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The sex thing is unexpected.
Stiles isn't unfamiliar with what adrenaline does to people. Forget what the movies tell you, Stiles knows his research and he's read firsthand accounts of actual soldiers who surround themselves with death and killing. The urge to counteract all that is as intense as is the way blood pounds through your system, a cocktail of chemicals that require some sort of outlet. Hell, some of what Stiles founds doesn't require reading between artfully obtuse lines, either.
But with him? That doesn't make any sort of sense. Derek barely tolerates him as the annoying kid that is attached to Scott. If Derek wasn't guilt-bound or whatever to Scott there'd be no interaction between them at all. There's no... thing. Nothing except the occasional barked order, eyerolls, and threats of death.
Well, and the saving each other. They end up doing that at a lot. It's unintentional since they usually have goals beyond each other to save- but it keeps happening. Jeeps and pools and unmoving horror in a police station that Stiles still has trouble entering when he drops off dinner for his dad are only the tip of a very bloody, very traumatic iceberg.
Put in that light, maybe the sex thing isn't unexpected. Chemical cocktails of terror have been shared together, so why not bodily fluids as well?
Stiles looks down to where Derek is kneeling, his lips and jaw stretched obscenely- beautifully- as they slide up and down his cock. He'd done this the first time, too. There'd been the requisite pushing up against the wall but then Derek had abruptly turned beseeching, somehow vulnerable in a way that erased the stupid alpha power trip and showed a man just into his twenties, not really that much older than Stiles, who had no idea what he was doing, no idea how to handle the responsibilities of caring for what was his.
Stiles knew that feeling. Knows it. The concept of a pack isn't all that different from the gripping terror he doesn't let himself feel when his Dad goes out on a bad call, or when Scott would wheeze and cough, his lips tinging colors they shouldn't. It's hard enough managing the two of them. Having all of what Derek does-
At the time, Derek hadn't said anything. He'd just looked, dark eyebrows no longer furrowed, eyes desperate for something Stiles couldn't understand.
He does now.
"Slower," he whispers, cupping the back of Derek's neck. "Go slow."
Immediately Derek slows the quick bob of his head, pushing back into Stiles' palm before incrementally sliding back so his lips brushed wet and warm against Stiles' sac.
That first time, Stiles hadn't said anything. He hadn't been silent because come on. Derek was asking him something and Stiles didn't know what it was, but he wasn't saying no. Not after-
But then Derek had put his face into Stiles chest, breathing in. The exhale had him morphed into graceful kneeling, hands gentle and oddly deferential as they undid Stiles' jeans. Stiles hadn't been hard, but a few quick strokes, the feel of another person's hand and warm, puffing breath, had taken care of that.
It was Stiles' first blowjob and still one of the most memorable. The way Derek had moaned and made almost tiny, whimpering noises whenever the head of Stiles' cock pushed against the back of his throat. His hands had been behind his back, a tiny observation Stiles had only unearthed much later, whole body bent forward as he mouthed wet and sloppy until his beard was gummed with spit and precome. There had been a franticness to the whole thing, desperation and need; and all Stiles could do was hang on- after he'd flailed dramatically for a while, nonsense groans and curses filling the air- and enjoy the fact that Derek was on his knees, sucking his cock, and looking happy.
Grateful.
Honestly, Stiles still thinks realizing that is what made him come. Derek is damn talented and the whole werewolf constitution leading to holding his breath for a long time is awesome and all, but...
He'd looked content, and Stiles didn't know that was even possible.
A groan with a question buried in it makes Stiles grin and glance back down. Derek is still swallowing over Stiles' cock, a steady, rippling warmth that makes Stiles want to go off like a rocket. He doesn't, though. Stiles knows how to be careful, for all he rarely exercises the ability, and patient, too. He knows how to think and distract himself. He's had to learn that over the years, Adderall’s help notwithstanding, and it's translated into an interesting ability to hold off for significantly longer than a just- recently-post-virgin probably should.
"I told you we were going to. Did you think I lied?"
Derek's eyes flare. Not the red of the alpha he never is in these moments, but with lust, dark as expanding night until only a rim of that incongruously green-gray is visible. Stiles strokes up over his hair, petting him, thumbing along the tendons of his neck and behind his ears, rubbing slowly.
Sensual, sure, but also vaguely dog-related. He's still Stiles, after all. Even if he never once, not once says the word he'd really like to. Derek's face had promised broken bones but the fractured chasm of pain underneath is one Stiles knows all too well.
People like to think his nickname is because his real name is horrible- and it is, it so is, god dammit. But only one person was ever allowed to use it. It isn't about people knowing what the travesty of a name is. Just who can use it.
And that person is dead.
Derek eases off slowly, eyes dropping back to the cock he releases, still hard and glistening with saliva. The blow job isn't about Stiles getting off, for all Derek is ridiculously focused on that to a degree that even Stiles is kind of worried about. No, this part of their evening is because Derek had been begging for it.
Quietly, of course. It's always quiet. Hidden signs and tells that Stiles has learned how to read. The bend of his neck when Stiles gets too close when they do interact. The way he licks his lips.
The manufactured excuses to see Scott and therefore the people around him.
All of it means I want.
And really, outside of staying alive and maybe helping some other people along the way, Derek doesn't want all that much. Not for himself, in that selfish, greedy impulse kind of way that Stiles has never wanted to fight against.
Indulging it is good for Derek.
And Stiles. But that's a different sort of thing.
"On the bed," Stiles orders Derek, who's still absently pressing his mouth to Stiles' naked thighs and hips. "On your back."
The second time had been pretty much like the first.
Another shot of fear related chemicals flooding their system, Stiles quoting Firefly's Wash with his deadpan a little on the high pitched side. He hadn't been shoved into a wall this time because Derek had been too busy kissing the skin right above his t-shirt, ducking back to look up, then kiss again, before Stiles had figured it out.
They were indoors so yeah, okay. Naked time. Or at least shirtless.
After a string of kisses that would turn mottled and highly, highly visible along his chest, Derek had nosed his way down further- well, more like mouthed his way- and suddenly there was another one of those questioning looks and it definitely was naked time. For both of them.
Derek had stripped way too fast for Stiles to see much, but then, Derek had also found some lotion and was busy sticking fingers up his own ass while he left wet, open-mouthed kisses around the base of Stiles' cock, sucking on his balls to make sure he was hard enough. That, the being hard, was not a problem. Stiles had babbled something along the lines of what the fuck and Jesus, Google was so wrong.
And then Stiles lost his virginity for real, because Derek sat on his dick and rode him into a completely incoherent mess, looking like he'd found redemption or Jesus or the Holy Grail the entire time. He didn't come until Stiles had calmed down enough to realize that Derek was still hard. Waiting, really, but with a patience that was completely contradictory to the growling demands and impatient huffs that Stiles was used to.
"Do I- do you want me to do anything?" Stiles had asked.
That, at least, prompted a familiar huff. And a grunt.
Right, so... Stiles cocked his head, still riding an endorphin high of awesome because watching Derek ride him had not only been hot, it had been like watching art, David come to life and completely debauching himself to make sure Stiles got off, focused and intent as he'd tightened his ass and changed the angle a few times, not for his own pleasure but because it made Stiles moan louder and-
See, this was why Stiles was the smart one.
Leaning back on the pile of pillows that in no way counted as a bed, Stiles said, "C'mere."
It was a demand and Derek obeyed it. It took a few more minutes, but he obeyed when Stiles jerked him off and ordered him to come, too.
The bed is new. Well, mattress. Two of them without a frame, but they're new and clean and really fucking awesome.
"Daydreaming," Derek says.
Outside this place or time or whatever it is they do, there would've been a growled stop before the daydreaming. As it is, Derek just looks uncomfortable, laying corpse-like on the bed. He isn't sure what Stiles wants. He doesn't get what it is he wants, but then, Stiles is okay with that.
He figured out his best friend was a werewolf before his best friend did.
Sure, sometimes it's complicated. Derek is practically a mute when he isn't complaining and in this... realm he's quieter still, waiting for some sort of direction. Google calls it submissive or maybe even masochistic, because once Derek came when Stiles dug his nails into his hips, enough that Derek actually bled, before Stiles had even gotten his cock inside. Google also says a lot of things about how the dominant one really isn't. They act like it, make the decisions, and there should be a whole lot more conversation between them, according to some of the chat boards Stiles has started to frequent.
Like any, would be a start.
Because for some reason, whenever Derek gets that look in his eye, when his shoulder stoop and he makes himself seem smaller than Stiles, or tries to since sure, werewolves, but physics is still physics and there's the issue of muscle mass, Stiles tends to stop talking. Definitely doesn't babble. He just watches a lot. It isn't a hardship since, really, Derek without clothes would've made Michelangelo do a happy-dance. Or maybe Da Vinci since Derek is basically the god damned Vitruvian Man.
But Stiles isn't just watching for the sheer hotness that is Derek naked and supplicating.
"You don't like being on your back. I get it. Memories are a bitch, seriously. But the thing is, the on all fours thing? Hot, but hell on my knees."
As he talks, Stiles climbs up onto the bed and shoves Derek's legs open to knee-walk between them.
"And maybe I've got a thing for the traditional. Maybe I'd like to try it."
The key words have their desired effect and Derek lights up, no longer awkward, now that he knows what Stiles wants. Jerk, but Stiles thinks the word almost fondly. Derek is a jerk, but it isn't his fault. He has no idea how to sort through the shit inside his own head, which makes him typical for pretty much everyone else in Stiles' life.
Derek pulls his legs up, hands behind his knees.
And Stiles can't breathe.
"Jesus," he moans, because the mounting thing had been hot in a yeah, Stiles was so in control kind of way, but this- there's hair curling dark along Derek's calves but it lightens, grows more sparse and nearly vanishes by the time it reaches the top of his thighs. His ass is exposed, the hole within barely visible except for a little hint of reddish pink, balls tight and hard, hard cock with the skin unfurled around the head leaking clear along his belly.
That thing about not babbling? Apparently he has a limit.
"Holy fuck. We're gonna try docking. I wanna. Read about it- shit, you don't care where, but we're going to. Unfair that I never get to feel that and probably that you didn't have a choice, but we're going to do that, right after I fuck you. I'm gonna fuck you, Derek. Not like the other times when you basically did everything you could to get me off, used your body that way. Don't get me wrong- huge turn on. Really. Do that lots of times, all- ok, many of the times because I enjoy it a lot. But right now I want you on your goddamned back with your legs in the air and I'm going to fuck you until you come. Not until I come. Until you do."
Derek had slicked himself before Stiles arrived. Annoying, and Stiles slaps one exposed ass cheek in displeasure. "Don't do that again. Unless I tell you," he amends, because the idea of Derek being slicked up and ready just in case Stiles wants (just because Derek wants) isn't a bad thought.
Given the way his cock just jerked at it, anyway.
But Stiles is on a mission. So he runs a shaking hand full of lube over his own cock before he knee-walks closer and lines up. "Tell me you want this and you better not lie. I'll know."
There are way more tells than just heartbeats.
Derek makes a rough, pained noise. His eyes are wild when Stiles rests the head of his cock against his hole but doesn't do anything else. He's open-mouthed and panting, gasping sometimes, but he forces himself back under control enough to answer. "I want this. You. Please."
Stiles slams in. He fucks brutally, snapping his hips as steadily as he can until the whole bed is moving and Derek is back to that religious experience look, where he's so gone that there's nothing but the pleasure Stiles can feel buzzing under his skin, licking up his spine and squeezes warmwettight around his cock.
"Fuck, that's it. Take it," he growls, because that's what Derek wants. He wants this moment where he doesn't have to make choices, doesn't have to worry about results. All he has to do is lay there and get fucked.
Derek comes so suddenly that none of them expect it. Stiles is maybe a little relieved because Derek seriously gets off on orgasm denial, but there it is. Drying streaks that both of them stare at in wonder because Stiles fucked him and fucked him until Derek couldn’t take it anymore and just came without a single touch beyond Stiles’ dick against his prostate and Stiles’ hands on his shoulders.
“Fuck, yeah,” he breathes. “That was so hot. Okay, now that that’s done, I’m gonna fuck you just for me. Tell me you want that, too.”
It has to be the orgasm because there’s a lightness to Derek’s voice that Stiles has never heard before. A sense of rightness, or maybe wonder, that he doesn’t want to examine too closely because it’ll make his head explode. Particularly when all Derek says is, “Yeah. Want it.”
So Stiles goes back to fucking him.
A lot.
The first time he comes is still sooner than he'd like, but they're both panting, sweat-sodden messes by that time, even Derek who takes for- fucking ever to start to sweat.
"I'm staying inside you," Stiles announces before Derek can come back enough to wonder. "You're gonna let me lie down on you because you're a werewolf and you can take my weight without suffocating. And then I'm gonna get hard and fuck you again. Maybe a third time. There are benefits to being a teenager. Oh, and Derek? You're not going to come again. Not until I tell you to."
By the time Stiles stopped counting he'd gone past all his fingers and at least one foot. By then it was clearly a thing. A bizarre one, but hey. A thing. Stiles was strangely okay with it and not just because it meant that maybe once or twice a month- and sometimes once or twice a week- he got to have sex with someone else. Good sex, too.
"You fucked around a lot in New York, didn't you?" he asked when he'd reached the third toe on his left foot.
"That a problem?" It was weird to hear Derek's voice when he wasn't begging. Here, at least. "I figured you'd enjoy it."
"Oh, I do. Believe me, I am glad someone taught you the art of blow jobs," and strangely, Derek actually smirked at that, "before I got you. But they did a pretty crap job with everything else."
"What else?"
"Yeah. That's kinda the point."
Stiles gets off four times. He thinks deeply about Gatorade and possibly pasta, the way the lacrosse team sometimes does after a particularly harsh game. He fucks Derek until the body underneath him is a quivering, destroyed wreck of what used to be a person. He's come-riddled, because the third time Stiles had pulled out and shot over his torso and also maybe his face, and sweat-sodden, almost mindless as he reaction. Because at this point that's all Derek can do, react in a pure, instinctive sort of way, to what Stiles says or the way his body moves. There is nothing aware behind his eyes except adoration so pure that Stiles is back to thinking about metaphors he is never, ever using with Derek no matter how apt they might be.
Especially when Derek laps and sucks at whatever is put near his mouth, whether it's Stiles' come-slick fingers, his cock, or the skin that's closest when Stiles does exactly as he says and lays down on top of Derek, cock still inside of him, for a brief, lazy sort of doze until he feels he can get hard again.
Only after all of that does Stiles leave the confines of Derek's legs. He climbs up the bed to lean against the headboard. A gesture at Derek gets him to sit between Stiles' legs, back to Stiles' chest. "Lean your head back," Stiles tells him. "You want to."
Derek does. He'd just never do it without Stiles telling him to.
So with Derek's head on his shoulder, Stiles wraps one arm around his torso, the other on his dick, stroking him hard and fast. Derek has waited a long time for this and for all Stiles wants to go slow, to draw it out further, that'd be pushing it a little too much.
Maybe next time.
Derek shouts when he comes, almost convulsing as his body finally releases everything pent up inside of him for the past week since Stiles has seen him last. What happened in between Stiles has no clue. School is a thing that has to be done and he's getting better at balancing homework with monsters. Plus there's the part where Derek doesn't really have a reason to be near him without some sort of an excuse, particularly when lately Derek is off doing his own, non-Scott related thing.
See, Derek is always, always the one who initiates this. Every time.
Stiles is waiting for him to realize that.
When Derek is finally calm, his breathing slow enough that he could be asleep, Stiles still doesn't move. He's got both arms wrapped around Derek's torso now and he isn't letting go. It's comfortable, despite how heavy Derek is and the walls of this place could be sanded better. Or there could be headboards. Maybe he should suggest an actual frame for the bed. It's worth a shot, anyway.
When the position stops being comfortable, Stiles gently pushes and rearranges until they're both lying down on the bed. He grabs the rumpled mess of fleece at the base up and over Derek's shoulders. "Be right back," he says.
There's running water, also a Stiles suggestion. Too bad it's freezing. Stiles uses the washcloth on his own body first, biting off curses and complaints because the he doesn't want to disturb the silence in the other room. When the cloth is still wet but not made of bits of glacier, he goes back, pulls the fleece down, and does his best to wipe up the mess.
It isn't perfect. It doesn't have to be.
"So, that was great," Stiles said, when it happened the first time. "That was- wow."
Derek grunted something and vanished into a shadow like he was the goddamned Batman.
It took Stiles a few more times to realize he'd jerked off in a frenzy of guilt and need at the end of the alleyway, after Stiles had cursed him for a while and then left, stomping and weirdly put out despite getting a completely unexpected blow job.
Stiles always left, after.
"On your side."
Derek's still too loose to let his face go blank so some of his confusion, innocent as a boy of 15 who'd just lost everything, leaks through.
"Roll," not over, not ever, "onto your side, Derek. This is one of the least complicated things I've ever asked of you."
And Derek does, because he's still blissed out and comfortable, even drawing his knees up a little in what looks a little too fetal for comfort, but obviously is comfortable. He's still naked and there are a few come smears Stiles' missed, but he's clean enough.
Stiles climbs under the fleece and lays down onto his back. He's wrestled with this for weeks. Okay, a week after he'd found a site that gave him the last little bit of information he needs. But just because he has suggestions doesn't mean he knows exactly what to do. Which, exactly, is it that Derek needs? The options are laid out and easy to understand, but making the decisions is different.
Stiles has always been good at being decisive. He doesn't like losing it now.
But he pushes his own discomfort away even as he pulls at Derek, getting him to uncurl a little so he can settle over Stiles' body, his head on Stiles' shoulder, legs tangled together. Stiles puts both arms around him again, holding on with more force than cuddling usually entails- and no, that doesn't require experience to know. As Stiles doesn't really have any, at least on this front. But his arms ache with the pressure they're exerting so this is probably not normal cuddling.
Derek makes a noise that is way, way too much like a sob and curls in tight, tucking himself into Stiles as much as he can. Somewhere along the process they end up on their sides, still facing each other, or well, Derek facing Stiles' clavicle and Stiles facing a lot of tufted, in need of a shower hair, with Stiles still holding on way too tight and Derek actually lets his arms settle around Stiles' back.
"There's a thing you should know about the Stilinkis," Stiles says. "We're huggers. Previously only manly type hugs, but I've always been pretty sure that means I'm gonna be a huge cuddle-slut. I'd like to try that out."
The arms around him tighten just a fraction.
And then another.
There's nothing so dramatic as the final bit of something inside of Derek loosening. No ultimate relaxation or comfort or healing or any of that other bullshit. It's hard enough to fix someone even when you're trying and it doesn't matter if the broken pieces don't want to try and fuse themselves back together.
Stiles doesn't live in a romance novel, despite Edward and Bella- that is, Scott and Allison trying to prove him wrong. Stiles lives in the real world.
And in the real world, after a marathon of sex what's really important is that everyone sleeps deeply and dreamlessly, that they wake without regret or shame, and that no one says anything about what happened no matter how bonelessly they move in the morning.
Or in Stiles' case, limp and complain desperately that he needs something with electrolytes, like, now, come on. Coffee? Tea? Something that is not water that is practically a solid?
The kiss is really unexpected.