Stiles sighed, far louder than he would if his faculties were not soaked through with alcohol, and licked his lips.
Derek looked fine. Damn fine.
It was a good thing, Stiles thought, that everyone in the room, even the wolves, were just as sloshed as he was. ‘Cause otherwise they’d be able to smell just how turned on he was by Derek. They also probably wouldn’t all still be naked after their evening run, either, though.
Derek, in Stiles’ completely unbiased opinion, was rocking the whole skin-is-in vibe better than any of them.
It wasn’t wasn’t just because the obvious, either. Oh, Stiles could happily rant and rave — until the moon danced around the earth and back again — about Derek’s perfectly round nipples and the astonishingly exquisite V of his Adonis belt and his superbly furry chest and the impeccable cut of his abs and well, now that Stiles’ had got a look at it for more than a few seconds? Even the man’s cock looked exquisite: long and thick, with a magnificently generous foreskin and heavy, low hanging balls that Stiles just wanted to suck inside his mouth and…
Stiles sat back and hoped no one noticed he was hard, or drooling. Thankfully they were all, apparently, too focused on the fact that Derek had just downed his third wolf’s brew in a row. He was beating the Markowitz pack’s alpha by at least half a glass.
What really turned Stiles on, more even than all of the above, was that Derek was letting himself relax and enjoy and be something akin to what he might have if not for all the shit that Beacon Hills had thrown at him over the years.
He looked happy.
“Hale’s going to beat Dad,” Alexandr, the future Markowitz alpha, moaned as he slid a little closer. He’d been friendly with them all, but a little more so with Stiles. The attention was nice. Even if it could go nowhere because of distance and pack politics and the fact that Stiles was very much head-over-unrequited-heels for his own grumpy alpha. “You’ll help me deal with the shame, won’t you, Stiles?” Stiles could practically hear the guy’s lashes fluttering.
Then he heard a crunch and crash and turned around and Derek’s eyes were rage-red and he was bleeding around the shards of shattered beer glass in his hand. He was making a sound Stiles didn’t think he’d ever heard before — a low, warm rumble that seemed to come from under his lungs rather than in them. His fangs had dropped.
Stiles caught, out of the corner of his eye, the sharp movements as Alexandr bent his neck and then most everyone else followed.
The Markowitz alpha didn’t quite go that far, but the man sounded contrite, even to Stiles’ drunk ears. “Our apologies, Alpha Hale. We didn’t realize Mister Stilinski was spoken for. I’m sure my son meant no offense.”
Stiles blinked and tried not to notice that Derek’s body, all of his body, was at attention, ready to fight: the knot was difficult to miss. He summoned his own voice, hoping that it didn’t waiver. “Derek?”
Derek shifted his gaze from Alexandr to Stiles, his eyes fading back to green. He blinked a few times and seemed to focus his gaze on Stiles and flared his nostrils and.
Stiles could not not notice that Derek’s still-hard cock twitched.
Anyone else casually think about Derek being the first person to fuck Stiles? And like Derek doesn’t know at first because Stiles doesn’t offer up the info and Derek doesn’t ask.
He asks everything else, even though it definitely happens pretty quickly. Not the kind of quickly where everything happens because Death is either imminent or just narrowly avoided. More the quickly like Stiles helps Derek move into his new apartment and everyone is gone and then suddenly they’re in the bed Stiles helped Derek make an hour ago while Scott put together Derek’s new t.v stand in the living room.
And now they’re, like, hardcore boning in it.
Things move sort of quick, but it feels like their foreplay was about three years long so it evens out in the end, probably. Stiles has never been with another guy, and he and Malia never really went down that particular road and Stiles has had toys in ass before but
Derek’s dick is a life changer. Derek’s dick is so good Stiles has flashbacks to when he first discovered how to jerk off. Stiles becoming a little (lot) obsessed with Derek’s dick. More specifically Derek’s dick in his ass. Like, when Derek’s dick is not in his ass Stiles is thinking about the last time it was or when it might be next and the logistics of skipping his last class of the day to go find Derek.
Sometimes Derek snarks about Stiles never being satisfied but Stiles knows the look Derek gets when he’s hell bent on conquering a challenge. Once Derek made him come twice untouched and then Stiles slept for sixteen hours. Derek never says anything but he looked smug about it.
Stiles making an offhand comment like ‘not that I have anything to compare it to’ about Derek who realizes oh. Derek gets weird about it for the rest of the evening and Stiles starts to wonder if he should start getting annoyed.
But then later, in bed, Derek is intense in a way he wasn’t even that first time. And after Stiles comes practically shaking apart he says all breathless, “dude, are you trying to ruin everyone else for me?”
Derek just grins down at him before kissing him, hard.
Jim steals Bones’ shirts all. the. time. His sweatshirts, his scrubs, his uniforms, anything he can get his hands on he takes. Bones tried at first to get him to stop but once they get together he finds that he likes the sight of Jim in his clothes.
For virtualcarrot for Valentines Day, who asked for future fic with Stiles studying Journalism. This ah… sorta went off on a freaking ridiculous tangent so… hope you like it anyway darling? (Oh my god I suck so bad)
– – –
The thing is, Derek’s really, really hot. Like, insane levels of attraction. What with the leather and the cheekbones and the stubble and the ass — oh god, that ass — Stiles can’t really be blamed, at all for freaking bragging.
The pope would brag if he was dating Derek.
So, by the end of his first semester at college, it’s fair to say about ninety percent of the people he’s come into contact with have had to sit through at least one session of Stiles waxing poetic about Derek’s abs. And Stiles would feel bad except, well, Derek’s abs. Stiles dares anyone not to wax poetic about them.
The thing is though, apparently Stiles has been…too enthusiastic?
Stiles gapes. “Come again?”
Rob rolls his eyes. “Come on Stiles,” he says. “You’re a journalism major – it stands to reason you’d be good at making shit up.”
Stiles scowls. “Okay, first of all – that would be creative writing you’re thinking because journalism is a font of truth and integrity.” Stiles manfully ignores Rob’s snort, because he grew up with Lydia and nobody outdoes Lydia for dismissive huffing. “And second – you don’t believe Derek exists because I talk about him too much?”
Rob sips his beer and nods. “Yep,” he says, leaning closer and seriously, the bar is not nearly loud enough to warrant that sort of proximity and- oooohhh, shit. Rob smirks like one of those models in Rolex ads. “You’re over-compensating.”
“And you’re hitting on me?” Stiles squeaks. Sue him, this doesn’t happen. Hot people do not get all up in this grill. Unless hot people are Derek which, considering he’s the hottest of the people, Stiles figures it’s the universe’s way of compensating.
Rob does that one-eyebrow tip thing that makes him look like he’s just stepped off the cover of a men’s health magazine. Stiles has watched many-a freshmen fall to that eyebrow. It’s never been aimed at him though and now that it is, it’s fucking terrifying. “He finally gets it,” Rob says, tipping his head back to down the rest of his beer. The beer that he’s drinking in a bar. With Stiles. On a Friday night. Alone. Oh mother of fuck-
Stiles falls off his chair.
– – –
Derek glances down at the caller ID and can feel the smile. It’s a Friday night which means there’s a good chance that Stiles is drunk-dialing him. Something Derek will never, ever admit to actually loving a little bit. Stiles’ brain to mouth filter goes offline really fast when alcohol is introduced and Derek likes to count the number of times Stiles mentions the colour of his eyes.
Derek marks his place in the grimoire he’s working through (because Harpies, agh) and flips open his phone. “Stiles.”
“Oh my god, I think I went on a date with someone,” Stiles says, and Derek feels the entire fucking bottom drop out of his universe.
“I-” Derek stops, presses one hand over his eyes and tries to breathe. “Okay…”
“Okay?!” Stiles yells, and the panic in his voice is enough to pull Derek up long enough to listen. “This is not okay! People think you don’t exist! They think I’m making you up because you’re too hot to be real! Which is fucking tragic because you kinda are! And then I went for a drink with Rob and no one else was there and he did that stupid fucking eyebrow thing at me and-”
“Stiles,” Derek says sharply, because if there’s one thing he’s learned over the years, it’s that Stiles doesn’t so much wind down from rants as just continue on until he dies. Derek listens to the tell-tale shift and breathe Stiles does when he’s re-setting and feels the familiar punch of longing that comes of needing to touch; sooth Stiles’ pulse with hands and low hums.
Long distance relationships are a fuck.
“Okay,” Stiles says. “Okay I’m good.” Derek opens his mouth to say…fuck knows actually, but Stiles is suddenly continuing. “Actually, y’know what? I’m not. Can we just- I know you have the thing with the Harpies and we were going to wait until the break but can you just-”
Derek tosses the book onto the coffee table. “I can be there by three.”
Stiles breathes out, slow and easy. “Good, ‘cause I just really need you to fuck me up against a wall or something okay?”
Derek groans. “Stiles-”
“Bruises,” Stiles says determinedly. “I want to be covered in them.”
“Fuck.”
– – –
If there’s one thing college has taught Rob it’s that trying to survive an essay without coffee is fucking impossible. Which is why he’s lined up at The Brew on Sunday afternoon, squinting up at the menu board and trying to decide if he can justify a toastie with his long black.
He hears Stiles before he sees him – the same exuberant laugh that had drawn Rob to him in Ethics 102 in the first place, now turning him towards the back corner. The back corner with all the booths and the cushions and the ridiculous hippy candles that are lit even during the day. If coffee shops were 1940s townships, the back corner of The Brew would be makeout point. Which is why when Rob sees who Stiles is back there with, he kinda wants to fall over.
Dark hair, leather jacket and – Jesus, how are cheekbones like that even real? Even the the look on mystery-man’s face — slightly stupid and soft as he watches Stiles laughing — isn’t enough to kill the impression of features you could shave with. The dude looks like porn.
The dude is also looking at Stiles like Stiles hung the fucking moon or something, which- oh holy fuck.
Derek. This is Derek. Derek who’s very real and possibly even hotter than Stiles ever described and Rob is going to fucking die because the dude has serial killer written all over him and Rob hit on his boyfriend.
Rob watches as Derek leans across to swipe at something on Stiles’ bottom lip — cream, fucking drool because Stiles has the hottest boyfriend in the universe, who knows — and Stiles grins at him before- Jesus fuck. Rob barely keeps his wounded noise in check as he watches the pad of Derek’s thumb disappear between Stiles’ lips and how, how is anything in the world fair?
Derek eyes go half lidded and those fucking tea-light candles must reflect off one of the millions of decorative chimes and shit they have back there because his eyes almost seem to flash red.
Rob watches as Derek’s fingers curl under Stiles’ jaw, pressing slightly until Stiles tips his head and wow – holy shit, that is like, the biggest hicky Rob has ever seen in his goddamn life. That must hurt. Obviously not in a bad way though because when Derek presses three fingers into it, just over Stiles’ pulse point, Stiles’ eyes flutter closed like he’s in fucking heaven or something.
Rob turns back to the counter just in time to order a tripple shot and two toasties. He figures he had a near death experience on Friday. He’s allowed this.
shealwaysreads 