Teen Wolf – Derek/Stiles
bAuthor's Note:/b This fic has been edited to remove explicit content. It is still rated mature for M/M sexual encounters.
bSummary:/b Set a year or so in the future, Stiles is about to turn eighteen and is training to be an Emissary, He's learned that there are certain rituals he needs to perform in order to be bonded to his pack. Derek agrees to help with his initiation. Panic and hilarity and some sexy times ensue.
bDisclaimer:/b Teen Wolf is a world unto itself. I am only playing with the characters for my own amusement. No copyright infringement is intended.
The next day, Stiles sat down at his customary lunchroom table with a tray overflowing with food. He'd just stuffed a handful of tater tots into his face, when Lydia dropped into the chair across from him. His throat closed, as it usually did around her, leaving him no way to empty his mouth. He reached for napkins.
"Derek's alive?" Lydia said, lifting an inquiring eyebrow. It was barely a question. Her tone said she knew.
And there was his spit take, right on cue. Stiles covered his mouth, swallowing convulsively. Choking, he took a slug of water to clear away the tot debris. How did she know these things? Was it her supernatural gift? The dead spoke to her. Maybe they'd told her about Derek. Stiles glanced around nervously.
"What makes you say that?" he finally managed to ask.
Lydia dropped a pointed gaze to his lunch. Stiles followed her line of sight down. He supposed it was an excessively full plate. But he hadn't had much to eat in the last week.
"And you haven't run to the bathroom all day."
"I'm feeling better," Stiles said. "It has nothing to do with Derek. I had the flu."
"Right," Lydia nodded.
"And we have a lead on the Phoenix."
"But Derek is alive, too."
"Let's say he is. Let's say, hypothetically, I have to deal with him and his anger management issues again. How does that make my life any better?"
"Do you want me to answer that?"
Stiles pressed his lips together and looked away. "Fine. Whatever. Answer this: How would you handle him and his lone wolf ways?"
"You're the emissary. It's your problem."
"But what would you do?"
Lydia considered her salad, impaling an apple slice on her fork, before she answered him. "You know how I handle dangerous men," she said, before taking a careful bite from her apple. Stiles watched her chew and swallow, every movement nuanced. After delicately licking her lips, she added, "The question is-are you willing to do the same?"
"I'm not you," Stiles sighed. He stabbed up food with his fork, knowing his own eating wasn't even slightly poetic. He just got on with it as quickly as possible. "Dealing with wolves feels like juggling knives in the nude," he went on. "One slip and...schnick!" He used his free hand to mimic a guillotine blade coming down across his lap.
"You're a eunuch? Come on, you love every minute," Lydia purred. "Sex and violence. That's a heady combination."
"Are you saying I'm kinky?"
"Isn't that what being an emissary is all about? Loving everyone."
Stiles set his fork down, frowning. "You know about the...rituals?"
"I read," Lydia told him. "And, be real, this path choice isn't a shocker. You've had it bad for Derek since the day you met him. Maybe since your dad took you to that first basketball game."
"I have not!"
Lydia studied her nails. "I saw it. But don't worry; you don't have it nearly as bad as he does. He's your puppy."
"Yeah," Stiles guffawed. "Right—he has it bad?" He chomped down hard on his next forkful of lunch, shaking his head. But Lydia's pitying stare, took a toll. It made him push back from the table and, finally, ask. "Bad, how?"
"He practically salivates when he sees you. It's disturbing."
"That's because he's been thinking about biting me, how tasty I'll be."
"Oh, he wants a taste, alright," Lydia agreed, fork fluffing through the lettuce in her salad. They both ate for a bit. Then, Lydia spoke again, while pointing a grape tomato she'd speared at him. "This would be so much easier if either of you were gay. Then, at least, one of you would have some idea what you are doing."
"I have ideas, plenty of them," Stiles said. When Lydia lifted a brow, he corrected her obvious assumption, "Not about Derek. Because we hate each other. My ideas are generic, all purpose ones. And I could still turn out gay. Why is everyone so sure I'm not gay?"
"Because you're polyamorous," Lydia said.
"Poly-? Wait, I know what that is…" he broke off, flushing because he'd come very close to telling Lydia about his own extensive reading. "Deaton mentioned it."
"Of course you know. It is simple vocabulary. Poly is many and Amor is love. To love many. As the emissary, you have to do what is necessary to keep the Pack healthy. Makes perfect sense to me."
"And you are obviously not shocked or anything," Stiles said, rolling his eyes.
"Stop being so Victorian and just get in there and take one for the team," she suggested, patting his arm. "It will be like housebreaking a puppy."
"Derek is not a puppy. He's a killing machine. A bad tempered one."
"So is my little Prada, but he behaves." She ignored the derisive snort Stiles made at that comparison. "Just tug on Derek's leash a little. Oh, there we go. What you need is a book on dog training? Have you ever watched The Dog Whisperer? It's on YouTube."
"Derek is, also, a human being."
"And a werewolf," Lydia said. "Become a pack whisperer. All of that pack mentality comes into play during sex. You need to set the boundaries. Show him that you are the one in charge. It will comfort him when he's forced to turn to you for direction and advice."
"Behavior training is a comfort?"
"To canines, yes," Lydia assured him. "They need to know that it is okay to rely on you to make decisions. You just need to be firm with them at first. Don't let Derek take the lead or he will run with it."
"Firm," Stiles said, making a fist. "Right. I can do that."
Lydia gave him another pat. "Maybe you should watch a few videos, first."
Scott and Stiles met at Derek's apartment for a quick war council later that evening. They left Derek's place with a plan of attack and more collective information. Stile's needed to keep his Dad out of this one, because the Mayor's involvement could mean professional suicide. Scott would follow up with Lydia to secure her access to the city council via her mother.
"I'll have to tell my Dad something," Stiles was saying as they entered the elevator.
But Scott didn't want to talk strategy any more. He glanced nervously back at Derek's door, and then ducked into the elevator. When the doors dinged closed, Stiles stabbed the lobby button. And Scott grabbed Stiles by the elbow, leaning in to avoid being overheard.
"What was all that about?" he hissed in a hushed tone.
Stiles affected a carefree manner. "What was what about?"
"You and Derek," Scott whispered, even though, with the elevator noise as cover there was little chance Derek would hear them talking. "What's going on?"
Stile's felt his mouth drop open, knew his eyes were wide and tried to make them fill with innocent wonder. "I don't know what-" he began after a swallow. "Did you smell something?"
"No, I can't smell anything but smoke," Scott said. "But there's something? Right? Because you think I can smell it. And because anyone with eyes can see you two were..." His brow furrowed. "Well, I don't know what you were doing. That's why I'm asking."
Just for a second, Stiles toyed with the idea of confessing all. That was what he did; he shared everything with Scott. They were best friends. Scott had always been his partner in crime and world saving. He'd just assumed he would tell Scott the first time he had sex. Scott had told him about Allison. Not details, but enough. He knew when it happened. And eventually, Scott would find out about the emissary rites and wonder. Or maybe he would know, given the air wouldn't always be smoke saturated. Would he be hurt, feel left out? Would he understand how hard it was to tell your best friend you were about to have ritual gay sex with your best enemy?
The isolation would be the worst part of being an emissary Stiles realized suddenly. He might not be able to share everything with Scott. He was already keeping things from his dad. There were bound to be secrets he would be forced to hold for other people. Or for Scott's own good. The weight of his choices might hang over him and, yet, he wouldn't be able to share his fears or doubts with his best friend. This was going to be harder than he'd imagined. He wasn't much of a natural liar. He ran off at the mouth, generally, so he'd learned to stay honest. He stalled for time as they exited the building and headed toward the jeep.
"He pretended to be dead," Stiles began, figuring that was good enough to start with. "He left us down a man, while he went off on his own, investigating. It's that lone wolf thing, again. And I hate him already, so having him back from the dead is a mixed bag of joy and indigestion."
"I guess," Scott said, not completely satisfied with that explanation. "It's just...you seemed different together...like not hating."
"God, Scott. What did you see? What is it you want to know?" Stiles said. "Because I can't explain your squicky feelings if I don't know-" He looked at Scott, meeting those wide, guileless eyes across the jeep hood. Inspiration struck and he grinned wide, as it dawned on him that Scott would never believe the truth. "Unless you mean the blatant sexual tension?
"Sexual?" Scott blinked, unable to process this.
"You got us," Stiles confessed, pulling open the jeep door and climbing in, as Scott scrambled to follow suit. "We can barely keep our hands off each other."
"Yeah. It's a shocker. But you figured us out. Derek and I are secret lovers. We were passing notes under the table, whenever you looked away."
Scott laughed and relaxed back into his seat. "Fine. Don't tell me. But whatever it is, I don't want it to get in the way of this plan. I need you both."
Stiles started the car. "We will control our hostile impulses," he promised. "Now, let me tell you what I want for my birthday. I assume money is no obstacle?"
"Happy Birthday to me," Stiles said, when Derek opened his sliding steel door. Before Derek could say anything, Stiles recoiled, dropping the backpack he was carrying on Derek's foot. "Oh, My God! You smell like a satyr's armpit. We need to talk about personal hygiene."
"I showered this morning." Derek said, kicking the backpack aside. It skidded a short distance, remarkably heavy for a change of underwear.
"And then, what?" Stiles exclaimed with a grimace. "Played handball in the sewer all day?"
"You might remember the town was on fire? All the men were putting it out. Where were you?"
"With Scott saving the world and your ass. No more Phoenix. So, you are welcome," Stile said, he crossed the threshold, just far enough for Derek to close the door. "Then, at a party. It's my birthday!"
"Must have misplaced my invitation."
"Not your sort of fun," Stiles said, leaning against the door frame. "First, no maiming. Second, karaoke. Good job on the firefighting, but for the record there is no part of you that is going in my mouth. A little Axe body spray is all I'm say. A spritz or two goes a long way."
"Did your canister explode?" Derek asked, rubbing at his nose.
"You've vaporized the hair in my nasal passages."
"Got to be an improvement, considering your manly stench."
Derek grabbed Stiles by an elbow and dragged him down the few stairs into the living room.
"Ow. Ow. Ow. A simple invitation to sit would..."
Only Derek didn't stop at the sofa, but kept on past the bed, headed toward the bathroom.
"It looks like both of us are hitting the showers."
"What? Now? Isn't this a little rushed? Shouldn't we work up to that...slowly...over a few dates?"
"This isn't a date," Derek growled. "It's a ritual necessity. Let's just get it over with."
"And suddenly the reason for your bachelor state becomes painfully clear. Ow. Sharp corners. Derek, damn it? Let go," Stiles ordered, pain making his command harsh.
And just like magic Derek released him. Stiles rubbed arm and shoulder, working out the kinks from the wrenching. Derek started stripping off his shirt, which prompted Stiles to looked around.
"Oh, this is nice. Very steampunk. Why have I never been in here?"
"Great bladder control? Put your hands up."
"Hands! Up!" Derek barked and Stiles found himself reaching for the ceiling, even as he backpedaled into the edge of the toilet.
Derek closed the slight distance between them. His fingers curled under the edge of Stiles' shirts, knuckles brushing sensitive belly. Stiles cringed, grimacing at the tickle. He started to lower his arms, but Derek, with a smooth upward motion, divested him of both the tee and the flannel shirt in one move.
"Holy-" Stiles began. His voice broke as a shiver lanced through him. Derek's fingers had hooked into the waistband of his jeans. Instead of righteous indignation, a shuddery gasp escaped Stiles. All of his practiced authority evaporated. He lifted up on his toes. "Wait, wait, wait!"
To his amazement, the plaintive tone worked as well as the assertive one. Derek froze mid-ravishment to raise an inquiring eyebrow.
Stiles took a shaky breath, trying to slow his racing heart. He knew Derek was listening to it, because he cocked his head and a confused expression replaced his irritated one.
"You want this, right?" Derek asked. "It's what you came for."
"Not exactly...this." Stiles pushed both hands, palm down. "Not a quick bang in a bathroom." He managed to avoid stuttering, despite having full body jitters. He was sure Derek would hear his teeth clacking together, as he swayed his head from side to side to indicate their surroundings. "I thought my first time would be a little more...introspective. And, also, you know...involve breasts."
"You're a virgin?" Derek exclaimed, releasing him abruptly.
Seriously? How could Derek not know this? And why the derision? The swirl of mixed emotions, which had been threatening to overwhelm Stiles from the moment he'd arrived, solidified into a focused fury. Oh, how he hated that superior attitude, that condescending tone. He'd been putting up with it for years from more experienced teens. The teasing. The pity. The jokes. Letting his ire take over, he pushed hard into Derek's bare chest. It was like shoving on Grant's Tomb. He didn't shift Derek. Instead, he propelled himself sideways, around the toilet and away from the door.
"Why does everyone say it like that?" Stiles raged. "Full of pity? Like it's contagious? So, I waited for someone special. It's not like I'm over the hill. I'm only eighteen. Technically, all this," he waggled his index finger back and forth between them, "was illegal yesterday."
Derek looked a little contrite. "Sorry. I just thought by now..."
"What? Just because I didn't start hooking up in the neonatal ward that makes me a joke? Maybe ADD interferes with intimacy. Maybe my awkward stage lasted a year or two longer than it should have. Maybe I have standards." His gaze swept down Derek and his lips twisted into a sneer. "Had."
Derek grinned, suddenly, one of his rare beaming smiles. "I'm rarely a first choice."
"Well, if this is how you generally go about it-dragging people around, ripping off their clothes-I can see why." A thought occurred to Stiles. "Can't you smell virginity? The virginal state."
"Not in a man," Derek said, back to his 'you are a moron' tone.
"Unbelievable," Stiles snapped, striding past him to the door.
"What is it you want, Stiles?" Derek said, sounding frustrated. His hands had gone to his own zipper. "Do you want to cuddle first?"
The question stopped Stiles at the doorway. He didn't answer it, but his eyes went to the mirror. In it he watched Derek strip down. He kicked off his shoes, stripped off his jeans and stretch to start the shower. Stiles noted Derek went commando. He also noted the bobbing, half-erection with a combination of pride and concern.
"Wow, Derek! That's some heavy duty tackle you're sporting there."
"Feeling inadequate?" Derek asked, maneuvering the words around teeth that always seemed a little too sharp for Stiles' complete comfort.
"You could land a marlin with that."
"Flattering. But the mirror, and abject terror, have distorted your sense of proportion."
Stiles turned to face him. "Still looking mighty intimidating."
"I can put it away."
"No," Stiles said with a resigned sigh. "You're right. This was my idea. Just getting used to the," he framed his view with both hands, "magnitude of it. Wondering how to avoid...repetitive motion injuries." He glanced around the room as he massaged his fingers and palms. "You have any cocoa butter? Maybe some sesame oil or lotion? I brought a few things. I could get something..."
"There's soap in the shower. Get in."
"What kind of soap? I'm allergic to shea butter and..."
"Goat's milk with herbs. Very gentle. And slippery. Get in."
"How are we going to go about this? You first? Or me?"
"However you like. I'm easy."
"Something that is alarmingly self-evident at this point."
"Stiles?" Derek barked. "Stop stalling. Or I'm going to use this," he pointed to his swelling member, "On you. Where you stand." He used a snapping wrist motion to emphatically jab his finger at the shower. "Get—IN!"
"Alright! My God, you are cranky for someone who is about to get the best hand job of his life."
"All you've given me so far is a headache."
Waves of aggressive energy seemed to pulse off of Derek. He had an arm braced against the shower stall door. He really wasn't enjoying himself, Stiles realized. He stepped closer to place a soothing hand on Derek's bare shoulder.
"Okay," Stiles said, gently. "This is supposed to be about trust. So, just, relax. I think we're both a little nervous..."
"I'm not nervous, I'm furious."
"Just another day in the life of Derek Hale, then," Stiles quipped and Derek smiled, ever so slightly, obviously fighting the urge. Dropping his chin Stiles managed to make eye contact under the glowering brow. "Come on, you know I'm going to do it. And these hand," he rotated one of them for inspection, "they are amazing. I've had years of practice."
Derek huffed his disbelief. He shrugged, throwing off Stiles' touch before stepping under the shower spray. Rivulets of water traced lightning bolt patterns all over his torso. Stiles followed him into the close space and shut the sliding door. He picked up the soap, giving it a tentative sniff.
"You doubt me, Boogie Nights?" he said, pointing the bar at Derek. "Sure, maybe you are the experienced one when it comes to sex with actual partners. But I'm the Mozart of hand jobs. I started young and stayed with it." He lathered his palms. "While all the other boys were out scoring girls, I was home alone, putting in the hours."
This time, Derek laughed outright, as he yanked Stiles to him, eliminating their individual, personal space. "Sold. Show me what you've got."
To his own amazement, Stiles managed to focus on task. Only the musky scent of the soap distracted him for a few moments. It was a handmade bar, redolent with sandalwood and amber and other pungent natural odors. Derek smells he recognized, they went with leather and wet fur. The soapy scent mingled with smoke and sweat when Stiles got a little closer to Derek. Soap. Derek. Water. Derek. Tile slick under his feet and, occasionally, brushing coolly against his back or shoulder. Hot water pounding on him. Derek. The line of hair tracing downward. Satin and iron. The steam curling in the small space. And Derek was right about how slippery the soap made them. Skin slid across skin, fingers fumbled for purchase. Stiles ran out of wiggle room. Shoulders and bottom pressed against the slick tile wall, he tried to catch a breath and a break. But Derek had him cornered. They kissed. Derek slipped one hand around Stiles' waist, the other hand skidding down and between.
Stiles made a noise, a sort of squeak. Only his doctor had ever cupped him there before, and it felt a lot different than doing it himself. A lot better. Now he just had to return the favor. Though it was a little bit distracting, with Derek's mouth doing what it was doing now to his nipples. And Derek's hands…everywhere. Stiles had lost the lead. And Derek had scampered into the neighbor's yard to dig up begonias. Or something like that. Stiles couldn't remember one thing the Dog Whisper had told him, but he knew he had to take some initiative. Only he couldn't do anything, because Derek kept on stroking him. That fist going up and down his exquisitely hard length, palm twisting at the top to capture lubricating fluids. Fingers pumped the slickness down the shaft slowly, firmly. Gah. Tongue again. Why so much kissing? The man was seriously messing with him. A teasing flutter here. A deft tug there. Those lips. That tongue. Prickly beard. Silky hair. Smoke. Sin. And rock hard biceps.
Stiles let his head lull back. His talented hands betrayed him, simply grasping on to Derek's neck. He ground into that mouth, that grip. Derek waited until Stiles went limp all over, then he turned him to the wall. Stiles wasn't sure he could put up much resistance at this point. He braced both palms against the wall and tried to gather his strength, hoping to push back any assault. But, Derek only nuzzled along his hairline, a tender tickling with nose and lips. Making it that much more shocking when he bit down hard enough to cause pain.
The panting protest made no impact on Derek. He kept on sucking. The world reeled. Stiles didn't dare twist away from the bruising, despite sensing blunt teeth. He couldn't risk blood shed. His panic combined with weak knees to mimic submission. The sense of vulnerability was excruciating and tantalizing and seemed to go on and on. It ended with a slurp of Derek's tongue and more hot breath close to an ear.
"I barely bruised you, Amadeus," Derek murmured.
"I have very delicate skin," Stiles said, enunciating each word with care. He wanted to slam an elbow into Derek's ribs, but he still couldn't seem to move.
"Mmmm," Derek hummed, tilting Stiles chin back so he could kiss him over the shoulder.
Stiles forgot about his plan to elbow Derek. He took a shuddering breath and turned into the kiss. Two could play this game. Derek thought his mouth was kissable. Well. Okay, then. This time his tongue took the initiative. As he walked his fingers down Derek's stomach, Stiles could feel the muscles tense. Lower down, a quite prominent muscle twitched. That's it puppy, he thought, sit up and beg. Derek Hale wanted him. There was no doubt about it. Time to take charge. Despite the lethargy of having come so hard his teeth ached, Stiles felt a little thrill of excitement. This was going to be fun.
He put his hands to work. Derek held it together for about two minutes. He seemed unmoved by the kissing and the first few strokes. Stiles eased back a little so they could see one another clearly. Derek maintained eye contact, settling into a predatory stare. Stiles upped the ante and applied a number of variations on grip and pressure. Derek's gaze dropped to Stiles's mouth. Stiles flashed him some teeth. Derek snarled back, snapping playfully. His hips bucked, just a little, but he kept his cool right up until Stiles tried a move he'd read about on a stripper's blog once. She'd called it the jellyroll. And it involved using both hands and your lips, so he had to go down to his knees. But Derek's reaction made the tile burn well worth it.
"Son of a...Ash, the...what?"
Stiles couldn't answer. But he felt sure that question was rhetorical. No need to respond. He found the fallen soap. Slicked up again, he began tracing a finger around Derek's bellybutton. He considered his next move carefully. Derek had placed his hands on Stiles at the shoulders, perilously close to the throat. Stiles thought of those kisses again. That neck bite. Derek deserved a little something back. He fumbled his way to the right spot and pressed up, his finger easily penetrating into a fascinating tightness. The invasion didn't provoke the reaction Stiles was expecting. Apparently, Derek was used to the sensation. Probably from the stick permanently up his ass, Stiles thought. He remained rigid at the wrist as Derek ground down, wanting more. Stiles obliged, using two fingers. He forgot about the gross element, enjoying what it did for Derek. But the loss of one hand limited his own maneuvering. And he was getting hard again, himself. Right. Something a little more esoteric for the man who's had everyone. Time to put Derek's other sexual organ to work.
"Tell me what you want to do to me, right now," he said, "Assuming it is all legal and I'd live through it."
"Ride you. Hold you down. Turn you, so you'd never get away from me," Derek snarled.
"I'd let you do that."
"I can't...changing. Can't hold it—you need to—back—get away. Get out. Agk—" He growled, a deep, vibrating in his chest, as his eyes came open. "—Baby, I don't want to hurt you, but I'm going to come and I can't...oh, my...Grrrah!"
It went against everything in his nature, every impulse, to move toward Derek. To stay inside of him as his eyes went red. But Stiles managed to half-stand and push even closer. He kept on pumping. Twisting his fingers in that squeezing heat, curling them forward to hit the perfect angle. He kept on stroking up and down, leaning in to use his ribs and stomach for more friction. Finally, in a burst of inspiration, he bit down on Derek's neck. Finding the same point where he'd just been bruised himself, he used his teeth to draw blood. He hoped that wasn't enough to infect him. The unexpected assault pulled Derek taut as a bow string. His back arched, muscles standing in relief under his skin. His claws came out and he roared, teeth snapping together inches away from Stiles' shoulder.
Stiles collapsed out of the danger zone. There was a blur of strobe lights in his head. He ended up on his knees again, partially draped over Derek's right leg. Neither of them moved for a few stuttering heartbeats. A tangle of flesh, they just let the cooling water wash over them, both gasping for air.
Predictably, Stiles broke the silence. "Did you just call me baby?"
"I distinctly heard you channeling Justin Bieber," Stiles cooed, as he gave his fingers a rinse. "Baby, Baby, Baby...oh, what was it, exactly? 'I don't want to hurt you—baby.' That was so sweet."
Derek pushed at him. Weak as a kitten, Stiles noticed. "You are dead to me. And if you tell anyone about this..."
"Yeah. Yeah. You'll rip out my throat," Stiles said, hauling himself to his feet by using Derek and the soap holder for leverage, "with your teeth. Don't even bother with your threats. I'm not going to tell anyone about this, because it would be a violation of my oath as an emissary. So, your secrets are safe with me." He stood, swaying slightly, as he added, "baby."
"Next time, I'm not going to give you any warnings."
"Next time, if there is a next time, I'm going to make you roll over and play dead."
"As soon as your Druid mojo wears off, you are going to pay for every dog training reference you make."
"You think I'm messing around here? This bonding ritual is going to take. So, my mojo is forever. I haven't even started working you over," Stiles said, sliding the stall door aside, leaving Derek to shut off the faucets.
"I've created a monster."
"Not your first time for that either." Stiles grabbed a towel from the pile on the counter top by the sink. He wrapped it around his waist and took another to dry his hair.
"Where did you learn to—you know?" Derek said, with conversational nonchalance.
"The Jellyroll?" Stiles enjoyed showing off and knew his breadth of sexual study would impress. "It's from Bubbles Fly Life blog. She's a sex worker and stripper. When I got bi-curious; I got bi-educated. I've read my way through every downloadable sex manual and online forum I could find. iThe Joy of Sex. The Joy of Gay Sex. Light His Fire. Light Her Fire. The Lesbian Kama Sutra./i I know the rabbit pose and all sixteen variations of the tiger grip."
"Like Sting, I'm Tantric," Stiles said to clarify. Noting Derek's blank look, he scowled his dismay. "Really? This is what comes from living the way you do, sleeping in abandoned buildings, running around the wood half naked. No iPhone. No wi-fi. You have no grasp of cultural references. iOne Week?/i Barenaked Ladies?"
Derek shook his head, his expression saying he didn't care to know. "Toss me a towel, Sting."
Stiles complied and Derek started rubbing himself dry. As Derek worked the moisture out of his hair, Stiles couldn't help gawking a little at the rest of him, still glistening with water droplets. The man had no shame. Not that he had anything to be ashamed of, given that body. A body he, Stiles, was sure he wouldn't be touching again any time soon.
"Okay," Stiles drawled, tearing his gaze away. "So I know what I'm getting you for your birthday—a Pandora subscription." He peered out the door, taking in the rest of the sparse loft. "And something like an audio system. Maybe a laptop."
"You aren't moving in," Derek told him.
"Are you getting unruly already?" Stiles said, exiting the room on his way to the kitchen for a drink. He needed something to wash the lingering soap taste away. He adopted a casual air as he sauntered by the bed. "Because I was leaving, but I can apply another tongue lashing, right this minute, Mister."
The bedsprings creaked behind him. Stiles stopped walking. He turned to see Derek sprawled across the duvet. Stiles mentally reprimanded himself for knowing the word duvet. He couldn't help noticing Derek wasn't wearing his towel. It was artfully draped across his stomach, like maybe Michaelangelo would be dropping by later to sculpt him.
"Where do you think you're going?"
"Uh...home? After I get a drink."
"Why don't you tell me what's in the backpack? It smells interesting."
"Seriously?" Stiles said, letting it sink in that Derek was still ignoring every opportunity to cover up with his towel. He looked past him, out the window. In his wildest, or most panicked, imaginings he'd never thought this would be more than a quick exchange of hand jobs. "We're not done here?"
"You want to be done?" Derek sounded surprised, maybe even a little hurt.
"Do you see me walking away?" Stiles half-turned, as if to leave.
"Do you see me laying here belly up and naked?"
Stiles pivoted slowly back to the view of exposed Derek. He let his gaze drift along the bed, taking it all in. He considered telling Derek he wasn't going gay for him. Seemed a little late for that. He considered remaining completely unmoved, practically stoic. Then, he considered the picture perfect display of canine submission before him. He wasn't buying it.
"What an enormous boner you have, Grandma."
Derek flashed his teeth. "The better to...oh, that's right. I already told you."