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Stiles is waiting for him.
“Great, you came,” he grins, jumping to his feet. “I wasn’t sure you’d come, you seemed kind of, well, distracted is one way to put it. Barely hearing me is another. But hey, you’re here, come in.”
Derek shrugs. “I said I would.”
“Yeah, I know,” Stiles says cheerfully, ushering Derek inside the house. The door closes behind them, and Derek tenses, though he knows he doesn’t need to. Stiles doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he’s just ignoring it, Derek can’t tell. His heart rate is normal, anyway.
He isn’t sure why he’s here, exactly. No, that’s not true. He’s here because Stiles asked him to come. He’s here because, for some reason, he likes being around Stiles, likes watching his expressions shift and change, likes how easily smiles still seem to come to him. He’s here because when Stiles found him in the woods earlier and asked him to come over, he’d stood barely a foot away and the scent of him had been so strong that Derek hadn’t been able to think of a way to say no.
“Why am I here?” he asks Stiles, before he can contemplate it too much.
“I have something,” Stiles says, evasive. Derek frowns at him, but Stiles doesn’t elaborate, which alarms him somewhat. Stiles is usually as far from evasive as Derek is from chatty. But all he says is, “Come on, it’s upstairs.”
Derek follows him up, breathing through his mouth. Trying not to notice the smell of him, so close, strong enough that he feels like he can taste it. He’d always noticed Stiles’s smell, of course. It’s potent, distinct, unique. But lately, he’s been noticing it more. Differently. Almost primally.
He likes it.
He isn’t sure what to think of that, either.
Stiles leads him to his room and opens the door. “Come on,” he says again, and Derek steps inside, frowning slightly. It’s worse here; the whole room brims with Stiles’s scent, infused into everything, it seems. Derek has to resist the urge to pull in deep breaths, to let it flow through him. It doesn’t matter, though. He’s responding to it anyway, the hairs on his neck prickling, his body wanting to lean into it.
“What is it?” he asks, before he can do something stupid like close his eyes and start sniffing. “You said it was important.”
“It is.” Stiles grins at him, even closer than he was earlier in the woods, and Derek almost does it, almost grabs him and pulls him in close and inhales. Luckily Stiles moves before he finishes battling the urge, going over to his dresser. Derek lets his fists relax.
Stiles bends, pulling out one of the bottom drawers. Derek watches, trying to keep his gaze on Stiles’s hands and not on, say, the lines of his legs as the denim covering them pulls taut. He draws in a breath, forgetting for a second, and it’s physical, that smell. His whole body reacts, going tight and hot, his skin shivering. He tears his gaze away, digging his nails into his palms.
“Here, put this on.” Stiles’s voice breaks into his head, and he looks up, just as Stiles flings whatever it is he’s picked up at Derek’s head.
Derek catches it.
It’s one of Stiles’s shirts, a blue-and-gray plaid one he’s seen on him before. He shakes it out, frowning, steeling himself for the moment Stiles’s scent hits him. It almost works, too. His heart rate increases, his blood flow shifts, but he doesn’t move or make a sound. If another werewolf were here, they would know. But Stiles isn’t a werewolf. “You want me to put this on,” he says, to cover.
Stiles grins. “Yep.”
He lowers the shirt. “You know your clothes don’t fit me.”
“Not the point. Just put it on? For me?” Stiles gives him an expression that can only be described as puppy dog eyes. It’s supremely unfair that Stiles is good at that expression, Derek thinks, glaring at him. Even more unfair is that it’s working, though he’s not sure if it’s because he’s programmed to respond to that look, or if it’s because it’s Stiles doing it.
Derek looks down at the shirt, fingers the soft fabric. "Is there some reason I need to wear this? Is the shirt magic?"
Stiles rolls his eyes hard. "Yes, Derek. The shirt is magic. Would you just put it on already?"
Derek holds it up, eyeing the hems, the patterns. He even sniffs it, but other than the nearly overwhelming scent of Stiles and the lesser scents of flannel and detergent, there’s nothing. As far as he can tell, no working has been laid on it, no spell or sorcery woven into it. He looks up again, to see that Stiles is just standing there. Watching him, like he’s waiting for something. “Stiles. Why should I—”
“I can’t believe I’m about to say this to you of all people, but stop talking and just put. The shirt. On.” Stiles smiles and bites his lip then, obviously suppressing a laugh, and at that Derek has to consciously hold himself back. Seeing Stiles do that, here, it does things. Makes him want to bite that lip himself. Taste Stiles, instead of just smelling him.
He glares at him. Even grumbles a little as his fingers tense on the fabric. “Did you — you — really just tell me to shut up?”
Stiles doesn’t laugh, like he was expecting. He doesn’t even say anything, which is highly unusual. Instead he takes a step closer and reaches out, touching Derek’s shoulder. Derek freezes, blinking, as the smell of him washes over him anew. It’s always harder to resist, when Stiles is this close. Touching him, it’s nearly impossible.
“Derek.” Stiles’s voice is quiet, enough that he can easily hear Stiles’s heartbeat under it, even with his own pounding in his ears. “I need you to do this.”
It’s the truth.
Stiles squeezes his shoulder and then lets go, but Derek can still feel his hand on him, can still feel the heat of it spreading across his skin. He wants to reach out for Stiles, grab him, yank him close. Claim him.
He shakes his head and throws the shirt back at Stiles. Stiles rocks back a step, blinking, his face falling. “Aw, come on,” he starts.
Derek shakes his head again. Then he grabs the hem of his own t-shirt and yanks it off, tossing it aside. “Shirt,” he says, holding out one hand. Stiles nearly trips scrambling forward to hand it to him. Derek snatches it and threads one arm, then the other, through the sleeves. The shirt is tight across his shoulders, fibers popping as he tries to pull it closed over his chest. “See?” he grouses, trying to ignore the scent of Stiles on his skin, mingling with his own. It doesn’t work. “It doesn’t fit.”
“Button it,” Stiles suggests, his voice oddly rough.
Derek raises an eyebrow, but something in Stiles’s expression keeps him from saying anything. He struggles to button it, only just managing the ones across his chest if he keeps his breathing shallow. Then he drops his arms to his sides, letting the straining fabric speak for itself. “It doesn’t fit,” he repeats, but the words come out low. Almost a growl.
“Yeah,” Stiles says back, panting a little. “I know.”
Derek blinks.
Stiles’s scent has changed. It’s sharpened, heightened. Turned on. Or is that his own scent? Derek blinks again, focusing on Stiles’s face this time. He’s flushed, his eyes half-lidded, the pupils dark as he looks back at him. Before Derek can stop himself he looks down, further.
It’s not just Derek.
“I...” he starts, but he can’t think much in words just now. He’s thinking about heat, about skin, about the sharp scent of arousal spiking the air between them. He’s thinking about the fabric barely covering him, his own skin soaking in the keen scent of lust. He’s thinking about Stiles, standing maybe three feet away, watching him with dark eyes and covered only by cotton and denim.
He tries to move; to back up, to step forward, he doesn’t know. But he’s brought up short by the sound of tearing, and one of the buttons across his chest gives way, popping off and pinging to the floor. He grabs for the hem, rips Stiles’s shirt up and off, sending three more buttons flying in the process.
“Derek,” Stiles says.
That’s all. But Derek reacts like Stiles has touched him, like Stiles is the one who’d bared his skin. It’s obvious, now, even to Stiles. Or he thinks it is, until Stiles puts both hands up and backs up a step, giving him the nervous smile he knows means Stiles is beginning to freak out. “Whoah, sorry, I didn’t — sorry,” he starts, babbling so fast his words are almost tripping over each other. “I just — I wanted — oh fuck you’re giving me the look that says you’re working out where to bury the body—”
“Stiles,” Derek tries to interrupt.
“It’s just, you in that shirt, Derek, I can’t even — you’re just, you should never wear shirts. Or you should always wear them, big loose ones, because you in tight shirts should seriously be illegal and oh god you’re going to kill me, I can see your nostrils flaring, I am so fucked—”
“Stiles!”
“—I don’t know what I was thinking, well, I mean I do know, but I shouldn’t have asked you to do it, I’m sorry—”
Derek grabs him by the shoulders then, shoving him back until he’s pinned against the wall. “Stiles,” he growls. “Shut. Up.”
“Well, this is familiar,” Stiles mumbles, swallowing hard. He lifts his head. “So, uh, how much trouble am I in? Is it just pin me against the wall and glare at me trouble — which I’m used to, gotta say — or are we talking actual growling?”
He’s looking at Derek with wide eyes, only inches from his own. Stiles’s whole body is only inches from his own, so close that Derek can feel the heat from it like a caress, can feel the desire shivering through him. Stiles’s scent is thick with it, though it’s laced with hints of nervousness. But not fear, he notes.
Derek shakes his head, slowly.
“Pain and suffering?” Stiles guesses, lips twitching. Reddish, like always, and Derek’s attention is suddenly riveted on them. “Are you going to judge me with those eyebrows? Or put your shirt back on? Because that would definitely be punishing me.”
“Are you,” Derek says, slowly, “flirting with me?”
“Too much?” Stiles bites his lip. Again. “I really am, you know. Sorry, I mean. If it’s too much.” He takes a deep breath, then meets Derek’s eyes. “Is it?”
Derek doesn’t know what to say. He hasn’t really let himself think too much about this, about the way he’s been reacting to Stiles for months now, and what it might mean. But now that it’s in front of him, he knows what he wants. And he doesn’t need words to answer.
Bending his neck, he presses his nose in the crook of Stiles’s neck and inhales.
Stiles shivers, and Derek sniffs again, and again. This close, Stiles’s scent is nothing short of intoxicating, unfiltered and pure, and Derek can’t get enough of it. He moves closer and buries his face against Stiles’s neck, rubbing his cheek over Stiles’s skin and dragging in breaths of him, his hands curling around Stiles’s biceps. They’re pressed together now, Stiles’s shirt against his bare chest, their hips close enough that Derek can just feel the push of Stiles’s erection against his, the denim separating them aside. He inhales again, smelling them both now, their aromas twining. Together.
“Guess that answers that,” Stiles murmurs, breathless.
It’s not enough, though. Derek presses his mouth against Stiles’s neck, breathing in through parted lips, tasting the scent of him. Stiles shudders against him, his breath catching, and Derek licks him, tasting him for real now: his shoulder, his neck, the skin under his ear. “Oh my god, Derek,” Stiles pants, and Derek growls a little in response, the tip of his tongue tracing the shell of Stiles’s ear before following the line of his neck back down.
There’s absolutely no question, now.
Stiles whines and turns his head, licking at Derek’s face and leaving a wet trail over his eyebrow and nearly his eye. Derek pulls back, startled, and Stiles groans and knocks his head back against the wall. “Oh fuck, sorry, I—”
Derek kisses him.
Whatever Stiles was about to say is lost as he goes perfectly still. His lips are warm against Derek’s, dry, slightly chapped. Perfect, Derek thinks, his head spinning, his own lips tingling. But Stiles is still frozen, his breaths coming in short sharp bursts, and Derek has to make sure. He knows, all too well, that being turned on and wanting it are not the same thing.
He pulls back, just enough to whisper, “Stiles. Is this...”
Stiles moves then, crushing those lips back against Derek’s as his hands come up to clutch at Derek’s shoulders. “Mmmph!” he declares, licking at the seam of Derek’s mouth, his fingers digging into Derek’s skin as he drags him close. “Yes,” he adds between kisses. “God, Derek, yes, yes yes yes yes yes. Oh, and did I mention y—”
“I got that,” Derek interrupts, fighting a smile.
Stiles grins back at him, open and unguarded, and Derek is momentarily stunned. He’s noticed before, of course, that Stiles is attractive, but when he smiles? He’s downright beautiful. “Just making sure,” Stiles says, grasping at Derek’s hair and dragging his head back down, until their lips are just barely touching. “And you? You’re good with it, right? I mean, you started it, but—”
“Enough,” Derek growls back, and then they’re kissing again, open-mouthed and hungry. Stiles’s taste bursts across his senses, and he growls again, sucking kisses onto Stiles’s lips, tangling his tongue with his. Stiles moans, his hands dropping back to Derek’s shoulders and grabbing on tight. Somehow they get turned around and Derek ends up with his own back against the wall, Stiles pushing their bodies together as he practically devours him. Not that Derek minds; he pushes back, cupping Stiles’s face in his own hands and drinking him in. Stiles’s skin had tasted good, yes, but this, this is more than good.
This is perfect.
He loses track of everything but Stiles, his scent, his taste, his warmth. It’s terrifying, in a way, but exhilarating too, so much that his usual reticence gets shoved aside so that he can focus on the feel of Stiles’s mouth, moving against his own. On the sounds Stiles makes as Derek sucks on his lower lip, just barely nipping at the bow of it. On the hard press of Stiles’s body against his own.
On the scent of him, delicious and overwhelming and right.
He doesn’t realize that he’s clawing at Stiles’s shirt, trying to get it off of him so he can put his hands on the tantalizing skin underneath, until Stiles breaks the kiss to pant against his lips, “Are you trying to rip my clothes off?”
Derek blinks, forcing himself to concentrate. His claws are out, he realizes, though his fangs aren’t, fortunately. He blinks again, pulling his hands away from Stiles’s back. He can hear the tear of fabric, this time. “I,” he says.
“You are, you are literally trying to rip my clothes off, that’s just so, oh god I can’t even.” Stiles kisses him again, hard and fast, his hands clutching at Derek’s biceps, his hips rutting up against him.
Derek slowly puts his hands on Stiles’s back, his palms flat. “So it’s okay?” he asks when Stiles pulls back again. He thinks so, is pretty damn certain, actually. But he has to make sure.
“Okay?” Stiles repeats, biting at the line of his jaw. “It’s more than okay, it’s — fuck, Derek, that’s so freaking hot, you have no idea — you should totally do it, I have enough flannel anyway and you’ve already torn it—”
Well, if he insists. Derek fists his hands in the fabric and pulls it taut, away from Stiles’s skin. Stiles shudders in a breath, his whole body trembling against Derek’s as he unsheathes his claws again and slices through the entire back of the shirt in one swipe. “Oh my god,” Stiles gulps as Derek yanks at the two halves of the flannel, hard enough to pop all the buttons holding it closed in the front. “Oh fuck, Derek, you just — my buttons just — holy shit, you actually did it.”
“You wanted me to,” Derek points out as he drops both pieces, now in tatters, to the floor. Or he would have, had Stiles not all but attacked him then, slamming him back into the wall and bruising their mouths together. But it’s fine, it’s better than fine, because he has his hands on Stiles now. He pulls Stiles in closer, even, bites at his lips as he plasters their chests together, skin against skin. His hands skim over Stiles’s back, following the slope of his spine, spreading over the jut of his hipbones, skipping up over his flanks. Just touching him, everywhere he can.
Stiles’s skin is hot under his palms, smooth in places and rough in others, quivering everywhere his hands touch, and he wants more of it. He wants all of it, anything Stiles will give him; he wants to stroke his hands down Stiles’s legs, feel his nipples pebble up under his fingertips, wrap his palm around the hard heat of his erection. He wants to follow his fingers with his mouth, taste all of that skin, scent him everywhere, learn every inch of him without all the barriers of clothing between them. And he can tell, from Stiles’s heat, from his rushing heartbeat, from the way he’s kissing him with the same intensity Stiles gives to everything he really wants, that Stiles wants it too.
He brings his hands down to Stiles’s hips again, touches the strip of skin just above the waistband of his jeans. Stiles shudders, his hips canting forward, grinding against Derek’s. “Stiles,” Derek growls. He drags his mouth down the line of Stiles’s jaw, kissing his way toward his ear. Stiles moans and clutches at Derek’s waist, rutting against him. The feel of Stiles’s cock, hard and hot even through the increasingly-uncomfortable layers of cloth between them, momentarily makes Derek forget what he was going to say; he growls and nips at Stiles’s earlobe, careful to keep his fangs back, but tasting the rush of the blood under the surface. His own cock jumps at that, hardening even more, if that’s possible.
“Oh god,” Stiles keens, fingers flexing. “Damn, Derek, just — do it again—”
He bites again, a little harder, and Stiles yelps. Derek pulls away, breathing hard, but Stiles grapples for him, threading the fingers of one hand through Derek’s hair and pulling his head back. “No, I liked it, don’t stop,” he scrapes out.
He’s telling the truth. Derek inhales, letting the thick scent of Stiles’s arousal fill him, then puts his mouth back on Stiles’s ear and licks over the spot. Stiles yelps again, his hand yanking on Derek’s hair hard enough to send a little spark of pleasure-pain through him. He growls at that, seizing the waistband of Stiles’s jeans and dragging him forward, until they’re pressed so close that his hands are trapped between them. So close that he can feel the movement of Stiles’s blood, not just hear it. So close he can feel the entire length of Stiles’s cock hard against his own, clothing be damned.
“Oh,” Stiles says, “oh,” and then he’s dragging at Derek’s hair, at his hips, at Derek’s own jeans, his long fingers leaving little trails of fire in their wake.
Derek bites him again, on the outer shell of his ear, then drags his tongue around behind it, tasting the salty-spicy flavor of him. Stiles grabs onto his shoulders, mewling, his fingers digging in and sending another jolt of pleasure through him. His hair tickles at Derek’s face, and he breathes in, so lost in Stiles that he can barely form the words. But he has to ask.
“Stiles,” he rasps. “Can I…?” He works his fingers between them, until he’s touching the button of Stiles’s jeans.
In answer, Stiles arches against him, crying out without a sound. Derek tightens his grip on Stiles’s jeans, watching in surprised awe as Stiles comes, his mouth dropping open, his breath stuttering, his bare chest heaving. Derek’s own body tenses, at the sudden edge of heat pulsing against his fingers and cock. At the scent of it, thick and sharp. At the sight of Stiles, eyes closed, lips red and swollen. Now, more than earlier, more than ever, what he’d thought earlier about Stiles is true.
He’s beautiful.
Stiles gasps then, his eyelashes fluttering. His hands relax, slipping down from Derek’s shoulders and down to his chest to settle on Derek’s own hands. Derek shudders, his eyes following Stiles’s fingers, little thrills going through him at every touch of them on his skin. He hadn’t realized just how much he liked Stiles’s hands until now. “You can,” Stiles half-laughs, half-pants, wrapping those fingers around Derek’s fists and squeezing, “but it’s too late.”
Derek growls back, dragging on Stiles’s jeans, and Stiles laughs again, leaning forward to press his cheek against Derek’s. “Which you probably knew before I did, yeah yeah.” He squeezes Derek’s hands again, then lets go, crawling his fingers over Derek’s abs and down between his forearms, until Derek feels them brush over the zipper on his jeans. “Can I?” Stiles breathes in his ear.
He jerks his head in a nod, not trusting his voice. Stiles nods back, rubbing their cheeks together, and then pulls the zipper. Derek watches, fascinated, as Stiles slips the button next, his fingers’ movements deft if slightly shaky. Derek’s jeans, undone completely now, sag open, and he hisses as the head of his cock springs free, flushed and already shining wet at the tip.
“Oh,” Stiles squeaks, his hands stilling. “You’re not — not wearing — oh fuck, if I hadn't literally just come—”
Derek hisses again, his hips bucking up, and Stiles groans something unintelligible and snakes his right hand inside Derek’s jeans. Derek’s head falls back against the wall with a loud thump, but he doesn’t move his gaze from that sight of that, of Stiles’s slim fingers wrapped tight around his cock. Stiles fumbles at the waist of Derek’s jeans with his other hand, finally catching the fabric and dragging it down around Derek’s thighs, freeing his cock completely.
“Derek,” Stiles whispers, sliding his hand reverently down the shaft. Derek growls, biting his own lip as his hips jerk, pushing his cock up against Stiles’s palm. “God, Derek, you…” He trails off as he moves his hand back up, closing his fist over the head and pressing his thumb down on the slit. Fire sparks through Derek at every touch, every stroke, every rub of those fingers over him. He drags in breath after breath, and though Stiles’s scent is thick around him, it’s not close. It’s not enough.
He needs more.
Derek moves his hands without thinking, grabbing Stiles’s left wrist and dragging his hand up to his mouth. He bites gently, though, just pressing his teeth into the skin on the inside of Stiles’s wrist and inhaling deep. “Derek,” Stiles gasps, and the scent of him, the taste of him, the feel of him; it’s too much now, too good. He has just enough control to pull his mouth off of Stiles’s wrist and drop it before it hits him, his back arching, his teeth and claws flashing out as he comes, his vision dissolving into a burst of white.
When he finally comes down, he slumps back against the wall, breathing hard. “Did you,” he mumbles, still barely able to form words. His lips are buzzing, little shocks still zinging through him as Stiles drapes himself against him, nuzzling their cheeks together.
“Did I what?” Stiles pulls back, raising his eyebrows.
Derek twitches a hand in the general direction of the floor. He can just see the heap of blue plaid fabric over Stiles’s shoulder. “Did you ask me to put that shirt on just—”
“—so I could ogle you in a too-tight shirt? Yep.” Stiles grins lopsidedly at him. “I didn’t think it would go anywhere though. I just figured you’d put it on, growl at me a lot, and leave, and I’d have material for weeks. If you put it on at all, that is. I didn’t think this,” he kisses Derek, nipping at his lip and making his spent cock twitch, “would happen. But hey, I did say the shirt was magic, right?” He smiles at him, warm and bright. “Hmm, yep, definitely magic.”
Derek just shakes his head, trying to calm the giddiness still muddling it. It’s ruined when he looks down though, and sees that he’s come not only on both his and Stiles’s abdomens, but also on Stiles’s hand; little spatters speckle his fingers, and Derek can’t help growling a little at the sight. “Your hand,” he manages when Stiles blinks at him.
Stiles looks down, his lips twisting into a smirk, and lifts his hand to his own mouth, licking delicately at it. “Hmm,” he muses. “Different. Kind of ni-mmmph!” But he melts into the kiss, his arms stealing around Derek’s shoulders, his fingers playing with the hair at the nape of Derek’s neck. Derek sucks on his lower lip, running his tongue over it before biting it, gently. Stiles hums, his arms tightening around Derek’s neck. “Are you going to do this now?” he breathes when Derek moves to kiss over his cheek, following the patterns his freckles make. “Kiss me to shut me up?”
“Maybe,” Derek says, kissing his lips again. He feels good, he thinks. Happy, almost. It’s such a strange feeling that he’s momentarily distracted from Stiles’s mouth. He hasn’t felt this way, let himself feel this way, in a long time. It’s a little frightening. But good all the same.
He could get used to it.
“Not gonna work,” Stiles mumbles against his lips. “Not for long, anyway. Though I’m pretty sure you actually kissed me because you have some weird thing about my hands, not to mention that I was licking your—”
“Stiles.”
“Hmm?”
“Shut up.”
“Make me.” Stiles grins at him.
Derek does.
