It’s not the clothes that really gets to him though - these f*cking emo kids are just another dime a dozen these days - and unfortunately Derek knows exactly what he’s talking about. Courtesy of Erica, he’s well studied in the ins and outs of MTV and the kind of crappy music people choose to invest their time in these days.
It’s that goddamn smile.
The kid is wearing the most unapologetic, f*ck-you grin he’s ever seen, stretched wide across his face, like he’s happy to be escorted like a some kind of wannabe celebrity into detention.
This looks like a little sh*t, is Derek’s first thought.
His second is, I really want to f*ck this guy, and if that doesn’t hit like a sucker punch right to the gut, Derek doesn’t know what does.
Features, in no particular order, Erica Reyes as the world’s most meddlesome cheerleader, Stiles Stilinski’s ridiculously tight skinny jeans, and Derek Hale’s rapidly vanishing commitment to heterosexuality (no, seriously, it’s totally intact… maybe).
I've tried my very best to ensure each part can be read on its own, but there are hints and references to part one that might click better if you've already read it.
This takes place during the first part, but from Derek’s point of view.
As with the entirety of this series, I'm having a go at American English. Don’t come at me if I mess up plz.
Cora magically got de-aged and no one knows why.
From the start, I felt that Derek was far more complex than what’s shown through Stiles' perspective. A story told from one point of view is inherently biased, influenced by that person’s emotions, experiences, and limited understanding. In this case, Stiles doesn’t have full insight into Derek’s inner life and thoughts, so part one presents a view of Derek that is intentionally limited and incomplete. Here, we follow Derek, which allows us to delve into the reasons behind his actions and the thought processes driving them. Derek's way of thinking and reflecting is distinct from Stiles', so this part will naturally have a slightly different feel because of that.
Derek slouches in the back row of the detention room, already bored out of his mind. He should be used to this - the dull hum of the fluorescent lights, the scratch of pencils against paper as everyone pretends to care about the work they’ve been assigned - but sh*t, it’s the fifth one this semester and they’ve only been back for a month.
He’s already looking forward to winter break.
He’s counting down the minutes until he can leave, eyes watching the torturously slow ticking of the clock behind the teacher's desk, when the door swings open, drawing his attention. Two massive figures step in, practically filling the entire doorway. Derek recognizes them immediately - quarterbacks from the football team, all muscle and sh*tty attitude, no brains to be spoken about. On the other hand, that’s exactly what Erica always mocks him about - caring more about abs than algebra is one of her favorites - but at least he’s not as bad as these two morons.
Derek once overheard them planning to Google the answers to a pop quiz - while the quiz was happening.
On a school computer.
In front of the teacher.
It’s a wonder they manage to navigate the hallways without getting lost, let alone play actually football.
The kid hanging between them is a study in contradictions. He’s wearing skinny jeans so tight they look like a second skin, paired with a faded Dropkick Murphy's t-shirt that’s definitely seen better days, the collar frayed and dotted with holes. His hair is a tousled mess, but in a way that seems more deliberate than not, like he’s just rolled out of bed and decided to own it. Derek doesn’t think that’s true, but he does think it’s what the guy wants people to believe and, somehow, it’s working for him.
It’s not the clothes that really gets to him though - these f*cking emo kids are just another dime a dozen these days - and unfortunately Derek knows exactly what he’s talking about. Courtesy of Erica, he’s well studied in the ins and outs of MTV and the kind of crappy music people choose to invest their time in these days.
It’s that goddamn smile.
The kid is wearing the most unapologetic, f*ck-you grin he’s ever seen, stretched wide across his face, like he’s happy to be escorted like a some kind of wannabe celebrity into detention.
This looks like a little sh*t, is Derek’s first thought.
His second is, I really want to f*ck this guy, and if that doesn’t hit like a sucker punch right to the gut, Derek doesn’t know what does.
It doesn’t make sense. Firstly, despite general appearances, Derek isn’t the type to fall for loudmouths or troublemakers. He likes things calm, predictable, under control, but something about the way this kid carries himself - like he has a middle finger permanently raised to the universe - just does something to him.
Secondly, it’s a guy, and Derek doesn’t do guys. He likes tit* that fit just right in the palms of his hands, tiny little waists he can wrap his arm around and rounded, soft asses that swallow his dick when he bends them over the hood of his Camaro.
This guy doesn’t even look like he has an ass. Or maybe it’s just squished by the denim of his extremely tight jeans - it’s hard to tell.
Not that Derek is looking.
The kid is practically thrown into a desk near the front, the jocks exchanging weary looks as if they’ve just handed off a ticking time bomb. But the guy doesn’t seem fazed at all. He sprawls out in the chair, legs stretched out, still wearing a sh*t-eating grin. It’s as if the very idea of detention amuses him, like a cat that just got the cream.
He looks co*cky, defiant, and that should piss Derek off because he hates guys like that, but instead all he can think about is those damn lips. They look like girl-lips, honestly, and maybe that’s why Derek likes them? Full, and just begging for him to kiss, or maybe more than kiss, honestly, and Derek suddenly finds himself wondering what they would feel like wrapped around his co*ck.
The pen in his hand snaps, the plastic splintering under the force of his grip. The sound echoes through the room, but it’s not the broken pen that sends Derek’s pulse skyrocketing, not the way the teacher send him a sharp look, no - it’s the way the kid glances up, eyes sharp and big and so, so honey-brown, and then smirks like he’s just figured out exactly what’s going through Derek’s head.
And then he f*cking winks.
f*ck.
Derek’s heart stops for a second, then starts again, pounding in his chest like a drum. His face flushes hot, and he blushes, blushes, and sh*t, that’s just proof that there’s something seriously wrong with him right there. Derek doesn’t blush, he makes other people blush, but now he’s sitting here red-faced and sweating just because some punk-ass kid threw a f*cking wink at him.
Derek stands up abruptly, the chair scraping across the floor with a loud, grating noise that turns more than a few heads, but he doesn’t give a single sh*t. He needs to get out, now, before he loses what little composure he has left. He needs help - therapy, a cold shower, heterosexual p*rn, maybe a damn exorcism.
He needs Erica.
“And where do you think you’re going, Mr. Hale?” the teacher calls, standing up.
He doesn’t answer, doesn’t even slow down. The door, that’s where he’s going, thank you very much, bitch. He’s almost there when, against his better judgment, he throws one last glance over his shoulder.
The kid is watching him, that infuriating grin still plastered on his face. And then, to make it worse, he raises his hand and waves - jazz fingers, long, elegant limbs wiggling in the air like he’s just won a game Derek didn’t even know they were playing.
God, he’s so f*cking screwed.
—
It’s been almost a year since that day in detention, and Derek still can’t get his mind off the damn kid. It doesn’t make any sense, none of it does, why the hell his messed-up brain would latch onto some emo-grunge-wannabe pothead with an attitude problem.
A male emo-grunge-wannabe pothead with an attitude problem.
One with too-tight skinny jeans, hiding an ass that’s been the primary star of Derek’s sexual fantasies for the better part of ten months.
It’s completely f*cked up.
Derek is decidedly not looking forward to senior year.
The door slams open and Cora bursts in, her little feet thudding against the floor as she runs toward him. She leaps onto the bed, shaking him with all the strength her six-year-old body can muster.
“Wake up, Der-Bear!” she yells, her voice high-pitched and insistent. “Mom says you have to take me to school!”
Derek groans, feigning irritation, but he can’t keep the grin off his face. Without warning, he pulls Cora under the covers, trapping her in a tight hug. She squeals in surprise, and then he starts tickling her, his fingers mercilessly finding all the spots that make her squirm and shriek with laughter.
“Stop! Stop!” she giggles.
“Never!”
Eventually, he lets up, both of them breathless and smiling.
“Alright, alright, I’m up,” Derek says, releasing her. Cora beams up at him, victorious, and scrambles out of the bed.
“Come on!” she says, running for the door. “Last one down is a rotten potato!”
Derek throws off the covers with a sigh, scratching his head as he swings his legs over the edge of the bed. The morning light filters through the curtains, bright and sunny, but it does nothing to shake the weird squirmy feeling that’s settled in his chest.
He pulls on a pair of jeans and a black t-shirt, eyes drifting to his leather jacket hanging over the back of his chair. He reaches for it, fingers brushing the worn, buttery leather, and for a moment, he considers it. Then he sighs, a small, reluctant exhalation of breath, and sets it back down.
Instead, he grabs the letterman jacket hanging off the hook behind his door. Slipping it on, he grimaces at the familiar weight. He hates this f*cking jacket. It’s too damn warm - they live in California for f*ck’s sake - and the colors are all wrong. A brownish-red that looks like dried-up ketchup, paired with some strange piss-colored shade of white that Erica insists is called eggshell.
Derek thinks she should just call it for what it is, which, according to him, is just straight-up ugly as sh*t.
“Derek,” his mom calls from downstairs, her voice carrying up the stairs. “Breakfast!”
It’s barely eight o'clock in the morning, fifteen minutes after his alarm woke him up, and he’s already f*cking exhausted.
—
Derek glares from across the courtyard as Stiles Stilinski, the embodiment of everything Derek shouldn’t want, but unfortunately still do, stands there with his little group of blaze-head sycophants - though Derek’s pretty sure it’s Lydia Martin’s well-manicured finger they’re all bending to rather than Stiles'. He’s leaning against his sh*tty piece-of-crap Jeep, the thing looking like it’s two seconds away from falling apart, casually dragging on a cigarette like he’s some kind of James Dean wannabe. A true rebel without a cause, if James Dean wore too-tight ripped skinny jeans that hug every (non-existent) curve and a pair of beat-up Converse that Derek thinks look ridiculously uncomfortable.
Everything about Stiles screams rebellion, from the stupidly confident slouch to that ridiculous beanie he’s always wearing despite the blazing California sun and relentless heat.
Who the hell wears a beanie when it’s over 80 degrees out?
f*ck him for looking so hot in it, too. Derek can’t decide if he wants to punch him right in the gut or drag him behind the bleachers and f*ck him senseless.
Erica plops down next to Derek on the bench, in full cheerleader uniform, pom-poms in hand. With a mischievous grin, she shakes one of the pom-poms in his face. “What’s up, loser? Still perving on Stilinski?”
Derek scowls, swatting the pom-pom away with more force than necessary. “I’m just sitting here.”
Erica doesn’t let up, leaning in closer with a sly smile. “You know, if you spent half as much time talking to him as you do staring at him, you might actually get into his pants sometime this decade.”
“I’m not staring.” Derek shoots her a withering look. “And why would I want to talk to that loser.”
Erica snorts, unimpressed. “Right, why would you? Seriously, Derek, you’ve been doing this thing for months. Just go up to him and say hi, you know, like a normal person?”
“Drop it, Erica. I’m not in the mood.”
“Yeah, well, you’re never in the mood,” she retorts, unbothered by his tone. “But you’re still sitting here every day, pretending not to watch him. It’s almost cute, in a frustrating, emotionally repressed sort of way.”
Derek clenches his jaw tight and looks away.
Erica rolls her eyes and nudges him with her elbow. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. And, by the way,” she adds with a smirk, “if you really didn’t care, you wouldn’t be so defensive about it.”
Derek opens his mouth to snap back, but nothing comes out. He hates that she’s got him figured out, but that’s what he gets for being friends with Erica f*cking Reyes, head cheerleader and eternal pain in his ass.
“Figured as much,” Erica says, satisfied with his silence. She leans back, twirling a pom-pom lazily. “You know, I think you should just go talk to him. Worst case, he thinks you’re weird. Best case…” She trails off, waggling her eyebrows suggestively.
A girl saunters up, chewing gum with a lazy pop, her eyes flicking over him. She runs a hand down his arm, her touch lingering as she leans in closer. “Hi, Derek,” she says. “Wanna walk me to class?”
“Hi, Cara.” Derek offers her grin as he stands up, slipping an arm around her shoulder. “Sure.”
Behind him, Erica lets out a loud, exaggerated sigh, rolling her eyes. “Really, Derek?”
Derek shrugs, shooting Erica a quick smirk. Almost involuntarily, he glances back over his shoulder. Stiles is still there, still leaning against his Jeep, still talking animatedly to his friends. Still being a little sh*t that’s hell bent on ruining Derek’s life. His gaze lingers longer than it should, and when he finally tears his eyes away, he catches Erica’s skeptical expression.
He turns his attention back to Cara, trying to pay attention as she chatters on beside him as he starts walking her to her classroom.
Which happens to be the exact opposite direction of the English class he's supposed to be at in ten minutes.
Cara giggles about something and looks up at him expectantly.
f*ck, this girl's annoying.
—
“Stiles, wait up, man!”
Derek quickly steps aside as a goofy-looking guy rushes past him and leaps onto Stiles' back, wrapping his arms around his neck. Something McCall - Scott? - according to Erica. Best friends since forever, whatever the hell that’s supposed to mean, but whatever - at least he doesn’t have to worry about this guy, even if they act more like long time gay lovers than best friends.
Derek keeps his pace steady, sneakers squeaking on the dirty linoleum as he follows a few steps behind. Not following, just...heading in the same direction. It’s not like he planned this. The high school halls are crowded, and it just so happens they’re both going to the parking lot. That’s all. Heading home after school, it’s a thing they both do. Normal.
Coincidence.
Stiles pauses at his locker, leaning against it. He spots someone down the hallway, and Derek watches as Stiles’s eyes brighten, lips curving into an easy grin. The new guy says something Derek can’t hear, but his amused smirk and raised eyebrow say enough.
Derek stops walking, hands shoved deep in his pockets as he watches the scene intently, watches the way the other guy’s hand curls around Stiles’ wrist, they way they lean into each other, both smiling; a hand sneaking behind Stiles’ body to rest against his lower back.
There’s a flicker of something sharp in Derek’s chest, a tight pull low in his gut. The feeling sits there, familiar, grating. It’s messed up. Derek doesn’t care who Stiles smiles at? But the way this guy responds, like it’s nothing, like it’s easy, makes Derek’s teeth clench.
“Hey, you’re being creepy about Stilinski again.” Erica smirks at him. “You do know stalking’s illegal, right?”
Derek frowns, shoulders tensing. “I'm not stalking him,” he mutters.
This guy’s really fit, too, with broad shoulders, tanned skin, and rounded biceps that push the limits of his stupid white v-neck t-shirt. Derek can't help but think that if there’s something between Stiles and this guy, at least he knows Stiles' type. Muscles. And Derek's got muscles too. There’s some pleasure in knowing he's bigger than this v-neck guy, if nothing else, but still - wouldn’t hurt to get a few extra sessions in.
Erica pokes him in the chest. “Yeah, you’re not being creepy at all,” she says sarcastically.
Derek’s eyes narrow as the guy wraps his hand around Stiles’ arm, fingers stroking, throwing him a look that Derek knows all too well. He’s used that same look himself to get some girl or two into his bed.
“Shut up, Erica,” Derek mutters.
—
Erica: Party tonight at Jackson's. Be there!!!
Derek glares at the screen for a moment, then quickly types out a response.
Derek: No.
A few seconds later, his phone buzzes again.
Erica: Yes.
Derek huffs, typing more firmly this time.
Derek: No.
The response comes back almost instantly, and Derek can practically hear Erica’s smug tone through the screen.
Erica: Be there, or I’ll tell your mom about that time you stole her hand cream because you ran out of -
Derek doesn’t even let her finish before he’s typing back, the words practically exploding onto the screen.
Derek: Fine, but I’m not going to be happy about it.
Erica: Wouldn’t dream about it, grumpy face.
—
The bass thumps through the walls of the crowded house, and Derek’s already lost count of how many drinks he’s had. He’s never been much of a party guy, but tonight, something about the suffocating heat of the late August night and the relentless buzzing in his head and f*cking Stiles have driven him to down more than his usual share.
Now, he’s leaning heavily against the kitchen counter, his vision a little blurred around the edges, when Erica sidles up to him, equally tipsy, with a lazy grin on her face.
“What’s up puss*cat,” she says, bumping her hip against his. “Someone's looking like they’re having the time of their life.”
Derek grunts in response, swirling the remnants of his drink in the plastic cup.
Erica watches him. “What’s going on with you, Derek? You’ve been sulking like a kicked puppy since we got here.”
Derek scowls. “I’m not sulking.”
“Sure,” Erica drawls. “You’re just standing here, all alone, and downing drinks like you’re actually trying to drown something.”
Derek slams his cup down on the counter, the plastic crumpling under the force. “Fine. You wanna know what’s wrong?” He hesitates for a split second, but the alcohol and the frustration and the months of pent-up confusion all collide and just burst out of him. “I want to f*ck that Stilinski kid,” he spits out. “And it pisses me the f*ck off.”
Erica blinks, surprised, but then a slow grin spreads across her face. “Finally!” she exclaims, pointing a finger at him. “I knew it! You’ve been mooning over his ass for ages.”
Derek glares at her. “Keep your f*cking voice down,” he hisses, picking up his cup, throwing back what’s left of it.
Erica, still grinning, places a hand on his arm, squeezing it reassuringly. “Derek, you’re overthinking this. So what if you want him? Whatever. Do something about it.”
Derek shakes his head. “It’s not that simple, Erica. It’s Stiles.”
“Yeah,” Erica says slowly, dragging out the words. “So what?”
“Stiles is a guy.”
Erica snorts. “There are worse things in life than liking dick, Derek.
“Like what?” Derek asks, his tone edged with exasperation.
Erica picks up a shot from the counter, throws it back, and shudders at the taste before giving him a pointed look. “Could have been Jackson. Think about that, Derek. That would have been way worse.”
Derek can’t help the small, reluctant laugh that escapes him. “True.”
“Damn straight,” Erica says resolutely, then giggles. “Or gay, I guess.”
“Funny,” Derek says, rolling his eyes. “Very funny, Erica.”
“We’re gonna make this happen, Derek,” Erica declares, her words slurring slightly.
Derek squints at her, the room spinning a bit from the alcohol. “You don’t even know if he likes guys.”
Despite her own drunken state, Erica’s eyes take on a sharp look. She leans in, patting his cheek with exaggerated affection. “Oh, Der-Bear,” she says with a sly grin. “I know everything that goes on in that school, and trust me, that is not something you have to be worried about.”
“Fine,” Derek says, resigned, but he can’t help the tiny flicker of hope. “But none of your crazy f*cked-up schemes, alright.”
Erica just laughs, already dragging him toward the drinks table. “No promises, lover boy. No promises.”
—
Derek stands on the lacrosse field, the game just ended, the cheers from the crowd fading into the background. His jersey clings to his sweat-drenched skin, his muscles ache from the relentless push and pull of the match, but there’s no satisfaction in the victory, not really. He doesn’t even know if he likes lacrosse anymore, if he ever really did. It’s something to do, a way to fill the hours, and it’s not like he knows what he’d do instead.
He’s not good at much else, to be honest. Hooking up with people whose names he barely remembers, getting blackout drunk at parties he’d rather stay home from, lifting weights at the fitness center after school - that’s about the extent of his skills. None of it means anything, though.
The field starts to clear out, teammates slapping each other on the back, their voices loud with excitement and relief that the game is over. Derek watches them, feeling disconnected, like he’s standing on the outside looking in. He forces himself to smile, to exchange half-hearted congratulations, but his mind is already elsewhere.
His mom wants him to go to college and this is the way he’s going to make that happen. She wants him to be something more, to get out of this town that’s wrapped its claws around her so tightly she’s never been able to escape. That’s the plan, or at least the plan she’s mapped out for him.
He runs a hand through his damp hair, looking up at the night sky, the stars barely visible through the haze of the stadium lights, and holds in a sigh.
He’s going to do it - because he can’t stand the look in her eyes when she talks about it. That sad, tired disappointment that she tries to hide, but that’s always there, just beneath the surface. It’s the same look she gets when she talks about his dad, and if there’s one thing Derek doesn’t want to be like, it’s like his dad.
He knows that much, at least.
Erica’s voice cuts through the din of the retreating crowd as she runs out onto the field, her swishy cheerleader skirt flipping with each step, the glint in her eyes as sharp as the smirk on her red-painted lips. She’s got the type of legs that look really good in a skirt, long and lean, and the kind of ass that turns heads in the hallway. Derek can admit she looks good - sh*t, any guy with a pulse would - but Erica doesn’t do it for him, not like that. She’s his best friend, has been since they were kids, practically his sister at this point.
She stops in front of him, her smirk widening as she crosses her arms. “Just saw that Stilinski kid sneak under the bleachers,” she says.
Derek raises an eyebrow, trying to feign indifference, though his pulse quickens at the mention. “So?”
Erica rolls her eyes dramatically, clearly unimpressed. Without warning, she throws one of her pom-poms at him, the fluffy mass of fabric hitting him square in the chest. “So, go after him, you moron.”
Derek catches the pom-pom before it falls, holding it awkwardly as he stares at her, trying to figure out if she’s messing with him or being serious.
“Go,” she says again. “Now, you loser, before you miss your shot.”
He hesitates, glancing over at the bleachers.
“Come on, Derek,” Erica says, her voice softer now. “Everyone knows he’s got a thing for you. It’s not like he’s subtle, you know.”
Derek sighs, tossing the pom-pom back at her with a half-hearted smirk. “Fine, but if you’re wrong, I’m blaming you when I have to transfer schools in the middle of the season.”
Erica just grins, stepping back with a flourish of her skirt. “Deal. Now go work your magic - maybe show him some abs, that usually works out well for you.”
—
The lights from the lacrosse field spill faintly through the gaps in the metal slats above, casting long flickering shadows that dance across the gravel beneath the bleachers. Derek’s footsteps are quiet, careful as he makes his way down. He’s not even sure what he’s doing here - he should be heading home after the game, maybe hitting the showers, go to that stupid party Jackson's hosting to celebrate their win, anything other than sneaking under the bleachers to try and score a hookup with the f*cking sheriff's kid.
Derek’s always been a bit stupid like that.
As he approaches, the faint scent of weed reaches him, and he can’t help the small smirk that tugs at the corner of his mouth. It’s not like he’s surprised. Everyone knows the Stilinski kid is a f*cking blaze-head, ironically, considering his dad.
When he finally spots him, leaning against a post with a joint in hand, Derek takes a moment to just watch, the way the kid’s shoulders seem to relax with every long exhale, his full, pink lips wrapped around the blunt and eyes closed like he’s engaged in the world’s most exquisite blowj*b.
“Thought I recognized that smell,” Derek says, eventually, breaking the silence.
The kid freezes, his eyes snapping wide as he jerks his head up. “Jesus f*cking Christ, Hale,” he blurts out. “You trying to kill me or what?”
“Not yet,” he replies, and what a stupid f*cking thing to say. Derek isn’t good at this, small talk, trying to be all suave and sh*t. Usually people look at him and that’s enough to at least get some second base action without him having to open his mouth. “But keep going, and you’ll do it yourself.”
“Relax, it’s just a joint,” Stiles says, waving a hand like it’s nothing. “I’m not exactly spiraling into hard drugs here.”
Derek doesn’t respond immediately, just crosses his arms and watches him, eyebrows knitting together slightly. Maybe he should say something responsible, but that would be a fail-sure way to put him on the guy’s reject list. Derek’s never liked weed, reminds him of his dad, reminds him of late-night arguments and tummy aches and hiding under the bed. But he likes Stiles, so he doesn’t say anything, only, “You always hide out under the bleachers, or is this a special occasion?”
Stiles shrugs. “What can I say? I like the ambiance. The rusty metal and distant sound of crickets really set the mood.” He takes another drag, holding the smoke in his lungs for a beat before letting it out slowly. “What about you? Decided to take a break from being lacrosse captain to slum it with the delinquents?”
No, Derek thinks, I'm here because I want to f*ck, but he doesn’t say that.
What he says is, “Just came down to see who’s stupid enough to smoke weed at school.”
Yeah, Derek probably shouldn't call Stiles stupid, even in a roundabout way, if he wants to have any shot at getting into the guy’s pants.
Stiles just laughs, though, saying, “Congratulations, you found him,” in that slow, sardonic way of his, voice practically dripping sarcasm. Derek kind of wants to hate it, but he’s always found it secretly amusing. “What’s the prize? A lecture about making better choices?”
Derek can’t help but let out a small huff of laughter. “I’m good, thanks.”
Stiles eyes him for a moment, then holds out the joint with a wry smile and yeah, the kid’s definitely testing him. “You want a hit, or you just came to stare at me?”
Derek glances at the joint, feeling the moment stretch out between them. A part of him wants to say no, because he doesn’t like being high, doesn’t like feeling out of control and hazy, but something about the way Stiles is looking at him makes him want to break his own rules, for once. With a small shrug, surprising himself, he says, “Yeah, sure. Why the f*ck not?”
Stiles’ eyes widen slightly, clearly not expecting Derek to actually take him up on it. “Wait, seriously?”
Derek just raises an eyebrow, waiting.
Stiles hands it over, their fingers brushing, and Derek catches the brief spark of nerves in Stiles’ expression. It’s almost enough to flip his stomach inside out, the way Stiles is trying to play it cool when it’s clear he’s just as thrown by this as Derek is and somehow that’s really f*cking pleasing to Derek - grounding and calming, to know that Erica might actually be right.
He shouldn’t be surprised, not really. Erica’s usually right about what goes on in this school.
Derek brings the joint to his lips, inhaling, the burn of the smoke curling through his lungs. He exhales slowly, watching the smoke dissolve into the air before passing the joint back to Stiles.
“Didn’t think you were the type,” Stiles says, and he sounds intrigued, voice tinged with curiosity.
Derek leans back against the wall, trying to play it off casually. “I’m not usually, but it’s been that kind of week.”
Stiles barks a dry laugh, coughing slightly into his arm, and Derek wonders if he should pound his back or something or if that’s some kind of weed-smoking faux pas. “Tell me about it. You always seem like you’ve got your sh*t together, though.”
Jesus. If this kid only knew what a f*cking mess his life is.
“Yeah, well,” Derek says, “looks can be deceiving.”
Stiles flashes a grin, and Derek has to bite the inside of his cheek to stop the smile that threatens to break free in response. “You’ve come to the right spot, my man. Weed aplenty and zero judgment. Perfect place to hide away for a while.”
Derek glances over at Stiles, allowing a tiny smirk. “Got a lot of things to hide, or what?”
Stiles laughs, the sound surprisingly easy and genuine. “Oh, f*ck off. If you’re trying to psychoanalyze me, we’re gonna need a hell of a lot more weed than this.”
Derek can’t help the small laugh that escapes him in return, feeling bold and a bit ballsy from the weed, mind at rest for once. “Wouldn’t mind that. Could be interesting.”
sh*t. Is he really doing this? Are they flirting?
“Sure, dude,” Stiles scoffs, though Derek spots the slight flush creeping up his neck. He waves a hand like it’s nothing. “We’ll book a therapy session - you bring the snacks, I’ll bring the weed. We’ll hash out all my deep-seated issues. It’ll be fantastic.”
Derek’s stomach does this weird flip-floppy thing, the kind of thing Erica talks about when she’s forcing him to watch Zac Efron sing his stupid heart out in High School Musical. “Sounds like a date,” he murmurs, trying to not look excited.
Stiles’ breath catches, just for a moment, and Derek sees the flicker of nerves in his eyes. But then Stiles recovers, trying to play it off as nothing. “Well, if you’re that desperate for company,” he says, his tone light, “I guess I can pencil you in.”
Derek’s smirk lingers, just a touch more real now, as he tilts his head slightly. “I’ll hold you to that.”
There’s a moment of silence, the air between them heavy, and this is usually the moment where he flashes a co*cky grin, or leans back casually to “accidentally” show a hint of abs, but -
- Derek takes a step back. He reaches down, stubbing out the joint with the heel of his sneaker, and then straightens up. “I’ll text you,” he says, flashing a brief smile that he hopes hides the sudden flare of anticipation thrumming through him.
Without waiting for a response, Derek turns and starts to walk away, hands slipping into his pockets as he tries to calm the racing of his heart. He can feel Stiles’ eyes on him, watching him go, but he doesn’t look back.
He might want to stick his dick in the kid’s ass, but he refuses to act like some lovesick girl going all goo-goo eyes and swooning hearts over it.
—
Derek leans against the lockers, pretending to be focused on something in his bag as he listens in on the conversation happening just down the hall. Lydia’s voice carries easily, light and teasing, the way it always sounds when she seems to be in full gossip mode.
Jesus, that girl's annoying as f*ck. He doesn’t understand how Stiles puts up with her.
He’s not paying much attention at first, tuning out the usual chatter about parties and who’s hooking up with who, until he hears Stiles’ name.
That’s when Derek’s focus sharpens.
“Come on, Stiles,” Lydia says. “You and Danny would be perfect together.”
Danny? Who the hell is Danny?
McCall chimes in with, “Yeah, man. Danny’s a good guy. You two would be really cute together.”
Derek doesn’t know who this Danny guy is, but he already can’t stand him. The way Lydia and McCall are talking, like this Danny is some kind of perfect match for Stiles, makes Derek’s skin crawl. He’s not really the fighting type - he’s spent most of his life trying to avoid conflicts, not start them - but he knows what he looks like. He knows people see him as the burly, silent guy; intimidating. Maybe they’re right, because the more he hears about this Danny kid, the more he wants to punch his f*cking teeth in.
Derek clenches his fists, forcing himself to breathe slowly, trying to keep the anger from bubbling over. He knows it’s stupid to be this worked up over someone he barely knows, but the idea of Stiles with anyone else - especially this faceless, apparently perfect Danny - makes Derek’s blood boil.
Lydia’s laughter rings out again, and Derek catches the tail end of Stiles’ response, something about not being interested, but Derek can’t focus on the words. He’s too busy picturing this Danny guy, whoever he is, and imagining what it would be like to wipe that (in Derek’s head) perfect smile off his face.
He pushes off the lockers as he spots Erica down the hallway, chatting with some chick in a cheerleader uniform. The girl Erica’s talking to notices him first, her eyes widening slightly as Derek steps up beside them. He doesn’t have to say a word - just one look, and the girl’s smile falters.
“Uh, I should probably get going,” she stammers, quickly excusing herself and hurrying off down the hall, glancing over her shoulder nervously.
Erica sighs dramatically, rolling her eyes as she watches her friend disappear. “Oh come on,” she mutters, turning her gaze to Derek. “I was just about to find out if Jason made out with Olivia this weekend. Thanks for that.”
Derek shrugs, unbothered. “I’m sure you’ll get the details later. Not like she can keep her mouth shut.” He leans against the lockers. “I need to ask you something.”
Erica raises an eyebrow, intrigued. “Go on, grumpy face.”
Derek hesitates for a moment, then, “Who’s this Danny guy that’s been hanging around Stiles?”
Erica’s lips curve into a smirk. “Oh, so that’s what this is about.” She sighs again, though this time there’s a clear hint of amusem*nt in her eyes. “You know, you could’ve just asked me instead of going all alpha-male on that poor girl.”
Derek frowns, ignoring the jab. “So, who is he?”
Erica’s smirk widens, and she tilts her head. “Danny Mahealani. He’s in the same year as us, openly out and proud, and apparently, he’s been hooking up with Stiles since Mila Brown's fourth of July party this summer.”
“What?” he manages to say, his voice coming out lower, rougher than he intended.
Erica’s smirk fades as she notices the shift in Derek’s expression, her demeanor softening into something more serious. “I thought everyone knew,” she says, her voice quieter, more tentative. She takes a step closer, her eyes searching Derek’s face. “Hey, Derek, I’m sorry I just dropped this on you. I honestly thought you already knew.”
He forces a shrug that feels stiff and unnatural. “Didn’t know. Thanks for the update, I guess.”
Erica seems to pick up on his distress and quickly adds, “It’s not like they’re a thing or whatever. Apparently, they’re just… you know, hookup buddies. Nothing serious.”
Yeah, as if that makes him feel better.
Derek clenches his jaw, trying to push down the irritation bubbling up inside him. He shouldn’t care this much. It’s not like Stiles belongs to him, or that he has any right to be jealous.
“Whatever,” he mutters, turning away slightly, hoping Erica won’t notice how much this is getting to him, but she’s always been too f*cking perceptive for her own good - as proven by her status as BHHS reigning Gossip Queen - and her next words confirm it.
“Derek, you can’t beat yourself up over this,” Erica says. “It’s not like you’ve missed your chance. Stiles isn’t committed to anyone. If you want something more, you just… you need to let him know.”
“And what? Tell him I’ve been silently pining away like some fourteen year old girl while he’s out there hooking up with other people?”
“Well, what did you expect, Derek? That you could just glare him into your bed from across the parking lot?” Erica gets this look like she wants to hit him in the head, and yeah, Derek gets that. He kind of wants to hit himself in the head, too. “You’ve got to actually do something if you want him.”
“Yeah.” Derek sighs. “Maybe.”
"Look, what happened under the bleachers was a good thing, right?"
"I guess,” Derek mumbles, shrugging.
"So, have you texted him yet?"
Derek’s scowls. "No.”
Erica lets out an exasperated sigh, rolling her eyes. "Derek, you are the most aggravating person I've ever met." She adjusts her backpack, giving him a pointed look. "Fine. After school, you’re coming home with me, and I'll fix this.”
“Fine,” Derek grunts.
“The right words are thank you,” Erica says, with a sly grin, “but I’ll settle for a starbies run and you writing my English essay on the symbolism in gothic literature.”
—
“Alright,” Erica says, holding out his phone. “Text him.”
Erica sprawls on her bed, phone in hand, while Derek paces by the window, hands on his hips and a feeling of dread growing in his stomach.
Derek grunts in response, his eyes narrowing as he glances at the phone. “I don’t need your help.”
“Yeah, sure,” Erica says. “Because pacing around like a total maniac is totally the way to go.”
He shoots her a look but doesn’t say anything.
“Come on, Derek. It’s just a text. You’re acting like I’m asking you to take him to prom.”
“It’s not that simple.”
Erica sighs, pushing herself up to sit cross-legged on the bed. “Look, I get it. You’re nervous. But you can’t just stand there grunting like some weird caveman. You have to actually do something.”
“I can’t just text him,” he finally mutters, frustrated.
Erica, lounging on her bed, raises an eyebrow. “Why not?”
Derek turns to her, baffled that she doesn’t understand. “Because… it’s weird?” he says.
Erica laughs, shaking her head. “I don’t expect you to get this,” she says dryly, “but this is how normal people communicate.”
Derek glares at the phone, his thumb hovering over the keyboard. “It feels too casual.”
“That’s the point.” Erica blows out a breath, annoyed. “Casual is good. It’s how you start things off without coming on too strong. Trust me, this is how it’s done.”
“Okay, I'm just going to do it.”
“Then do it.”
“I am.”
Erica gives him a pointed look. “You’re not doing anything.”
Finally, with a resigned sigh he types out a message and hits send before he can change his mind. “There. Done.”
Erica, who’s been watching him the entire time, leans in closer. “What are you writing?” she asks, trying to peek at the screen.
Derek angles the phone toward her, and Erica’s eyes widen as she reads the conversation. “Oh my god, Derek, you can’t write that!”
Derek: Be at my house tomorrow at 8. Don’t be late.
Derek frowns, suddenly feeling a surge of nervousness. “Why not?”
Erica stares at him, exasperated. “Because it sounds creepy! You literally just told him to be at your house without any explanation!”
The phone chimes and both of their heads snap down to stare at it.
Stiles: who's this?
Derek hesitates for a moment, but Erica elbows him in the ribs, hissing, “Answer him!”
Derek: Derek.
Derek’s grip tightens on the phone, his mind racing. “I was trying to be straightforward. I thought that’s what I’m supposed to do.”
Erica groans. “Straightforward is good, Derek, but there’s a difference between straightforward and coming off like a serial killer!”
Before Derek can respond, another text from Stiles comes in.
Stiles: ok, creepy. how did you even get my nbr?
Derek quickly types back, his nerves making his fingers feel clumsy.
Derek: I have my ways.
“Seriously?” Erica says. “That’s what you went with? ‘I have my ways’? What is wrong with you?”
“Shut up,” Derek snaps back. “What the f*ck was I supposed to say?”
“Literally anything else!”
Derek’s anxiety spikes as he watches another reply from Stiles pop up.
Stiles: wow, dude, real subtle. should I be worried that ur stalking me?
Derek: If I was stalking you, you wouldn’t know. Are you coming or not?
Erica nearly chokes on air as she reads it. “Oh my god, Derek! You just made it worse!”
“Why? What’s wrong with that?” Derek asks, voice tight. “I thought it sounded, I don’t know, flirty?”
“You basically just confirmed his worst fears! You’re supposed to be making this less creepy, not more!”
Derek waves the phone in her direction. “You fix it!” he hisses.
Erica snatches the phone from him. “Give me that, you idiot.”
Stiles: fine, i’ll be there. but if this turns out to be some lame prank, I’m keying ur camaro.
Erica reads the message and lets out a relieved laugh. “Okay, well, at least he’s still coming, but seriously, Derek, we need to work on your texting game.”
Derek exhales slowly. “This is good, right?”
Erica smirks, handing the phone back to him. “I hope you’ve done your research, Der-Bear."
Derek frowns. "What?"
She snorts, shaking her head. "Research, Derek. You know, on what you’re getting into. It’s not exactly something you can just figure out as you go."
“What are you talking about?”
“Oh, come on, really?” she says. “Research, Derek. You know, about… the logistics of what you’re about to do. It’s not exactly the same as dating a girl."
Derek scowls. “What logistics?”
Erica rolls her eyes. "You know, two guys, Derek. It’s a little different. You might want to learn how things work before you dive in.”
Derek crosses his arms, a skeptical look on his face. "It’s just a date, Erica. Our first date. I don’t think he’s going to want to do... that.”
"Oh, trust me, Derek,” Erica answers slyly. “From what I’ve heard, he’ll probably be expecting it.”
Derek stares at her. "f*ck."
Erica grins. "Yeah, now you’re getting it.”
—
This shouldn’t be that hard - plenty of people do it, so how difficult can it be? But the truth is, he’s got no f*cking clue what he’s supposed to do. He knows the basic mechanics - tab A goes into slot B - but how that’s supposed to happen without a lot of pain, or worse, making a fool of himself, is a complete f*cking mystery.
His mom is at work, and the house is quiet, but he still takes every precaution. He locks his bedroom door, shuts the blinds, and double-checks that the curtains are fully drawn. There’s no way in hell he’s risking someone catching him in the act of… research.
Derek pulls out his laptop, feeling a weird mix of dread and determination. He fumbles with his headphones, making sure they’re plugged in and secure - the last thing he needs is the sound accidentally blaring out and alerting the whole neighborhood to what he’s watching.
With one last deep breath, Derek opens his browser and starts searching. It feels surreal, like he’s stepping into some forbidden territory, but he forces himself to keep going. He clicks on a video that looks instructional enough, trying to focus on the practical aspects rather than letting himself get too distracted by the visuals.
The video starts playing, and Derek’s eyes widen as he watches, trying to absorb everything. The movements, the positions, the way they seem to make it work without anyone looking like they’re in agony - which, actually, is not really that surprising when he thinks about it. Locker room talk might not be up his alley and he usually tunes the other guys out, but he hears them, and convincing their girls to take one up the ass seems to be a holy grail of achievements, for some reason. Why anyone would choose that over the wet softness of a tight puss*, Derek doesn’t understand, but there’s a lot of things people do that baffles him, so he's not surprised.
He watches closely, rewinding certain parts, trying to figure out the logistics. It’s a lot to take in, and he finds himself getting more nervous the longer he watches. There’s a lot of prep involved, apparently - way more than he expected. He makes mental notes, trying to remember the things that seem important: go slow, lots of lube, communication is key. It’s a weird sort of crash course, and he’s hyper-aware of how ridiculous this situation is, but it’s not like he can ask anyone for advice and he wants to make it good for Stiles.
Stiles, who’s probably done this a million times; who probably expects Derek to know exactly what to do.
As the video goes on, Derek’s initial anxiety starts to morph into something else, almost like a warmth building low in his stomach. At first, he tries to ignore it, chalking it up to nerves or the intensity of the situation. But as the video continues, the feeling only gets stronger, spreading through his body until he realizes with a jolt of surprise that he’s starting to get hard.
The realization hits him like a slap, and he almost laughs out loud at the absurdity of it. It’s ridiculous, really, because the whole reason he’s watching this in the first place is because he wants to put his dick up another guy’s ass. He knows what he’s planning to do, knows why he’s doing this research, and yet somehow, the idea that he’d actually get turned on by it had never fully registered.
He shifts uncomfortably, his jeans suddenly feeling a little too tight as the arousal continues to build. He tries to refocus on the video, on the techniques and the steps he needs to remember, but it’s getting harder to concentrate. The images on the screen, the sounds, the way the two guys move together - it’s f*cking hot, is what is is, and the guy taking it up the ass kind of looks like Stiles if he squints.
His heart is pounding, his breath coming a little faster, and he can’t help the way his eyes are drawn to certain parts of the video. The way they touch each other, the slick-wet slap their bodies make when the larger guy pounds into the smaller one - it’s all suddenly very real, and Derek finds himself wondering what it would feel like, what it would be like to be in that situation, to be the one making those sounds, feeling those sensations. For a moment, he hesitates, his hand hovering over the waistband of his jeans. There’s a voice in the back of his mind telling him to stop, to keep this clinical, to focus on learning rather, but that voice is quickly drowned out when the smaller guy, the one who looks so much like Stiles, kneels down and looks up beneath thick lashes. He runs his hands up the thick thighs of the larger guy to frame his co*ck, grin widening, and then just f*cking swallows him down. The sheer wave of lust that floods him is overwhelming, shutting down any remaining semblance of rational thought. Before he knows it, his hand moves on its own, sliding down to palm himself through his jeans. The touch sends a shiver down his spine all the way down to his toes, and he bites back a soft groan as his hips instinctively push into his hand. The sensation is sharp, immediate, and Derek can’t help but close his eyes, losing himself in the feeling for just a moment. He unbuttons his jeans with one hand, the other tangling in the sheets of the bed, like he needs something to hold onto. His fingers slip beneath the waistband of his boxers, and he hisses softly as his hand wraps around his co*ck, the contact sending a jolt of pleasure through his body.
Derek starts stroking himself, slow and deliberate at first, but the more he touches, the more he lets himself feel, the harder it becomes to hold back. The images from the video flash behind his closed eyelids and Derek can’t help but imagine himself in that position, him and Stiles doing that together, Stiles doing that to him, on his knees, lips red and swollen and wet around his co*ck. His strokes become faster, more desperate, hand gliding up to squeeze the head of his co*ck, smearing the precome around with his thumb and using it to slick the way for his palm.
f*ck, he just wants to push that skinny little body down on his bed and wrap his hands around those thighs, spread him open and suck him down as his fingers work their way into his body, preparing him for Derek’s co*ck.
The thought sends a fresh wave of arousal crashing through him, and he tightens his grip, his breathing coming in short, ragged gasps. Derek’s head falls back against the pillow, his free hand clutching the sheets harder as he teeters on the edge.
Maybe Stiles would be on all fours, tight ass perched high in the air, the arch of his back glistening with sweat as Derek drives into him, his sweet little moans muffled into the pillow.
f*ck.
He’s so close, his entire body tensing as he chases his org*sm, mind filled with Stiles, Stiles, Stiles - Stiles’ lips wrapped around his co*ck, no, Derek f*cking into his mouth, hand tightly wound in those dark curls, choking him, f*cking gagging him, until he comes down his throat.
With a low, guttural moan, Derek comes, spilling wet and sticky over his hand, shooting up to hit his chin with the force of it, entire body flushed hot and shuddering. He rides out the waves of pleasure, his mind a haze of satisfaction and relief, as he slowly comes back down from the high. For a moment, Derek just lies there, his breath coming in uneven pants, his body still thrumming with the aftershocks. When he finally opens his eyes, the reality of what just happened starts to sink in, and a part of him feels almost embarrassed by how easily he’d lost control. He cleans himself up, hands shaking, then closes his laptop and adjusts his clothes.
Derek isn’t sure what he f*ck he is anymore, but it sure as hell isn’t straight.
—
Of course he isn’t straight - he’s known that on some level for a while now. How could he not, when he’s wanted to get his hands on Stiles since the moment he first saw him in detention a year ago? Stiles, with his sh*t-eating grin, his f*cking lips, and those ridiculous skinny jeans that does absolutely nothing to hide the lean lines of his body. Derek’s not the brightest student at Beacon Hills High, but he’s not f*cking stupid, despite what people think.
“Derek, are you even listening?” Erica says, poking him in the thigh with a fork.
“Ow, what the f*ck, Erica,” Derek hisses.
She’s giving him a look, one eyebrow raised, and her fork pointed straight at him. “You’re not even listening to me,” she says, lips pulled into a slight pout.
“I am.” Derek tries to remember what she was talking about - probably gossip, maybe something about the latest drama with the cheerleading squad. “I'm listening,” he insists.
It's actually completely ridiculous when he thinks about it. He’s spent the past year trying to ignore it, trying to chalk it up to some weird, one-off attraction, but after what just happened - after what he did, to those videos, thinking about not only Stiles but other men too, after - it’s quickly becoming clear that it’s a lot more than just some weird phase.
“Derek.”
“What?”
“I said, do you think Carla's going to make a move on Jackson, or is she just stringing him along?” Erica repeats, clearly exasperated. “You’ve been staring off into space for the last ten minutes.”
Derek opens his mouth to respond, but the words that come out aren’t anything about Carla or Jackson or whatever the f*ck else she’s been on about. Instead, before he can stop himself, he blurts out, “I think maybe I’m not straight.”
There’s a beat of silence, the words hanging in the air between them, and Derek immediately regrets saying it out loud. His heart is pounding, and he feels like he’s just jumped off a cliff with no idea where he’s going to land.
Probably lava, because that would be on par with the rest of his f*cking life.
Erica stares at him for a moment, her expression unreadable, and Derek’s stomach twists with anxiety. But then she lets out a soft, almost pitying sigh, and her face softens into something that’s almost affectionate. “Oh, baby,” she says, reaching across the table to pat his hand. “Of course you’re not.”
Derek scowls, thrown off by the ease of her response. “What do you mean, ‘of course’?”
“Derek, I love you and all, but come on.”
“You knew?”
“Yep.”
“Do you think anyone else knows?”
Erica laughs a little, tilting her head. “Would that be so bad?”
“Yes,” Derek snaps, but then, “no - maybe? I don’t know.”
"You do know you have a date tonight, right?"
"Yes."
“A date I helped you score, by the way.”
“Yes.”
"A date with a boy, Derek," Erica says wryly.
Derek blinks, the absurdity of his own statement sinking in. "Yeah... right."
“You’re lucky you’re so pretty.” Erica just shakes her head, exasperated. "Because Lord knows you ain't no genius.”
—
Derek: I can’t do this.
He frantically paces around his room, tossing random items into his closet and shoving dirty laundry under the bed.
Erica: Of course you can.
Derek: What if he wants to have sex?
Erica: Wear your sexy underwear.
Derek’s eyes widen as he reads the text, his hands freezing mid-movement. He glances down at his jeans, suddenly very aware of what’s underneath. With a look of sheer panic, he begins to fumble with the waistband, trying to discreetly peek at his underwear while mentally flipping through his drawer in a desperate search for anything even remotely resembling sexy.
Derek: What the f*ck is sexy underwear?
Erica: You know, the kind that makes you feel confident. Just don’t overthink it. Trust me.
Erica: No, f*ck that. Boxer-briefs. Tight. White, if you have them. Otherwise, black.
Derek: I have a jockstrap that’s white?
Erica: Nice initiative, lover boy, but maybe save that for the second date.
Derek sinks onto the bed, clutching the jockstrap in his hand. He lets out a heavy sigh, staring at it with a blank expression. “I’m so f*cking screwed,” he mutters, tossing it aside. A moment later, he scrambles to his feet, quickly retrieving the jockstrap and shoving it into the back of his closet.
Being not-completely-straight should come with a f*cking instructions manual.
—
Stiles looks nervous, and yeah, Derek can get behind that - he’s nervous too. He reeks of cigarette smoke and, faintly, of weed, hands picking restlessly at the sleeve of his hoodie. It’s weird seeing him like this, because Derek’s first impression of him like that co*ck-sure kid in detention all those months ago sort of stuck with him and that’s how he’s always pictured him since.
Now, Derek spots the miniscule twitch of his hand resting on the bed sheet, the way his fingers curl tight around the fabric, and he looks scared, for a moment; a brief flash of nerves across his face.
“You okay?” Derek asks and flashes a grin because co*cky is good, usually makes Stiles roll his eyes and snap out some weird sardonic comment Derek only understands about half of the time.
“Yeah,” Stiles says, exhaling slowly. “I'm good.”
Derek recognises his own pounding heart for what it is as he takes off his shirt - nervousness - and sh*t, it’s been a long time since he felt like this, all weak knees and sweaty palms at the thought of being naked with someone, at the thought of not measuring up.
Stiles doesn’t look disappointed at least, no, he looks so damned turned on it goes straight to Derek’s co*ck. All big eyes, looking up at him, tiny slivers of brown swallowed up by the blackness of his pupils. His mouth is hanging open, slightly, spit-slick and reddened, pink tongue darting out to wet his lips as his eyes take in the lines of Derek’s body.
“Derek.” Stiles’ voice is barely more than a rasp, all breathy and wanton, and he can see a flush creeping up the collar of his shirt.
Jesus. This kid is going to kill him.
Derek’s lips twitch into a small smirk, because this feels like familiar territory - people wanting him, desiring him. “Stiles,” he answers, wanting to tease, to be playful for once, trying to lighten the tense atmosphere building thick and heavy between them.
His hands go to the button of his jeans and Stiles’ eyes follow the moment, mezmerized as Derek eases them down his legs and kicks them across the floor. He thinks that, maybe, he should be embarrassed at how hard he is already, co*ck tenting his tight boxer-briefs, wet spot visible even through the darkness of the fabric, but he isn’t.
The way Stiles laughs, a shuddery, breathy, “f*ck,” slipping from his mouth makes Derek feel good about himself, like he did well, like he’s enough.
Like maybe he’s just as much, or at least as much, of a turn on for Stiles as that Danny guy.
He tries to remember what’s supposed to happen next, which step comes after this, and wishes Stiles would take the lead - he’s the one with experience, after all - but Stiles doesn’t. Probably thinks Derek knows what to do, like he has a single f*cking clue how this is supposed to work beyond gay p*rn and shady Google searches.
He thinks that this is probably what Stiles wants anyway, for him to take the lead, people usually want that from Derek, he guesses because of how he looks. That’s what Erica tells him, at least. That he looks like someone that takes charge, wants to be in charge.
So Derek lets his smirk widen, just a little, and takes a step closer, feeling the rapid beat of his heart intensify. “Any preferences?”
He knows that much, at least, from his research. Someone needs to be tab A and someone needs to be slot B and Derek doesn’t really care whose dick goes where, but doesn’t want to be the one to decide that. He wants Stiles to feel good, to feel comfortable.
“Dealer's choice,” is what Stiles says, and he looks faintly amused, still turned on, still nervous, but also like he’s gaining a bit of confidence, leaning back on the bed like that, almost posing.
It works. He looks good, stretched out on Derek’s sheets, co*cky little smile dancing at the corner of his lips, like he’s pleased with himself. Derek wants to touch him, so he does, steps closer into the open vee of his legs, lets his fingers trail up the side of his neck, brushing his thumb along the spatter of moles marking his throat.
“I want to f*ck you,” Derek says, because he really does, so bad, and Stiles eyes widen, glaze over, like he likes Derek saying that. From what Derek’s gathered from the p*rn he's watched, Stiles kind of looks like a bottom, not that he would ever tell him that, so maybe it makes sense that he would want to get f*cked?
“Yeah?” Stiles says, and Jesus, he sounds completely wrecked. Derek’s stomach tightens with a sudden, sharp burst of arousal. “I mean yeah - yes,” he continues, laughing a little, like he’s embarrassed. “I am fully onboard with that.”
Derek wants to kiss him, but he waits, traces those long legs with his hands, slots his fingers over sharp hip bones and marvels at how big his own hands look on Stiles body, how they're almost large enough to circle his waist.
Stiles surges forward, suddenly, closing the distance between them with a kiss that feels messy and desperate, like he’s been holding back and finally decided not to; all clashing teeth and hungry tongues and wet saliva. Derek’s hand finds its way into Stiles’ hair, fingers tangling in the soft strands as he holds him in place, slowing it down, deepening the kiss. His co*ck is already throbbing between his legs, a hard heavy weight that’s begging to be touched, and if this is going to last Derek needs to calm down, needs to slow the pace before he shoots in his underwear like a goddamn fourteen year old before the main event has even started.
Time passes slow, at first, and then fast, a blurry haze of tongue and teeth and wet, bit-swollen lips, and Derek pushes Stiles onto the bed, settling his body over Stiles’ smaller one. He feels so good nestled between Derek’s arms, like this is normal and ordinary, like this is where he’s supposed to be.
“This is really unfair, you know,” Stiles says, eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiles up at Derek, all breathy pants and heaving chest. “You being this -” He gestures vaguely at Derek’s body, “ - ridiculously good-looking should be illegal. At least give the rest of us mortals a chance.”
Derek thinks that might be the dumbest thing he’s heard in his entire life, and he’s listened to some pretty f*cked up sh*t throughout his years. Stiles is beautiful, a word Derek never thought he’d think about a boy, but here he is, taking in the long lines of his skinny little body - and God, Derek could just pick him up and f*ck him against the wall if he wanted to - all pale mole-dotted skin and sharp angles and limbs that seem to go on forever. He’d never tell her, never, but Stiles could give even Erica a run for her money with those legs, long and lean lightly muscled.
Even his co*ck is pretty, and isn’t that the most f*cked up thing to think, but it’s true. Long, longer than Derek’s, but not as thick, looking like it'd fit perfectly in his hands and flushed rosy and pink at the top. p*rn-co*ck, Derek thinks, Stiles co*ck looks like it belongs in p*rn or some medical book showcasing the gold standard of dicks.
Derek quirks an eyebrow, because Stiles really is stupid sometimes. “You done?”
“Not even close.” Stiles says and makes a tiny sound as Derek fits a hand around his leg. “I mean, here I am, about to be sexed by you, and you can’t even throw me a bone by making a funny face? Rude. I need balance, Derek. You can’t be hot, broody, and intense all at the same time. It’s too much.”
Derek laughs a little, can't help it. “You really think this is the time for critique?”
His hands are trembling as he parts Stiles’ thighs and he doesn’t think Stiles notices, or he hopes he doesn’t, but this is the part Derek’s been most nervous about. Everything he’s read talks about how important this step is, to make it safe, to make it good for Stiles, but he’s never done this before, not to anyone, not to a girl, and not even to himself.
The lube is slippery between his fingers and he warms it up first, read that in a Tips & Tricks Reddit thread for beginners, that it would make it feel less invasive. Inserting a finger, Derek still thinks this looks pretty f*cking invasive, so he understands why someone would want to make it less so, even if it’s such as simple thing as heating it up first.
“Always the time for critique,” Stiles insists, the little sh*t, though his voice cracks slightly as Derek slides in a finger, slow, trying to give him time to adjust. “Oh - okay, yeah, that’s - okay, you’ve made your point,” Stiles continues, voice choked.
Derek is…surprised, to say the least. Stiles actually seems to like this part, seems to enjoy the feeling of Derek’s finger inside of him, and he didn’t expect that. Had mostly thought of this as a means to an end, but there Stiles is, all flushed and panting; clenching around his finger like he wants to draw him, like he wants more. He pushes in a second finger, watching them disappear inside his tight hole - and sh*t, it’s tight - creating an even rhythm as he moves them in, then back out, then in again.
He crooks his fingers and gently moves it in an upward motion toward the front of Stiles’ body, just like he read about, while gauging his reaction. There’s a gasp that slowly tapers off into a low moan, Stiles’ hips arching off the bed as he pushes back on Derek’s fingers. f*ck, just seeing that makes heat curl tight between his legs, his co*ck twitching impatiently. Derek shifts his hips against the bed with a groan, rests his head against Stiles’ thigh as he watches his fingers work Stiles open.
What if this is enough to make him come, Derek wonders, and damn that’s hot, makes him feel all squirmy and warm inside, the thought that maybe Derek’s fingers could bring him to org*sm, that he could give Stiles that kind of pleasure without even touching his co*ck.
Derek pulls his fingers out, settling back on bent knees as he reaches for Stiles, guiding the bottom half of his body up and into his lap. Stiles instinctively wraps his legs around Derek’s waist, drawing him closer, their chests pressed together as Derek leans forward. He hopes that Stiles is prepared enough, because Derek sure as sh*t can’t tell, but Stiles would probably know, right, and sh*t, that’s Stiles’ co*ck pressed up, hard and leaking against his stomach, and Derek almost f*cking loses it right then and there.
The heat between them is almost overwhelming, and Derek can feel Stiles' fingers digging into his shoulders, and he wants to be inside him, can already imagine how it feels, probably so much tighter than any girl he's ever been with. He starts to position himself, bears his weight down, pushing Stiles into the mattress as he lifts one of his legs, encouraging Stiles to wrap it higher around his waist.
But then Stiles gasps out, “Condom,” and Derek freezes.
His mind blanks for a second, a wave of cold washing over him. sh*t. He hadn’t even thought about it. With girls, it was always a given, something he didn’t even need to remind himself about, but here, with Stiles, it completely slipped his mind, like the f*cking idiot he is.
“sh*t, sorry,” Derek mumbles, the tension in his shoulders breaking as he quickly reaches for the bedside table. His hands are a little shaky as he fumbles for the condom, and he hopes Stiles doesn’t think he’s one of those guys, the guys he read about that thinks gay sex is excluded from safe sex just because it’s up the ass.
He barely registers Stiles’, “It’s fine,” as he tears open the wrapper, the crinkle of it suddenly so damn loud in the quiet of the room. Derek can feel the heat of embarrassment crawling up his neck, but Stiles doesn’t seem fazed, just lying back down, eyes closed, an amused lilt to his lips.
“Gotta wrap it before you tap it, you know. Safety first and all that,” Stiles says, and there’s a lightness in his voice that makes Derek’s chest loosen a bit. He looks at Stiles, really looks, and there’s something almost fond in the way Stiles is smiling up at him, like it’s no big deal, and it makes him feel better.
Derek rolls the condom on as quickly and carefully as he can, his focus shifting entirely back to Stiles. He leans down, gently laying him back on the bed, brushing his lips against Stiles' in an apology. Then Derek slides into him and he forgets everything about condoms and awkwardness and whether he knows how to f*ck a guy or not, is completely mesmerized at the sight of himself sinking into Stiles, the subtle shifts of his face as Derek pushes his co*ck deeper into that wet-slick heat.
Stiles is tight, almost too tight, and searing hot; ass clenching around his co*ck and it feels new, completely brand new, like it’s his first time all over again and Derek is left floored by the sensation of being inside someone. He feels frozen for a second, lungs robbed of air, body too focused on the hot grip around him to do anything but breathe and breathe and breathe.
Derek feels the tension in Stiles’ body, the way he scrambles for purchase against his back, nails digging in as if he’s trying to hold on. It sends a rush of heat through him, the intensity of it almost startling. He’s barely holding on himself, the need to move his hips, to go faster, almost overriding any lingering sense of self-control. Stiles is meeting him with desperate eagerness, body arching off the bed, trying to get closer, deeper, as if he can’t get enough. Stiles’ heart is pounding against his own, fast, so f*cking fast, their breaths mingling in the small space between them until Derek feels like he can hardly breathe.
He’s so wrapped up in it, in the rhythm they’ve built together, that he can barely get the words out when he feels them bubbling up. “Stiles,” Derek rasps, roughly. “You talk too much.”
There’s a brief pause, just enough for Derek to catch Stiles’ breathless laugh. “God, shut up,” he pants, voice shaky. “I haven’t even said anything.”
Derek can’t help the small huff of amusem*nt that escapes him. “You were going to.”
He sets a relentless rhythm, can't help it, the way his hips snap into Stiles as if they suddenly have a will of their own. He can feel every tremor that runs through Stiles’ body, every little breathy moan pushed out from between his lips with every sharp thrust, each one spurring him on, making him push harder, faster. The sounds filling the room - Stiles’ gasps, the ragged breath they share, the slick slide of their bodies - are heady, so f*cking heady, adding fuel to the fire burning inside him.
“Yeah, well, someone has to - oh my god,” Stiles says and f*ck it if Derek even remembers what they were talking about. Stiles' voice breaks off as Derek shifts his hips, trying to find that spot with his co*ck, the one his fingers found so easily earlier.
“No fair using dirty tactics,” Stiles gasps out.
“Who said I play fair?” Derek manages to get out, because it seems safe to say, even though he has no clue what they’re talking about.
Stiles comes first, and Derek can feel it in the way Stiles’ body clenches hot and tight like a vice around him, pulling a deep, guttural moan from his throat. The sound vibrates through him as Stiles’ fingers dig into his shoulders, leaving marks that Derek knows he’ll feel for days. It’s raw, unfiltered, f*cking filthy in the absolute best way, the hot splash of liquid between their bodies, tipping him right to the edge.
He’s so close, he can barely keep control, his hips stuttering as he tries to hold on for just a moment longer, to savor this feeling, but he can’t - the sound of Stiles’ breathy moans, the way his body trembles and tightens around him, the way his wet mouth pants across his skin - it all sends him right there in a matter of seconds.
Derek’s thrusts go erratic, desperate, as pleasure crashes over him. He can barely catch his breath as he comes, every muscle in his body locking up as the intensity of it slams into him. It’s unlike anything he’s ever felt, overwhelming and all-consuming, pulling him under so completely that he can’t think, can’t see, can’t do anything but feel. He thinks he might say something, curses maybe, probably f*ck or something because Derek knows he goes a bit neanderthal like that after, all sex-drunk och come-stupid.
For a long moment, there’s nothing but the sound of their heavy breathing, the rapid thud of their hearts beating in sync, and the warmth of Stiles beneath him. Derek doesn’t want to move, doesn’t want to get up, doesn’t want his co*ck to soften and slip out because then it will be over and he'll probably never get to have this again; will have to go back to watching from across the parking lot, watch Danny’s hand settle on Stiles’ back and curl around his wrist as they smile stupidly at each other.
Getting to f*ck Stiles is maybe the best thing that’s ever happened to him, but he can’t help but think that it might also be the worst. Now he realizes what it’s like to finally have what he’s wanted for so long, while also knowing he won’t get to keep it.
—
Derek steadies himself against the wall, trying to keep his breathing even as the rush of adrenaline begins to fade. It was everything he’d ever imagined and more - f*ck, so much more. For a moment, Derek had let himself believe that this could mean something, that maybe it wasn’t just another hookup. He’s kind of stupid like that. Erica always teases him about being a closet-romantic and yeah, she’s sort of right though he'd never admit it.
But sh*t, that f*cking memory of Stiles and Danny - he just can’t get it out of his head - faces flushed, clothes rumpled, looking happy, and so damn at ease with each other. They make a good fit, look good together, as much as he hates it. He feels kind of sick thinking about the casual way they’d touched each other, the ease in their banter - it all screamed of familiarity, comfort.
Everything he wants to have with Stiles, but can’t.
“So,” Derek says, forcing his voice to stay steady, distant. “You probably want to head out, right?” He doesn’t even look at Stiles as he says it, can't, keeps his gaze fixed on some distant point on the wall.
There’s a brief pause, and then Derek hears Stiles’ voice, quieter than he expected, small, laced with something that almost sounds like disbelief. “What?”
It doesn’t matter. Stiles does this, he reminds himself - casual sex, no strings attached. Derek’s no stranger to it either; he’s had his fair share of hookups, more than he cares to count, but this… this feels different. It feels like a first, like something more than just a physical connection, and in a way, it kind of is, for him at least.
Derek shrugs, still not turning to face him. “I just figured you’d want to head out. You know how it is.”
This, whatever’s going on here, is casual, just a thing that happened between them, something Stiles probably didn’t think twice about. It’s not like it was hard to get his clothes off, hard to get him on his knees, practically begging for it. He probably does this all the time.
For a moment, there’s silence, and Derek can feel the tension building in the room, thick and heavy. When Stiles speaks again, there’s confusion in his voice, maybe even a touch of hurt. “I know how it is?” he repeats, like he’s trying to make sense of what Derek’s saying. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m just saying it’s fine if you want to go. We had fun. That’s all this needs to be, right?”
He sees something shift in Stiles’ expression, sees the way his eyes narrow, the way his jaw tightens. “Is that what you think I was here for?”
Derek’s stomach twists, a cold knot forming in his chest. “You don’t have to make this complicated, Stiles. I know you and Danny have a thing - casual, no expectations. It’s fine if this is the same. I’m not expecting more.”
As soon as the words are out, Derek regrets them. They sound cold, dismissive, like he doesn’t care, when the truth is the exact opposite.
Stiles’ reaction is immediate, his voice trembling, sounding angry and hurt. “How the f*ck do you know about me and Danny? And, what?” He takes a breath, and Derek can hear how shaky it is. “You think I’m just bouncing around from bed to bed, having fun, no big deal? That this is just another one of my ‘things’?”
Derek wants to say something, wants to explain, but the words get stuck in his throat, as f*cking usual, and the silence stretches out until it feels too late to try and explain.
“Everyone knows about you and Danny. It’s not like it’s a secret,” is what he says, eventually.
It’s exactly the wrong thing to say, he can see that, see the way Stiles’ entire body sort of shrinks in on itself, how he seems to get smaller, eyes big and sad and shining with tears. It cuts through Derek like a f*cking knife, and he just wishes he could rewind the clock, go back and stuff all the ugliness back into his mouth and just swallow them, choke on them, make sure they stay where they belong.
It’s not Stiles fault Derek can’t be f*cking normal, can’t express himself, his feelings, the way other people seem to do without the slightest bit of effort.
“Right,” Stiles says, the word clipped, like he’s holding back, wanting to say more. Whatever it is, Derek probably deserves it. “Right, okay - wow, f*ck you, too.”
He wants to say, I didn’t know, I didn’t know this could be more, we didn’t even kiss before this - and Danny, what about Danny? - I'm sorry, don’t go, come back, but he doesn’t.
He listens to Stiles' heavy footsteps retreat down the stairs, the door slamming shut, and then the angry screech of tires pulling out of the driveway.
And then Derek goes to bed, lies in sheets that are sticky and wet and smells like Stiles, and tries to convince himself it’s for the best.
—
Derek: Danny cornered me after class and bit my f*cking head off. Can we talk?
Derek: Stiles, c’mon, just talk to me.
Derek: I f*cked up, I know, but let me explain.
Derek: I can’t do this over text, it’s not right. Please.
—
The sound of the party hits Derek the moment he steps through the door - loud music thumping in his chest, voices shouting to be heard over the bass, and the scent of alcohol and sweat hanging heavy in the air. It’s chaos, pure and simple, fun, and all Derek wants to do is go home.
He weaves through the crowd, already drunk before he got here on his mom's disgusting three dollar wine from Walmart, barely acknowledging the people who try to talk to him, offering them only tight-lipped smiles or curt nods. He’s not here to be f*cking social - he’s not even sure why he’s here at all, to be honest. The smell of weed drifts in from the patio, where a group of people are passing around a joint, laughing loudly. The sight of them, the curling smoke and their flushed blissed-out faces, sends a sharp pang through Derek’s chest. It reminds him of Stiles, which, big f*cking surprise - everything reminds him of Stiles.
Derek turns away, heading for the kitchen, where the counter is lined with bottles of alcohol, half of them already empty. He pours himself a drink - something strong, looks like pure vodka, he doesn’t care what - and downs it in one go, hoping the burn in his throat will distract him from the tightness in his chest.
Why does he have to be such a f*ck up all the time?
The party is a blur of faces, of bodies pressed together in the dim light, but none of it interests him. Not the girls in the corner giggling at some joke, not the guys playing flip-cup by the pool table - not even the group of topless chicks in the hot tub outside.
Derek stumbles out of the crowded house, the cool night air hitting him like a shock to the system. The noise from the party dulls as the door swings shut behind him, but the buzzing in his head remains. He takes a few unsteady steps toward the street, barely aware of where he’s going, just needing to move, to get away.
“Derek!” Erica’s voice cuts through the haze. He hears the rapid click of her heels on the pavement as she rushes to catch up to him. “Derek, wait!”
He stops, but doesn’t turn around, his shoulders tense as he stares down at the sidewalk, trying to focus on something other than the spinning in his head. He feels Erica’s hand on his arm, her grip firm as she tugs him to face her.
“What the hell are you doing?” she demands, her eyes narrowing as she takes in his disheveled appearance, the flushed skin, the glassy eyes. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”
“I’m fine,” Derek mutters, his voice rough, the words slurring slightly. He tries to pull away, but Erica tightens her grip, not letting him go.
“No, you’re not,” she says firmly, stepping in front of him to block his path. “You’re drunk, Derek. And you’re sad. And whatever you’re trying to do right now, it’s not helping.”
He glances away, jaw clenching. “Erica, I just need to get the f*ck out of here, alright,” he says, his voice cracking on the words. “I can’t… I can’t be here.”
“I know,” she says, her expression softening as she takes a step closer. “But running away isn’t going to make this go away. You know that.”
Derek looks at her, face twisting into a grimace. “Staying here won't help either.”
“Call him,” she says suddenly, voice urgent. “Or text him. Just… reach out. Maybe he’s hurting too. Maybe you can talk this out.”
“What’s the point?” he says bitterly, shaking his head. “He doesn’t want me, Erica. He made that pretty f*cking clear.”
“You don’t know that,” she counters. “You haven’t even tried -”
“I have tried!” he yells. “I've tried calling and texting and even gone to his study date with Lydia f*cking Martin, but he won't even talk to me!”
Erica doesn’t say anything for a moment, then, without a word, she steps forward and wraps her arms around him, pulling him into a tight hug.
“I’m just so confused,” Derek whispers into her shoulder. “Nothing makes any sense anymore.” He breathes her in, the familiar scents of her sweet perfume and soap and hairspray, letting it wash over him as her hand runs through his hair.
Erica pulls back slightly, just enough to look him in the eyes, her hands resting on his shoulders. “We'll fix it, Derek,” she says with a small, reassuring smile. “We’ll figure it out, okay?”
“I don’t think there’s anything to do,” he admits. “I really f*cked up, Erica.”
“Leave that to me.” Erica strokes his back gently, and he feels her mouth stretch into a smile against the curve of his shoulder. “I know exactly what to do.”
—
Derek: Stiles, please, I just need to talk to you. Can we meet?
Derek: I get it if you’re pissed, but please just let me explain.
Derek: I’m not going to give up, Stiles. You might as well just talk to me.
—
Derek is watching Marley & Me, and he can’t figure out why he’s still got it on. Erica had put it on when she came over, but she had to leave, and now he’s just sitting here, still watching it, for reasons he can’t quite explain.
There’s a sudden sharp knock on the door, and his mom steps in. Derek scrambles to turn off the movie on his laptop but the f*cking thing won’t shut off.
On the screen, Marley lies on the vet's table, his breathing shallow and labored while John kneels beside him, tears streaming down his face as he strokes Marley's head.
His mom raises an eyebrow, clearly noticing his frantic attempts to close the laptop. The sound of soft, heartbreaking music fills the room and Derek finally manages to pause it, but not before his mom catches a glimpse of the screen.
“Marley & Me?” she asks, trying to hide a smile.
“It’s Erica’s fault,” Derek says, avoiding her gaze as he slams the laptop shut. “She put it on before she left.”
“What’s going on, Derek?” His mom gives him a look, voice cautious and gentle. “You’ve been acting off for days - well, even grumpier than usual.” Her mouth pulls up into a small smile.
“Nothing,” he mumbles, but she just keeps looking at him, and he can’t stand it when she looks at him like that - all sad, like she knows something’s wrong, like she’s already unhappy with him. His hands are suddenly clammy, his heart pounding too fast.
His mom doesn’t say anything, just moves closer and sits down next to him on the bed. She reaches out, gently running her hand through his hair, nails scratching, soft and soothing. The room is too quiet, too still, and the air is too hot and it feels hard to breathe.
“Talk to me, Derek.”
Derek breathes out shakily. "I f*cked up, mom - sorry, messed up.”
His mom doesn’t push, just keeps running her fingers through his hair, waiting for him to speak.
“There’s this guy.” He opens his mouth to continue, and for a second, he thinks he might throw up, or pass out, but then it just slips out, he just f*cking says it, “I like him, but then I f*cked it all up.”
The hand in his hair pauses, and Derek is too scared to look at her, can't even move a damn muscle, but then her fingers resume their slow carding and he breathes out, slowly, pushing all the air he's been holding in out of his lungs.
His mom's breath catches slightly, and she goes, “Oh.”
And Derek’s mind spirals, like, yeah, I know I'm a f*ck up, who’s going to want to recruit a lacrosse captain with a fondness for dick in his mouth to a varsity team?
“God, Derek, I thought it was something else, something serious.”
He feels a sudden weird mix of relief and anger flood through him, emotions clashing in his chest, because this is serious? How can she not see that?
She must sense the shift in him because she quickly adds, “Honey, no, of course it’s serious, but it’s… it doesn’t change anything. You know that, right?”
“It changes everything,” he says, mutters under his breath, fists clenching under the covers. “For me. It changes everything.”
His mom is quiet for a moment, then says softly, "For me, it changes nothing. I love you. You’re still my son, and I love you. Still the grumpiest bear, still my kind, sweet boy."
Derek wants to roll his eyes at her words, but instead, he feels a kind of warmth spreading inside him, the tight knot in his stomach loosening just a bit.
"What about college?" he asks, shifting the conversation away, can't handle the gentleness she’s showing him.
His mom frowns slightly. "College?"
"Yeah." Derek leans his head back and closes his eyes. "They’re not going to recruit me. I'm not going to get a scholarship if, you know…”
"Well, firstly, you don’t know that," his mom says, a firmness in her voice. "And secondly, that would be grounds for discrimination."
"It’s not like I could prove it," Derek says, voice low, his doubts creeping back in.
His mom sighs softly. "Is that what you really want to do? Lacrosse?"
Derek opens his eyes and looks at her, confused. "What do you mean?”
She hesitates, then continues, "You just haven’t seemed very happy lately. In general, but also during matches. Not as enthusiastic as you used to be. I haven’t heard you complaining about Jackson trying to steal your spot as captain for months."
"Not like he could," Derek grumbles. "He’s a f*cking tool. I’m surprised he even knows which end of the stick goes up."
His mom lets out a small laugh, but then quickly grows serious again. "Derek, if lacrosse isn’t making you happy anymore, maybe it’s time to think about what will. College, scholarships, all of that… it’s important, but not more important than you being happy.”
“Right,” he says, but she must hear the doubt in his voice because she tugs his hair lightly, making a frustrated face.
“God, you’re so stubborn,” she says, but she’s smiling, fondly. “Just think about it, okay?”
“Yeah,” he breathes out. “Okay.”
His mom straightens out, pats his knee, and then her smile turns mischievous. “Now, tell me about this boy,” she says. “If there’s one thing your old mama knows about, it’s boy troubles.”
—
Derek: You’re still ignoring me. Not giving up, just so you know.
sh*t, Stiles is going to think he’s a f*cking creep, but he can’t just…he can’t just do nothing, whatever the hell Erica says.
Derek: I hate weed.
Derek: I don’t eat snacks.
Derek: I just wanted an in with you.
That might sound even creepier actually, now that he thinks about it.
Derek: I know I messed up. Can you please give me a chance to explain?
Derek scowls at his phone, the annoyance building until it’s practically buzzing under his skin. f*ck, he’s not good at this sh*t, feelings and crap like that. Sometimes he just wishes Stiles could crawl inside his head and see for himself how f*cking sorry he is.
Stiles: explain what? how u bolted the second u got what u wanted? classy move btw
f*ck.
f*ck.
“f*ck,” Derek whispers, clenching the phone between his fingers, wishing Erica were here so she could tell him what the hell to say to make Stiles understand.
Derek: It wasn’t like that. I’m an idiot, but I wasn’t just using you. Thought maybe it’d be easier than deal with the fact that I actually give a damn.
Derek: You think I didn’t feel something? I messed up because I’ve liked you for a while and didn’t know what to do with that. Then I saw you with Danny. So I chickened out and handled it the worst way possible.
The truth feels surprisingly easy to admit when there’s so much on the line, when there’s actually something to lose, something to gain from it. He sighs, looking down at the dark, silent screen.
Derek: You’re quiet. That’s either a really bad sign or you’re overthinking.
Derek: I know you’re probably rolling your eyes at me right now. That’s fair. But I’m going to continue showing up whether you want me to or not.
He cracks a weak smile, can practically imagine Stiles sitting there on his bed, all eye-rolly and snarky.
There’s no reply, but it feels okay, feels better than before when it was nothing.
It feels a little bit like hope.
—
"Hey, Cora-Dora," Derek says, scooping her up just outside the gates that separate Mrs. Lindman’s preschool class from the busy road beyond. Her little nose crinkles as she smiles, and Derek can’t help but grin back.
“Hi, Der-Bear,” she sing-songs, winding her tiny arms around his neck.
Cora’s always been his favorite. Laura, being older and already off at college, has always seemed distant, like she holds some quiet resentment toward him. She's never admitted it, but Derek's always felt it, like a dark festering shadow lingering between them.
Maybe it’s because he reminds her too much of dad. Or maybe she just doesn’t like him.
Whenever he thinks of Laura, he'll always think of her as the eternal activist - her at-home protests, about the family eating meat, owning two cars, or, in her eyes, Derek’s apparently neanderthal-like attitudes toward women - so maybe it makes perfect sense that she dislikes him, maybe that’s why she keeps her distance.
Derek likes meat, and he loves driving his Camaro. He also used to love hooking up with girls in the backseat of it and it’s not like it was a secret.
They haven’t seen each other in over a year.
He wonders what she’d think of him now.
He wonders what she’d think about Stiles.
Ripped-up band tees, Doc Martens, and a relentless f*ck-the-world attitude - that's Laura. Stiles has the same energy, always pushing, always challenging him, but where Laura seems to resent him, Stiles is the opposite. At least, he used to be. Hopefully he can get it back. He wants to believe he can, anyway.
He carefully straps Cora into the car - his mom's car, because the car seat doesn’t fit in the Camaro - and as he buckles himself in, he notices her watching him intently, her head tilted and her lip caught between her teeth.
"You look sad," she says, voice small and full of concern.
"I’m not sad," Derek replies, trying to muster a convincing smile for her in the rearview mirror.
"Mom says it’s bad to lie," Cora points out.
"It is," Derek agrees. "You shouldn’t lie."
Cora starts humming to herself, and Derek’s forced smile turns genuine when he hears her off-key rendition of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, the lyrics changed to "liar liar pants on fire" sung over and over again.
"We should get ice cream," Cora announces suddenly.
"You think so, huh?" Derek asks, glancing at her in the mirror.
"Yep," Cora says with a firm nod. "Ice cream makes my tummy happy, so maybe it will make your eyes happy too."
This is why Cora is his favorite.
Derek pulls down his sunglasses and puts the car in reverse, backing out of the tight parking spot.
“Ice cream it is,” he says and feels warm all over when Cora’s face lights up.
—
They’re sitting in their usual booth at the diner, textbooks and notebooks scattered across the table, half-heartedly attempting to study. Derek is nursing a black coffee, staring blankly at his chemistry notes, while Erica is meticulously highlighting sections of her history book. Despite the appearance of focus, Derek can tell Erica has something on her mind. She keeps glancing at him, then looking down, biting her lip, before starting the whole thing over again.
And again.
For an hour.
Derek loves this girl to pieces, alright - would f*cking kill for her - but she may also be the most annoying person he knows.
Finally, she closes her book with a decisive thump and looks at him, her eyes gleaming with determination. “Okay, grumpy face,” she says, leaning forward slightly, “I’ve got a plan.”
Derek raises an eyebrow. “A plan?”
“Yeah, a plan to get Stiles back,” she says. “Step one: groveling.”
“Groveling?” he echoes.
“Yes, groveling,” Erica repeats with a smirk. “You messed up, so now it’s up to you to fix it. I would suggest flowers, but I don’t think Stiles is into that. So, what does he like?”
Derek leans back in the booth, crossing his arms, and smirks. “I don’t know, dick?”
Erica rolls her eyes dramatically and immediately crumples up a piece of paper, launching it at his head. “Seriously, Derek? Be useful.”
He catches the paper before it can hit him and sets it on the table, letting out a resigned sigh. “Fine.” He thinks for a moment, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “He likes camping with his dad. I overheard him talking about it last year with that dopey guy - McCall - that’s always hanging around him. Apparently he likes sleeping in a tent and making s’mores.”
“Okay,” Erica says and looks at him expectantly, waving a hand at him to continue.
“I don’t know,” Derek says, exasperated. “Apparently the ambiance is good, whatever the f*ck that means.”
Erica’s already writing this down in her notebook, her face serious. “Okay, camping… s’mores…” She taps her pen against her chin, then looks up at Derek. “Anything else?”
Derek pauses, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he remembers something. He fiddles with the straw in his glass, not quite meeting Erica’s eyes. “Lydia Martin decked out their little weed room with fairy lights and sh*t. He seemed to really like that. He kept saying how cool it looked.”
Erica’s smile widens, clearly pleased. “Fairy lights, got it,” she says, jotting it down. “See, now we’re getting somewhere. You can work with that.”
Derek looks at her, still a bit unsure. “So, what, I’m supposed to invite him camping? Decorate a tent with fairy lights?
Erica’s grin is slow to form, but looks f*cking terrifying when she leans over the table to pat him on the cheek. “Now we’re finally talking the same language, babe.”
—
Derek: I’ll pick you up at eight.
Derek stares at the message, fingers hovering over the screen as anxiety flares up. Erica would probably rip him a new one for doing this on his own, but he doesn’t want to wait for her to get back.
Stiles: u know, u could’ve asked instead of deciding for me
He probably should have. Derek bites his lip, going for broke.
Derek: Would you have said no?
Stiles: whatever. fine. don't be late
—
As Derek leads Stiles through the forest, he can feel the nerves twisting in his gut. The cool night air bites at his skin, but he barely notices it. His mind is too occupied with a thousand thoughts - what to say, how to act, whether he’s already f*cked this up by bringing Stiles out here in the first place.
f*ck Erica and her f*cking sh*tty plans.
Stiles is talking, voice bright and teasing, cutting through Derek’s anxious silence. He sneaks a glance at him and nearly snorts at the sight - Stiles’s nose is pink from the cold, and his hair is sticking out in wet tufts from underneath that beanie he insists on wearing. The damn thing is hanging half off his head because it’s soaked, looking like it’s about to fall off any second.
Stiles is sneaking glances at him, still rambling on about something - probably making fun of Derek, he wouldn’t exactly be surprised - but Derek’s too distracted by the image of him, shivering slightly in those skinny jeans and his ratty Converse that are completely unsuited for the woods. He looks ridiculous, and somehow, it makes Derek feel a little better about himself. He just hopes Stiles will like what he’s set up. It took him and Erica hours to fix this sh*t - the tent, the firepit, the fairy lights - God, the f*cking fairy lights. Five hours, five hours of running around like idiots, looking in every damn store within the county line to find them. At one point, Derek was ready to settle for Christmas lights that blinked in sync to Jingle Bells, but Erica insisted that would ruin the mood.
Derek watches Stiles as they step into the clearing. Thanks to Erica and her “brilliant” ideas, there’s now a blanket spread out on the grass, an old-fashioned wicker basket that he’s pretty sure is more for show than function, and fairy lights strung around the nearby trees, casting a warm, golden glow over the entire scene. And then, of course, there’s the f*cking tent.
He wonders if he'll ever learn not to listen to Erica, but figures it’s probably unlikely. They’ve known each other since diapers, and if it hasn’t happened yet, it probably never will.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he hears Stiles voice say and his stomach drops.
f*ck. Maybe he should have gone with the Christmas lights?
But Stiles’ eyes are fixed on the tent. He sees as Stiles’ eyebrows shoot up and yeah - the tent was probably a dumb idea. Who the f*ck sets up a tent on a date?
“Is that a sex tent?” Stiles blurts out.
Derek sighs, already regretting this entire thing. “It’s not a sex tent, Stiles,” he says, trying to keep his voice steady, but it comes out a little too snappish.
Stiles crosses his arms, a smug grin tugging at his lips. “Pretty sure that’s a sex tent, dude. Like, 99% sure.”
Derek rolls his eyes. Great. Erica is officially demoted from best friend to last-resort partner for group projects. He’s never trusting her again. It’ll be romantic, she said. Yeah, sure. More like a setup for huge f*cking failure. Why didn’t he just stick with something simple, like a movie? Or pizza? Movie and pizza? It’s always worked out fine for Derek before.
“You gonna stand there all night, or are you gonna sit down?” Derek mutters, dropping down onto the blanket. He looks up at Stiles, who’s still grinning.
Stiles doesn’t move immediately, and for a second, Derek thinks he might have messed everything up, but then, Stiles finally walks to sit beside him, and Derek feels some of the tension start to drain away.
Okay, so they'll just ignore the sex tent - that’s fine.
The tent. They'll just ignore the tent.
Still, he can’t help but feel a bit off about the whole thing. He’s not exactly a master of romantic gestures, and now he’s got this whole thing that’s probably way too over the top for a first date. The only thing missing is a neon sign that says “Please Don’t Laugh at Me.”
A breeze flows through the clearing and Derek watches as the night air nips at Stiles, noticing the slight shiver that runs through him. Without thinking, he shrugs off his letterman jacket and drapes it over Stiles’ shoulders. The jacket is big on him - okay, it's f*cking huge, but it’s not Derek’s fault that Stiles looks like one of those Top Model chicks that Erica forces Derek to watch every Wednesday - and for a moment, Derek wonders if it was a stupid idea. But then Stiles blinks, as if momentarily thrown off by the gesture, smiles, and Derek feels a small surge of satisfaction. Seeing Stiles wrapped up in it does something to him that he can’t quite explain. It’s so classically high school jock that Derek almost cringes at himself, but then Stiles snorts. “I can’t believe you wore your letterman jacket to a date,” he says, amused.
Derek can’t help but grin. “You like it,” he says, trying to sound casual, but there’s a bit more pride in his voice than he intends. He’s pleased - more than pleased, actually - at how Stiles looks in it, all bundled up like that. The jacket dwarfs him, makes him look smaller, almost like a kid playing dress-up, but there’s something weirdly endearing about it, too.
He kind of looks like a drowned rat, but Derek figures it’s his own damn fault. Who the hell wears skinny jeans and Converse to the woods, anyway?
Stiles rolls his eyes, but Derek catches the way his expression softens, sees the slight smile he’s trying to hide. “Wow, okay, really doubling down on that high school jock energy.”
Derek hums in agreement. He kind of is a high school jock, so it’s not like he can argue.
As they sit there, Stiles stretches out one of his legs, the movement casual, but Derek suddenly finds himself rethinking his earlier judgment about those jeans. His gaze probably lingers a bit longer than he intends, but damn, they look really good on Stiles - like, distractingly good, and Derek suddenly understands why people wax poetic about legs.
“Seriously, though,” Stiles says. “That’s totally a sex tent”
Derek’s smirk deepens, his thoughts still caught on how well those jeans cling to Stiles’ legs. “Yeah,” he says, voice lower and rougher than before. “It could be a sex tent.”
As much as he admittedly likes the jeans, he’s really missed the sight of Stiles without them.
—
Derek isn’t entirely sure how it happened, but he’s definitely not going to complain about it. One moment, he was frowning over an open fire, watching Stiles nearly burn the s’mores to a crisp, and the next thing he knows, he’s shoving Stiles back against the rough bark of a towering oak, his mouth crashing into Stiles’ with a hunger he can barely control. The taste of melted marshmallow and chocolate is still on Stiles’ lips, sweet and sticky, and Derek’s determined to lick every last trace of it away.
It’s hot and messy, with one hand gripping the back of Stiles’ neck, feeling the rapid pulse beneath his fingertips, while the other slides down to grab his hip, pulling him closer, pressing their bodies together until there’s no space left between them. The heat of Stiles against him, the way he moves, the way he responds - sh*t, it’s better than anything Derek’s ever imagined, better than any fantasy he’s ever jerked off to late at night. Even better than the first time they did this.
“What about the sex tent?” Stiles mumbles against Derek’s lips, and there’s a smirk in his voice that drives Derek insane because it’s not a f*cking sex tent.
Derek pulls back, glaring. “It's not a f*cking sex tent,” he growls, pressing Stiles harder against the tree, using the leverage to slip a knee between Stiles’ thighs. The pressure makes Stiles gasp, his back arching, and the sound goes straight to Derek’s core, making him dizzy with need.
Derek feels Stiles’ fingers scrabble for purchase against the fabric of his t-shirt, fisting it tight, like Derek’s the only thing keeping him upright. The thought sends a thrill through Derek’s body, a primal kind of satisfaction at being the one to make Stiles come undone like this.
Him, he’s the one doing this - not Danny.
One of Derek’s hands tangles in Stiles’ hair, tugging just hard enough to pull a low, needy moan from his throat. Stiles tilts his head back, baring his neck in a way that makes Derek’s pulse race, and he doesn’t waste a second, diving in to suck a bruising mark just below Stiles’ jaw.
“It's definitely a sex tent,” Stiles breathes out, and Derek’s so turned on he can barely see straight, let alone argue. He knows Stiles is just messing with him, but f*ck if it doesn’t push all his buttons.
“God, shut up, your mouth is infuriating,” Derek says, his voice dropping low and rough as he leans in closer, lips brushing against the sensitive skin just below Stiles’ ear and Derek feels it, feels the way Stiles’ body reacts to him, and it makes his own desire spike even higher. He can’t resist - bites down, gentle at first, teasing, then harder, enough to make Stiles squirm, enough to make him blow out a gush of warm air. “Maybe I should put it to better use. Keep that smart mouth too busy to talk back.”
The whimper Stiles makes when Derek says that - it’s like a punch to the gut, and Derek’s knees almost give out. He needs more of that sound, needs to see Stiles fall apart for him. He can barely focus on anything but the way Stiles is bending to him, with him, like Derek is everything he’s ever wanted too, and that thought alone is enough to make his head spin.
When Stiles talks, almost brazenly, about putting Derek’s co*ck in his mouth, Derek’s brain short-circuits. There’s no hesitation, no second thoughts - just a raw, desperate need that claws its way up his throat.
“Yeah.” Derek doesn’t even pause, his lips curving into a smug grin against Stiles’ skin. “Figure it might get you to shut up.”
“Yeah? Joke’s on you, buddy.” Stiles tries to sound nonchalant, but there’s a hitch in his breath when Derek’s fingers drift up to cup his jaw, thumb sliding along the line of his cheek. “I can multitask like a pro.”
Derek snorts, his hand moving to his belt, tugging it loose with one sharp jerk; his fingers brushing against the bare skin just above the waistband of his jeans. The way Stiles’ eyes follow the movement, the way his breath catches, makes Derek’s pulse quicken with anticipation.
“Holy -” Stiles breathes out, his voice full of awe and damn if that doesn’t make Derek feel good.
“You look like you walked out of a f*cking p*rn shoot.” Stiles’ fingers trail the line of hair dipping down from Derek’s belly button, leading right into the open vee of his jeans, and the touch sends a bolt of heat down his groin, straight to his co*ck.
Derek’s hands settle on Stiles’ shoulders, his grip firm but careful as he guides him down onto his knees. Every instinct in Derek’s body is screaming to push, to pull, to just f*cking take what he’s wanted for so long. The thought of it - the idea of Stiles on his knees, ready for him, willing - is heady, so f*cking heady, but he reels himself in, forces himself to slow down, to hold back.
Instead of tugging, his fingers find their way into Stiles’ hair, threading through the strands in a gentle, almost careful touch. He strokes the back of Stiles’ head, soft, trying to show how much he f*cking cares for him. He watches Stiles’ face, the way his expression shifts as he kneels, the way his mouth hangs open ever so slightly, pink tongue darting out to wet his lips. There’s a sudden deep, twisting ache in his chest, but it’s not bad, not a bad ache, it hurts in a good way, like there’s too many feelings inside of him all at once and they’re bursting out of his skin.
He doesn’t want to be one of those guys who just takes without thinking, without feeling. Not when Stiles is giving him this, offering himself, offering Derek this even after he f*cked everything up. So he keeps his touch light, coaxing rather than demanding, mapping the edges of his lips with his thumb, trying to let Stiles know that he’s here, that Stiles is in control, and that Derek cares about him - really cares about him.
It’s really f*cking hard though when Stiles is practically panting for it, shifting discreetly, clearly feeling the pressure of his own co*ck straining inside his pants. The way he’s practically trembling with it goes straight to Derek’s dick, and the words slip out before he can stop them. “sh*t, you’re practically gagging for it.”
Stiles looks like he wants to roll his eyes, his voice sharp and biting as he says, “Oh, wow, genius observation, Sherlock. I’m on my knees. I think we’ve established that already.”
God, he’s such a little sh*t, and it only stokes the fire in Derek’s chest, making him want to push Stiles further, to see just how far that defiance goes. But then Stiles’ voice drops, frustration and anticipation threading through his words. “You wanna keep gloating or actually get to the part where you do something about it?”
“Maybe I like you like this,” Derek says, and holy sh*t, the way those lips just fall open - in surprise, outrage, lust, he doesn’t know - and just sucks him in, wrapping that tongue around his thumb in wet-hot heat and then moans.
“Look at you,” Derek murmurs, and he’s almost choking on the words as they tumble out of his mouth. “So worked up already, and I haven’t even touched you properly yet.”
Derek watches as Stiles' hand tightens around himself, the motion desperate, needy, and something inside him just snaps. The sight of Stiles like this - struggling for control, practically writhing with need - is driving him f*cking wild.
Derek nudges his knee forward, pressing it between Stiles’ legs, just enough to brush against his crotch. It’s a light touch, more of a tease than anything else, but the reaction it pulls from Stiles is immediate and intense. Stiles gasps, choking on his next breath, his body jolting like he’s been shocked, and Derek feels like someone's sucked all the air out of his lungs.
“Jesus, Stiles,” Derek says, barely recognizing his own voice, thick with desire. “I can’t believe you’re this f*cking turned on already.”
Derek’s never seen anything so hot, so incredibly irresistible, as this. He can see how close Stiles is to losing it, can feel the tremble in Stiles’ body, the way he’s grinding down against Derek’s leg, desperate for more. But there’s also this deep, unshakable sense of awe - because it’s Stiles, and he’s letting Derek see him like this, letting Derek be the one to break him down, to build him up. It’s overwhelming, this feeling that he’s holding something so precious, so real, and Derek knows he’s in way over his head, but he doesn’t f*cking care.
“Been thinking about how soft your lips are,” Derek says, his voice dropping into a low, husky rasp, and sh*t, he didn’t even know his voice could do that. “How good they'd feel wrapped around me.”
Stiles pulls back with a wet pop, parts his lips wider, and Derek’s breath hitches as he watches Stiles’ mouth finally slide over the head of his co*ck, taking him in slowly, the slick heat of his tongue curling around him. “f*ck, Stiles,” Derek murmurs. “I knew you’d be good at this.”
Derek’s back presses against the rough bark of a tree, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts as he tries to stay quiet, tries to keep control, but it’s nearly impossible with Stiles’ hot, wet mouth on him. The cool night air is filled with the soft glow of fairy lights strung up around them, casting the forest in a warm, almost magical light. It’s like something out of a dream, or maybe a scene from one of those overly romantic movies Derek pretends he doesn’t watch but secretly loves.
“God, you make it so hard to stay in control. You don’t even get it, do you? How much I’ve been thinking about this, how many times I’ve pictured this, just you, on your knees like this.”
Derek is going to lose his mind. Every touch, every slow, hot drag of Stiles’ mouth is driving him closer to the edge, and he’s desperate to hold onto some semblance of control, but it’s slipping through his fingers. The way Stiles looks at him, all wide bambi-eyes and flushed cheeks and full, plush lips parted around his co*ck, it’s everything Derek’s ever wanted, everything he’s dreamed about in those moments when it was just him and his thoughts and he thought he’d never get to do this again.
“f*ck, Stiles,” Derek breathes, voice tight with restraint. “You’re gonna - sh*t - you’re gonna make me come if you keep that up.”
Right now, all Derek can focus on is the way Stiles is making him feel, the heat pooling low in his stomach, the tension coiling tighter with every movement of Stiles’ mouth - and f*ck, does Stiles know how to work a f*cking co*ck, his tongue is literally like every goddamn blow j*b Derek’s ever had all wrapped up into one.
“f*ck, just like that,” Derek grits out, his voice breaking as he rocks into Stiles’ mouth with more urgency.
What is this crap coming out of his mouth? Seriously, does he think he’s auditioning for a p*rn movie now, like just because he’s had his dick up another guy’s ass, he’s suddenly an expert in adult film dialogue. He’s aware of how ridiculous he sounds, of how completely out of character this is for him, but he can’t seem to stop. It’s like his brain has melted away, and now he’s spewing the kind of nonsense he never thought he’d say, especially not in a situation like this; especially not with Stiles.
Derek feels his breathing turn ragged, each breath coming out in uneven gasps as he struggles to keep himself in control, to hold out, but it’s a losing battle. He’s too far gone, the sensation too overwhelming, and every instinct in his body is driving him forward, pushing him toward that inevitable release. His hips start moving faster, more desperate, losing that steady rhythm as he chases the pleasure.
“Stiles, I’m - f*ck,” Derek’s voice cracks, the words breaking apart as he feels the tension in his body snap. He can’t hold back anymore, and with one last, stuttering thrust, he comes, spilling hot and thick down Stiles’ throat.
Stiles takes it all, his mouth working around Derek, swallowing every drop, and Derek can barely comprehend the sight of him like this, so willing, so eager to do it. The feeling is almost too much and Derek’s hand tightens reflexively in Stiles’ hair, pulling him back slightly, too sensitive, needing just a moment to catch his breath.
Derek’s heart is still racing as he kneels down, his breath coming in quick, shallow bursts. He can feel the heat of his own skin, flushed and sweaty, and his co*ck is still hanging out from the open vee of his jeans and he feels like a damn mess. Stiles’ lips part, but no words come out. Instead, he reaches up, fisting a hand in the front of Derek’s shirt. The suddenness of the gesture catches him off guard, and he feels a jolt of electricity shoot through him as Stiles tugs him closer, their chests brushing together.
“Stiles,” Derek murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper as he shuffles in closer, the proximity making his heart pound even harder. He’s so close now that he can feel the warmth of Stiles’ breath against his skin, and he ghosts his finger over Stiles’ wrist, feeling the rapid thrum of his pulse beneath the skin.
“Please,” Stiles whispers, the word so quiet it’s barely more than a breath.
His fingers trails down Stiles’ stomach, feeling the tension there, the muscles taut under his touch, lets his hand drift lower, pressing his palm over the hard line of Stiles’ co*ck, straining against his jeans. The heat radiating from Stiles is palpable, and Derek can feel the way Stiles’ entire body reacts to the touch, a soft groan escaping his lips.
“I’ve got you,” he mumbles, his thumb tracing the outline through the denim, feeling the way Stiles pushes up into the touch.
Derek feels the tremors running through Stiles, every shiver and jerk of his hips as they push desperately into Derek’s hand. He can feel the tension coiling tighter and tighter in him, every muscle straining until it finally snaps, and he lets out a choked gasp, his body shaking as he grips Derek's arms, arches up, and lets go. He watches, entranced, as Stiles’ expression shifts from intense, almost painful pleasure to something softer, more vulnerable, his body gradually relaxing in Derek’s hold.
f*ck, he wants to give Stiles everything, his debit card, his car, hell, he'd even let Stiles take Erica on the off chance that he wants her. She actually makes for a decent best friend when she puts in the effort. Maybe the sex tent was a bit over the top, but the rest of it worked out great.
What he says, instead is:
“You know,” Derek says, breathless, “after that, you might as well just keep the letterman jacket. Pretty sure you’ve earned it.”
—
A soft thud, quickly followed by something fluffy bouncing off his head. With a sigh, Derek glances down to see a pom-pom lying in his lap.
Erica’s voice rings out, "How did the sex tent work out, loser?”
Derek’s lips twitch, curving into a faint smirk despite himself. “It’s not a sex tent,” he mutters.
“That well, huh,” she says teasingly. “Thank you, Erica, for all your hard work and dedication.”
She saunters over and sits down beside him on the bench, giving him an appraising once-over. “So,” she continues, leaning in a bit, “you gonna spill, or do I need to keep pelting you with pom-poms until you do?”
Derek shrugs. “It's bad manners to kiss and tell, Erica.” He raises an eyebrow. “If I remember correctly, you were the one who taught me that.”
“Well, if you won’t tell me,” Erica says, “I might just have to ask your boy toy over there.”
Derek’s head snaps up, following her gaze to the parking lot where Stiles is lounging against his Jeep. There’s a cigarette hanging loosely from his fingers, and he’s wearing those ridiculously tight jeans, a stupid beanie slouching off his head - and Derek’s letterman jacket thrown casually over his shoulders.
Stiles catches Derek’s gaze from across the lot, and a slow, sh*t-eating grin spreads across his face.
Erica gives him a playful nudge, the corner of her mouth quirking up. “Well, what are you waiting for? Go get your boy.”
Derek ducks his head, smiling, and then says, “Yeah, I think I will.”
