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For the record, it was all Isaac's fault.
"Looking good there, big guy," Stiles shot finger-guns in Derek's direction, trying and failing to distract from the last basket of shrunken laundry he'd just set down.
Screaming fabric stretched across Derek's skin. Damn though, those were pecs of truth, pinched and perky and perfectly poised beneath altogether too thin fabric. He'd need to take it up with Shakira, because yeah her hips didn't lie but clearly they weren't bastions of veracity like Derek's chest, and— shit.
Derek's eyebrows grew stormier, like a pair of little thunderclouds, ready to rain on Stiles' tight-shirt parade, only without water, because life wasn't fair, demonstrated by the fact that his thoughts were now occupied by visions of Derek's t-shirt, soaked, wet, and wrapped like latex as the sight of tan skin seeped through and—
Shit. What was he thinking about again?
"You remember what happened last time you got me into a shirt this tight, don't you?"
Stiles swallowed hard. "You slammed my head into the steering wheel." He'd also, somehow, avoided giving Stiles a black eye despite the whole 'bruised like the skin of a peach' thing Stiles had going on, which, while rude, was also weirdly endearing. Derek wouldn't hurt him, not really. It was all performative.
Derek crouched menacingly, or tried. The sound of ripping fabric ruined the effect. Stiles stifled a laugh that was quickly drowned out by a menacing growl.
For the record, as stated, Isaac started it. That wasn't a lie. He could and would stand before a furry jury of his lupine-inclined peers while stating that. Whether they would convict him? Eh, said furry jury was still out, but then, that jury was stacked with biased fucksticks like Jackson so the conviction would be totally unfair and not in line with just judiciary practices anyway.
Which wouldn't matter, because Derek was judge, jury, and executioner in the case of the garment-shrinking gaff.
Derek lunged, distracting him from thoughts about due process as he dodged, barely avoiding Derek's obscenely attractive arms. Stiles pivoted. Derek wouldn't want blood in his bedroom, right? Stiles took off sprinting towards Derek's bed.
It was bold, it was brash, it was ballsy. It was completely fucking insane. Derek was gonna murder him, but if he was going down, it might as well be against Derek's annoyingly plush tangle of comforters.
"Where— get back here!" Derek yelled. Bare feet slapped against the floor. More fabric tore. Derek cursed. The sounds of stumbling reached Stiles' ears. He didn't dare look back, not until he'd ensconced himself within Derek's obscenely expensive bedding.
Derek crept up to the doorway, clothes ripped. Blue eyes shone from a face devoid of eyebrows.
"Holy fuck you're, like, for real mad, aren't you?" He scooted towards the edge of the bed, suddenly convinced that his sumptuous silky bedding-armor wouldn't protect him. His mind raced with strategies.
Keep the bed between them? Throw the blanket in Derek's fangy face? Flee like his life depended on—
Derek stepped into the doorway. That— that was some definite bulge working its way through the split in the crotch of Derek's pants. That was a lot of bulge. The distracting dicktitude of it all drew his eye till Derek pulled off his similarly split shirt in a tatter of tears.
"Happy?" Derek growled, slurred around his fangs.
"I—" He considered his words carefully. "If I die, my dad has wolfsbane bullets." He inched away from Derek.
"Stiles," Derek stepped forward.
Stiles eyed the window, weighing options. That fire escape looked mighty attractive right about now.
"Don't you fucking dare— Stiles!"
Derek lunged right as Stiles tipped off the bed. He wasn't quick enough; Derek grabbed him through the blanket, dragging him back onto the bed. Stiles soon found himself pinned beneath altogether too much werewolf for anybody's good. Derek dragged out the bedding between them, leaving bare chest against Stiles' plaid-clad back.
Layers of regret formed in the form of regret about layers. Seriously, Derek's bare chest should be against the geneva convention.
"You really want to see me naked that badly?"
There was anger in the words but also amusement. Amusement was good. Stiles' anxiety ticked down ever so slightly, then ticked right the hell back up because there was no safe answer to that question. A supernaturally strong hand against his spine pressed him to the bed and yep. They'd arrived at bonertown, population Stiles.
Warm breath poured across Stiles' skin; Derek's nose got up and personal with the crook of Stiles' neck. This was not helping. Stiles desperately tried to pack his bags, to escape bonertown, even if it meant renting a place in the adjacent burg of chubb corner, but the fates (or maybe Derek, no, totally just Derek) were working against his intentions of, you know, not rubbing himself off against Derek's bed.
Jesus Christ. That warm breath did things to Stiles, dirty rotten arousing things. Derek knew. He had to know; he had a goddamned werewolf nose, a nose that trailed along Stiles' skin. Only by feat of will and fear of claws did Stiles keep himself still. Ok, mostly still. Ok, more still than he wanted to be, because squirming happened, followed by a warm, silky fucking laugh.
Stiles could not be held responsible for the noise he made. He was pretty sure this was purgatory; somewhere between heaven and hell. Derek pettiest-asshole-ever Hale was teasing him. He probably deserved this, but then, Derek also deserved every bit of the erectiony odour seeping into the mattress, because Jesus fucking Christ. Stiles would have to be a hell of a lot straighter to stop the sensual drag of Derek's stubble against Stiles' skin from traveling a straight line down to his dick.
Derek leaned back. Stiles groaned, completely unrepentant. Derek knew what he was doing, damnit, but Stiles didn't want to give him the satisfaction of— whatever Derek's goal might be. He didn't know. Stiles cursed Derek. How the fuck was he supposed to outmaneuver him if he didn't know his game? He would have sworn cash fucking money that Derek would rather die than have Stiles' sexual scents soak into the bed, yet here they were. It felt an awful lot like Derek's game was to get into Stiles' pants, and—
Wait. The tip of a claw scraped the base of his neck, gently but firmly pressing down against the collar of his shirt.
"The fuck are you doing?" Stiles squirmed.
"Payback." Ripping fabric sent Stiles squawking.
"Hey, come on, fuck. I liked this shirt, you dick!"
Derek hmmmed thoughtfully, leaning in close to whisper in Stiles' ear. "And I liked my clothes. Keep squirming like that and I might slip." More fabric ripped as Derek tore little swirls into the back of Stiles' shirt. He shivered at the playful motions.
"How am I supposed to stay still? That tickles, dick! Why can't you just rip off the band-aid like a normal fucking werewolf, you giant quivering sack of scrotums."
Derek snorted. His left hand still pinned Stiles in place as he sliced his way through Stiles' shirt, bit by bit. It dragged gently across Stiles' skin, just enough to leave a raised mark in its wake.
"Derek, stop, please," Stiles squirmed, mostly out of mortification. Gentle scratching pressure trailed across his skin, tilted just right to avoid any actual maiming. "I've learned my lesson. No more fucking with your clothes." The hand pressed down harder; Derek adjusted, moving away from Stiles' spine, out towards his left shoulder.
The worst part was, you'd think his erection would flag. You would be wrong. The weight of Derek's hand, the warmth of his proximity, the slow drag of a claw that could cut Stiles open like a knife through butter with a flick of his wrist— look, Stiles never claimed to be normal, but holy fuck.
"I could, but you're enjoying this," amusement threaded through Derek's stupid fucking voice. Goddamnit.
"Fine. Good luck getting the scent out, asshole," Stiles griped, making a face as he pointedly ground down against the sheets. He might be enjoying this a little too much, but he sure as shit wouldn't lay down and let Derek tease him without a fight.
Derek laughed, the dick. "Is that all you got?" Stiles shivered as he made his way around the swell of Stiles' shoulder, working his way towards Stiles' side, slowly, sensually tearing his shirt as he doodled designs along the expanse of Stiles' skin.
Stiles stuck his arm tight against his side, hoping to forestall Derek's progress. It worked, only insomuch as Derek began working his way down and across. "You wouldn't be this smug if I had mountain ash," Stiles grumbled.
"Do you?"
"I will next time, and you'd better believe I'm gonna shove it up your ass, bast—gah," his words cut off in a yelp as Derek dragged his claw down the side of Stiles' shirt, crossing sensitive side skin.
"I said, stay still," Derek practically purred. "Almost punctured that delicate human skin of yours."
"You're not—" Stiles whined. "This is cruel. Cruel and unusual. Are you happy yet? Do you get off on this, huh? Do you derive joy from—Ah," he squirmed as that damn claw dragged across another sensitive bit of skin, "torturing teenagers or something?"
"Or something," Derek agreed placidly, making his way inexorably through the other half of Stiles' back.
Stiles groaned in despair. His dignity was in tatters along with his shirt, torn into quaint little shapes beneath Derek's unyielding claws. Derek started goddamned humming.
"I'm not-Mmmm, a motherfucking canvas, dickbag."
"You could have fooled me," Derek leaned back, admiring his work.
"A paper bag with a dead bird inside that says 'dead dove: do not eat' could fool you," Stiles grumbled, "you finally done? Can I collect the shreds of my dignity and leave now, oh high-and-mighty wolf?" Stiles was pretty sure there wasn't any back left for Derek to mark.
"Nope." A long, loud tear startled Stiles as Derek's claw slid from the small of his back, down along his ass-crack to end perilously close to his balls. Thank fuck he'd held his claws away from Stiles' skin this time, but that cinched it. His pants and boxers were officially unwearable. Damn Derek and his dastardly dickish doings.
"Derek," Stiles pleaded, "I can't— how the fuck am I supposed to leave now!?"
"How am I supposed to leave to get new clothing?" The implacable edge in his voice cut through Stiles' vain hope.
"Derek, come on, stop, for real. You've made your point." He was in serious danger of unrecoverable humiliation if this continued. He didn't want to be permanently banished from the loft but if this continued—
"Too late," Derek started humming again as he— wait, Stiles recognized that shape.
"Are you really drawing a dick on my ass? What the fuck is wrong with you!?"
"It's the perfect mark for your ass, like a My Little Pony."
Stiles sputtered, aghast and confused. Derek humor-is-for-chumps Hale made a My Little Pony joke. Worse, who would he tell? Who the fuck would believe him? "I'm not a goddamned toy horse!"
"No, you're a stubborn, contrary, infuriating ass," Derek agreed.
Stiles squirmed all the more as Derek moved his hand down to Stiles' ass, pinning his hips to the bed. Claws made short work of the rest of Stiles' pants. Stiles' legs thrashed, ruining Derek's designs upon Stiles' poor thighs.
Served him goddamned right.
Even thoughts of Finstock in a Speedo didn't do a damn thing to stop the absolute fucking rager happening in bonertown, what with all the thigh touching and the ass grabbing and— Jesus Christ on a cracker, this needed to stop before lines were crossed, lines that could never be uncrossed.
Derek tsked.
"Derek, please," panted Stiles. He was at his wit's fucking end as his dick rubbed against the now loose fabric of his tattered boxers and jeans. It leaked, because of course it did, because Derek was the absolute worst. He couldn't— Derek was gonna kill him if he got jizz all over the man's bed. He was gonna throw him out for good and murder him in the woods. He liked coming over and lounging around Derek's place at odd hours, damnit. He didn't want to lose this. He didn't want to die like this.
"This isn't— I can't— Derek," he pleaded again, driven to distraction.
The warm press of Derek's chest against the scratched up stretch of his back. "Say you're sorry."
He needed to get home and jerk off in shame for the whole day like god intended instead of putting life and limb on the line as he teetered on the edge. "I'm sorry."
For once in his life he actually meant it. Derek, in response, nipped his fucking shoulder.
"I swear to god I'm gonna—Mmmm." Stiles trailed off. Derek's fingers dug into his hips just enough to feel his flesh give, curving to fit.
"You're gonna what, come in your pants like a teenager? Oh wait, what pants?"
Stiles grit his teeth at Derek's low, languid chuckle. "Is that what you want?" Stiles bit out.
"Maybe."
"Then what?"
"That's a surprise." The words sent chills through Stiles.
Oh god. What if Derek planned to throw him out, or worse, drop him off somewhere? Make him find his way home as a nude, scratched up mess? Dread pooled low in his stomach at the thought. At least Gerard had the decency to leave him fully clothed. Getting home like this…?
His erection flagged for the first time since Derek pounced.
The nibbling paused. A warm, soothing hand ran across his back again, an empty comfort. "Where's your head at, Stiles?"
"Oh, I don't know. Maybe wondering how I'll get home. You drew a dick on my goddamned ass, moron."
He felt the way Derek relaxed. "I'll get you home. No one but us will see. Unless you want them to," he added. Derek's free hand still ran along Stiles' back in soft, soothing motions.
Stiles breathed a sigh of relief. Yeah, Derek hadn't always been strictly truthful, but he'd learned his lesson after the whole 'Scott wanting to kill Peter himself' thing. He wouldn't lie, not about something like this.
Derek shifted, moving back to chew up Stiles' shoulders. Stiles wondered where this was going. Most of the fear bled away; Derek, for some reason, wanted him to finish in his bed, but what then? Stiles couldn't make any sense of it. The fuck was his game?
For the first time that day, Derek's crotch brushed against Stiles and— shit. Derek's underwear and pants were AWOL. He was also hard. The thought punched the air out of Stiles' lungs. "Holy shit." Maybe his game wasn't as esoteric as Stiles thought.
"You think I'd touch you this much if I didn't want to?"
"Yes? You're like, the most insanely petty asshole ever."
"Not as petty as you." He nipped a particularly sensitive spot, pulling a noise from Stiles, the sort of noise he wasn't sure he'd ever had the opportunity to make before; the sort of noise he hoped he'd have plenty of opportunities to make again.
"Derek, man, you gotta—" his words were lost in a whine as Derek's hand slid around and grabbed his ass.
"What do you want?" Derek whispered in his ear, right before sucking the shell of it between his lips, resting it between blunted human teeth.
Stiles had thoughts at that, all sorts of get-down-and-dirty-with-Derek thoughts, thoughts of hands and mouths and muscles, thoughts of pressing, of rubbing, of riding, of grinding, plenty of grinding.
What decided him, what really made him say it? Derek's dick ground down, hard, between the halves of his ass, pressing in, sparking thoughts. "That, definitely that," he babbled, pushing back up against Derek.
"Words."
"Fuck me, ok? Geeze."
"If you're not mature enough to say 'Derek I want your dick in my ass' you're not mature enough to have my dick in your ass," Derek huffed.
"Derek, I want your dick in my ass," Stiles snarked. "Pardon me for not—ah, firing on all cylinders. Jerk."
Derek reached over towards the bedside table. He closed his eyes, waiting for the cold press of lube, but instead, warm, wet fingers slid in, circling his asshole. Apparently Derek was enough of a gentleman to warm it up first, which was probably the first time Derek was a gentleman ever.
Still, Stiles didn't complain. Half of him still believed this was all some sort of bait and switch, a gotcha. That Derek planned to humiliate him in a way that even Stiles couldn't roll with.
Fuck. A finger, then fingers, worked their way in. He closed his eyes, shifting, sometimes clenching, sometimes relaxing as Derek took the time to work open his ass. He wanted. Dear god he wanted. He needed Derek's dick in him, like, yesterday, but he couldn't— he knew what happened when you rushed Anal.
Derek could take his time, would take his time if the smugness he radiated was any clue, teasing, tantalizing Stiles. His fingers would circle and brush, circle and brush, stretch and swirl. He'd pull Stiles close to the edge, then pull back, stretching all the while as Stiles panted, rubbing into ruined boxers.
Every time Stiles got close, Derek backed off. Derek brought Stiles to his wit's end; he cursed. Derek laughed. Low liquid warmth pooled in Stiles' belly at the sound, at the feeling. He grit his teeth. "Derek, I think— fuck, finally," his breath came in great heaves as fingers retreated, leaving him to clench on empty fucking air. "Derek?"
The first slow press burned despite the prep. Derek stopped part-way in. Long, heavy, controlled breaths poured across Stiles' shoulder. "Fuck."
"Fuck," Stiles agreed, adjusting. It was different; both exactly what he'd expected but totally different from his imagination. He liked it. Shit, he wanted— he needed— "Move, dammit."
Wonder of wonders, Derek obliged. Slow, stilted movements sent shocks through Stiles. His head spun. Holy shit, Derek sex-on-a-stick Hale was dicking down Stiles. What's more, he was good at it. He must have been using that damn werewolf nose of his. He got the angle right just enough to keep things exciting without pushing Stiles' poor oversensitive self over the fucking edge too soon.
God, it felt good, the way Derek's skin slid against him, the way those stupidly strong hands moved as they pressed into his skin, the feeling of Derek's chest against his poor scratched up back. He came within a hair's breath of coming as Derek's hand brushed a nipple.
Then, Derek pulled out. Fucking hell. Stiles released another string of curses but before he could round on Derek, strong hands wrangled him onto Derek's lap. "Want to see your face. Want you to come on me," Derek panted, sliding home again.
Stiles saw stars. Derek held his hips this time, moving him, guiding him. Stiles wrapped his long, lanky arms around Derek's shoulders and, in a moment of courage, kissed him.
For half a second he panicked till Derek kissed him back, hard and deep and desperate, as desperate as his thrusts. Hips moved hard and fast, god, Stiles wasn't gonna last, he wasn't gonna fucking last, he— he made a goddamned mess between them. Derek kept going, kept pressing in, inexorable.
Just as it began to be too much, Derek pressed in hard, to the root. He panicked. He'd had talks with Scott, he knew that sometimes, sometimes when they came, werewolves would—
Yep. Derek grew a knot. Stiles' ass was knotted, literally. He panted, taking in the picture Derek made. The damn man was smug, way too smug. Stiles shuffled around the pain in his literal ass. "Warn a guy next time?"
Derek raised an eyebrow as if to say 'are you really pretending you didn't know about this already,' which, fair. Stiles clenched; Derek groaned. "Stiles."
"Yeah?" A shit-eating grin broke out on Stiles' face. He shifted his hips again. Derek's face spasmed.
"You're insufferable," Derek huffed. A few shifts of Derek's hips later and Stiles was equally out of breath with overstimulation. Derek might have stopped first, but by the time he did, he'd fucked out Stiles' motivation to push the matter.
Warm arms wrapped around Stiles, pulling him close. Stiles heard him doing that weird sniffing thing he did when he was particularly enamored of a scent. "Weirdo."
Derek's eyeroll brought a smile to Stiles' face. He cracked open an eye, leaning into Derek's embrace. "What took you so long to, you know, actually fuck me?"
Derek shrugged. "Never had to initiate before."
Stiles snorted. Derek pinched him. Stiles laughed.
"So," Derek asked, "why did you really ruin my clothes?"
"It's Isaac's fault. Like, full stop."
Derek raised an eyebrow.
Stiles' eyes trailed up and to the side in exasperation. "Isaac shrank most of your shirts and freaked out, so I thought it'd be funny to shrink the rest of your clothes."
"You were protecting Isaac?"
"No, I was taking advantage of an opportunity to blame it on Isaac."
"Which you didn't do."
"I was gonna. How was I supposed to know you'd catch me?"
"Werewolf."
"A werewolf who sleeps through like, eighty percent of my visits."
Something in Derek's expression gave him pause.
"Wait. You don't actually sleep through them? What the shit dude, I'm here at like, the weirdest hours."
Derek shrugged. "I liked it."
"You liked getting woken up at ass o'-fucking-clock in the morning when I couldn't sleep?"
"I like you whenever I can get you," Derek admitted, "even though you're the biggest pain in the ass I've ever met."
"Oh," Stiles paused, "well, now you get to be my favorite literal pain in my actual ass. Whenever I can get you," he added.
"I'd like that."