Title: (Take It to the Back Seat) Run It Like a Track Meet
Pairing(s): Derek/Stiles
Rating: NC-17
Length: 3.6k
Genre(s): Alternate Universe - Comic Book Shop, Dorks in Lust, Dating, Popsicles, Ferris Wheels, Awkward Romance, Awkward Sexual Situations, General Awkwardness, shy!Derek, Failwolf, Smut, PWP
Summary: Wherein Derek tries and fails to be not actually dating a sixteen-year-old, and Stiles makes it to third base.


(Take It to the Back Seat) Run It Like a Track Meet


The first time it's cute. Sweet, even. Derek, who likes to think of himself as a gentleman, offers to drive Stiles home after they peel themselves off the Camaro's hood; Stiles, the little shit, give him directions to the local Dairy Mart (Best in Town Since 1958!) instead.

Ice cream. Of course.

Derek looks at Stiles' bright, guileless smile and thinks about preserving what's left of his dignity and ditching the kid's lying ass, going back to town, drinking until the entire evening gets lost in a wash of alcohol and self-pity. He thinks about it all through parking, climbing out of the car, walking up to the window and paying for Stiles' choice of gigantic milkshake. It comes with a suggestive waggle of the owner's eyebrows and two massive curling straws; Stiles brandishes the second one at Derek like a duelist's epée and all Derek can do is roll his eyes and take it.

It's ninety-five in the shade and the milkshake turns out to be some cloying combination of marshmallow and banana, but they sit at the picnic tables behind the tiny shack, looking out over the river and the abandoned spur of highway that runs along it, and as the sun sets Stiles talks and talks and talks Derek somehow ends up drinking most of the shake despite himself. At some point, Stiles casually mentions his dad is the sheriff and laughs like a hyena when Derek immediately edges away from him on the bench. He doesn't get very far, because Stiles has his ankle hooked over Derek's and a hand on his arm, and Derek doesn't mind the casual touches as much as he should.

The sky comes over all star-studded indigo, and pulling into Stiles' driveway, he somehow doesn't see the goodnight kiss coming until it's over and his lips are fucking tingling, heart beating so hard he's surprised it doesn't echo in the close space of the front seat.

Stiles gives one last peck to the bow of his upper lip and opens the door, scooting out of the passenger's side with a jaunty, "See you next week!"

"No, what," Derek says, about five seconds (three hours) too late, and then he sees the curtains in the front window pull back. "Fuck."

"You'd better go before he gets your license plate number," Stiles says cheerfully, and slams the door behind him.


The second time, Stiles and his friends just happen to be at the traveling carnival on the same day Derek's towing Laura's kids around for the afternoon (even though it's Cora's fucking turn, goddamn it, he doesn't buy that shit about volunteering at the animal shelter at all). He loves the brats, really, but they're Laura's through and through. After two hours of Chloe screaming about the injustices inherent in the ring toss system and Brandon, red-faced and whining through furious tears, railing against his exclusion from the tiny and clearly unsafe roller coaster, Derek is genuinely considering 'helping' them run away to the circus. His ears might be bleeding.

He's standing in line at the concession stand, a miserable, sniffing child on each hand, when someone coos, "Oh my God," and Derek turns to face, of all people, Scott McCall. A handful of other sweaty-looking teenagers are trailing him, hanging onto each other and laughing.

"Uh," Derek says, as McCall immediately kneels down to Brandon's height and asks, "Hi! What's your name? Would you like some cotton candy?"

Within seconds Derek is completely child-free, his niece and nephew clinging to McCall like he's the second coming of Barney the Purple Dinosaur, and Derek watches in complete confusion as Scott drags them off towards the balloon animal man, both of the brats giggling and swinging on his arms like well-trained monkeys.

"How did he do that," he mutters to himself dazedly, feeling dizzy with the sudden calm and quiet. "They're smiling, how—?"

"Shhh," Stiles says, suddenly at Derek's side and pushing him in the opposite direction. He's wearing aviators too big for his face and has the beginnings of sunburn in a bright red stripe across his nose. "Scott loves kids, and animals. One day he'll have seven of each and then maybe he won't kidnap other people's, but until then, just enjoy it. He'll bring them back eventually, I promise. In the meantime, have you been on the spinny-cup ride yet? It's fucking awesome, you can feel the bolts coming loose—"

Stiles makes Derek buy him pornographically-large popsicle and hold his hand in the haunted house ("It's dark, I don't want you wandering off and getting killed by zombie clowns or something") but it doesn't really hit Derek what's happened until they're on the Ferris wheel and it stops at the top, the whole of the carnival laid out beneath them and the clouds above a ruddy gold, stained purple in the east.

"… you fucker," Derek says, staring across the seat at him.

Stiles gives him a shit-eating grin, lips sticky and a deep cherry red from the popsicle. "You love me."

Derek sees it coming this time, but he still lets Stiles lean forward and press a brief, playful kiss to his chin, to his bottom lip, and he opens his mouth under the subtle swipe of tongue. He sucks at the popsicle's cool sweetness and chases it back into Stiles' mouth, because he's not made of stone and Stiles makes the most gratifyingly enthusiastic sounds in response.

They draw back a little, a small smile and a softness in Stiles' eyes that wasn't there before. The kid had put his hands on the metal bench on either side of Derek's hips while they were kissing, and now they slide up, fingers slipping just under his shirt.

Derek catches his wrists and arches an eyebrow. "What do you think you're doing?"

And there's wickedness, too, Stiles looking up at him through his lashes as his hands splay over Derek's sides. "Thought I'd make a play for second base, but if you're not quite ready for that—"

"You little— wha— stop!" Derek yelps as Stiles digs his fingers into the ticklish portions of his ribs. "Fucking—!"

The resulting thrashing makes their basket shake and sway alarmingly, and Stiles keeps laughing even when they get kicked off the ride, the attendant's scandalized expression following them back into the crowds.


The third time—

"Damn it all," Derek swears, heartfelt and annoyed into the Camero's steering wheel.

"Well, tell me how you really feel," Stiles says dryly, but he doesn't take his hand away from where it's crept up to rest, sneaky and expectant, on Derek's knee.

"You—" Derek gestures angrily at the food stand, the parking lot full of cars and people, the darkening horizon, the fucking dancing pickles on the fucking giant screen in front of them. "You did it again!"

"Are you serious?" Stiles asks, squinting doubtfully at him. "I wasn't even trying for subtle this time."

"You said we were going to a movie," Derek says, dropping back in his seat with a hand over his eyes. "I thought we'd be in a theater with your friends, at least with other people around!"

"Dude, you hate my friends," Stiles points out. "With a fiery burning passion. And what, are you blind? There are plenty of people here, there are, like, fifty cars in this lot at least."

"Yeah, but—" But in a theater at least he could have counted on the threat of ushers with flashlights, or kids sitting next to them, something to keep Stiles' hands to himself—and to keep Derek from eating him alive. The Camero is parked on the end of one of the last rows, far enough from the screen to be in complete shadow, and there's no one in the next three or so slots in all directions. They might as well be parked on the moon, and it's tempting, horribly tempting, to let the kid do whatever he wants.

"But… what?" Stiles says, and grins like the conniving little bastard he is, squeezing the tense muscle under his hand. "Relax, buttercup, your virtue is safe with me."

Which is a baldfaced lie. Stiles doesn't even wait until the previews are over before he's edging over the center console and nuzzling into Derek's neck.

"Didn't you want to watch this?" Derek says, shifting away.

"The first ten minutes came out in previews," Stiles says, chasing his lips with his own. "It's been on the internet for months. We've got plenty of time for nookie."

"Nookie," Derek says flatly.

"Mm-hm," Stiles hums.

Derek plants a hand on his face and shoves him bodily back into the passenger's seat, ignoring the indignant "Hey!" it provokes. "There will be no nookie. Sit your ass down, now, or we leave."

Stiles slumps against the door with a mutinous pout, but with a few warning glares from Derek he manages to keep to his side of the car for the next hour or so. At intermission, Derek rewards him with an overpriced Coke and an assortment of gummy bears from the food vendor.

"These won't distract me forever," Stiles warns him belatedly, halfway through reenacting Les Miserables on the dashboard with the candy and the contents of Derek's map pocket.

"It's working fine so far," Derek says, quite pleased with his investment.

About three quarters of the way through the movie, though, it gets cold enough that Derek rolls up the windows, and Stiles starts watching Derek's face more than the screen, starts moving incrementally closer like he's thinking Derek won't notice.

At a particularly loud explosion, Stiles' hand eases back onto Derek's thigh, and Derek sighs.

"I'm your jailbait boyfriend. I should not have to work this hard," Stiles whines, fingers kneading into the sensitive inside curve of his hip.

"Sit down," Derek says, putting a hand on his chest to push him back, and then forgets what he was doing when Stiles' fingernails scrape over the denim at his crotch. "Jesus, Stiles!"

"I know, I'm awesome," Stiles says against his jaw. "Let's get this party started."

"Shut up," Derek says, "just— don't—"

Exactly what Stiles shouldn't do, however, is knocked completely out of Derek's head when he gets his mouth on the crook of Derek's neck and bites, zero to sixty, sinking his teeth into the skin there and sucking hard like he's got something to prove. The low, hurt sound Derek makes can in no way be held against him. "Fuck."

"Nngh," Stiles groans, and bites him again.

Stiles is eager— too eager, hand rubbing rough and fast over Derek rapidly hardening dick, his hot, wet mouth skimming recklessly up Derek's throat to bruise his lips. He's trying to get a leg over the console, too, but doesn't seem to have the coordination to make it over the drive shaft, and Derek is distantly grateful.

"Stiles, it's not a ra-ace," he gasps, voice catching as he arches mindlessly into Stiles' palm anyway. "Would you just calm the fuck down—"

"Back seat, c'mon, I wanna get on top of you," Stiles moans, and the image paralyzes Derek long enough for Stiles to finally get his shit together and get his leg thrown over Derek's hip. "Derek, c'mon."

"There's even, fuck, even less room back there than there is up here," Derek protests, barely able to pull away long enough say it.

"Fine," Stiles huffs, and climbs all the way into Derek's lap.

There really isn't enough space for both of them in the driver's seat, knees and legs everywhere, elbows knocking into the window and the steering wheel, and Stiles accidentally honks the horn with his ass and temporarily breaks off into giggles as Derek swears and reaches around him to adjust it up and out of the way.

"Are you fucking crazy," Derek starts, and doesn't get any further because then Stiles has both hands fisted in his hair and he's kissing Derek stupid, literally stupid, Derek can feel every ounce of intelligence and reluctance draining out of him until he can't do anything but clutch at Stiles' boney hips and moan.

Stiles draws back a little to nip at Derek's bottom lip, and reaches down, fumbling for something between the door and the seat. The seatback starts to recline, low mechanical buzz barely penetrating the fog of arousal that has Derek sliding his fingers unders the waistband of Stiles' pants and pulling him closer.

With the seat all the way down Stiles could line up their hips, but he doesn't. He pulls his mouth off Derek's but keeps a hand in his hair, holding his head back as he yanks Derek's shirt up to his armpits.

"Shit, fuck," and how the hell is Derek supposed to be articulate anyway, with Stiles swirling his tongue around a nipple and then fastening his mouth on it, hard enough that Derek's hips jerk up of their own accord? He can't, but he tries. "Stiles, slow down, fuck—"

"Don't wanna," Stiles breathes against his chest, and jams his hand down the front of Derek's jeans without even unbuttoning them.

"Stiles!"

"Holy crap, Derek," Stiles moans, fingers sliding around the base of his dick and squeezing and fuck no, Derek is not coming before a sixteen-year-old, no fucking way.

He gets a hand around Stiles' forearm and pulls, Stiles resisting the entire way, but when his free hand goes to unbutton his fly, Stiles sits back and watches with an avid stare.

His body isn't something he's usually self-conscious about, but Derek's cheeks are heating up as he hooks his thumbs in his underwear and maneuvers them down. His cock bobs free like a fucking jack-in-the-box, and if he wasn't blushing before he sure as hell is now, hands coming up to cup himself awkwardly.

Stiles makes a hungry noise and bites his lip. "God, you're— Derek, I want to," he says, and moves clumsily backwards to kneel in the footwell.

"What— Stiles, holy fuck," Derek gasps, as hot breath huffs out around the base of his cock and balls. Stiles tugs his fingers away and keeps them tangled with his, pinning Derek's hands down on either side of his hips.

"So, I feel like I should preface this with acknowledging that I've never sucked dick before," Stiles husks out, flattening his tongue along the vein and dragging it up to the dripping head. "Nngh. But I have been watching a lot of porn. Like, an enormous amount." The words gets breathed over the head, the very tip of Stiles' tongue flicking over the knot of nerves just under it, and Derek's hips are twitching towards him before he can brace himself. "Enough porn for three normal people, okay, being a virgin sucks, I wanna try everything—"

Derek makes a noise like he might actually be dying and grabs frantically for his dick, just barely keeping from striping Stiles' face and straining against the rolling crest of orgasm until it ebbs away again, leaving him panting and shaking.

Stiles is staring at him, eyes huge and dark, his own breath coming fast and unsteady. "Shit, that— that really does it for you, knowing you're my first?"

"Stiles," Derek pleads, bucking up, and Stiles' eyes latch greedily onto the pulse of precome that oozes free at his words.

"Okay," he manages, "ex-nay on the irgin-vay, I got you."

"F—ah! Fuck!" Derek tugs Stiles' head away from his crotch until he sits back on his heels and gives Derek an incredulous look.

"Dude, I am trying to suck your dick here," he says, like Derek's crazy or a little slow.

"I'm not gonna last if you blow me," Derek grinds out, and Stiles actually rolls his eyes, the punk.

"So? Kinda the point," he says.

"So get up here," Derek snarls, and yanks him up by the shirt.

Derek might actually break the zipper fighting Stiles' pants open, but he couldn't care less as Stiles' boxers come down and his dick hits his belly with a wet, lewd smack. Derek wraps a hand around the both of them and Stiles squeaks, immediately starts rocking forward, letting out a string of high, needy sounds as his pretty pink cock rubs all along the underside of Derek's.

"Yeah, that's— perfect, fuck, Stiles, you're perfect, gorgeous," he says breathlessly, and Stiles makes a noise of embarrassed denial and covers Derek's mouth with his own like he just wants to shut him up.

Stiles has himself braced up on his elbows, hands combing distractedly through Derek's hair while Derek works them both in a tight fist, his free hand low on Stiles' back and trailing lower, past the loosened waistband and spanning Stiles' jerking hips, fingers sliding down between his flexing asscheeks.

"Mmm, yeah," Stiles says, and arches into it. "Just a little— there, yeah, right there," as Derek's finger slides through sweat to stroke over him. "Harder, fuck yes."

"We'll do this on a bed," Derek says in choppy bursts against Stiles' open mouth. "Take our time, do it right."

"All the rose petals and candles you want, cupcake," Stiles promises on a gasping laugh. "Oh, fuck, I'm close, fuck, fuck—"

Orgasm is brutal and swift, starting in Derek's gut and ripping out through his mouth in a rough, almost desperate shout of "Stiles!" His fingers sink into Stiles' heat, a little rougher than he meant to as his entire body tightens up, arm locking Stiles down against his chest.

Stiles pants, "Fuck," one more time into Derek's neck and spills hot and sudden between them, Derek's fingers dragged through the mess and slicking them both up as they ride it out. "Oh, Jesus, oh my God, Derek—"

Derek's too strung out to actually answer, but the way Stiles shakes and shudders and finally collapses onto him feels good, makes him roll his hips a few more times to feel the gritty slide on his over-sensitized skin and get Stiles whimpering, teeth digging into the base of Derek's throat.

"Whoa," he sighs after a moment, dazedly. He lifts his head and gives Derek a shaky grin. "Wow. That was—"

There's a sudden loud knocking sound on the window, and the beam of a flashlight shines hazily through the fogged-over glass. Derek and Stiles freeze, staring wide-eyed at each other.

"Movie's over, kids!" someone calls cheerfully. "Clothes back on and tie off those condoms!"

"Oh my God," Stiles says in a horrified whisper, pressing himself down into Derek like they'll somehow be able to escape the light. "Is that— is that Coach Finstock?"

"And if you're not having safe sex, shame on you," the shadowy figure outside the glass scolds them, and miraculously, the flashlight moves on, beam swinging every which way before it disappears. "Pack it up, rugrats! You don't have to go home but you can't stay here. Except for you, Greenburg, get your ass back here. You're on clean-up duty with me. Why? Because I said so, that's why!"

"I forgot he volunteers here on weekends," Stiles says, and his head falls back down on Derek's chest, trembling. For a horrific second Derek thinks he might be crying, but then the first hysterical giggle works its way free. "Holy fucking shit. Derek. Oh my God," Stiles hiccups, dissolving into giddy laughter, "Finstock, what the fuck. And I would pay money to be able to see your face right now, you're probably in full-on Constipated Badger—"

"You little fucking twerp," Derek says, but it comes out more affectionate than annoyed, and Stiles gives him a big smacking kiss on the underside of his jaw. It makes him snort and squirm, shoving him away.

"Ugh, I think we're starting to stick together," Stiles says, shifting around on top of Derek.

"The romance is dead," Derek intones, wiping his sticky hand on Stiles' jeans for good measure before fumbling for the seat controls.

"Gross!"

"You'll remember this wasn't my idea," Derek says, though he's smiling. "I just wanted to watch a movie."

"Are you saying you regret this?" Stiles says, perched in Derek's lap. He waves a hand to indicate their mussed clothes, come-streaked shirts and the bruise already darkening around Derek's left nipple. A car passes them and Stiles' face is momentarily illuminated, hectic flush and his mouth red and swollen.

"I'm saying it could have happened someplace… nicer," Derek says, threading his fingers through Stiles' hair and bringing him down for another, softer kiss.

"Mmm. You know, I've been having indecent fantasies about the couch in the back of the shop for ages. Getting bent over the armrest, or on my knees, sucking you—"

"Stiles," Derek groans, because now even if they don't use it he'll never be able to just sit on his damn couch again. Stiles grins down at him, rubbing his thumbs firmly into the hollows behind Derek's ears.

"Take me home?"

"Home," Derek confirms, because his boyfriend, his underage jailbait boyfriend has a curfew, and they're skirting it as-is.

On the drive back, Stiles pulls out his phone and starts texting someone. Derek doesn't pay much attention until he suddenly whoops and punches the air, yelling, "In your face!"

"Share with the class?" Derek says dryly.

"Scott, that dillweed," Stiles says, typing frenetically, "lording Allison and her supposedly amazing sex skills over the rest of us. She totally just outed him, they've barely gotten past second base. You definitely have bigger boobs, too."

"Stiles," Derek says slowly, "exactly how many people did you just tell about this?"

"Um," Stiles says.


There's a shitty store-bought cake on his desk with "CONGRATS ON THE SEX" spelled out in wobbly blue icing when Derek gets in the next morning, and suspicious lack of shop minions. He sends a picture of it to Stiles with the caption, /im going to fucking murder you/

Stiles' response leaves much to be desired in the way of contrition.

/:D :D :D AWESOME/

/DONT EAT ANY UNTIL I GET THERE/