

Stiles stands from his seat, allowing his pants, and underwear to fall to the floor, and he pulls his shirts over his head, and abandons them on the desk.

He runs the flat of his hand along the length of Derek’s back, admires the dimples by his tailbone, the ripples of muscle along his sides.

“How do you want to do this?”

Derek finally straightens at that, holding a small packet of lube between two fingers. Stiles takes it, staring into Derek’s blown pupils.

“How do you want me?”

You are killing me, Stiles wants to say, but he doesn’t, because this façade of power, and confidence has gotten him too far, and he wants to go further.

“Kneel on the floor. Down on your elbows, and knees.”

Derek nods, and takes his pose, folding his arms to rest his head on, his ass in the air, and that jewel sparkling in Stiles’ eyes, making his mouth water.

He must stare in amazement too long, because Derek asks if he’s okay, and Stiles openly admits, “I – yeah, sorry, I’m… this is the most erotic thing I have ever seen in my life, so…”

He swears he sees Derek’s ears, and neck go red, but he can’t focus on that for long.

He gets down onto the ground behind Derek, and curls his fingers around the base of the plug, slowly, and gently pulling it out.

Just by the way Derek’s flustered, twitching skin comes back together, Stiles can see his virginity clear as day.

He places the plug on his own jeans, a foot or so away, and takes the packet Derek offered, lathering himself as well as he can, and silently thanking Derek for prepping himself with lube, because this packet would not have been enough on its own.

Stiles spreads Derek’s cheeks again, fascinated with the sensitive twitching of his skin, and praying that he doesn’t bust just staring at Derek’s exposed body.

“Are you ready?”

Derek nods again, and utters with a sweet nervousness, “just be gentle.”

“Of course,” Stiles assures.

He lines himself up with Derek, and digs his fingers into Derek’s hips as he slowly inches inside.

Derek is still tight, still tense, but he’s slicked enough that Stiles moves in painfully smoothly, and his body is a fiery hot Stiles has never experienced.

Derek’s own head is swimming, his heart feels overstuffed, full of gratitude, and helplessness, and hope, and beauty, and validation.

He feels this connectedness, and confidence, and assurance that no other partner has ever given him, no other person, sexual partner, or otherwise, ever could.

The way Stiles looks at him makes him feel raw, and seen, and heard, and so deeply wanted, he aches.

When the booming of Stiles’ heart isn’t entirely deafening, he listens to Derek’s breathing, and gasping. It’s beautiful, and precious to him in a way no other partner’s noises have ever been. That might be because this is the first time he’s taking someone’s virginity, but while that’s definitely playing a role, it doesn’t feel like the answer.

Once he’s entirely inside Derek, he pauses, waiting for Derek to give him some sign to move.

He sort of enjoys the waiting despite his instincts telling him to thrust wildly – he doesn’t want to waste this moment.

He wants Derek’s first time to be incredible, and gentle, and whatever it is that Derek would have wanted it to be, but he’s on the floor of a linguistics classroom, and with Stiles when he could have anyone, and –

Stiles halts his self-doubt there, because he can’t allow his fucked up baggage to ruin this gift. He won’t.

To make the conflicting voices of gratitude, and guilt, and power, and complete, naked vulnerability stop taking residence in his skull, he asks out loud, “are you okay?”

“Yeah, yes,” Derek replies breathlessly, nodding, “It’s just… it’s a lot.”

Stiles smirks, his cheeks feeling warm.

“Oh, you flatter me.”

Derek gives a little chuckle, and replies playfully, “fuck you, alright? I’ve never taken anything up the ass before, today has been exhausting on several levels.”

Stiles smile falls away a little, and he pets Derek’s lower back, asking, “why today? Why me?”

Derek turns his face down into his arm so that Stiles can only stare at the red on the back of his neck.

“Feel between my legs,” Derek tells him.

Stiles reaches around Derek’s hip curiously, gripping his cock, and runs his fingers up until he feels the dripping of Derek’s precum.

He’s shocked by it, and even more so when Derek’s cock bobs eagerly at his touch.

“I want you so badly…” Derek utters quietly, as if he were just confessing this to himself for the first time, “My whole body… every part of me wants you, and I want to give myself to you. I don’t know how to give a lot things, but this I know how to give, and I want to give it to you.”

Those words come dangerously close to Feelings Territory, and Stiles doesn’t like the way hope spreads in his heart like some sort of warm mold, because it’s usually burnt out shortly after it grows, and it leaves a dark scar.

“Tell me what you want me to do,” Stiles initiates.

“Make this last,” Derek answers.

Stiles’ heart thuds strangely, and something in his upper chest twists around.

He grips Derek’s hips, and starts slowly, but only a minute or so of that is tolerable, and then Derek groans, “more,” and how in the fuck is Stiles supposed to say no?

He starts fucking into Derek harder, and faster, and Derek’s arms spread out, gripping the legs of the table in front of him for purchase, groaning in pleasure, and gasping in an effort to catch his breath.

Derek’s legs are shaking, and every push in Stiles makes, Derek clenches around him, every muscle taut.

Stiles digs his nails into Derek’s skin, willing his body to cooperate with him, and last. It’s all Derek asked of him, and every selfish fiber in Stiles’ body (most of them) is telling him to get off, and let that building tension in his lower abdomen grow until it bursts.

He folds over Derek, reaching his hands up and under to rub his fingers against Derek’s hard nipples.

The way Derek clenches around his cock wrenches this guttural noise from him that he has no control over, and Derek throws his head to the side to better look at Stiles from over his shoulder.

Derek’s face is flustered, and dark, his eyes are glassy, and wanton, and full of color, and feeling. His hair is mussed, and his lips are still wet, and he’s so fucking beautiful it hurts.

Stiles’ hips slow to a stop, and he smirks at the noise of discontent Derek makes.

He shakes his head, and tells Derek, “I’m too close. I want this to be good for you.”

“It is good,” Derek says breathlessly, “I don’t want you to stop.”

A pathetic, tortured whine escapes Stiles’ throat, and he hides his face in the hot skin of Derek’s back.

He opens his eyes there, watches the expansion of Derek’s sides as he breathes, listens to Derek’s heartbeat, and feels the pulse of Derek’s skin against his cheek. He pets Derek’s stomach, and he feels the muscles twitch beneath his fingers.

“There were a lot of reasons I didn’t kiss you,” Stiles starts gently, quietly, “I thought you’d never let me. I never even considered the possibility that you’d want that. You’re so out of my league… you’re so out of my league, you’re playin’ a whole other fuckin’ sport.”

Derek gives some sort of small laugh at that, but Stiles’ heart has dislodged from his chest cavity, crawled up his throat, and is traveling through the air in the form of hard truths so fast he can’t catch them.

“I thought if I kissed you, you wouldn’t forgive me for it. Sex is one thing, but intimacy… sweetness… that’s something else. And you were so adamant that every time was the last time, and I thought that if I kissed you, it would all end.”

Derek’s breathing is normal again; everything is still hot, and sticky, and a little sweaty, and their hearts are both pounding.

Stiles has never been in an atmosphere like this before, and he’s not sure how he created it. He only hopes that his instinct to share these things is a compass leading him in the right direction.

“Then I thought that…it would be over, and I’d be in love with you. I’d kiss you, and I’d just… I’d just fall. Just like that. Kissing you seemed – still seems – dangerous, and… deadly. You make me want so much… I’ve never felt this way about anyone, or around anyone before…”

There’s a beat of silence, and then Derek says, “I told my girlfriend that I couldn’t be with her anymore.”

Stiles’ brows spring in surprise.

“We’ve been together more than five years, and she knows all my baggage, handles me alright. But you…”

Derek lets out a sigh – not a bored sigh, or an angry sigh, but a sigh that explains wordlessly how difficult these words are to get out.

“You soothe me,” Derek continues, “You make me feel something no one else has ever made me feel, and… I don’t think anyone can, or will make me feel again. I didn’t kiss you, because I didn’t think… I deserved to.”

Stiles lets some quiet blanket them before asking Derek to turn over.

He does, hesitantly.

Derek lies on his back, legs spread, cock hard and shining at the head, filling Stiles with dominance, and tenderness, and stripping him of every armor.

Stiles puts his hands back on Derek’s hips, and tilts him upward, slides back into Derek so easily he has to shut his eyes to avoid sensory overload.

He hears Derek make a shocked gasp, then feels Derek’s hands come to clutch at his desperately.

Stiles opens his eyes to look down at Derek, and Derek breathes out, “where you just hit – do that again.”

Stiles shifts out halfway, and then pushes back in, and Derek’s back arches off the floor, head lolling back, and throat bobbing.

“Fucking Christ – keep doing that, Stiles.”

Stiles fucks into Derek harder, faster, pulling hysterical moans from him, and it’s so fulfilling, so dizzying, Stiles gets lost in the sound, falls forward, and kisses Derek.

All motion stops, partially in panic, and a little bit because time is frozen.

Stiles backs up enough to look into Derek’s eyes, and they’re teary, and he’s so worried he’s done exactly what he shouldn’t have, but then Derek’s arms are wrapping around Stiles’ neck, pulling him down, and kissing him fervently.

Stiles moans against Derek’s kiss, starts rutting into him again, licking Derek’s mouth, and Derek bites on Stiles’ lip, and they gasp, and groan, and Derek curls his legs around Stiles’ waist, whispering to him how good he is, how good he feels, and Stiles can’t take anymore.

He warns Derek he’s about to come, and just as he does, he feels a familiar pulsation between their stomachs, and a spreading heat.

He looks down between them in awe, Derek’s untouched cock still throbbing, and spilling, and Derek’s face is tilted away like he’s shy, his eyes are shut like he’s in a dream state, and Stiles loves him.

Derek opens his eyes just a little to look into Stiles’ and he mutters sweetly, “you can come inside me. I want you to.”

Stiles’ orgasm doesn’t come as much as it is taken from him without much warning.

Derek’s words and tone reduce him to tremors, and shaky breaths, and when everything is wrung out of the both of them, they stay connected like that, slowly learning how to look at one another again.

“I’ve… wanted to ask you out to dinner a thousand times. We really did this backwards, didn’t we?” Derek asks with a sense of humor.

Stiles laughs a little, and nods, “yeah, you and I did this Pulp Fiction style, like, just a total mess of chronology.”

He goes to say something else, but then Derek is pulling his face down again, and kissing him tenderly.

Their lips are kiss-swollen, and full, and Derek’s stubble has an almost ticklish bite to it.

And Stiles melts the way he knew he would.

He falls just the way he feared he would.

Derek doesn’t stop kissing him for a long few minutes, and he returns each one, blissed out, and at the same time consumed with profound contentedness, and trembling fear.

Derek’s fingers run through Stiles’ hair, and Stiles’ torso stretches out against Derek’s just to press more skin to skin, just to somehow get closer than they already are.

Stiles thinks he could do this for hours, starts thinking of how soon he could get them both hard again, and then his phone starts ringing from his discarded jeans.

They break apart, both looking confused, and partially disappointed.

Stiles hates that look in Derek’s eyes, so he mumbles, “don’t worry, I’ll just put it on speaker.”

He takes his phone out, and slides it onto the floor where he can easily reach it. He presses the answer button, then hits the speaker button, and says, “hello?” before returning to Derek’s mouth.

“Okay, so you are not answering my emails, and then you text me about having an existential crisis over being in deep with some guy you fell in love with at first sight, you fucking get all philosophical about soulmates, and fucking al –“

Stiles nearly jumps off of Derek, fumbles for the phone violently, turns the speaker off, and cups the phone to his ear, unable to look at Derek.

“Holy shit – Lydia, I –“

“Forgot to call?? Yes, I realized,” she grumbles.

“No, I’m – oh my God, Lydia – I’m sort of… I’m… I can’t even talk about this right now, I’m –“

“Oh my God, is he there?”

Stiles rubs his temple, opening his mouth to answer, but that beat of silence is all she needs.

“Stiles! Oh my God, why didn’t you just text me? I would’ve waited!”

“I was sort of in the middle of something,” Stiles grits, hoping his implication gets through to her.

She’s quiet for a second, and then says, “did you tell him how you feel? What happened?”

“Nothing! I’m – I can’t talk about this right now –“

“Right, right,” Lydia hurries, “Okay, fine. I’m letting you off the hook this time, but you seriously better call me as soon as you can, okay?”

“Okay, I will, I will,” Stiles answers embarrassedly.

They exchange quiet goodbyes, hang up, and then there’s deafening silence.

Stiles starts running through his options (most of which include digging a hole to throw himself into, or finding a rock to live out the rest of his life under), unable to face Derek, and feeling bizarrely shamed.

He sighs deeply, knowing he has to turn around, and look at Derek again at some point, but before he does, he hears Derek sit up, and say, “that’s exactly what I thought about you.”

Stiles doesn’t know what he means, and Derek’s voice has him still as a statue, anxiety running high.

“When I first saw you,” Derek starts.

Stiles’ heart plummets then rockets up, and starts racing.

“You…?” Stiles begins, unable to vocalize anything significant.

“I didn’t think of it as love until recently, but when I first saw you I felt something… really powerful.”

Stiles very slowly turns his face over his freckled shoulder to look at Derek.

His face is open, and honest, and his eyes are clear, twinkling hopefully.

“Do you believe in love at first sight?”

Stiles holds Derek’s gaze for a long moment before answering, “I’m not sure, but I’d like to.”

Derek nods, and asks, “do you want to come back to my campus living apartment, and wash up? I can take you out for dinner tonight, if that appeals at all.”

Stiles turns around at that, brow furrowed in bewilderment, “take me out to dinner? Are you out of your mind? You just found out I’m a psycho who barely knows you, and thinks I’m in love with you! These are huge red flags! Big’uns! Big ‘ole red flags blowing directly into your face!”

Derek smiles calmly at him, and replies, “I just broke off a five year relationship for a chance with you.”

Stiles’ face falls, and his shoulders go slack.

He runs his hand through his hair, and says, “you really did, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I did,” Derek agrees with a knowing sigh, “My sister never liked Sara much anyway, though, so I don’t think there will be too much backlash.”

Stiles laughs, “no concern for your wellbeing or anything, just whether or not you sister will approve.”

Derek laughs too, and retorts, “wait until you meet my sister, then you will know why I live in a constant state of terror.”

He wants me to meet his family?

Quiet falls again, and Derek seems to understand the gravity of what he’s said.

He nods, and says again, “Stiles, let me take you out tonight.”

Stiles nods back, and then leans over again to kiss Derek’s lips sweetly.

“So, what are we now, lover?” Stiles asks jokingly.

With a smirk that gives Stiles pleasant chills, Derek answers, “soulmates.”

And, well. Yeah. Maybe.