FIC: Teen Wolf -- Cherrybomb (2/2)
Title: Cherrybomb (2/2)
Author: the_deep_magic
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Pairing: Derek/Stiles
Rating: NC-17
For warnings and summary, please see part one.
Surprisingly, the cherrybombs aren’t all that hard to give up. Stiles’ mom gives him unlimited permission to destroy any of his own personal property in the backyard - at an appropriate distance from the house, of course - but the “permission” and the “his own property” thing kind of take away the fun.
He does give therapy another go and really tries this time. It’s amazing how different it is when he walks into the session of his own volition, not convinced he’s going to hate the therapist at any cost. That’s not to say he doesn’t hate her sometimes or try to skip the occasional appointment (which his mom never lets him do), but it turns out all that “opening up about it” shit has some merit. The anger doesn’t go away, but he learns how to control it, how to feel it move through him and let it go.
The worst is school. Most of the teachers are surprised to see him around regularly. One or two of them actually seem happy. Mr. Harris just seems pissed off that he isn’t going to get to fail Stiles. But even in the better classes, he can’t keep still. His brain takes something the teacher says and spins off with it until he’s wondering if a Molotov cocktail is named for a real person when he’s called on to talk about the symbolism of eyes in The Great Gatsby.
(It totally is, by the way - some Soviet dickhead unfortunately named Vyacheslav Molotov who pissed off the Finnish. The Finnish. Who knew? Other than Google.)
Still, he knows the exact number of days he can afford to ditch before they automatically fail him, and he’s got a few left. So he metes them out, one at a time when he really, truly can’t take it, and deals with the subsequent groundings.
His 18th birthday present is a surprise visit from Scott, plane ticket paid for by Stiles’ mom (and Stiles knows exactly how lucky he is - the therapy is already straining their budget to the breaking point). The most amazing part is that Scott managed to keep it a secret through several of their weekly Skype calls.
“Yeah,” Scott admits, scratching the back of his neck. “I kind of had to put a Post-it note above the monitor that said DON’T TELL STILES ABOUT THE THING.”
He’s already 18 and is planning to move back to Beacon Hills after he graduates. Apparently, he’s been working for a local veterinarian in New Jersey, but he spoke to Beacon Hills’ one and only vet, who said Scott could have a job while he took courses to get his assistant certification.
Stiles is too focused on holding everything together until he graduates to think about what he’s going to do after. He tells himself it’ll be a clean slate - just like his police record, which got sealed like magic on his birthday.
And Stiles did call Derek to apologize, though it took three weeks of his mom’s nagging after their initial conversation to get him to pick up the phone. She promised not to listen in, though.
“Stiles!” Janice said, when he identified himself. “Never expected to hear your voice on this line.”
Me neither, Stiles though grimly, but asked politely to be patched through to Officer Hale. He didn’t know how much the rest of the department knew about Derek’s one-man quest to save Stiles from himself, but Janice’s complete lack of surprise when he made the request was a pretty good indicator.
After a few rings, Stiles heard a click and a gruff “Derek Hale.”
“Uh, hi, Officer Hale.”
“Stiles,” Derek growled, and he didn’t sound at all pleased to hear from him, but Stiles was still amazed how the gravel of Derek’s voice could make him shiver all the way down to his toes - and not in fear.
He had had this whole thing scripted out in his head, but he hadn’t written it down and Derek’s voice made him go completely blank. “Did you want something?” Derek snapped, nothing but impatience, but at least it sparked Stiles’ memory.
“Yes! I wanted to… to apologize. For what I said to you. And what I was about to do. I was- There were reasons I was angry that day, but they don’t excuse the things I said. I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that. I know you were trying to help me, and I was a total dick about it.”
There was a long pause, though Stiles could still hear Derek breathing. Finally, he said, “Is that all?”
That was really not what Stiles was expecting. He hadn’t expected them to make friends or anything, but he at least thought Derek would have accepted his apology. Or gotten righteously pissed off. So he tried again. “Uh, I really am sorry.”
“I have work to do.”
And the line went dead.
It was Stiles’ first lesson that even the best intentions can’t tie everything up into a neat little bow.
&&&
His second lesson hits him even harder, because naturally everything goes great. Until it doesn’t.
They won’t let him walk. He’ll graduate - and by more than the bare minimum, though not much more - but he’s not allowed to sit with the rest of his class and hear his name called and walk across the stage to get a diploma. They’ll mail it to him. Something about his truancy record and disrespect for teachers and that incident in the chem lab at the beginning of the year. Stiles strongly suspects that Harris had something to do with this.
It’s such a stupid fucking punishment - he’s graduating, for god’s sake, that should be the only thing that’s important. It shouldn’t bother him that he doesn’t get to parade in a cheap red polyester gown in front of a bunch of his Neanderthal classmates, none of whom he gives a shit about anyway.
But Stiles has to tell his mom, and the look on her face… The disappointment that she quickly covers - but not quickly enough - isn’t directed at him, he knows that. Especially after she reassures him that she’s no less proud of him, then walks away muttering something about “academic fascists” and “can’t pull their heads out of their own asses” that Stiles is pretty sure he’s not meant to hear.
Still, his mom is disappointed. If he had gotten his shit together a little sooner, his mom wouldn’t be disappointed. And she would get to see, in front of everybody, that Stiles did something right for once.
His therapist suggests he attend the ceremony - which he’s invited to, of course, just to rub his nose in it - and it’s just about the most idiotic piece of advice he’s ever heard. He doesn’t storm out of the session like he wants to, but he doesn’t hear a word she says for the rest of the hour.
It flips some kind of switch in his brain and he starts planning again. He wants to destroy something, watch something crumble or burn or explode and think “I did that.” He wants to do something nobody can ignore. The problem is, when he starts planning, he stops thinking.
There’s an abandoned railway station just outside of town - he used to go there to do test runs, see how much powder he needed or figure out the ignition timing. It’s all concrete and metal and glass - not exactly easy to destroy (which is why he picked it as his testing grounds in the first place). But he doesn’t want to take down the building - or he does, but he knows he can’t - so maybe taking out one of the railway cars will be enough.
He can get most of what he needs from the hardware store, and the rest can be pilfered from the chem lab on the last few days of school while Harris is taking a smoke break. He stocks the stuff in the back of his closet and bides his time, only feeling a little bit sick whenever his mom smiles at him like he’s finally turned into a good kid. Except he’s not, he never was, and she’s going to have to find out sooner or later.
She doesn’t expect him to go to the graduation ceremony, at least. When she leaves for work that morning, she kisses the top of Stiles’ head and says, “I’m proud of you, kiddo. Stay out of trouble.”
As soon as she leaves, he throws up a stomachful of Lucky Charms into the sink.
In a fit of nostalgia, he plays Evil Dead all day, trying not to think about those morons who sit (well, sat) next to him in class walking across the platform set up in the dinky auditorium and waving stupidly to their families. Stiles keeps on destroying virtual things until it’s time to destroy real ones.
Fortunately for him, his mom is working late, so Stiles waits to set out until the sun begins to go down. It’s been an unusually cold May, and even though he’s layered up and the heat in the Jeep is actually working, he just can’t seem to get warm. He’ll be warm soon enough, though.
He parks the Jeep in the field around back, where it can’t be seen from the road - not that there are any cars on the road, anyway. Lugging all the stuff inside is a pain in the ass, but even he’s not stupid enough to have mixed it at home and driven it over here.
When he starts combining the chemicals, carefully measuring them out and putting them together in the right order, his mind is completely calm, focused. He ends up with four corked flasks full of volatile liquid that should combust if they’re subjected to enough force. Like being chucked into a train car.
He takes the first flask and holds it up to the light. The mixture is almost clear - you could almost mistake it for slightly rusty water. Stiles positions himself at a good angle so that he can throw the flask through the open door of the car. If he aims them right, he might be able to cave the walls in with the heat, watch it burn from the inside out. He cranks his arm back, readying for the throw.
And someone grabs his wrist, so hard that the flask slips out of his hand.
Then the hand is immediately gone, and it’s a good thing Stiles’ first instinct is to take off running anyway, so maybe he won’t immediately burn to death. After a second, though, the fact that his back isn’t on fire tells him that he fucked up the mixture. After two seconds, he realizes he never even heard the flask hit the ground.
He hesitates ever so slightly, knowing he should just keep hauling ass but also wanting to know who in the hell was fast enough to keep them both from bursting into flames. He doesn’t turn around, but he gets his answer when he’s tackled, a familiar arm coming around to keep his face from hitting the floor. Again.
“Derek?” Stiles asks, shock giving way to anger as the body pinning him down doesn’t move. “What the fuck are you doing here?
“Other than keeping you from committing second degree arson?” Derek rasps.
“How did you even know where I was?”
Naturally, Derek doesn’t bother to answer the question. “That’s five to ten years in prison, Stiles. If you had thrown that, you’d officially be a felon.”
“So fucking what?” Stiles yells, struggling to get some kind of leverage to move and failing completely. “It’s going to happen eventually. Might as well get a head start.”
“Why would you say that? You’ve been doing so well.”
That only serves to piss Stiles off even more. “How the hell would you know? You made it pretty clear you’d washed your hands of me. Unless… oh my god, have you been watching me this whole time? That’s not surveillance, that’s fucking creepy.”
“Is it? To keep tabs on a kid who managed to pull himself together and then almost threw his whole life away just now?
Derek pulls up enough for Stiles to flip himself over on his back, and he has no idea why he thought that would be a good idea, because he’s still shoving futilely at a wall of solid muscle, except now he has Derek’s disturbingly penetrating glare to contend with. “Fuck you. You don’t know anything.”
“I know more than you think. And I’m not letting you do this.”
“Why do you even care?” Stiles all but screams. His eyes and throat are burning, but not from the chemicals.
“Because you’re so much better than this.”
Stiles fists his hands in Derek’s shirt - if he can’t hit him (without hurting himself) and he can’t get away, he’s damn sure going to take it out on something, even if it’s only fabric. “Maybe I’m not. Maybe this is just who I am,” he grits out.
“It doesn’t have to be.”
“Look, I know what happened to you is a thousand times worse than what happened to me and you still turned out all well-adjusted and shit-”
Stiles’ thinks it’s supposed to be a laugh, but what comes out of Derek’s mouth is a rolling growl that Stiles can feel at every point where their bodies are touching. Which is to say: everywhere. “I’m not well-adjusted,” Derek says, his voice deeper and rougher than Stiles has ever heard it.
Stiles ignores the way his whole body lights up like a pinball machine on tilt and gets right in Derek’s face. “Yeah right, Mr. Heroic Resc-”
Then Stiles suddenly isn’t talking anymore, because Derek’s mouth is on his. Derek’s mouth. Is on his. And Stiles has a split-second to think that New York cops must be allowed to get away with some dirty, underhanded interrogation techniques before he isn’t thinking at all, because Derek’s hand is cupping his face, thumb pressing at Stiles’ chin until he opens his mouth just a little, and oh, that’s Derek’s tongue, distressingly gentle across Stiles’ lips but still firm enough to make his whole body shiver.
Derek must feel it, because he pulls away. “I’m-”
Stiles doesn’t give a fuck what Derek is as long as he keeps kissing him, so Stiles yanks hard with his hands still twisted in Derek’s shirt until he gets Derek’s mouth back. As an added bonus, he also gets more of Derek’s weight pressing him down onto the cold concrete floor, which is not great for his back but is doing all kinds of good things for his front. Maybe it’s just the contrast with the floor and the night air, but Derek’s whole body is hot - like, furnace hot - and Stiles can feel all that muscle shift against him as Derek leans up and in to press deeper into Stiles’ mouth.
Derek is kissing him. Fuck, Stiles is being kissed by Derek fucking Hale, hot and deep and urgent like Derek’s starving for it, like he can’t get enough of Stiles and has no intention to stop trying. And it’s so good, spine-meltingly good, with Derek’s tongue doing dirty little sweeps of Stiles’ mouth before letting Stiles reciprocate. One of them groans - hand to god, Stiles can’t tell if it’s him or Derek - and Stiles feels it all the way down to his toes and back up again, heat catching low in his belly on the way up. He might be embarrassed if Derek weren’t grinding his hips down shamelessly, friction condensing the hazy pleasure into something sharp. Also hard. And growing harder by the minute.
This time, when Derek pulls away, Stiles doesn’t try to stop him, because they both know where this is heading, and Stiles may be a horny, inexperienced teenage boy, but he’s aware that they’d be skipping quite a few important steps. Good steps, steps Stiles doesn’t want to miss out on. (Plus: concrete floor. Ouch.)
So the first thing he says when Derek pushes up and off him is “Don’t you fucking dare apologize for that.”
“Wasn’t gonna,” Derek mumbles as he rolls over to lie beside Stiles. They must make quite a picture, sprawled breathlessly on the dirty floor a few feet away from enough chemicals to set fire to a train car.
It’s oddly romantic.
Stiles waits until the silence gets weird to finally ask, “So have you been watching me this whole time?”
“Didn’t have to,” Derek says. “Janice is a well-informed woman who enjoys visiting my desk whenever I’m trying to do paperwork.” He pauses. “That, and sometimes I go up on your roof and watch you through the window while you sleep.”
Stiles flails as he rolls over on his side to face Derek. “Oh my god, seriously?”
Derek frowns at him. “What do you think?”
“I think you give off just enough of a creeper vibe for that to be plausible.”
“Stiles, I’m a cop.”
“Exactly! You’ve got access to surveillance equipment and you’re probably trained in all kinds of stealth tactics and god knows what the Patriot Act lets you do to a delinquent teenager with a cherrybomb problem.” He pauses. “An alleged former cherrybomb problem.”
Derek cocks an eyebrow. “How did you manage to pass U.S. Government?”
“Schoolhouse Rock is on YouTube,” Stiles says defensively. “And you’re deflecting.”
That earns him a glare. “No, I did not sit on your roof and watch you sleep. You don’t think someone would’ve noticed me going up there?”
Okay, so creepy Mr. Burke next door has a window facing Stiles’ room and never shuts his blinds, so the roof thing is unlikely. Still… “How did you know I was here?”
“Janice told me they wouldn’t let you walk at graduation and you were really upset about it. I was worried you’d do something stupid, so I drove by your house a couple of times today, and the last time, your Jeep was gone.”
“Yeah, but how did you know I was here? You didn’t follow me.”
“I know you’ve blown stuff up here before, so I went on a hunch.”
It still sounds kind of fishy to Stiles, but now that his head’s clearer - thanks to that kiss, holy fuck, that shit’s better than Adderall - he realizes how close he came to doing something he couldn’t take back. “I thought you didn’t care about me anymore. After what I said.” Stiles hates how fragile his voice sounds, how young.
Derek stares back up at the ceiling and doesn’t answer for a long time. “I didn’t want to care. Even when you called, I was still angry. But… I like you, Stiles. Um, obviously. You want people to underestimate you, so they do. It’s easier to let yourself feel like a permanent fuck-up than to risk failing at something important. I didn’t want to watch you go down that road when I had to fight so hard to keep from going down it myself.”
Stiles doesn’t even know what to say to that. He never expected any of that from Derek, least of all a verbal admission that he actually likes Stiles. That’s… pretty novel. “Thanks. Thanks for not giving up on me, I guess.”
Derek turns his head to face Stiles again, a smirk playing on his mouth. “Besides, you as a career criminal? You’d make my life a living hell.”
Stiles laughs, then groans. “Oh god, don’t bring up careers. I’ve got a diploma, but I still have to figure out what to do with the rest of my life.”
“You could always join the force,” Derek says so casually that there’s absolutely nothing casual about it.
Stiles gapes. “Was that… With the…?” He gestures spastically. “A recruiting strategy?”
He expects Derek to glare at him some more, but instead he gets a thoughtful frown. “Did it work?”
Stiles blinks. Should he? “Almost. Still not quite convinced.”
Derek rolls toward him again. “Perhaps I can be more persuasive this time.”
&&&
Four Months Later
&&&
“Hnnnngh, fuck,” Stiles wheezes. “How is it that you’re not even sweating? I’m dying over here and you still haven’t broken a sweat.”
They both slow to a jog as they near the end of their run. The sight of the Camaro through the trees nearly makes Stiles burst into tears with joy. Instead, he wheezes a little more.
Derek, the bastard, just laughs. “Buck up, cadet. A couple months from now, they’re going to have you running seven miles a day.”
“How long was today’s?”
“About four and a half miles.”
“Motherfucker,” Stiles groans, struggling to walk around slowly to cool down instead of just collapsing into the soft-looking leaves on the ground. He can’t even look at Derek - except, yeah, he totally can, because Derek’s shirt had come off somewhere around mile two and the only thing that gave Stiles any incentive to keep going was chasing the rippling muscles and bite-worthy tattoo on Derek’s bare back.
Well, that and the fact that police academy training is kicking his ass. Not the academic part, but the physical fitness part. Stiles maintains - loudly, to anyone who’ll listen - that he’s really more of a sprinter. He’s a fucking gazelle over short distances. Of course, he leaves off the part where he’d usually been running from the cops.
He’d half-thought Derek was joking that night in the train depot about joining the force. With Stiles’ history - well-known to the entirety of the Beacon Hill’s Sheriff’s Office, and thus the county - he thought there was no way they’d even consider him. But since he had no felonies on his record, it stayed sealed. Then he worried about the psych eval, but from what the shrink said, it sounded like former juvenile delinquents becoming cops was not a rare phenomenon. Stiles now has a month of academy training under his belt with five more to go.
Assuming he learns how to run more than four miles without wanting to pass out, because that last half-mile was mostly hormones and shame-prevention. If there really is such a thing as a “runner’s high,” Stiles is on the no-fly list. Which, he supposes, serves him right.
Still though, Derek looks fresh as a goddamned daisy. “How is this fair?” Stiles whines, plucking at his own sweat-soaked shirt. He’d love to just whip it off at the slightest provocation - like somebody does - but there’s still enough early fall sunlight filtering through the trees to burn his skin to a crisp lobster red. “Half of the Beacon Hills cops don’t look like they could catch a bus, let alone run seven miles.”
Derek just laughs - he does that a lot more now, or at least lets Stiles see him do it, and it never fails to make Stiles’ heart leap. “They can’t now. But they could back in the day.”
“Yeah, yeah, ran uphill both ways in the driving snow. Isn’t there supposed to be some kind of periodic re-evaluation obstacle course or something?”
“Supposed to be,” Derek says, rounding the car. “But quit whining about them and focus on yourself. You’re getting better. It just takes time.” He ends up standing right there in Stiles’ personal space, wiping the sweat from Stiles’ forehead with a towel he grabbed from the car. It’s weirdly intimate, standing here in the middle of the woods that are still Hale property, even though Derek actually lives in an apartment in the center of town.
But out here, there’s nobody around for miles, and Derek is shirtless and very, very close to Stiles, who is past the initial my-lungs-are-on-fire stage and might be starting to tingle a little from all that rushing blood, and did he mention there’s no one around?
Stiles grabs the towel and loops it around the back of Derek’s neck, yanking him even closer. Derek might not sweat much, but he doesn’t seem to mind Stiles being soaked in it. In fact, Derek’s nostrils flare like he’s trying to get an even better smell. Maybe that should weird Stiles out, but if Derek wants to sniff him, Derek is absolutely free to sniff him.
Stiles toys with actually saying it, since Derek practically needs a written, notarized invitation before he’ll get up in Stiles’ space in the fun, spanky way. It took Stiles months to get them past second base (not that those weren’t some highly enjoyable, creative months, very thoroughly exploring all the things they could do with their clothes on). But today, Derek doesn’t hesitate to bury his head against Stiles’ neck, slowly licking at the sweat he finds there. Derek has a serious oral fixation, too - licking, sucking, biting - and Stiles has zero complaints.
Unless Derek does something insane like suddenly let go of Stiles, leaving him standing there with a half-open mouth and a neglected bulge in his basketball shorts, to go back to the car. He’s not even watching to see Stiles’ indignant flail. “The fuck, Derek?”
Derek doesn’t look up from digging around in his glove compartment. “Take off your shirt.”
Yes, Stiles is going to do it anyway, but it wouldn’t kill Derek to be polite about it. “What’s the magic word?”
“Take off your shirt now.”
Eh, close enough. Stiles whips off his t-shirt, glad to have the sweaty thing off his skin. Even a month academy training has forced him to build up some muscle, fill out a little, but his body’s still nothing like Derek’s. Never will be. Derek doesn’t seem to mind, though, if the way he’s raking his eyes over Stiles is any indication. He looks downright greedy, and Stiles drawn toward him before he even realizes his feet are moving.
They sort of collide, still figuring out how they fit together, but the feeling of skin on skin is so good, and when Derek brings his hands to Stiles’ hips to steady him while they kiss, Stiles can feel he’s got something in his left hand.
Stiles has to pull away; he’s smiling too hard to kiss. “Tell me that’s what I think it is.”
Derek holds up the condom and packet of lube, all fake nonchalance. “I was a Cub Scout.”
Stiles laughs and slides his hands all over Derek’s broad chest, and Derek groans against Stiles’ mouth and presses into the touch. It still amazes Stiles that he can do this, can get Derek so riled up with just his hands and his mouth. And then Stiles remembers where they are and he can’t stop his hips from thrusting forward, seeking contact. Derek’s going to fuck him here, right out in the open, and that’s on the top ten most-played list of Stiles’ fantasies. Speaking of which…
“Tell me you’ve got handcuffs in there,” he murmurs against Derek’s lips.
It takes Derek a second or two to answer, but that’s probably because Stiles is pinching lightly at his nipples because he knows it drives Derek to distraction. “Yeah, I’ve got ‘em,” Derek gasps out. “But you don’t get to wear them.”
“Why not?” Stiles whines, taking his hands away petulantly.
Now it’s Derek’s turn to laugh. “Because you’re really going to need both hands to brace yourself.” And then Stiles is being spun around and shoved down, his palms landing… on the hood of the Camaro.
Oh hell yes. Top three territory here.
He tries to pull down his shorts, but Derek’s immediately leaning over him, shoving him back down. “Keep your hands where they are,” he growls, and Stiles feels the sound reverberate up his spine and emerge from his own mouth as a pleading moan.
Derek yanks down his shorts and underwear for him - but only to his knees, which feels infinitely dirtier than if he were just naked. Derek’s hand runs up and down his back, settling possessively at the nape of Stiles’ neck as the slick fingers of his other hand start to tease at Stiles’ hole.
Stiles is still new enough to this that it takes time, but Derek doesn’t seem to mind. He allows Stiles to adjust to each finger, slowly thrusting them in and out, letting Stiles feel the thickness of each knuckle as it breaches him. By the time they’re up to three fingers, Stiles is panting, rocking his hips back shamelessly and blushing all the way down to his feet.
Derek’s laugh is warm and a little breathless this time, which has Stiles’ toes curling in his sneakers. “You ready?” Derek asks.
“You know I am.”
“What was that?”
“Sir, you know I am. Sir.” Okay, maybe he’s mixing fantasies a little bit here, because the police academy isn’t quite boot camp, but Stiles is never not going to get off on Officer Hale bending him over and punishing him when he gets snarky.
Which is why all three fingers pull out at once, leaving him whimpering pathetically and trying to twist around to look without moving his hands. He’s barely turned his head before Derek’s hand is turning it back. “Eyes forward, cadet.”
So Stiles has to wait, bare ass thrust in the air, and listen to the sound of Derek tearing the wrapper open, Derek moaning as he slides the condom on, Derek slicking himself loudly and thoroughly. The feeling of a hot hand spread across the small of his back is enough to make Stiles gasp, the sweat already cooling on his skin, and Stiles is nearly clawing at the hood of the Camaro by the time Derek starts pushing in.
He goes slowly, which simultaneously makes Stiles grateful and crazy because it’s too much and not enough all at once. Derek goes still once he’s all the way in, lets Stiles breathe through the burn of it for a few moments. He doesn’t grab for Stiles’ dick immediately, which forces Stiles to focus on the length of Derek filling him up, buried deep in his body, and even though it still hurts a little, it’s pretty fucking hot, too.
But of course Stiles can’t keep still forever - or even for a few minutes - so he humps back against Derek’s hips and is rewarded not only with that growl, the one that makes his insides quake in the best way, but also Derek’s hand on his cock. Derek still doesn’t move yet, but he strokes Stiles in long, slow pulls. It has Stiles cursing and rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet to fuck into Derek’s grip until he slowly realizes that Derek is working him up to the rhythm he wants - leisurely and deep.
Still, Stiles has never been one to do things by half-measures, so he groans, “Derek, c’mon, harder.” And because Derek doesn’t do half-measures either, Stiles gets what he wants.
It means Derek has to let go of his cock so he can get both hands around Stiles’ hips, but it’s totally worth it for the way it makes Derek grunt and break rhythm for a second when he shoves hard into Stiles. It hurts a little, but Stiles’ dick doesn’t get the memo, because he’s totally starting to drip precum. Onto the hood of Derek’s car. Holy fuck.
But that is 100% Derek’s fault, and Stiles is just about to inform him of that in case he gets pissed off about it afterward when Derek howls, a sound that seems to echo off the trees around them, and hitches Stiles’ hips up until his toes are barely touching the ground. Stiles is infinitely grateful he’s got both hands to hold himself up. The handcuffs can totally wait for another day (or later tonight, if he’s lucky).
The angle puts Derek almost too deep, but with Stiles’ back bowed and hips in the air, it’s doing great things for his prostate. Great, teasing things, because Stiles can’t come like this, practically suspended in the air with no way of getting a hand on his cock. But it hardly matters when it feels so good and, behind him, Derek sounds like he’s about to die of bliss. Stiles moans in sympathy and tries to push back with his shaking arms, but it’s all he can do not to collapse. He has no idea how Derek is managing to hold him up like this for so long, but dude must do some serious chin-ups. Stiles is going to have to ask him his secret, because his own arms are seconds from giving way.
But before that can happen, Derek’s thrusts become erratic until he shudders, pushes deep, and holds, letting Stiles’ feet drop back to the ground so Derek can bend over Stiles’ back as he comes inside him. He bites down on the back of Stiles’ neck and it stings, yeah, but it feels like another form of connection, of Derek wanting him even closer, and it’s good.
Stiles is a little worried that Derek’s going to go boneless and Stiles is going to end up sandwiched on the hood of the Camaro, but instead, Derek is yanking Stiles up to stand on his feet. He’s still buried deep in Stiles, still hard, and that’s another thing Derek likes, staying inside Stiles after he’s come. And Stiles likes it, too, especially when he hasn’t gotten off yet, because Derek can stay hard, like, forever, and coming while stuffed full of Derek’s dick? It’s like sex-Christmas.
Thankfully, Derek has one arm looped around Stiles’ chest and the other is reaching down to stroke Stiles’ cock, because Stiles’ own arms are pretty much out of commission for the near future. “Look at yourself,” he hears Derek practically purr into his ear, and it takes Stiles a few seconds to fight through the sex-haze to realize that he can see both their faces reflected in the windshield.
Ah, so that’s what he looks like hauled upright like a rag doll and impaled on Derek’s cock while Derek works him over with a rough hand. Good to know. But even better is the look on Derek’s face as he watches Stiles - tender and fiercely possessive at the same time. And Stiles must be seriously high on endorphins, because he could swear that Derek’s eyes are almost glowing, they’re that intense.
Stiles is helpless against all of it - Derek’s eyes watching him hungrily, Derek’s body caging him in, Derek’s hand stroking him expertly - and when Derek whispers “Come for me,” Stiles is helpless against that, too. His whole body jerks with it, made better by the arm holding him tight and the hardness inside him he can clench around, and he tosses his head back against Derek’s shoulder and lets loose with his own feral howl. Derek strokes him through it, pulling the last stinging sweet pulses right up from his toes, until Derek finally lets go and loosens his hold.
Fortunately, he doesn’t take his arm away entirely, because there’s no way Stiles would be able to remain upright without it. And now he’s definitely high, because he looks down at the despoiled hood of the Camaro and giggles. “Hope you wanted racing stripes.”
Derek laughs into the crook of Stiles’ shoulder. “You’re just lucky I don’t make you clean it up. With your tongue.”
That’s another of Derek’s predilections - licking cum off Stiles’ stomach. It’s one that Stiles doesn’t quite share, because blowjobs are one thing, but cooling spunk is another, but Derek doesn’t seem to mind that Stiles isn’t into it. In fact, he usually smears at least some of his own onto Stiles and licks it off himself. Okay, so Stiles has a boyfriend with some oddly specific kinks. So what?
Just the fact that he’s got a boyfriend at all, much less a hot, kinky cop boyfriend, still kind of blows his mind. Okay, they’ve never actually said the b-word, but they’re totally engaging in some naked, vertical cuddling in the middle of the woods, so Stiles is just gonna call this one.
“Sorry,” Derek murmurs in advance before he pulls out, and yeah, Stiles could do without the empty, achy part. Pulling up his shorts at least makes him feel a little less vulnerable, and he turns around to see Derek knot the condom and toss it towards the treeline.
“Litterer!” Stiles yelps, poking Derek in the chest with an accusatory finger. “That’s a violation of California Penal Code Section 374.4.” Because he has to memorize shit like that now. And “penal” will never cease to be hilarious to say.
Derek just shrugs. “It’s my property. You want to throw it away, you go and find it.”
The poking turns into something more like one-fingered petting. “Mmm, I always knew you were a bad boy at heart. I think that’s how you always knew where to find me. They sure as hell didn’t teach you that at the police academy.”
Derek laughs, but it’s oddly predatory, and he pulls Stiles close like he’s still hungry for touch even after what they just did. “Well, you’re right about one thing - I didn’t learn that at the academy.”
And his eyes glow blue. It’s just for a second, but Stiles is so close that he knows it’s not just a trick of the light. “Officer Hale,” he says coyly, because whatever this is, it feels dangerous, and what the hell else is he gonna do but flirt with it? “I think you’ve been holding out on me.”
Derek buries his nose against the sweaty patch of skin behind Stiles’ ear for a long sniff before practically groaning, “Ohhh, Stiles. You have no idea.”
Suddenly, Stiles gets that rush again, the one where he’s playing with something that could potentially blow up in his face but is in all likelihood going to end in fireworks. It’s been a while since he’s felt that. And he likes it. “What if I wanted to know?”
Derek’s hands still at Stiles’ waist. “I’m not sure if you’re ready.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Stiles insists.
Derek’s laugh is a quiet growl that sends excited shivers across Stiles’ skin. “I have so much to show you.”
A/N II: This is not at all the story I intended to write. I set out to write some quick, dirtybadwrong juvenile!delinquent!Stiles/policeman!Derek PWP for the kink meme prompt… and then all this backstory jumped up and bit me in the ass. And lo, there was plot. And unavoidable, capital-F Feelings. But in case you’re wondering, Derek did do a little werewolf-snooping, but he didn’t really watch Stiles while he was sleeping, because it’s creepy and the neighbors would totally see that shit.
Incidentally, how many people do you think would have to sign a petition before we could get a spin-off called Derek Hale: Werewolf Cop?