Prompt Post 02
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Almost the entire way to Stiles’ house, Stiles shows off his ability to touch Derek everywhere. The boy is all hands, and even with the seatbelt helping restrain him, Derek is constantly batting Stiles hands away: from his side, his neck, his hair, his thigh.
This was not a good idea. No matter what Derek’s wolf thinks.
“Stiles,” Derek finally barks out, his control almost completely frayed, “if you don’t stop touching me, I’m going to pull over and fuck you against the hood of my car. Without lube.”
Stiles stops, finally, but he’s staring at Derek with parted lips and blown pupils, and the entire car is filling up with the spice of his arousal. Derek grips the wheels until his knuckles turn white and reminds himself that: a) Stiles is drunk and b) the Sheriff will kill him.
Thankfully Stiles keeps his hands to himself the rest of the ride, and Derek is able to calm himself and tell his wolf to shut up.
The Sheriff doesn’t look pleased when he opens the door to Derek anchoring Stiles to his side, but then again he doesn’t ever look pleased to see Derek, so the situation is pretty normal.
“How much?” the Sheriff asks as Derek hauls Stiles over the threshold.
“Two beers and a shot of tequila,” Derek says.
“He can’t hold his tequila,” the Sheriff says, “just like his mother. Thanks for keeping an eye on him.”
“Sure,” Derek says, and hopes that the Sheriff doesn’t realize that Stiles’ hand, which Derek has just stopped from moving further, was going straight for Derek’s crotch.
The Sheriff does realize it, pointedly look at where Derek is gripping Stiles’ wrist, but then he just looks overly amused. What is going on here?
“You should just take him off to bed, let him sleep it off,” the Sheriff says. Then he goes back to the living room, where the tv is playing softly.
Derek decides that maybe the entire night is just a weird dream, and hauls Stiles up the stairs. He practically throws Stiles onto his bed, and starts on removing Stiles’ shoes. By the time he’s done Stiles is wiggling out of his jacket, and Derek grins, yanking the sleeves down from where they’ve gotten stuck around his wrists.
“You know what we should do? We should cuddle. I’ll let you be the big spoon,” Stiles says.
“You know how to flatter a guy,” Derek says, and then tucks Stiles under the covers. “Go to sleep, Stiles.”
>>>
The next morning Derek goes to check on Stiles. The Sheriff lets him in the house, still looking amused, and tells him that Stiles is in the shower. So Derek just goes up to Stiles’ room and plops on Stiles’ bed, because after he dropped off Stiles he had to deal with a slightly-tipsy Jackson finally having his big gay freak-out because he was in love with Danny, and Lydia was no help as she was laughing at the two of them the entire time.
Being Alpha is exhausting.
So when Stiles comes out of the shower, wearing old sweatpants and a shirt, Derek is sprawled across his bed, letting his wolf bask in Stiles’ scent.
“Oh god,” Stiles says.
Derek just cracks open an eye. His wolf is happy. He’s too lazy to even grunt in response.
“Look, if this is a new scare tactic it’s working because I might have groped you last night but I definitely know I hugged you, at least twice, and you should be killing me but you’re just lying…lying on my bed.” Stiles’ voice sounds a bit strangled at the end, and Derek can smell a hint of spice under the stench of fear.
“You grabbed my ass,” Derek says, “and you tried to grab my crotch in front of your dad.”
Stiles pales, then blushes furiously, and Derek’s wolf perks up.
“Look, just get it over with,” Stiles says, and closes his eyes.
Derek sits up. “What do you remember from last night?”
Stiles opens his eyes, blinks, then admits, “Not much after Lydia told me you needed a hug.”
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“So you don’t remember the car ride,” Derek says.
“No,” Stiles says. He looks a bit confused.
“You don’t remember that you wouldn’t stop touching me,” Derek flares his nostrils as Stiles’ blush deepens, “and I’m guessing you definitely don’t remember me telling you that if you didn’t keep your hands to yourself, I’d fuck you against the hood of my car.”
It’s beautiful. Stiles’ blush travels down his neck, under the collar of his shirt, and the scent of spice practically bursts from him, flooding Derek’s nose.
“You, I, you,” Stiles stutters.
Derek smirks.
Stiles pulls himself together, though the blush is still there, and looks directly at Derek.
“You did, huh?”
“Yes,” Derek says. Then, like any good predator, he waits.
“I’m guessing I didn’t have to apologize at all. Wow, I think you might be even scarier than before,” Stiles says, but he steps closer.
Stiles is wary and cautious, not at all like his usual head-first approach, but Derek doesn’t move, not when Stiles is in his space. He still smells like fear and nerves and arousal, but there’s a focus that Stiles is rarely able to achieve, a concentration that’s all for Derek; it excites Derek more than Stiles’ scent. Slowly, Stiles raises his hand to run through Derek’s hair, and Derek lets him.
And then, he pounces.
He presses Stiles into his wall, and the shock of such a sudden movement has fisted Stiles’ hand in Derek’s hair. Derek leans in to claim Stiles, conscious of Stiles’ lack of experience, and it excites the wolf more, makes him triumphant. This is how you kiss, this is how you touch, Derek says with his mouth and hands. Every sigh, every moan, every tremble and shiver that Stiles makes; Derek drinks them in, imprints them onto his lips and hands so he can create them again and again. He gives in to the wolf and, just like at the party, the wolf wants to nose down Stiles’ neck, so Derek does. He scents Stiles to his collarbones, laps into the hollow triangle and sucks a kiss there, sucks harder when Stiles jerks and gasps.
When Derek pulls back, a faint bruise is starting to form. The wolf is rumbling blissfully.
“Your dad’s still downstairs,” Derek says, “and I’d rather not get shot today.”
Stiles stares at him. He stares for a long moment, until he realizes that Derek is stopping them, and then he glares.
“You goddamn cockblock,” Stiles says.
The curse startles a laugh out of Derek, and he smiles for the first time in a long time. This kid, this irritating, loud, smart(ass) boy is has been pack for a while, but now. Now he’s Derek’s.
If you reread this like Derek's wolf is a euphemism for Derek's penis, it is hilarious.
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Which line? The "Now he's Derek's" or the whole "euphemism for Derek's penis" thing? Because I was actually really worried about the ending not actually feeling like an ending. And if it was the euphemism, well, I typed out "Derek's wolf perks up" and then stared. And then went, "Ah, ahahaha," because I am ridiculously crude and inappropriate.
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I might be a little drunk.
And the penis line!! It's so true and hilarious and rereading it replacing 'wolf' with 'penis' gave me gigglefits. 'Derek just cracks open an eye. His penis is happy.' and 'It might be that the penis has more control than he should, but Derek agrees.' AND 'The situation is escalating too fast, especially with Derek’s penis practically salivating at the way that his and Stiles’ scents are swirling together.'
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(Also, the salivating one makes me laugh so hard. I'm never going to be able to see that word again without cracking up.)
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(That one is the BEST! I will never read another fic without reading 'wolf' as 'penis'. Never.)
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