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Stiles has a problem to do with his dick. Not like that; he’s a somewhat healthy teenage boy, he can still get it up. In fact, it’s that which is kind of the problem. It’s not like Stiles is a stranger to jerking off, it’s something he’s good at and enjoys a lot. There’s just been a lot of it happening, more than there was before, and it’s not like he’s had that much spare time lately anyway.
Also, things have changed. Stiles has a routine for when he wants to take his time with his dick, and it’s always worked well for him. Up until now. Before it was soft skin, red hair, and lingerie, now it’s stubble, dark hair, and fangs. Glowing red eyes and strong hands that could hold him down are a permanent fixture when he’s got his hand round his dick, and Stiles is getting vaguely concerned that he can’t get off without them. Without thinking about Derek.
Stiles blames the situation at the police station, he really should’ve known that it would end in something other than his dad giving him one of those looks that cuts him to the bone. It’s not like he expected to come out of it with a new kink, or a sudden realisation of exactly how fucking attractive Derek is, and he really didn’t expect it to be so all consuming.
Now it’s like he only needs to imagine Derek leaning over him, fangs scraping against Stiles’ neck, and then he’s achingly hard and moments from shooting off. Before all this, Stiles had managed to work up his stamina to something pretty impressive, and now all it takes is thinking about the zipper of Derek’s leather jacket brushing against his legs and he’s shaking, coming over his stomach way sooner than he’d like.
And he can’t stop thinking about it, which makes seeing Derek really fucking awkward. Not like they’re hanging out on a regular basis, but Derek is around more than Stiles would like. Stiles is sure having a boner this often can’t be good for him. He’s also sure Derek can sniff it on him — he’s seen the smirk on Derek’s face — and that’s leaving his cheeks almost permanently red from embarrassment.
It’s late, and Stiles is exhausted, but unbearably horny. He squirts some lotion on his hand from the bottle behind his bed and reaches down, taking himself in hand and gripping firmly, he starts to stroke himself. Stiles can’t stop his brain from wondering what it would be like if it were Derek doing this to him; if Derek would hold him down on the bed; if he’d maybe use his mouth as well.
Stifling a groan, Stiles speeds his hand up, thoughts of Derek lying next to him racing through his brain. Would Derek push his face against Stiles’ neck? Would he mind if Stiles asked him to wolf out? Pre-come spurts out at that thought, at the idea of Derek’s fangs scraping against his neck, resting there as a subtle threat and, shit, Stiles is so fucked. He’s never going to be able to be around Derek again when he’s wolfed out without wondering what Derek’s claws would feel like on his skin.
Pushing his hips up and fucking his fist, Stiles imagines Derek’s clawed hands gripping his hips. holding him down, pricking at his skin and that’s it; he feels his balls tighten up and then he’s coming, making a mess on his stomach, his chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath. Smacking his lips together, Stiles runs his fingers through his come, humming to himself as his pulse starts to slow down.
Then there’s a tap at the window.
“Oh fuck,” Stiles mutters, scrambling for something, anything, to wipe up the come on his skin. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed away from the window, he winces, tugging a pair of boxers on and wiping his stomach with a discarded shirt. Sucking in a breath, he gets up and heads to the window, knowing his skin is flushed. Folding his arms, he doesn’t open the window, just glares at Derek. “What?” he asks, knowing Derek can hear him. “What do you want?”
Derek raises his eyebrows and bares his teeth in a sharp smile. “Let me in.”
“No way.”
“Stiles.”
There’s a staring contest, and Stiles would win, he so would, but there’s the thing where he doesn’t really want anyone noticing there’s a dude perched outside his window. Fiddling with the lock, he slams the window open and steps back. “Come in.”
Derek slides through the window more gracefully than anyone should ever be able to. He doesn’t stumble over the pile of clothes and books Stiles has left on the floor either, and it makes Stiles a little sick. “What were you doing?” Derek asks, eyeing Stiles’ bed and, no, Stiles isn’t playing this game.
“You know what I was doing,” Stiles says, his voice not wavering. “What do you want? Another one of your baby wolves get arrested?”
“Funny,” Derek says, sitting on the edge of the bed like he belongs there.
Rubbing his forehead with a hand, Stiles sighs. “Seriously, Derek, I’m exhausted. Some of us have school, what the hell do you want?”
“How are you?”
“Fine.”
Nodding slowly, Derek’s fingers toy with the sheets on Stiles’ bed, a small smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “Come here.”
Stiles sighs and marches over, sitting down next to Derek, painfully aware of the fact that he’s only in boxers and Derek is fully dressed. He feels ridiculous, but Derek is the one who came into his room, so whatever. “Now are you going to —” And then Derek’s mouth is on his, and Stiles is so fucking confused.
It’s a firm kiss, Derek’s hand coming up to cup the side of Stiles’ face and hold him in place. Derek licks at the seam of Stiles’ lips and then his tongue is inside Stiles’ mouth and Stiles finally gets with the programme and shuffles forward on the bed. He doesn’t know what he’s doing with his hands, only knows that he needs to feel Derek’s skin, so he’s pushing at Derek’s jacket until it’s down past his shoulders. Derek stops touching Stiles’ face long enough to slip out of the jacket and Stiles thinks it falls somewhere on his floor, but Derek’s still kissing him, so he’s really not that interested.
One of Derek’s hands is suddenly at the small of Stiles’ back, and Stiles wraps his arms around Derek’s neck, pulling him forwards and the next thing Stiles knows, he’s flat against the bed with Derek stretched out on top of him. Derek’s heavy and warm, and it’s terrifying; Stiles pushes at Derek’s cheek until Derek moves away from Stiles’ mouth. His eyes are wide, his lips wet, and he looks vulnerable in a way Stiles has never seen before. “Did I not — I thought you wanted this?”
“I —” Stiles has no idea how to respond to that. He’s still touching Derek, his hands clutching at Derek’s biceps. “I did, I do. I didn’t — you want this? Me?”
Derek leans back in, noses at Stiles’ neck and licks a stripe up the skin. “You have any idea what you smell like? I really was coming over to see if you were okay, but when I got here you — I heard you, smelt you and I —” Derek drags blunt, human teeth against Stiles’ throat and Stiles couldn’t stop the moan that slips from his mouth even if he wanted to.
“Okay,” he says quickly. “Okay, so we’re on the same page. But, I mean, we don’t — not everything right now. I want you, but I don’t, not yet.”
“Stiles,” Derek says, his mouth still near Stiles’ neck. “Calm down. I don’t want to get there yet, either.” He kisses his way back up to Stiles’ mouth and presses their lips together softly. “This is good.”
They kiss again and again; Stiles still doesn’t really understand how the fuck this is happening, but it is, and maybe that’s enough for him right now.
“Can I stay?” Derek asks after he’s sucked a mean hickey at the base of Stiles’ neck. “Not to — just to sleep.”
Stiles nods, staying silent because he’d never imagined that Derek would be asking him for that. He stays on the bed as Derek unties his boots and kicks them off; watches as Derek slips out of his jeans and drops them on top of his jacket. Stiles hasn’t shared a bed with anyone since he and Scott became too big to fit in either of their beds comfortably, and he’s not sure how he and Derek are going to work. Somehow it’s easy; Stiles lies on his back and Derek sprawls out on top of him, his face curled towards Stiles’ neck, their legs tangled together and it’s something. Stiles doesn’t know what, but he knows it isn’t only tonight.
When he wakes up, Derek’s gone, but the leather jacket is still on the floor and there’s a note scribbled on Stiles’ history notebook that simply says, ’next time, you can listen to me - D’. Stiles smiles to himself, and if he jerks off that morning with Derek’s jacket draped over his face, well, that’s his business.