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He loses the bet on a Monday.
Derek leers at him, proud and excited, and there's also this emotion running underneath everything else that Stiles can't really place, caught somewhere between affectionate and indifference. Stiles would like to say that it's a bad look on him, because Stiles would like to think that everything is a bad look on Derek–it just makes him feel better about his less-than-adequate looks, being next to a Greek God personified–but the truth is, it's just nice to see him looking anything other than brooding.
The bet had started off easy: winner gets to choose what the loser has to do for a week. The bet was also stupid. And Stiles knew this going into it, but it's not like he cared. Stiles is a reckless and stupid teenager that needs to experiment and do idiotic things in order to fulfill his needs, really. Derek, who is a sick bastard when he wants to be, recognized this and decided to use it to his advantage.
As you see, this is all Derek’s fault. Stiles is the innocent, gullible teenager, and Derek took advantage. Stiles wants his money back, or a refund or whatever– just show him the receipts, dammit.
Derek's been a little smug since the whole Alpha thing happened, and yeah, Stiles can understand that, because he's sure becoming Alpha after being at the bottom of your pack for years is sort of gratifying–hell, it's probably like miniature figurative orgasms one after another ( awesome yet tiring). Stiles may not be an Alpha, but he is a competitive male, so he gets it, he really does. And there's also this part of him that can kind of understand Derek's whole "I'll do whatever the hell I want" complex because Derek's–well, Derek's lost everything. He gets it.
There are sometimes when Stiles thinks that he may just understand Derek more than either of them realize.
It’s a rather horrifying thought and he tries not to (ever) think about it.
So, anyway, the bet was kind of a one-off deal, and looking back on it now, Stiles should've realized sooner that he didn't really stand a chance up against Derek Hale and his wolfy perfection, but Stiles is blind to the obvious. Especially when it comes to hot people and their exceeding greatness.
It's a thing. Or a problem. He's working on it–he's working on a lot of things, actually, working on an endless list of things that never seems to diminish no matter how hard he tries to will it toand only seems to grow longer because the world hates him and is (always) planning his ultimate demise.
Derek completely nails him, but in his defense, Stiles is 75.6% sure that he was drunk when he agreed to this bet, and on principle that's a liability and shouldn't be held against him because it wasn't like he was actually present enough to make said decision. But Derek is a smug dude and refuses to see the logic in Stiles' argument ("You knew exactly what you were doing when you made that bet, Stiles," Derek had said, once Stiles had come to him the morning after in a hazed panic. Stiles, of course, could not argue with Derek as Derek was Alpha and therefore his word was final . Or at least that's what Derek said. Stiles likes his face too much to really challenge him on that. He suppressed equally alarming and embarrassing thoughts on how Derek was more of a dictator than anything, and instead stomped away–with his pride still intact, thank you).
Basically, in the short and severely edited version, Stiles is screwed. The long, unedited version is (roughly), ‘Derek is something blah blah blah blah stupid blah blah blah a monster and blah blah blah Stiles would absolutely kill him if he had the skills, opportunity, and materials required.’ He’s screwed because Derek is a twisted bastard and wouldn’t think twice about having Stiles doing psychopathic things like creep on people or give Jackson baths with his bare hands–Stiles used to think Derek didn’t have a sense of humor, but then he realized that his was just totally fucked up.
Derek is still sitting there, smirking at him. “Thanks for the easy win,” he says.
Stiles really misses angry and utterly upset Derek.
“I liked you better when you were angry,” Stiles says, because he does , and this Derek is sort of really freaking him out. “Just, you know, lay it on me or whatever.”
“I want you to blow me.”
Stiles chokes on air , because what ? He looks at Derek and expects to see a smile or that pinched-up eyebrow expression (#12) that is Derek-ese for “I’m kidding but don’t want to show that vulnerable, hilarious side of me and I expect you to understand my mixed and otherwise hard to read signals anyway growl growl” but it’s not there . He’s as serious as ever, and is almost looking at Stiles expectantly.
Stiles sputters.
“What?”
“I want, you , to blow me.”
Stiles doesn’t quite know what to say, never knows what to say, really, he just doesn’t filter what he’s thinking and whatever tumbles out of his mouth, does. He never even knew Derek swung that way–though he had his suspicions; there was no way a completely heterosexual male was comfortable enough slamming other males against flat surfaces and have it be written off as being “100% not stupidly gay”.
But Derek is there, looking at him like Stiles better get on his knees for him right the fuck now, and Stiles doesn’t know if he’s okay with this. He would be lying through his teeth if he said that he hadn’t thought about this–okay, maybe not sucking on Derek’s cock specifically –but there's something pleasing about Derek that made Stiles think that he really wouldn’t mind. Not in these circumstances, of course, because Derek could just be using this as a way to get off (from what Stiles knows, he needs this, Derek hasn’t exactly been the most sexually active bunny in the bunch, if you catch his drift).
But yeah, still freaky in that “I don’t care how Addams Family-esque this is but I like it” kind of way.
“You’re serious about this?”
Derek nods, eyes flashing red for a moment, and that still makes Stiles’ blood boil, reminds him that he is in a room, alone, with a blood thirsty predator, who, three months prior would’ve probably ripped off Stiles’ face.
“Deadly,” he says.
“And if I don’t want to?”
Derek comes closer, pressing into Stiles’ personal space, making his breath come out in rough spurts across Derek’s face. “You want this,” he says, confidently and all-knowing.
Stiles would really punch him in the face if he wasn’t so occupied with looking at his face–and the unimportant fact that Derek was right, which, yeah, seriously not important.
Stiles still isn’t completely okay with this, but he’s not sure if that’s because he actually isn’t okay with it or because he’s not okay with how much he’s really okay with it. Derek has this effect on him, wherein Stiles is perpetually confused, turned on, and annoyed with him in equal margins.
“Now?”
Derek smirks, “no,” he says, but there’s this look in his eyes that tell Stiles that if he knew he could get away with it, he probably would be pushing Stiles to the floor and telling him to take . There is a disgusting part of Stiles that is totally on board with this.
Stiles may or may not have a serious and sadistic kink for being roughed around.
“You’ll know when I want it.”
This doesn’t make Stiles feel any better.
It really only makes him feel worse.
What if Derek wants a blowjob in front of everyone ?
*
Stiles walks on eggshells for the next four days, because Derek’s a stealthy little bastard and Stiles is anything if not prepared.
Scott notices, which means that it must be pretty severe if he’s able to notice past the cloud of love and kittens and rainbows that has been surrounding him since he met Allison.
Stiles is definitely not bitter, nope.
“Dude, what’s been up with you lately?” Scott asks, when they’re gearing up for lacrosse practice.
Stiles blinks. “What do you mean?” He asks, carefully.
“You’ve been paranoid–more so than usual.”
"What, no, dude, I've been totally normal. Like, you know, more normal and than normal. I don't know what you're talking about."
"Stiles." Scott says, saying volumes without really saying anything at all. And it's Scott, of all people.
“Yeah, right–”
“You literally had an aneurysm in Econ earlier,” Scott says, unimpressed.
Stiles glares at him. “Dude, that is totally not my fault–”
“I was trying to hand you a pencil–”
“Don’t sneak–”
“You punched me in the face.”
“I’m not going to comment on that,” Stiles says instead, fastening his shoes.
“Seriously man, what’s up? Did Derek do something?”
Stiles balks. “What? No–no, of course not–”
"I know he's been kind of difficult lately, but he'll come around–" Scott is doing this alarming and somewhat vomit-inducing half-wink-half-face twitch thing at him.
"Will you stop with the Derek thing? Derek has nothing to do with my not-problem, because there isn't actually a problem to begin with!" Stiles squeaks, and sounds so convincing he almost believes it himself.
Scott looks unimpressed and pissed at the same time. Stiles, quite literally, has never hated having a werewolf as a best friend more than right now. “You know I can tell you’re lying, right?”
“Remind me to kill Derek for finally getting around to teach you that.”
Scott just stares at him. “It’s something to do with Derek, isn’t it?” He asks again, for the upteenth time.
Stiles doesn’t know what to say, not that he ever really knows what to say, he just rambles and talks and hopes it does more good than harm, but this is one of those times when it’s not working in his advantage.
“I’m just going to go–yeah, that sounds like a plan–”
“Stiles, you can’t avoid this forever–”
“Actually I can, and I will–”
“Dude, where are you going? There’s lacrosse practice today!” Scott yells, because he’s the type of person that believes skipping out on lacrosse practice is worse than killing kittens–which actually, makes a whole lot more sense now, because he’s basically a fucking dog. Or wolf. Or whatever.
“Yeah, I’m just gonna, you know, skip today. To like, avoid this entire conversation. It’s on my list of ‘Top Conversations I Never Want To Ever Have Ever’ and it’s currently beating out, well, basically everything–”
And then Stiles bolts the fuck out of there, because mortification is never a good thing.
He's pretty sure he hears Scott yell, "you can't avoid this forever," behind him, but that could've just been the wind.
Yeah, that was definitely the wind. Scott doesn't have that good of a memory anyway, right?
*
When Stiles gets home, Derek’s sitting at his computer.
When Stiles gets home, Derek’s sitting at his computer naked .
“Oh–Jesus Christ , hi –” Stiles chokes out, throwing his backpack on the bed and then trying to focus on Derek’s crot–face, totally his face. “Nice to see you too, man, but like, you should totally put some clothes on. Like, that would better humanity and my next-to-non-existent self esteem.”
Derek cocks an eyebrow, but doesn’t say anything.
Stiles just keeps talking and he hates his mouth and hates his dick even more, because why the hell is it swelling ?
“I think–I definitely think you should put your clothes on. Like, that would be a seriously awesome idea–”
“Stiles.”
Derek’s using his ‘I’m an Alpha and you’re an inferior little human who will definitely suck my cock now’ voice–not that Stiles has ever heard that voice before, but if it had a sound, this would definitely be it. “Stop freaking out,” Derek finishes, looking brooding and angry and naked .
“Uhm, dude, you do realize that you’re kind of naked in my room –oh, oh jesus christ , you didn’t like rub your balls up against all of my stuff did you? Because that’s totally not okay–like I don’t know if that’s some werewolf marking thing or something, like maybe it’s your pre-blowjob ritual or something, but man, not cool–”
“I am a human being, you know,” Derek offers, sounding exasperated.
“Okay, no , no I am not having this conversation with you while you’re naked –”
“We’re having this conversation,” Derek says in a tone that seriously cannot be argued with, and normally Stiles probably would have listened to that tone, because he very much likes the way that he's, you know, alive and not dead, but this is just one of those things that he does not what to happen.
“Oh god–” Stiles stammers, because Derek has this look in his eyes like he’s not going to take no for an answer, like nothing will stop him from getting what he wants. And what he wants right now, for some reason, is Stiles–either to talk to him or for something far, far more dirty, he doesn’t really know, but he’s not used to Derek wanting him. He’s used to Derek hating him and wanting his head on a stick in front of his house (he wouldn’t put it past him to be honest, Derek still has that ‘I sit at home and get ideas from Hitchcock movies’ feel about him).
He doesn’t know if Derek is one of those people with super weird kinks–like maybe he gets off on seeing people literally terrified of him, and yeah, okay, that makes a whole lot of sense, actually–but even this is past Derek’s usual nitche for creepy.
And yeah, totally not okay–
Not okay–
Well, maybe it’s a little okay.
“I’m just going to take a stab in the dark here and say you’re–”
“Stiles,” Derek murmurs, “get your ass over here.”
“I really don’t to talk about this Derek–”
“I don’t care,” Derek says, because he’s Derek, and he’s possibly even more self-entitled than Jackson, which Stiles didn’t think was possible before.
He didn’t think a lot of things were possible before Derek.
“Stiles,” Derek growls, “get over here.”
And for some reason Stiles does, because maybe Derek’s on about this whole ‘desperately needing to talk thing’ thing because Stiles is starting to think he may have a problem with repression. Especially with arousal, and feelings, and basically everything that has to do with getting intimate with someone. It’s actually not far fetched at all, but Stiles doesn’t want to think about that, so he doesn’t, or at least he tries not to.
He walks over to Derek sluggishly, feeling like it takes hours to get there when it really probably only takes seconds, and then Derek is pulling him down with so much force that Stiles has to flail out his arms in an embarrassingly obscene gesture (successfully almost groping Derek in the process–which may have not been such a bad thing) so he doesn’t fall flat on his face.
Derek snorts, because he’s a horrible person and the only thing he willingly laughs at is seeing his pack in any sort of pain–like that one time when Scott got stuck in a tree and Derek was five seconds away from calling animal control, because he’s sick and seriously warped . So, okay, Stiles could maybe see the irony in that, but that’s his best friend up there, and even though seeing Scott look like a trapped kitten was actually sort of gratifying in a childish and undoubtedly horrible way, he wasn’t about to admit that to Derek of all people.
Derek isn’t doing anything though, he’s just staring at Stiles, like he’s caught between wanting to eat him and wanting to eat him. Stiles doesn’t know which he would prefer, actually, because while he enjoys, you know, not being dead and all, he’s not sure how much he’d actually enjoy the other part.
Like he said, serious problems with repression.
Anyway.
“Derek–” Stiles whispers, taut and cut off because suddenly Derek’s rubbing his face into the skin of his neck, like he can’t get enough, and Stiles can’t help the immediate response when he turns his head to the side, allowing him more access.
Derek makes a noise in the back of his throat.
Stiles takes that as Derek-nese for ‘please continue and pour your heart out to me Stiles’ so Stiles talks.
“Uh–Derek, can you please stop doing that? It’s actually really distracting–” Derek cuts him off with a growl. “Okay, uhm, or not. Not is good, too, because this actually feels sort of good and–shit, Derek, okay, seriously, we have to talk about this. Expecting me to blow you is–”
“Happening in the foreseeable future,” Derek finishes, but no–no that actually sounds wrong.
“–kind of mentally insane. And possibly illegal. And dirty, and yeah–wait, what ?”
Derek blinks. “Stiles–” He chokes, finally moving away from Stiles neck where he’s currently going to town. Literally. It feels like the state of Texas is on his neck in the form of a Derek-shaped invisible mark (there’s no doubt now that Derek was scent marking him) and while that’s possibly the coolest thing that’s happened to Stiles in forever, the possibility of pack finding out–or worse, Scott; Scott is so much worse than pack, even though he is pack, but Stiles doesn’t want to deal with his disappointed and slightly curious looks for however long–is not. “I’ve been inching towards this for months,” Derek finishes.
“ No, you actually haven’t–”
“I didn’t kill you when you knocked over my Queen CD collection,” Derek says, like that somehow explains everything.
“I’m thankful for that, I really am, cause even though my life has been infiltrated by werewolves and their freaky supernatural asses, I still don’t see how that translates into paving the path towards blowjobs .”
“I let you drive my car–”
“Okay–” Stiles still doesn’t understand how this all correlated with everything else that’s been happening lately, and being as Derek is Derek and sucks at communicating when it isn’t shoving people into walls or threatening to scare the literal shit out of them, Stiles assumes they’ll be here for a while.
“Stiles,” Derek says, slowly, like he’s talking to a petulant child, and okay, normally Stiles would take offense to this, but Derek–well, Derek is kind of acting odd, so. There are things of more importance to worry about, like why Derek thinks he’s been obvious when he’s been nothing short of his usual dosage of mysterious and jarring werewolf. “I let you sleep in my bed.”
Stiles holds up a finger at that, because hold up a minute. “In my defense, I was actually kind of bleeding out from a wound that I had gotten trying to save your ass. I just thought you were being gentlemen-y.”
Derek narrows his eyes. “Stiles, stop being so dense–” Derek says.
“I am not being dense! I just do not understand how your freaky werewolf ass thinks that you were being obvious when you weren’t .”
Derek just makes this strained noise in his throat that is literally a whine , like Stiles is seriously difficult for existing as a quality human being with supreme common sense.
“Think about it Stiles,” Derek says, meeting his eyes. “If wolves aren’t related at all, a wolf only lets another wolf into their den when?”
“When they’re mates,” Stiles answers automatically, because he’s been researching enough to know this off the top of his head.
Derek gives him a knowing look.
Stiles just kind of flails, and possibly jumps back from Derek, off of his lap that he was so-not-straddling, because how does this even make sense? “Are you trying to tell me what I think you’re trying to tell me?”
Derek raises an eyebrow. “It depends on what you think I’m trying to tell you, Stiles.”
“That–oh, oh Jesus Christ –Derek. Oh god, I don’t know whether to be happy that I’m not going to die a virgin or upset that I have no say in me not dying as a virgin–”
“Stiles, what are you even talking about?”
“You imprinted on me!” Stiles says, because, god, he knows that Derek sucks at communicating, but Stiles never thought Derek would do something like this.
“You are not a 2-year-old girl, Stiles.”
Stiles makes a pained noise in the back of his throat at that, because Derek seriously just made a joke . “Are you–are you meaning to tell me that you’ve read Breaking Dawn but you’ve never seen Tropic Thunder? What kind of person are you?”
“I know who I am,” Derek says, and looks like it physically pains him to continue, “I'm the dude playin' the dude, disguised as another dude.”
“You–oh my god, Derek, I think I might cry,” Stiles says, “did you actually watch Tropic Thunder?”
“No, I sat up and Googled the quotes just in case this conversation might have taken place.”
“Suck my unit,” Stiles spits.
“Don’t ask stupid questions,” Derek says instead, because he’s stupid and likes to change tactic all of the time.
“If you actually answer my stupid questions, then maybe I wouldn’t have to ask stupid questions!” Stiles argues. “Pretend that makes sense, for my sanity, even–just–”
“Why didn’t you just, I don’t know, tell me the truth?” Stiles asks, after Derek goes a while without saying anything–and they really need to get back on topic, anyway, amazing movies be damned–because yeah, while this will surely be the most creative way someone will ever ask him out, or claim him, or whatever it is that Derek was trying to do, but he would’ve appreciated it to be simple.
Stiles is a fan of simple things. Simple things are. . .simple.
“You’re you , Stiles. I had to take drastic measures.”
“Measures meaning that you had to basically force me into giving you blowjobs–”
Derek looks unimpressed. “I wasn’t actually serious, Stiles.”
“What?”
“Blowjobs were never actually in the picture,” Derek says, like Stiles is being stupid– Scott’s level of stupid, which is insulting and wrong. Stiles is a fucking genius.
“You sounded pretty serious,” Stiles argues, but it’s weak.
“I had to get your attention somehow, didn’t I?”
“Derek,” Stiles says, slowly, because fuck it, if Derek can, then so can Stiles. “You’re in my room right now. Naked. That–while I'm sure my neighbors appreciate the view–is not the way to get my attention. You’re just–kind of severely shattering my self-esteem. Severely. ”
Derek looks marginally unimpressed. Again. “Stiles. I’m wearing boxers–”
“Naked.”
“ Boxers .”
“ Why are you in boxers.” It’s not even a question anymore.
Derek shrugs.
“That isn’t an answer!” Stiles screeches.
“I thought it would–help move things along.”
“Jesus christ, you are so messed up on so many concerning levels–”
“No,” Derek disagrees. “You’re just an idiot.”
Stiles gawks at him. “Hey–”
“If you weren’t so oblivious then I wouldn’t have to take such drastic–”
“In my defens–”
“Stiles,” Derek starts, “ Scott noticed before you. Scott .”
Stiles kind of deflates with that. “Oh.”
“I don’t understand,” Derek says.
Stiles raises an eyebrow to show that he’s listening.
“I don’t understand why we’re not kissing yet.”
“You are so–” Stiles stammers, and then squawks at him when Derek presses closer. “Dude!”
“Dude,” Derek repeats, scoffing, and then gets close to Stiles’ ear; whispers, “stop fighting it.”
“I am not fighting anything, thank you very much,” Stiles says, because he’s not , he’s so not turned on by this, and his dick’s totally not standing at attention now, either, because look, Stiles has some dignity, okay? He really does.
“You have no dignity, Stiles,” Derek says.
“I said that outloud, didn’t I?”
“ Stiles ,” Derek says, impatiently.
Stiles opens his mouth, because he’d really like to say something to that, like maybe point out how ridiculous Derek is being again, or maybe say something entirely different. But all of the protests die on his tongue, falter and fade and he simply has nothing to say anymore. Derek’s looking at him, gaze bright and intense, eyes caught between the startling red of the Alpha and the hazel-blue of Derek .
Stiles doesn't know which one he likes more.
“Stiles,” Derek says again, but it’s softer now, gentle. He takes another step forward, into Stiles’ space and whispers, “stop fighting it.”
Stiles doesn’t know what he’s fighting here exactly, if it’s Derek or if it’s the feelings he has for Derek–which he recognized a long time ago, thank you, but recognizing and acting on are two very different things. Stiles–Stiles takes a step closer to Derek, pushes into the final wall of barrier between them, and he reaches up a hand, slow and hesitant, like Derek might push him away, to slide across the skin of Derek’s neck.
“Alright,” Stiles says, and waits, waits, waits, as Derek slides their faces close together, mouths a breath apart.
“Tell me,” Derek says, and they’re so close that Stiles can swear he feels it against his lips.
“What,” Stiles breathes out.
“Tell me you want this.”
And Stiles wants this, he realizes, he wants this, wants this more than he’s possibly ever wanted anything. “I want–”
Derek swallows the last word with his lips, swallows up Stiles’ gasp and every worry he’s ever really had. The kiss isn’t chaste at all, it’s hard and rough and wet from the start, like they’ve both been waiting for it for a very long time, and they’re not keen on settling anymore. Stiles knows he isn’t, that underneath all of the denial and repression, that he’s wanted this from the moment he saw Derek in the woods, angry and defiant and so very sickly sweet.
Derek tastes like spice, the minty toothpaste he used this morning, and that undercurrent of coffee that always sticks to him. Derek’s lips bite into his, first his top and then he suckles on the bottom, causing Stiles to gasp again, because he’s never done this before, but it’s sort of mindblowingly amazing.
Stiles can’t really breathe, but he doesn’t think that’s very important right now, and anyway, if he passes out he’s about 95.6%–again with the percentages, he knows–certain that Derek will try to kiss the breath back into him. Not that it makes any sense, but he’s being kissed within an inch of his life, and Stiles isn’t supposed to make sense. He open up his mouth at the first press of Derek’s tongue, but instead of nestling in like Stiles expects him to, Derek just pulls away, nuzzles his face into Stiles’ neck.
“Hey–” Stiles protests, but it’s weak. Derek nips playfully at his neck, either because of the protest or because he wants to, Stiles doesn’t know.
Stiles can’t be sure, but he thinks Derek smiles into his neck afterward.
*
Derek stays.
After making out on Stiles’ bed for a while–Stiles learns just how great that can be, with rutting and coming and everything else attached–they’re just cuddled into each other’s space. Stiles never pinned Derek for a cuddler, has always considered him too harsh and too private for that, but there’s no trace of that now.
Stiles’ back is pressed against Derek’s chest, which, might Stiles add, is oddly soft. Derek’s fingers are tracing patterns through Stiles’ hair and it feels so heavenly that Stiles hasn’t even spoken in close to twenty minutes.
There’s–yeah, there’s something seriously wrong with that.
“So,” Stiles says, and he feels more than hears Derek’s warning growl, but Stiles continues on, because Derek won’t hurt Stiles, Derek wants to hit Stiles. In the fun way. In the disgustingly sexy fun way that Stiles can totally and willingly support. With his ass.“Are we like boyfriends now or something?”
“Stiles,” Derek says, and it sounds like it’s supposed to sound accusatory, but really only sounds fond instead.
Because Derek? Derek has this bundle of I-Love-Stiles-More-Than-the-Moon feelings. Stiles is sure of it. Derek’s just a huge softy inside, and Stiles? Stiles is on to him.
“Oh god–oh we totally are, aren’t we? ” Stiles asks, because Derek’s face is darkening and in the shadows of Stiles’ room, it looks like it’s blush .
“I don’t know why I do this to myself,” Derek says.
Stiles grins, and says, “Because you lo–”
“I will rip your guts to shreds,” Derek growls, “with my teeth.”
But Stiles isn’t too concerned, anyway, because he’s pretty sure what that really means is, “I love you, Stiles, and yes we really are boyfriends, but I’m too broody and manly to admit it to anyone, so here, read between the lines like the good boyfriend you are” and really, Stiles is okay with that.
"You do that, sourwolf," Stiles says, and he's sure the huff against his skin is Derek's barely concealed laughter.