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If there is a wall, and there is Derek Hale, Stiles is guaranteed to be slammed against it. For this reason alone, Stiles has timed his home invasion carefully, during Derek’s evening run.
The whole place is creepy as fuck. How anyone could live here… The air is stale and damp, thick with the scent of ash. He picks his way up the blackened stairs, skirting fallen beams and holes in the floor. There’s not much to rifle through in Derek’s charred shell of a room - a half-burned dresser, a sleeping bag covered with a pillow and an incongruously white sheet. A duffle-bag spilling over with clothing. Broken furniture, scattered debris. There had to be something here to connect Derek to the string of brutal murders in town. Sure, he’d been absolved of his sister’s death, but the creep was hiding something. Stiles didn’t know what he’d find – receipts, photos, a signed confession – look, real detectives never knew what they were looking for ‘til it turned up, right?
Thank God for creaking hinges – Stiles has time to dive under the broken desk at the foot of the sleeping-bag as heavy were-feet storm the stairs two at a time. Then Derek’s in the room, stripping off his sodden t-shirt and washing up in the adjacent bathroom. Stiles weighs his chances of sneaking out, but it’s too late. There’s the sound of water dumped down the drain, and Derek’s back.
The guy must be oblivious. Stiles is RIGHT THERE, but Derek’s standing there with nothing on but a towel slung low over his hips, body dripping with water, and this is where Stiles wishes he’d snuck away when he had the chance, because Derek is whisking the towel off to scrub his wet hair, his naked junk on display at eye level. And holy fuck, what an eyeful.
Tossing the towel over a broken chair, Derek stretches out on his bedroll. Stiles groans inwardly – there’s no way he can reveal himself, not with Derek there in all his glory. He settles in, hoping Derek will have a nap or something.
He’s not napping. Fuck. He’s pulled out his phone, reading emails or something. His other hand is drifting southwards, dragging absentmindedly through his happy trail. He’s not hard, but his dick is gorgeous – thick, heavy, uncut.
Derek is playing a little, dragging fingernails through the dark swatch of hair curling above his cock, scratching gently as he scrolls his phone. He widens his legs, cradles his balls, a soft rosy pink against the darker tan of his leg.
As his dick begins to show some interest, Derek’s movements become deliberate and his dick grows impossibly thicker. His fingertips stroke upwards, circling the tip, gathering a drop of pre-cum to smooth the glide. He palms his dick with his other hand, pulling his foreskin downwards into a stretch that leaves the pink tip of his cockhead peeking through. He teases a fingernail deep into the foreskin, probing.
He fists a few strokes, eventually pulling his foreskin down. He doesn’t reach for any lube – just arches into his grip, forcing the head to emerge out the top of his fist, pulling back until the foreskin pulls generously over the top.
When he’s close, Derek eases his grip, thrusting into the ring of thumb and index finger, ring finger extending downwards until it reaches Derek’s hole. With no lube, he forces the tip of his finger into his hole, curling it to pull back at his rim. He has no leeway, sharp, shallow thrusts grinding his pelvic bone against the heel of his hand.
With a moan he arcs up, coming in thick white pulses, then he’s panting, fisting his cock softly as he rides the last of the aftershocks. When his hips give a final, Derek gathers up congealing come, feeding it to himself on two fingers.
It’s more than Stiles can take. With a shout, he comes untouched into his jeans.
Derek leaps from his bedroll, yelling “What the fuck, Stiles?”
Stiles stands, dazed from his orgasm. They stand off against each other, Derek freaking, and Stiles sobbing in terror.
Derek runs a hand over his face. “Searching my room? You… saw?”
Stiles nods. “Yeeeeah. I thought... You had to know – your wolfy senses…”
Derek snorts in disgust. “Where do you get your info, D&D? Just… GET OUT!”
As the door slammed shut after him, Stiles had an inkling there would be an entirely new intensity to any wall-slamming in his future.