you've got that one thing
Title: How to Date Your Best Friend's Brother (2/2)
Author: veterization
Disclaimer: I do not own Teen Wolf.
Rating: NC-17
Genre and/or Pairing: Stiles/Derek
Word Count: ~15,000
Summary: AU. Scott's brother Derek gets surprisingly hot when he comes back from college. Stiles, and his hormones, deal with this new development less than gracefully.
Notes: This plot came to me on Saturday morning and wouldn't leave me alone until I finished it on Sunday night. Everybody enjoy!
Also, thank you to everyone who voted in the AfterElton Ultimate Slash Madness Poll! All hail Sterek, because as Jeff says, we are the "alphas of the fandom." Alphas assemble!
Back to Part I.
The next time Stiles catches Derek alone, he's packing up a handful of jeans and sweaters into a duffel bag marking the end of the college's fall break and the start of another few weeks where Stiles totally doesn't count down the days until Derek's next visit and totally doesn't hope that Derek won't find an attractive teacher's assistant to start doting on and bring home to his mother to coo over. Stiles catches sight of Derek stuffing toiletries into his suitcase out of the corner of his eye when he wanders down the hallway, and despite his better judgment, goes to investigate.
"Are you leaving already?" Stiles asks, hanging in the doorway. Derek nods, pushing a few textbooks into his bag. "Feels like you just got here."
"I'm sure Scott's relieved he'll have his bathroom to himself again until Thanksgiving," Derek says with a wry smile.
"You're coming back for Thanksgiving?" Stiles says, and when he grins Derek gives him a funny look, like this is hardly the sort of thing Stiles should be excited about. Stiles tries to disguise his excitement through the façade of being exuberant about the turkey and the general lack of hungriness that follows for the next two weeks where all families eat nothing but turkey sandwiches until Christmas.
"Planning on it."
Derek ends the sentence there, not bothering to keep it alive. Stiles swings back and forth in the doorway and decides to fuel it himself.
"So do you like college life, you big party animal?"
"Stiles, do you need something?" Derek asks curtly, expertly bouncing over his inquires, not in the least interested in sharing tales of fraternity mishaps or beer keg stunts. Stiles figures that Derek probably has the partying spirit of a handicapped elderly gentleman, like the type he sometimes sees serenely playing chess with themselves in the park, and really doesn't need an answer to his question anyway.
"Uh, just wanted to say goodbye. Till next time, anyway. And when that time comes we'll both be so full with poultry we won't talk for probably three days straight," Stiles chuckles. Derek zips closed his bag and gives him another glance, like he's slightly surprised that Stiles is actually putting effort into awarding Derek with a goodbye instead of just patting him on the back and sending him on his way like Scott does.
"I guess we'll see," Derek says. "Bye, Stiles."
Stiles nods and is about to leave when he decides to drum up some inner courage probably stolen from a man with more audacity than he himself rightly possesses, taking a step out of the doorway to grab Derek's shirt in his fist and pull him into a kiss, reveling in the fact that Stiles doesn't have to lean upwards in order to press their mouths together.
It's a short kiss, still tinged with the residue of Stiles' nerves and slightly off-center, and Derek is the one to break it when he grabs Stiles' forearms and firmly pushes him into a more agreeable distance, his eyes wide. He looks like he's stuck in between having almost expected Stiles to kiss him sooner or later to revering in the awe that comes with having just kissed his brother's best friend. It's not like it was a spectacular kiss, lacking all sense of passionate tongue and clawing hands, but Derek still seems rather lost for words for a good few seconds while he surveys Stiles' face.
"Stiles, you're sixteen," he growls, voice rough like he's just downed a bottle of whiskey, and it burns pleasantly up Stiles' limbs like tingles of budding arousal. He knows that what Derek's saying is more of a rejection than an encouragement, and as son of the town sheriff Stiles should probably heed said warning, but instead he feels a resolution that is most probably his signature Stilinski stubbornness rise to the surface. He grabs hold of Derek's hips and doesn't let himself be guided away.
"Well observed," he says cheekily, and decides to bite down on Derek's earlobe for no other reason beside the fact that it looks like it's waiting to be bitten. "Anything else you'd like to add?"
Derek mutters something that sounds more like an internal struggle than anything else before a pair of strong arms wraps around Stiles' waist and all but lifts him from the floor, mouth hungrily finding Stiles' lips in a rough kiss and tongue begging for entrance at the seam of his mouth. Stiles whimpers and clings on for the ride, opening his mouth and trying his hardest to ignore the jump of his dick in his pants when their tongues first brush, hot and sweet, before Derek pulls away again, a clear fogging of lust in his eyes.
"More of that, please," Stiles begs, only slightly incoherently, and Derek reluctantly releases his hold on his waist.
"No," Derek denies firmly. "Scott is two doors away and you're-"
"-don't say sixteen, you big old man-"
"-never going to come up for air if I don't let you go now," Derek finishes without a breath, steamrolling over whatever complaints Stiles verbalizes. His hands clench and unclench on Stiles' hips like he's still unsure if walking away is the best choice his brain has ever made or the worst his libido ever has, and with one more blinding kiss that leaves Stiles astonishingly boneless under his ministrations, he wiggles out of Stiles' grasp.
"Um," Stiles calls out helplessly when Derek touches his lips and grabs his duffel with a newfound vigor. "We'll pick this up in a few weeks, right?"
Lucky for him, turns out they do.
--
Stiles, as it so happens, spends a good week worrying over if looking Derek in the eye when he visits for Thanksgiving break will be the start of an awkward weekend that will quickly snowball into tension too thick to be cut with samurai swords for absolutely no reason, because the second Derek steps past the threshold out of the November cold and his mother peppers him with kisses and Stiles' dad calls out a jovial hello from where he's stirring the stuffing, he catches Stiles' eye and his ears turn brilliantly red.
"Do you need help with your bags, Derek?" his mother asks when she catches sight of two bags laying at Derek's feet. "Scott can-"
"I'll help," Stiles says, springing off the couch, no longer interested in Ferris Bueller's Day Off as it turns into white noise on the television for him even though Ferris is finally at the good part and is running past pools and barbeques to not be caught by his revengeful sister and Mr. Rooney. And Stiles loves Ferris Bueller's Day Off, so it's saying something when he offers to help drag luggage upstairs in favor of watching it.
Scott's mother ruffles his hair for his willingness to help and with that he grabs one of Derek's bags and all but bounces up the steps into Derek's room, left exactly the same it was a few weeks ago when they made out like rabbits in heat before Derek hightailed back to college.
He's barely dropped the bag, fully prepared to explain to Derek that he's in spirit much older and wiser than the sixteen-year-old sophomore he is and ready to rock his world, when he's thrown against Derek's bookcase, a good number of classic novels digging into the small of his back while Derek grabs him by the hair and presses their mouths together.
"A-ah, so I take it you haven't been swept off your feet by some pretty college girl in glasses since you've been gone, right? My dorkiness is still a turn-on for you?"
Derek covers his mouth with his own again when he starts rambling, no longer a shred of hesitance left in his touches like the idea of ravishing Stiles upon his return was enough to drum up a tightly-strung ball of hormones that unleashed Derek's inner sexual fiend while he was gone, using his teeth to bite and nip at Stiles' lip while his hands fist his hoodie. They kiss like they're much hungrier for each other than they are for the juicy turkey roasting downstairs, and Stiles wastes no time in hooking a frantic leg over Derek's hip and rutting against his crotch.
"God, you're so eager," Derek says breathlessly when he pulls back, lips looking so thoroughly kissed and shiny that Stiles doesn't even bother resisting the urge to swipe his tongue over his swollen lower lip.
"I was always this hyper. You've just come to appreciate it anew nowadays," Stiles quips, ducking his head into his neck to feel the burn of Derek's stubble on his temple and taste the salty groove of his collarbone. It feels much better this time than when he was drunk, nothing but foggy memories of having pliable muscles move underneath him lasting from that night. Stiles knows more than anything that those muscles and that mouth are definitely experiences he wants to memorize, starting with the tiny sounds Derek keeps letting loose and how sure his hands feel when he grabs Stiles by the hips.
"Your father would arrest me if he knew what his son was doing," Derek points out, and Stiles quickly shushes him with a few wet kisses and roaming hands exploring the sensitivity of his chest.
"Don't mention my dad, Derek," Stiles pretends that his father isn't downstairs teaching Scott how to make cranberry pie for traditional Stilinski Thanksgiving dessert and focuses instead on the way Derek's breath seems to fly from his lungs when he tweaks his nipples. Turns out, the distraction is more than enough to wipe any thoughts of his father imprisoning his new boyfriend-boyfriend?-for deflowering his purer-than-the-driven-snow-underage son from his mind.
Derek listens and that's all that is said on the illegality of what it is they're doing, instead pushing Stiles roughly against the bookcase once more, so roughly that a few photo albums sway precariously on their perch on the highest shelf.
"Ow, fuck, Derek, right against the dictionaries," Stiles groans when a few books dig persistently into his back, so Derek impatiently foregoes trying to do this vertically and tosses him on the bed like a lion ready to maul its afternoon meal. Stiles comes willingly and drags Derek down with him.
"Still can't believe I'm doing this," Derek murmurs incredulously on Stiles' neck while he fumbles with the button of his jeans and Stiles wrestles with Derek's shirt. "My brother's annoying little buddy. God, you used to annoy me. Never met a kid so determined to coerce me into playing hide and seek."
"Oh my god, Derek, shut up," Stiles begs, succeeding in wrenching Derek's shirt off and away to reveal the glory that is his naked chest while Derek shucks Stiles' pants down his knees and smirks at the sight of his Superman boxers. Stiles is about to remind him that he's about to sleep with him, superhero underpants and all, but then Derek shoves his hand down his boxers and grabs his half-erect member and strokes it.
Stiles denies that he whines-even though there's a very good chance that he does-and paws at Derek's shoulders at the sensational feeling of having someone else's hand, and out of all of the hands in the world, Derek's large and unyielding hands, slowly pumping him to release. He decides to follow suit and gathers the lucidity he has left to push Derek's pants and pesky boxers out of the way and squeeze the base of his erection, lazily curling toward his stomach, to the same rhythm that Derek's hand is moving away at on his own length.
It's a pretty great dick, Stiles thinks, which is saying something considering that he's more of a boobs type of guy when it comes to what he's more likely to ogle in a classroom. Apparently, he doesn't mind if it's Lydia's creamy cleavage or Derek's hard-as-a-rod cock that he's got in his hand, and decides to go with it while he's got Derek at his mercy.
Accurately, however, Stiles is more at Derek's mercy than vice versa. Thinking straight starts becoming a luxury of the past when Derek speeds up the pace of his hand and leaves trails of open-mouthed kisses on his jugular and his neck and the sensitive spot right behind his ear, thumb smearing drops of Stiles' precome on his shaft to slick the way for his palm. He does his best to reciprocate before the stars inevitably burst behind his eyelids, pumping Derek steadily with a shaky hand while he grabs his neck with his free hand and guides him to his mouth, sharing another sloppy kiss while they rock into each other's grips.
"Oh, shit, Derek, I can't-" Stiles gulps around a dry mouth when Derek speeds up his tempo even more and rubs the tip of his fingernail into the slit, heat coiling in his midsection. "Ready or not, here I come."
He comes right then, muffling his cry of bliss in the pillow conveniently perched by his head, trying his hardest to keep up the pace of his own hand. A second later, Derek's fingers join his own, interlacing their hands together to stroke steadily up and down his length, the hot weight of his member resting in both of their hands enough to intensify the waves of Stiles' pleasure. Derek comes with only five more strokes of their joined hands, letting loose a noise so sinfully suppressed Stiles is already prepared to orchestrate a replay of this whole event in the quiet solidarity of the backseat of his car so Derek can emit all the noises he pleases for Stiles' ears only without having to worry about eavesdroppers downstairs.
"C'mere," Derek mumbles after he catches his breath, cupping his cheek and kissing him, slowly and sweetly this time, while Stiles runs his hands through Derek's hair to keep him in place. Derek pulls back and gives him a small, barely even there smile, and Stiles feels like he's just solved one of the biggest mysteries in the world because he managed to make broody, grumpy, dark Derek smile.
The afterglow is ruined a moment later, however, by Scott screeching up the stairs, "Derek! Stiles! What the hell's taking so long?!"
--
So it turns out that sneaking around behind Scott's back is just as awesome as Stiles thought it would be.
Stiles idly wonders if he has something of a exhibitionist bone inside him considering that it's starting to become a habit for him to corner Derek in the hallway when Scott ambles downstairs to grab snacks so they can share a brief heated make out that always results in both of their lips turning rather swollen and their hair rather mussed, telltale signs of funny business that Scott really should catch but never does, or feel up Derek's thigh when their mother comes home early enough to make dinner and enjoy it with the whole family at the dining table. He wonders if it's because he enjoys getting a rise out of Derek, enjoys that fire of warning in his eyes that proves that he's both equally scared and turned on by the risk of Stiles giving him a blowjob in the bathroom.
Stiles has comes to terms with the fact that if Scott gets wind of this clandestine affair his friend is having with his brother he'll be letting Scott copy off his homework for life just to make up for his betrayal, mostly because he knows that there is no resisting Derek. What amazes him is that he finds that he actually likes Derek, because underneath his rather chilly exterior and hard glowers, he happens to be less whiny than his younger brother and less of a love struck fool, a stereotype which Scott is rapidly morphing into with the appearance of Allison Argent in his life. He teaches Stiles how to do his math homework whenever Stiles gets stuck and can prepare a pretty mean grilled cheese sandwich too.
He realizes pretty suddenly that aside from the amazing development in his sexual endeavors, Stiles appreciates the addition Derek makes in other aspects of his life. He likes the handjobs, he likes he making out, and he likes the grilled cheese, but under all of that he likes hanging out with Derek, a development that starts making Scott suspicious rather quickly. He tries to avoid the term crushing, mostly because he refuses to be identified as an elementary school girl, but Stiles isn't scared to admit his feelings. He has a crush on his best friend's brother.
The realization makes Stiles come to yet another grim epiphany: if Derek feels the same way-which Stiles can only assume is true considering that he hasn't yet been told to go play with the neighbor kids and leave Derek alone-then this isn't just a college-guy-experimentation phase that will ultimately fade into a nostalgic memory of his high school years. This might be a, dare he say it, real grown-up relationship. And that means it's time to get Scott adjusted to the idea of his best friend falling love with his brother.
"So, you know how you wanted to watch that one new action movie where Robert Downey Jr. loses his head this weekend?" Stiles slowly brings up at lunch the week before Derek visits for Christmas vacation around a mouthful of cafeteria breadsticks. Scott nods. "Well, I was thinking maybe Derek could go with us."
"What?" Scott demands. Baby steps, Stiles thinks, and tries to telepathically plead with his friend to be accommodating and open-minded.
"C'mon, dude, he's coming for Christmas and could use some holiday cheer from his little bro. Robert Downey Jr. will still get his head cut off no matter who comes with us, I promise."
Scott frowns and picks at his lunch tray. "He's such a killjoy, Stiles."
Either we take him along, or I'm staying home so we can have sex in the back of my Jeep, Stiles thinks resolutely on repeat, and then promptly erases that from his mind as he continues to focus on gently coaxing Scott in the direction he wants to steer him toward. Be gentle. Don't scare him off. Like a deer in the forest.
"Just one movie, dude. You're not winning any Best Brother awards like this, Scott."
When Scott still whines and refuses, Stiles brings in the one weapon he didn't want to have to brandish: Allison, who naturally, thinks the idea of familial bonding is a great idea and insists Scott brings his brother.
Needless to say, Scott folds.
--
Stiles is wrapped up in his sheets watching Saturday Night Live and scribbling random answers to his economics homework that he hopes Finstock will find enough humor in to grant him some credit when he texts Derek, who's programmed cleverly into his phone as George Washington just because he knows Scott won't find it nearly as suspicious as seeing the name Derek flash on his screen if he accidentally comes upon such a scenario. Sometimes Stiles worries about how easy it is to con Scott, and sometimes he's just speechlessly grateful.
asked Scott. you're coming with us to the movies next Saturday. He writes to Derek.
George Washington buzzes on his phone two minutes later. That's surprising.
had to bust out secret weapon aka allison. totally worth it. miss your grumpy face.
I want to see you too, Stiles. Something like butterflies hatching or maybe a whole gang of hummingbirds flutters around in Stiles' chest, and he firmly blames the questionable leftover pizza his father left out on the stove for him as dinner for the sensations in his stomach.
wearing anything sexy?
Stiles.
what if I said I'm totally naked
Two minutes later, George Washington calls him on his cell phone. Stiles picks up, snickering all the while.
"Stiles, I'm trying to study for my winter finals here," Derek's tinny voice reprimands from the other side of the phone. Without the added fright of seeing Derek's set jaw and angry white line of a mouth, it does little to scare Stiles off.
"And I'm trying to watch the new SNL skit, but I've decided that phone sex with you is more important than Fred Armisen."
"You want to have phone sex?"
"You don't?" Stiles asks, and feels the first stirrings of arousal in his groin that make him unbelievably glad that his father has the late shift at the station tonight. He tries to get the ball rolling. "Why don't you tell me what you're thinking about?"
For a moment, there's silence. Then, "You mean, besides the idea of you lying naked in your bed just waiting to be fucked?"
Stiles feels a full body shiver course through his limbs that catches him completely off guard. "Woah. Are you hiding a wild animal in that body of yours, Derek?"
"I think I can blame you for that," Derek admits. "I never thought so hard about grabbing a sixteen-year-old kid and swallowing down his dick before a few months ago when I caught you jerking off in my bathroom." Another bout of silence where Stiles hears Derek audibly swallow. "What were you thinking about when you did that?"
"You," Stiles says instantly, and decides to go for it and push his hand under the sheets and loosely grab his awakening cock, keening at the touch. "Couldn't stop thinking about you ever since you came back. Even though you acted like an asshole around me I couldn't help staring at your goddamn body. Fuck, Derek, I thought about you grabbing me and teasing me and making me beg for you to fuck me so many damn times."
A low pant sounds through the phone and Stiles catches wind of the sound of rustling fabric, like maybe Derek's abandoned his attempt to study and is now ridding himself off his pants. Stiles likes to imagine that maybe he's already hard just from the sound of Stiles' voice and the idea of playing out his fantasies, hard and needy all because of Stiles' dirty mouth.
"You'd want me to tease you?" Derek asks, and Stiles nods even though he knows he can't see him. "I could tease you."
"Tell me."
"Stiles," Derek murmurs, voice husky, like if he starts he won't be able to stop until he's barreled Stiles into a crashing orgasm. "I would finger you open until you'd be writhing for me to fuck you with my cock. Maybe I'd tease you before I would even finger you, maybe I'd just bite your thighs and suck your cock and lick over your hole until you'd push me back and ride me yourself."
Stiles groans at Derek's skill with imagery, squeezing his erection and bucking into his finger's frantic pumps. "Jesus, Derek. Are you touching yourself?"
Derek pauses, but he's breathing heavily and making the same soft noises Stiles has grown to love to hear escape from Derek's lips when he's stroking him to the brink. "Yeah."
"Thinking about me?"
"Yeah," Derek says. "Keep talking, Stiles."
"Shit, yeah, I will," Stiles says, only slightly amazed that there's someone out there who's actually asking him to keep running his mouth instead of warning to duct tape it closed for him. He lets his eyes flutter closed and his head hit the wall behind his bed, imagining that it's Derek who's stroking his cock and Derek who's leaning into his body. "Still want to have sex with you in Scott's bed, you know. It'd be so bad. Or maybe the kitchen counter, you could bend me over the dishwasher and just-just go to town."
"Are you a virgin, Stiles?" Derek suddenly asks, and Stiles feels his cheeks heat up.
"Well, yeah."
"So you'd be all mine?" Derek asks, his voice dropping a few octaves into the deep, growly territory that lets Stiles know that he's getting fired up past the point of no return. Whining, Stiles speeds up his hand and lets his free hand wander, thumb flitting over his puckered entrance and gently circling it. He's tried this before, in the shower, late at night in his bed, but now he's imagining Derek doing it, meticulously, gingerly, until Stiles is so ready he's begging.
"Yeah," Stiles confirms desperately, and cuts off on a broken cry when he comes, splattering his thighs and his sheets with his come and thighs quivering with the aftershocks. Across the line he can hear Derek, breathing still fast and uneven while he catches up, and not a minute later Derek comes too with the most delicious sound Stiles has ever heard wafting through the receiver.
"You okay, Stiles?" Derek says when he finally sounds like the oxygen has returned to his brain, and Stiles is so much better than okay it's not even funny.
"Okay? I'm marvelous," Stiles says, not even the prospect of three a.m. laundry to clean up the spots of his come from his sheets before his father notices darkening his spirits. "Except now I miss you even more."
Derek pauses again, like he's affronted by Stiles' clinginess, or maybe like he's actually touched by it. "I'll see you soon, Stiles," and then, as an afterthought, "and try not to jump me when you first see me if my brother's around."
--
"So how are your classes, Scott?"
Stiles is currently sandwiched in between the most awkward, uncomfortable brothers to ever exist, Derek forcing small talk and Scott bouncing around answering any of his questions with enthusiasm. Stiles knows that Scott and Derek are just some of those unfortunate siblings who never clicked when they were throwing blocks around a playpen together, possibly because of the age difference or maybe because they're practically complete opposites of the spectrum in every which way. Derek likes to be in control; Scott doesn't like to submit. Derek doesn't fawn over girls and fret over being romantic enough during formals; Scott's every waking minute revolves around the color of Allison's eyes. Derek spends forty minutes in the bathroom in the morning; Scott needs double.
Stiles is still convinced that with the right common ground the two of them could learn to gain a respect for each other past the required love that comes with being predestined with a brother, a respect that he's sure will have to be earned if he wants to maintain any hopes that Scott won't disown him when he ultimately breaks it to him that he's hot for his brother.
"Ummm. Okay, I guess. How's college?"
Stiles closes his eyes to block out the discomfort and occupies his hands with the bucket of popcorn in his lap while happy people, laughing people who enjoy each other's company, file into the theater around him. He's really only here for the gore and the possibly titillating plot-and maybe also the likelihood that in the darkness he'll be able to hook his ankle over Derek's under the gum-infested seats without Scott blatantly noticing the intimacy-and didn't sign up for any of this sibling rivalry, but he's willing to grin and bear it if it results in a positive step in the two of them bonding.
"Fine. Busy. How's mom doing?"
"She works a lot," Scott says, and that's the end of that. They drum their knuckles on their seat rests and both check their wristwatches like they're counting the seconds until the previews end and the movie starts.
"Heyyy, Derek," Stiles prompts when a whole minute full of wordless silence becomes his cue to speak up. "Did you know that Scott made lacrosse this year? Magically?"
"I didn't," Derek admits, and then cocks his eyebrow at Stiles. "Did you?"
"Uh, no," Stiles says. "But Scott's getting pretty good. He could probably use some of your work out tips, Derek."
"I don't need any tips with lacrosse."
"He's probably too busy keeping up with his grades, Stiles."
"Scott, my boy, you're gonna need lacrosse tips for the rest of your life," Stiles tells his left, and then promptly swivels to his right. "And Derek, I'm sure he wouldn't have so much trouble with his grades if you helped him with his homework."
He mediates for another ten minutes to nearly no avail before the theater thankfully begins dimming and the chatter dies down, and by the time Stiles realizes that even Robert Downey Jr,'s face can't salvage this terrible movie he's suffering through and Derek whispers in his ear for him to meet him in the bathroom, the blowjob he receives in the third stall by Derek's mouth, greasy from buttered popcorn and crazy talented, is definitely in order.
--
Stiles forgets all about the brotherly bonding flop that was the fiasco at the movie theater two days later when Scott cuts his and Stiles' homework session short in favor of a few texts from Allison alluding to the implication that she's up for a good few hours of making out in her room behind her parent's watchful eyes and his study session with Scott quickly turns into a date with Derek.
They start out just by talking about Derek's studies when Stiles wanders down the stairs from Scott's room after Scott darts out the house to meet Allison before dark, discussing what he's learned in his mythology class and what he thinks about doing after college. Stiles worries-only a little-that Derek will go on to bigger and greater things after he graduates to go be a philosopher in the depths of Norway or go fight crime with his glare alone in the shady parts of California, but Derek tells him about he's considering staying in Beacon Hills so he can stay close to his mother and keep watch over her if her job at the hospital stops paying all the bills one day. He even asks how Stiles feels about school, and what he wants to major in at college, and if he's considering taking over his dad's position as Beacon Hills sheriff in the future.
The fact that they talk so long-as nice as it might be-is probably what ends up in them having so little time for the sex.
They're making out on the living room couch, in broad view of anyone who marches past the front door, bodies too frantic and minds too lusty to even consider taking the time to relocate upstairs in the privacy of Derek's room. Stiles takes small pride in the fact that he seems to reduce Derek, a man who's in his early twenties and sufficiently done in his growing cycles, to an animalistic and hormonal replication of a seventeen-year-old.
"Missed you," Derek murmurs hotly on Stiles' lips, hands roaming under Stiles' pants to squeeze his hindquarters and trace the line of his ass. Stiles presses into him and all but rides his thigh when he brushes over his hole with a saliva-slick forefinger.
"Pants off, Jesus Christ," Stiles demands, momentarily getting off Derek to bodily throw his pants at the television until he's standing in nothing but his socks, Derek yanking him back on his hips and roughly abusing his neck with a demanding tongue. "Derek, ah, don't leave marks."
"Want to," Derek rumbles on his shoulder, rolling hips up into Stiles'. "Want to show everyone that you're mine."
"Everyone including your brother?"
"Fuck Scott," Derek says breezily, grabbing hold of Stiles' very-much-interested-in-the-situation erection and resuming his earlier task of rubbing patterns over Stiles' entrance. Stiles keens and ruts back against Derek's touch, strange but somehow not in the least invasive, until the tip of his finger slips inside. He tries to push into the touch, feel more, feel it slide even deeper, but the angle is awkward and Derek is impatient, so a second later he's flipped them over and pushed Stiles onto his stomach on the couch, spreading his ass cheeks and actually flicking his tongue down the curve of his ass.
"Oh shit," Stiles says, feeling like the luckiest high school in all the world right now, reaching behind him to pull Derek into a heated kiss, and so of course, that's when Scott's key turns in the lock and he announces his return home.
"What the fuck," Scott says faintly, looking so angry that it looks like he's about to have a tantrum right there on the floor and bang his fists on the carpet, and grabs the door handle for support.
--
Naturally, Scott takes most of his fury out on Derek. He's the older boy, he's the supposedly responsible college student, and he also happens to be the brother that takes everything away from Scott.
Stiles is listening to them yell from the safety of the kitchen where he's, thankfully, redressed and no longer naked in front of his best friend who hasn't seen him in his birthday suit since Scott's mother insisted on bathing them together when they first dabbled in mud slides when they were six, and in the middle of eating an old doughnut sitting in its box on the stove. He feels very much like he'd like to bend over the kitchen sink and throw up considering what the circumstances are, but he'll admit that sex makes him hungry, or at least, what could have been sex makes him hungry.
He wistfully thinks back to the days when Scott was never such a massive cockblocker, and realizes there were no such days.
"You're so much older! Do you realize how creepy that is?!" Scott all but roars from where he and Derek are dueling it out in Scott's room. Stiles battles between the two evils of eavesdropping into their fight and plugging his fingers to wallow in his own shame in silence. He goes for the former.
"Scott, I just don't see how this is any of your business."
"He's my best friend! Mine! You're not allowed to take him from me!"
"You're acting like a child, Scott."
"Stop talking to me like I'm four! You're sleeping with my best friend!"
Stiles rubs at his temples and thanks his lucky stars that he's not squatting in this kitchen with Scott and Derek's mother while she clicks her tongue and tries poorly to hide the fact that she's judging and probably making inferences that Stiles seduced her well-educated, totally-on-the-right-track eldest child and threw a bomb into the already shaky family dynamic. He hopes to God that he'll never have to face the wrath of their mother one day, even when he's over eighteen and totally legal or even over thirty and can no longer pass as a bumbling adolescent fool.
He looks at the plate of doughnuts, a few more crusty glazed pastries gazing at him imploringly so he can bury his worries in a sugar rush, but the sight makes his stomach churn. He braces his palms on the sink and listens once more to the third world war raging on upstairs.
"-his idea, Scott, I'm not forcing him to do anything with me."
"Are you seriously trying to tell me that my best friend would betray me just so he could score with you and have sex before I do?"
"This is not about you, Scott!"
"You don't even like each other, Derek!"
Stiles loudly hums Somewhere Over the Rainbow to himself and considers breaking up the fight himself, because at the end of the day, the blame does point directly back to Stiles in neon-lit arrows. He thinks maybe the idea of promising to buy Scott's lunch for the next three months and swearing to never make out in front of him might appease him into no longer yelling his throat hoarse at his boyfriend, or maybe offering himself up as a punching bag might work in Scott letting out some residual frustration, but a second later he realizes he's too late.
There comes a thump and a slew of curse words from upstairs, and a few seconds later Derek and Scott are walking stiffly down the staircase, a brilliant bruise sure to turn into a mottled purple by the end of the hour blossoming on Derek's eye and Scott nursing his knuckles. Stiles briefly wonders if the black eye was unavoidable collateral damage and considers tenderly touching the swelling flesh and offering an ice pack for the pain, but then decides that the best route for Stiles to take right now when Scott is clearly charged up with a generous amount of violence is to keep a wide berth away from Derek in Scott's line of vision.
Derek doesn't agree with this plan, however, as he proceeds to stalk up to Stiles, crowd up in his personal space, and murmur, "It's not as bad as it looks and I think I deserved it," and then, quite boldly, places a reassuring kiss on Stiles' forehead. Stiles waits, petrified, when Derek goes to retrieve a handful of ice from the freezer, for Scott to kick Stiles in the nuts for good measure too. He catches Scott's eye, who looks surprisingly uncomfortable in his own skin, and goes for a meek smile to gauge the mood.
"Hey, uh, Stiles?" Scott mumbles from the foot of the stairs. "Sorry if I always refused to hang out with Derek and give him a chance when you just wanted to make the two of us closer and, uh… I'm gonna be pissed about the fact that you're having sex with my brother for a while."
"Understood," Stiles says instantly, bouncing on the balls of his feet as if ready to dodge a strike even though he probably deserves it more than Derek's left eye did. "Total violation of the bro code. To-tal. Will not happen again. Won't chase after any other brothers you may or may not have."
"I just… wasn't really happy about having to share you," Scott mutters to the floor. He sounds crestfallen, like Derek is stealing Stiles away just like he stole all the good Halloween candy back a few years ago, and Stiles takes a bold step forward and wraps Scott in a much needed hug.
It should be awkward, considering that less than an hour ago he was naked on the couch with Derek's hands on his ass, but it turns out to be just the thing Scott needs to feel better about the situation, and they pat each other on the back for a solid few seconds before they pull back and survey each other.
"Uh… if you want to hit me now, that's okay, dude. Just don't go for the face, that's my moneymaker."
Scott actually cracks a small and rubs awkwardly at the back of his neck while Derek noisily rummages through the freezer to press a half-used pack of peas onto his bruise. "I don't wanna hit you, dude. Didn't really mean to hit Derek either, but… it sort of just happened."
"He'll heal up, the guy's built like Rambo," Stiles assures him, clapping him on the back. "And Scott, buddy, just think about it this way. If Derek and I ever move to Massachussets and get gay-married, you and I will be brothers. Actual brothers."
Scott cracks a wider smile. "Yeah, you're right."
"So… just keep Derek in one piece until then, okay?"
"Okay. Just… no making out in front of me and absolutely no having sex or stuff like that if I'm in the next room! This is non-negotiable!"
"We'll try," Derek says, rather sourly, from his spot in the kitchen, and Scott takes what he can get.
--
Amazingly enough, after that, everything improves.
The bruise heals fairly quickly with the help of icepacks and the firm decision among all three boys is that if anyone asks, especially their mother, Derek had a small mugging incident in the shady shopping district near campus that Scott or Stiles had absolutely no direct influence over. Scott doesn't apologize for punching Derek in the face and Derek doesn't ask for any such sentimentalities from his brother, like both of them have come to the grim truce that Derek probably deserved a good hit to the eye for not upholding his brotherly duty over the past few years and that now, if ever, is the time to start bonding.
The day after New Year's Eve, Stiles very much pretending that he and Derek didn't sneak out of their family's celebrations in order to make out behind the Stilinski garden shed in time for midnight last night, Stiles drives over to see Derek and Scott sitting around the coffee table playing Jenga in their pajamas without a care in the world like the apocalypse has hit Beacon Hills.
Stiles pockets his keys and tries not to bust out in a victory jig at the sight of Scott and Derek civilly agreeing with each other without Scott having to whine about Derek's domineering streak and Derek not walloping Scott over the top of the head every time he starts complaining about how tough his teenage life is, but he suppresses the urge and goes for a cheery wave instead.
"This is a little weird. Is one of you dying?" Stiles admits while he looks upon the scene in slight awe. Derek carefully pulls a block out from the middle of the tower and sends Stiles a glance of warning from his peripherals.
"Don't say anything. You might ruin it," Derek murmurs, precariously placing his piece on the top of the pile and watching as the tower sways ominously. "And I'm not just talking about the Jenga."
Stiles obediently shuts up and sits down when Derek pats the spot on the floor next to him, scooting into his side when Derek pulls him closer. He's still apprehensive about draping himself over Derek when Scott is watching with what is quickly becoming his default deer-in-the-headlight expression he wears whenever Derek kisses Stiles or Stiles makes an offhand comment about how sexy Derek is when he does his workout routine in the morning, but he supposes that exposure might be the only way that Scott will ever get to used to the new, truly bizarre paradigm that Stiles has brought into their friendship. He willingly molds himself into Derek's arm and successfully pulls a block out of the middle rows. The entire room tenses up with baited breath until he places it on the top. The tower survives.
"That was a close one," Stiles breathes into Derek's neck, reveling in the shiver that he feels course down his chest. He pokes Derek in the stomach right when he's reaching for a middle tile and watches as his hand unceremoniously crashes into the foundation and sends the blocks sprawling over the table and into everyone's laps. Scott laughs the most obnoxiously of them all.
"I hate you," Derek mumbles on Stiles' head.
"What did you just say?"
"He said he loved you, dumbass," Scott says while he scoops the remains of their Jenga tower into a pile of debris and tries his hardest not to look smug while Derek blushes a brilliant shade of red and his mouth takes a u-turn into a grim line. "What? If you're dating my best friend, I'm allowed to make fun of you."
Stiles laughs, pokes Derek in the stomach a few more times, and stops him from throwing rogue Jenga pieces at Scott's head.
All things considered, his best friend's brother is pretty cool.
ETA: Now turned into a series with sequel(s) in the making! First timestamp to be found here.
Author: veterization
Disclaimer: I do not own Teen Wolf.
Rating: NC-17
Genre and/or Pairing: Stiles/Derek
Word Count: ~15,000
Summary: AU. Scott's brother Derek gets surprisingly hot when he comes back from college. Stiles, and his hormones, deal with this new development less than gracefully.
Notes: This plot came to me on Saturday morning and wouldn't leave me alone until I finished it on Sunday night. Everybody enjoy!
Also, thank you to everyone who voted in the AfterElton Ultimate Slash Madness Poll! All hail Sterek, because as Jeff says, we are the "alphas of the fandom." Alphas assemble!
Back to Part I.
The next time Stiles catches Derek alone, he's packing up a handful of jeans and sweaters into a duffel bag marking the end of the college's fall break and the start of another few weeks where Stiles totally doesn't count down the days until Derek's next visit and totally doesn't hope that Derek won't find an attractive teacher's assistant to start doting on and bring home to his mother to coo over. Stiles catches sight of Derek stuffing toiletries into his suitcase out of the corner of his eye when he wanders down the hallway, and despite his better judgment, goes to investigate.
"Are you leaving already?" Stiles asks, hanging in the doorway. Derek nods, pushing a few textbooks into his bag. "Feels like you just got here."
"I'm sure Scott's relieved he'll have his bathroom to himself again until Thanksgiving," Derek says with a wry smile.
"You're coming back for Thanksgiving?" Stiles says, and when he grins Derek gives him a funny look, like this is hardly the sort of thing Stiles should be excited about. Stiles tries to disguise his excitement through the façade of being exuberant about the turkey and the general lack of hungriness that follows for the next two weeks where all families eat nothing but turkey sandwiches until Christmas.
"Planning on it."
Derek ends the sentence there, not bothering to keep it alive. Stiles swings back and forth in the doorway and decides to fuel it himself.
"So do you like college life, you big party animal?"
"Stiles, do you need something?" Derek asks curtly, expertly bouncing over his inquires, not in the least interested in sharing tales of fraternity mishaps or beer keg stunts. Stiles figures that Derek probably has the partying spirit of a handicapped elderly gentleman, like the type he sometimes sees serenely playing chess with themselves in the park, and really doesn't need an answer to his question anyway.
"Uh, just wanted to say goodbye. Till next time, anyway. And when that time comes we'll both be so full with poultry we won't talk for probably three days straight," Stiles chuckles. Derek zips closed his bag and gives him another glance, like he's slightly surprised that Stiles is actually putting effort into awarding Derek with a goodbye instead of just patting him on the back and sending him on his way like Scott does.
"I guess we'll see," Derek says. "Bye, Stiles."
Stiles nods and is about to leave when he decides to drum up some inner courage probably stolen from a man with more audacity than he himself rightly possesses, taking a step out of the doorway to grab Derek's shirt in his fist and pull him into a kiss, reveling in the fact that Stiles doesn't have to lean upwards in order to press their mouths together.
It's a short kiss, still tinged with the residue of Stiles' nerves and slightly off-center, and Derek is the one to break it when he grabs Stiles' forearms and firmly pushes him into a more agreeable distance, his eyes wide. He looks like he's stuck in between having almost expected Stiles to kiss him sooner or later to revering in the awe that comes with having just kissed his brother's best friend. It's not like it was a spectacular kiss, lacking all sense of passionate tongue and clawing hands, but Derek still seems rather lost for words for a good few seconds while he surveys Stiles' face.
"Stiles, you're sixteen," he growls, voice rough like he's just downed a bottle of whiskey, and it burns pleasantly up Stiles' limbs like tingles of budding arousal. He knows that what Derek's saying is more of a rejection than an encouragement, and as son of the town sheriff Stiles should probably heed said warning, but instead he feels a resolution that is most probably his signature Stilinski stubbornness rise to the surface. He grabs hold of Derek's hips and doesn't let himself be guided away.
"Well observed," he says cheekily, and decides to bite down on Derek's earlobe for no other reason beside the fact that it looks like it's waiting to be bitten. "Anything else you'd like to add?"
Derek mutters something that sounds more like an internal struggle than anything else before a pair of strong arms wraps around Stiles' waist and all but lifts him from the floor, mouth hungrily finding Stiles' lips in a rough kiss and tongue begging for entrance at the seam of his mouth. Stiles whimpers and clings on for the ride, opening his mouth and trying his hardest to ignore the jump of his dick in his pants when their tongues first brush, hot and sweet, before Derek pulls away again, a clear fogging of lust in his eyes.
"More of that, please," Stiles begs, only slightly incoherently, and Derek reluctantly releases his hold on his waist.
"No," Derek denies firmly. "Scott is two doors away and you're-"
"-don't say sixteen, you big old man-"
"-never going to come up for air if I don't let you go now," Derek finishes without a breath, steamrolling over whatever complaints Stiles verbalizes. His hands clench and unclench on Stiles' hips like he's still unsure if walking away is the best choice his brain has ever made or the worst his libido ever has, and with one more blinding kiss that leaves Stiles astonishingly boneless under his ministrations, he wiggles out of Stiles' grasp.
"Um," Stiles calls out helplessly when Derek touches his lips and grabs his duffel with a newfound vigor. "We'll pick this up in a few weeks, right?"
Lucky for him, turns out they do.
--
Stiles, as it so happens, spends a good week worrying over if looking Derek in the eye when he visits for Thanksgiving break will be the start of an awkward weekend that will quickly snowball into tension too thick to be cut with samurai swords for absolutely no reason, because the second Derek steps past the threshold out of the November cold and his mother peppers him with kisses and Stiles' dad calls out a jovial hello from where he's stirring the stuffing, he catches Stiles' eye and his ears turn brilliantly red.
"Do you need help with your bags, Derek?" his mother asks when she catches sight of two bags laying at Derek's feet. "Scott can-"
"I'll help," Stiles says, springing off the couch, no longer interested in Ferris Bueller's Day Off as it turns into white noise on the television for him even though Ferris is finally at the good part and is running past pools and barbeques to not be caught by his revengeful sister and Mr. Rooney. And Stiles loves Ferris Bueller's Day Off, so it's saying something when he offers to help drag luggage upstairs in favor of watching it.
Scott's mother ruffles his hair for his willingness to help and with that he grabs one of Derek's bags and all but bounces up the steps into Derek's room, left exactly the same it was a few weeks ago when they made out like rabbits in heat before Derek hightailed back to college.
He's barely dropped the bag, fully prepared to explain to Derek that he's in spirit much older and wiser than the sixteen-year-old sophomore he is and ready to rock his world, when he's thrown against Derek's bookcase, a good number of classic novels digging into the small of his back while Derek grabs him by the hair and presses their mouths together.
"A-ah, so I take it you haven't been swept off your feet by some pretty college girl in glasses since you've been gone, right? My dorkiness is still a turn-on for you?"
Derek covers his mouth with his own again when he starts rambling, no longer a shred of hesitance left in his touches like the idea of ravishing Stiles upon his return was enough to drum up a tightly-strung ball of hormones that unleashed Derek's inner sexual fiend while he was gone, using his teeth to bite and nip at Stiles' lip while his hands fist his hoodie. They kiss like they're much hungrier for each other than they are for the juicy turkey roasting downstairs, and Stiles wastes no time in hooking a frantic leg over Derek's hip and rutting against his crotch.
"God, you're so eager," Derek says breathlessly when he pulls back, lips looking so thoroughly kissed and shiny that Stiles doesn't even bother resisting the urge to swipe his tongue over his swollen lower lip.
"I was always this hyper. You've just come to appreciate it anew nowadays," Stiles quips, ducking his head into his neck to feel the burn of Derek's stubble on his temple and taste the salty groove of his collarbone. It feels much better this time than when he was drunk, nothing but foggy memories of having pliable muscles move underneath him lasting from that night. Stiles knows more than anything that those muscles and that mouth are definitely experiences he wants to memorize, starting with the tiny sounds Derek keeps letting loose and how sure his hands feel when he grabs Stiles by the hips.
"Your father would arrest me if he knew what his son was doing," Derek points out, and Stiles quickly shushes him with a few wet kisses and roaming hands exploring the sensitivity of his chest.
"Don't mention my dad, Derek," Stiles pretends that his father isn't downstairs teaching Scott how to make cranberry pie for traditional Stilinski Thanksgiving dessert and focuses instead on the way Derek's breath seems to fly from his lungs when he tweaks his nipples. Turns out, the distraction is more than enough to wipe any thoughts of his father imprisoning his new boyfriend-boyfriend?-for deflowering his purer-than-the-driven-snow-underage son from his mind.
Derek listens and that's all that is said on the illegality of what it is they're doing, instead pushing Stiles roughly against the bookcase once more, so roughly that a few photo albums sway precariously on their perch on the highest shelf.
"Ow, fuck, Derek, right against the dictionaries," Stiles groans when a few books dig persistently into his back, so Derek impatiently foregoes trying to do this vertically and tosses him on the bed like a lion ready to maul its afternoon meal. Stiles comes willingly and drags Derek down with him.
"Still can't believe I'm doing this," Derek murmurs incredulously on Stiles' neck while he fumbles with the button of his jeans and Stiles wrestles with Derek's shirt. "My brother's annoying little buddy. God, you used to annoy me. Never met a kid so determined to coerce me into playing hide and seek."
"Oh my god, Derek, shut up," Stiles begs, succeeding in wrenching Derek's shirt off and away to reveal the glory that is his naked chest while Derek shucks Stiles' pants down his knees and smirks at the sight of his Superman boxers. Stiles is about to remind him that he's about to sleep with him, superhero underpants and all, but then Derek shoves his hand down his boxers and grabs his half-erect member and strokes it.
Stiles denies that he whines-even though there's a very good chance that he does-and paws at Derek's shoulders at the sensational feeling of having someone else's hand, and out of all of the hands in the world, Derek's large and unyielding hands, slowly pumping him to release. He decides to follow suit and gathers the lucidity he has left to push Derek's pants and pesky boxers out of the way and squeeze the base of his erection, lazily curling toward his stomach, to the same rhythm that Derek's hand is moving away at on his own length.
It's a pretty great dick, Stiles thinks, which is saying something considering that he's more of a boobs type of guy when it comes to what he's more likely to ogle in a classroom. Apparently, he doesn't mind if it's Lydia's creamy cleavage or Derek's hard-as-a-rod cock that he's got in his hand, and decides to go with it while he's got Derek at his mercy.
Accurately, however, Stiles is more at Derek's mercy than vice versa. Thinking straight starts becoming a luxury of the past when Derek speeds up the pace of his hand and leaves trails of open-mouthed kisses on his jugular and his neck and the sensitive spot right behind his ear, thumb smearing drops of Stiles' precome on his shaft to slick the way for his palm. He does his best to reciprocate before the stars inevitably burst behind his eyelids, pumping Derek steadily with a shaky hand while he grabs his neck with his free hand and guides him to his mouth, sharing another sloppy kiss while they rock into each other's grips.
"Oh, shit, Derek, I can't-" Stiles gulps around a dry mouth when Derek speeds up his tempo even more and rubs the tip of his fingernail into the slit, heat coiling in his midsection. "Ready or not, here I come."
He comes right then, muffling his cry of bliss in the pillow conveniently perched by his head, trying his hardest to keep up the pace of his own hand. A second later, Derek's fingers join his own, interlacing their hands together to stroke steadily up and down his length, the hot weight of his member resting in both of their hands enough to intensify the waves of Stiles' pleasure. Derek comes with only five more strokes of their joined hands, letting loose a noise so sinfully suppressed Stiles is already prepared to orchestrate a replay of this whole event in the quiet solidarity of the backseat of his car so Derek can emit all the noises he pleases for Stiles' ears only without having to worry about eavesdroppers downstairs.
"C'mere," Derek mumbles after he catches his breath, cupping his cheek and kissing him, slowly and sweetly this time, while Stiles runs his hands through Derek's hair to keep him in place. Derek pulls back and gives him a small, barely even there smile, and Stiles feels like he's just solved one of the biggest mysteries in the world because he managed to make broody, grumpy, dark Derek smile.
The afterglow is ruined a moment later, however, by Scott screeching up the stairs, "Derek! Stiles! What the hell's taking so long?!"
--
So it turns out that sneaking around behind Scott's back is just as awesome as Stiles thought it would be.
Stiles idly wonders if he has something of a exhibitionist bone inside him considering that it's starting to become a habit for him to corner Derek in the hallway when Scott ambles downstairs to grab snacks so they can share a brief heated make out that always results in both of their lips turning rather swollen and their hair rather mussed, telltale signs of funny business that Scott really should catch but never does, or feel up Derek's thigh when their mother comes home early enough to make dinner and enjoy it with the whole family at the dining table. He wonders if it's because he enjoys getting a rise out of Derek, enjoys that fire of warning in his eyes that proves that he's both equally scared and turned on by the risk of Stiles giving him a blowjob in the bathroom.
Stiles has comes to terms with the fact that if Scott gets wind of this clandestine affair his friend is having with his brother he'll be letting Scott copy off his homework for life just to make up for his betrayal, mostly because he knows that there is no resisting Derek. What amazes him is that he finds that he actually likes Derek, because underneath his rather chilly exterior and hard glowers, he happens to be less whiny than his younger brother and less of a love struck fool, a stereotype which Scott is rapidly morphing into with the appearance of Allison Argent in his life. He teaches Stiles how to do his math homework whenever Stiles gets stuck and can prepare a pretty mean grilled cheese sandwich too.
He realizes pretty suddenly that aside from the amazing development in his sexual endeavors, Stiles appreciates the addition Derek makes in other aspects of his life. He likes the handjobs, he likes he making out, and he likes the grilled cheese, but under all of that he likes hanging out with Derek, a development that starts making Scott suspicious rather quickly. He tries to avoid the term crushing, mostly because he refuses to be identified as an elementary school girl, but Stiles isn't scared to admit his feelings. He has a crush on his best friend's brother.
The realization makes Stiles come to yet another grim epiphany: if Derek feels the same way-which Stiles can only assume is true considering that he hasn't yet been told to go play with the neighbor kids and leave Derek alone-then this isn't just a college-guy-experimentation phase that will ultimately fade into a nostalgic memory of his high school years. This might be a, dare he say it, real grown-up relationship. And that means it's time to get Scott adjusted to the idea of his best friend falling love with his brother.
"So, you know how you wanted to watch that one new action movie where Robert Downey Jr. loses his head this weekend?" Stiles slowly brings up at lunch the week before Derek visits for Christmas vacation around a mouthful of cafeteria breadsticks. Scott nods. "Well, I was thinking maybe Derek could go with us."
"What?" Scott demands. Baby steps, Stiles thinks, and tries to telepathically plead with his friend to be accommodating and open-minded.
"C'mon, dude, he's coming for Christmas and could use some holiday cheer from his little bro. Robert Downey Jr. will still get his head cut off no matter who comes with us, I promise."
Scott frowns and picks at his lunch tray. "He's such a killjoy, Stiles."
Either we take him along, or I'm staying home so we can have sex in the back of my Jeep, Stiles thinks resolutely on repeat, and then promptly erases that from his mind as he continues to focus on gently coaxing Scott in the direction he wants to steer him toward. Be gentle. Don't scare him off. Like a deer in the forest.
"Just one movie, dude. You're not winning any Best Brother awards like this, Scott."
When Scott still whines and refuses, Stiles brings in the one weapon he didn't want to have to brandish: Allison, who naturally, thinks the idea of familial bonding is a great idea and insists Scott brings his brother.
Needless to say, Scott folds.
--
Stiles is wrapped up in his sheets watching Saturday Night Live and scribbling random answers to his economics homework that he hopes Finstock will find enough humor in to grant him some credit when he texts Derek, who's programmed cleverly into his phone as George Washington just because he knows Scott won't find it nearly as suspicious as seeing the name Derek flash on his screen if he accidentally comes upon such a scenario. Sometimes Stiles worries about how easy it is to con Scott, and sometimes he's just speechlessly grateful.
asked Scott. you're coming with us to the movies next Saturday. He writes to Derek.
George Washington buzzes on his phone two minutes later. That's surprising.
had to bust out secret weapon aka allison. totally worth it. miss your grumpy face.
I want to see you too, Stiles. Something like butterflies hatching or maybe a whole gang of hummingbirds flutters around in Stiles' chest, and he firmly blames the questionable leftover pizza his father left out on the stove for him as dinner for the sensations in his stomach.
wearing anything sexy?
Stiles.
what if I said I'm totally naked
Two minutes later, George Washington calls him on his cell phone. Stiles picks up, snickering all the while.
"Stiles, I'm trying to study for my winter finals here," Derek's tinny voice reprimands from the other side of the phone. Without the added fright of seeing Derek's set jaw and angry white line of a mouth, it does little to scare Stiles off.
"And I'm trying to watch the new SNL skit, but I've decided that phone sex with you is more important than Fred Armisen."
"You want to have phone sex?"
"You don't?" Stiles asks, and feels the first stirrings of arousal in his groin that make him unbelievably glad that his father has the late shift at the station tonight. He tries to get the ball rolling. "Why don't you tell me what you're thinking about?"
For a moment, there's silence. Then, "You mean, besides the idea of you lying naked in your bed just waiting to be fucked?"
Stiles feels a full body shiver course through his limbs that catches him completely off guard. "Woah. Are you hiding a wild animal in that body of yours, Derek?"
"I think I can blame you for that," Derek admits. "I never thought so hard about grabbing a sixteen-year-old kid and swallowing down his dick before a few months ago when I caught you jerking off in my bathroom." Another bout of silence where Stiles hears Derek audibly swallow. "What were you thinking about when you did that?"
"You," Stiles says instantly, and decides to go for it and push his hand under the sheets and loosely grab his awakening cock, keening at the touch. "Couldn't stop thinking about you ever since you came back. Even though you acted like an asshole around me I couldn't help staring at your goddamn body. Fuck, Derek, I thought about you grabbing me and teasing me and making me beg for you to fuck me so many damn times."
A low pant sounds through the phone and Stiles catches wind of the sound of rustling fabric, like maybe Derek's abandoned his attempt to study and is now ridding himself off his pants. Stiles likes to imagine that maybe he's already hard just from the sound of Stiles' voice and the idea of playing out his fantasies, hard and needy all because of Stiles' dirty mouth.
"You'd want me to tease you?" Derek asks, and Stiles nods even though he knows he can't see him. "I could tease you."
"Tell me."
"Stiles," Derek murmurs, voice husky, like if he starts he won't be able to stop until he's barreled Stiles into a crashing orgasm. "I would finger you open until you'd be writhing for me to fuck you with my cock. Maybe I'd tease you before I would even finger you, maybe I'd just bite your thighs and suck your cock and lick over your hole until you'd push me back and ride me yourself."
Stiles groans at Derek's skill with imagery, squeezing his erection and bucking into his finger's frantic pumps. "Jesus, Derek. Are you touching yourself?"
Derek pauses, but he's breathing heavily and making the same soft noises Stiles has grown to love to hear escape from Derek's lips when he's stroking him to the brink. "Yeah."
"Thinking about me?"
"Yeah," Derek says. "Keep talking, Stiles."
"Shit, yeah, I will," Stiles says, only slightly amazed that there's someone out there who's actually asking him to keep running his mouth instead of warning to duct tape it closed for him. He lets his eyes flutter closed and his head hit the wall behind his bed, imagining that it's Derek who's stroking his cock and Derek who's leaning into his body. "Still want to have sex with you in Scott's bed, you know. It'd be so bad. Or maybe the kitchen counter, you could bend me over the dishwasher and just-just go to town."
"Are you a virgin, Stiles?" Derek suddenly asks, and Stiles feels his cheeks heat up.
"Well, yeah."
"So you'd be all mine?" Derek asks, his voice dropping a few octaves into the deep, growly territory that lets Stiles know that he's getting fired up past the point of no return. Whining, Stiles speeds up his hand and lets his free hand wander, thumb flitting over his puckered entrance and gently circling it. He's tried this before, in the shower, late at night in his bed, but now he's imagining Derek doing it, meticulously, gingerly, until Stiles is so ready he's begging.
"Yeah," Stiles confirms desperately, and cuts off on a broken cry when he comes, splattering his thighs and his sheets with his come and thighs quivering with the aftershocks. Across the line he can hear Derek, breathing still fast and uneven while he catches up, and not a minute later Derek comes too with the most delicious sound Stiles has ever heard wafting through the receiver.
"You okay, Stiles?" Derek says when he finally sounds like the oxygen has returned to his brain, and Stiles is so much better than okay it's not even funny.
"Okay? I'm marvelous," Stiles says, not even the prospect of three a.m. laundry to clean up the spots of his come from his sheets before his father notices darkening his spirits. "Except now I miss you even more."
Derek pauses again, like he's affronted by Stiles' clinginess, or maybe like he's actually touched by it. "I'll see you soon, Stiles," and then, as an afterthought, "and try not to jump me when you first see me if my brother's around."
--
"So how are your classes, Scott?"
Stiles is currently sandwiched in between the most awkward, uncomfortable brothers to ever exist, Derek forcing small talk and Scott bouncing around answering any of his questions with enthusiasm. Stiles knows that Scott and Derek are just some of those unfortunate siblings who never clicked when they were throwing blocks around a playpen together, possibly because of the age difference or maybe because they're practically complete opposites of the spectrum in every which way. Derek likes to be in control; Scott doesn't like to submit. Derek doesn't fawn over girls and fret over being romantic enough during formals; Scott's every waking minute revolves around the color of Allison's eyes. Derek spends forty minutes in the bathroom in the morning; Scott needs double.
Stiles is still convinced that with the right common ground the two of them could learn to gain a respect for each other past the required love that comes with being predestined with a brother, a respect that he's sure will have to be earned if he wants to maintain any hopes that Scott won't disown him when he ultimately breaks it to him that he's hot for his brother.
"Ummm. Okay, I guess. How's college?"
Stiles closes his eyes to block out the discomfort and occupies his hands with the bucket of popcorn in his lap while happy people, laughing people who enjoy each other's company, file into the theater around him. He's really only here for the gore and the possibly titillating plot-and maybe also the likelihood that in the darkness he'll be able to hook his ankle over Derek's under the gum-infested seats without Scott blatantly noticing the intimacy-and didn't sign up for any of this sibling rivalry, but he's willing to grin and bear it if it results in a positive step in the two of them bonding.
"Fine. Busy. How's mom doing?"
"She works a lot," Scott says, and that's the end of that. They drum their knuckles on their seat rests and both check their wristwatches like they're counting the seconds until the previews end and the movie starts.
"Heyyy, Derek," Stiles prompts when a whole minute full of wordless silence becomes his cue to speak up. "Did you know that Scott made lacrosse this year? Magically?"
"I didn't," Derek admits, and then cocks his eyebrow at Stiles. "Did you?"
"Uh, no," Stiles says. "But Scott's getting pretty good. He could probably use some of your work out tips, Derek."
"I don't need any tips with lacrosse."
"He's probably too busy keeping up with his grades, Stiles."
"Scott, my boy, you're gonna need lacrosse tips for the rest of your life," Stiles tells his left, and then promptly swivels to his right. "And Derek, I'm sure he wouldn't have so much trouble with his grades if you helped him with his homework."
He mediates for another ten minutes to nearly no avail before the theater thankfully begins dimming and the chatter dies down, and by the time Stiles realizes that even Robert Downey Jr,'s face can't salvage this terrible movie he's suffering through and Derek whispers in his ear for him to meet him in the bathroom, the blowjob he receives in the third stall by Derek's mouth, greasy from buttered popcorn and crazy talented, is definitely in order.
--
Stiles forgets all about the brotherly bonding flop that was the fiasco at the movie theater two days later when Scott cuts his and Stiles' homework session short in favor of a few texts from Allison alluding to the implication that she's up for a good few hours of making out in her room behind her parent's watchful eyes and his study session with Scott quickly turns into a date with Derek.
They start out just by talking about Derek's studies when Stiles wanders down the stairs from Scott's room after Scott darts out the house to meet Allison before dark, discussing what he's learned in his mythology class and what he thinks about doing after college. Stiles worries-only a little-that Derek will go on to bigger and greater things after he graduates to go be a philosopher in the depths of Norway or go fight crime with his glare alone in the shady parts of California, but Derek tells him about he's considering staying in Beacon Hills so he can stay close to his mother and keep watch over her if her job at the hospital stops paying all the bills one day. He even asks how Stiles feels about school, and what he wants to major in at college, and if he's considering taking over his dad's position as Beacon Hills sheriff in the future.
The fact that they talk so long-as nice as it might be-is probably what ends up in them having so little time for the sex.
They're making out on the living room couch, in broad view of anyone who marches past the front door, bodies too frantic and minds too lusty to even consider taking the time to relocate upstairs in the privacy of Derek's room. Stiles takes small pride in the fact that he seems to reduce Derek, a man who's in his early twenties and sufficiently done in his growing cycles, to an animalistic and hormonal replication of a seventeen-year-old.
"Missed you," Derek murmurs hotly on Stiles' lips, hands roaming under Stiles' pants to squeeze his hindquarters and trace the line of his ass. Stiles presses into him and all but rides his thigh when he brushes over his hole with a saliva-slick forefinger.
"Pants off, Jesus Christ," Stiles demands, momentarily getting off Derek to bodily throw his pants at the television until he's standing in nothing but his socks, Derek yanking him back on his hips and roughly abusing his neck with a demanding tongue. "Derek, ah, don't leave marks."
"Want to," Derek rumbles on his shoulder, rolling hips up into Stiles'. "Want to show everyone that you're mine."
"Everyone including your brother?"
"Fuck Scott," Derek says breezily, grabbing hold of Stiles' very-much-interested-in-the-situation erection and resuming his earlier task of rubbing patterns over Stiles' entrance. Stiles keens and ruts back against Derek's touch, strange but somehow not in the least invasive, until the tip of his finger slips inside. He tries to push into the touch, feel more, feel it slide even deeper, but the angle is awkward and Derek is impatient, so a second later he's flipped them over and pushed Stiles onto his stomach on the couch, spreading his ass cheeks and actually flicking his tongue down the curve of his ass.
"Oh shit," Stiles says, feeling like the luckiest high school in all the world right now, reaching behind him to pull Derek into a heated kiss, and so of course, that's when Scott's key turns in the lock and he announces his return home.
"What the fuck," Scott says faintly, looking so angry that it looks like he's about to have a tantrum right there on the floor and bang his fists on the carpet, and grabs the door handle for support.
--
Naturally, Scott takes most of his fury out on Derek. He's the older boy, he's the supposedly responsible college student, and he also happens to be the brother that takes everything away from Scott.
Stiles is listening to them yell from the safety of the kitchen where he's, thankfully, redressed and no longer naked in front of his best friend who hasn't seen him in his birthday suit since Scott's mother insisted on bathing them together when they first dabbled in mud slides when they were six, and in the middle of eating an old doughnut sitting in its box on the stove. He feels very much like he'd like to bend over the kitchen sink and throw up considering what the circumstances are, but he'll admit that sex makes him hungry, or at least, what could have been sex makes him hungry.
He wistfully thinks back to the days when Scott was never such a massive cockblocker, and realizes there were no such days.
"You're so much older! Do you realize how creepy that is?!" Scott all but roars from where he and Derek are dueling it out in Scott's room. Stiles battles between the two evils of eavesdropping into their fight and plugging his fingers to wallow in his own shame in silence. He goes for the former.
"Scott, I just don't see how this is any of your business."
"He's my best friend! Mine! You're not allowed to take him from me!"
"You're acting like a child, Scott."
"Stop talking to me like I'm four! You're sleeping with my best friend!"
Stiles rubs at his temples and thanks his lucky stars that he's not squatting in this kitchen with Scott and Derek's mother while she clicks her tongue and tries poorly to hide the fact that she's judging and probably making inferences that Stiles seduced her well-educated, totally-on-the-right-track eldest child and threw a bomb into the already shaky family dynamic. He hopes to God that he'll never have to face the wrath of their mother one day, even when he's over eighteen and totally legal or even over thirty and can no longer pass as a bumbling adolescent fool.
He looks at the plate of doughnuts, a few more crusty glazed pastries gazing at him imploringly so he can bury his worries in a sugar rush, but the sight makes his stomach churn. He braces his palms on the sink and listens once more to the third world war raging on upstairs.
"-his idea, Scott, I'm not forcing him to do anything with me."
"Are you seriously trying to tell me that my best friend would betray me just so he could score with you and have sex before I do?"
"This is not about you, Scott!"
"You don't even like each other, Derek!"
Stiles loudly hums Somewhere Over the Rainbow to himself and considers breaking up the fight himself, because at the end of the day, the blame does point directly back to Stiles in neon-lit arrows. He thinks maybe the idea of promising to buy Scott's lunch for the next three months and swearing to never make out in front of him might appease him into no longer yelling his throat hoarse at his boyfriend, or maybe offering himself up as a punching bag might work in Scott letting out some residual frustration, but a second later he realizes he's too late.
There comes a thump and a slew of curse words from upstairs, and a few seconds later Derek and Scott are walking stiffly down the staircase, a brilliant bruise sure to turn into a mottled purple by the end of the hour blossoming on Derek's eye and Scott nursing his knuckles. Stiles briefly wonders if the black eye was unavoidable collateral damage and considers tenderly touching the swelling flesh and offering an ice pack for the pain, but then decides that the best route for Stiles to take right now when Scott is clearly charged up with a generous amount of violence is to keep a wide berth away from Derek in Scott's line of vision.
Derek doesn't agree with this plan, however, as he proceeds to stalk up to Stiles, crowd up in his personal space, and murmur, "It's not as bad as it looks and I think I deserved it," and then, quite boldly, places a reassuring kiss on Stiles' forehead. Stiles waits, petrified, when Derek goes to retrieve a handful of ice from the freezer, for Scott to kick Stiles in the nuts for good measure too. He catches Scott's eye, who looks surprisingly uncomfortable in his own skin, and goes for a meek smile to gauge the mood.
"Hey, uh, Stiles?" Scott mumbles from the foot of the stairs. "Sorry if I always refused to hang out with Derek and give him a chance when you just wanted to make the two of us closer and, uh… I'm gonna be pissed about the fact that you're having sex with my brother for a while."
"Understood," Stiles says instantly, bouncing on the balls of his feet as if ready to dodge a strike even though he probably deserves it more than Derek's left eye did. "Total violation of the bro code. To-tal. Will not happen again. Won't chase after any other brothers you may or may not have."
"I just… wasn't really happy about having to share you," Scott mutters to the floor. He sounds crestfallen, like Derek is stealing Stiles away just like he stole all the good Halloween candy back a few years ago, and Stiles takes a bold step forward and wraps Scott in a much needed hug.
It should be awkward, considering that less than an hour ago he was naked on the couch with Derek's hands on his ass, but it turns out to be just the thing Scott needs to feel better about the situation, and they pat each other on the back for a solid few seconds before they pull back and survey each other.
"Uh… if you want to hit me now, that's okay, dude. Just don't go for the face, that's my moneymaker."
Scott actually cracks a small and rubs awkwardly at the back of his neck while Derek noisily rummages through the freezer to press a half-used pack of peas onto his bruise. "I don't wanna hit you, dude. Didn't really mean to hit Derek either, but… it sort of just happened."
"He'll heal up, the guy's built like Rambo," Stiles assures him, clapping him on the back. "And Scott, buddy, just think about it this way. If Derek and I ever move to Massachussets and get gay-married, you and I will be brothers. Actual brothers."
Scott cracks a wider smile. "Yeah, you're right."
"So… just keep Derek in one piece until then, okay?"
"Okay. Just… no making out in front of me and absolutely no having sex or stuff like that if I'm in the next room! This is non-negotiable!"
"We'll try," Derek says, rather sourly, from his spot in the kitchen, and Scott takes what he can get.
--
Amazingly enough, after that, everything improves.
The bruise heals fairly quickly with the help of icepacks and the firm decision among all three boys is that if anyone asks, especially their mother, Derek had a small mugging incident in the shady shopping district near campus that Scott or Stiles had absolutely no direct influence over. Scott doesn't apologize for punching Derek in the face and Derek doesn't ask for any such sentimentalities from his brother, like both of them have come to the grim truce that Derek probably deserved a good hit to the eye for not upholding his brotherly duty over the past few years and that now, if ever, is the time to start bonding.
The day after New Year's Eve, Stiles very much pretending that he and Derek didn't sneak out of their family's celebrations in order to make out behind the Stilinski garden shed in time for midnight last night, Stiles drives over to see Derek and Scott sitting around the coffee table playing Jenga in their pajamas without a care in the world like the apocalypse has hit Beacon Hills.
Stiles pockets his keys and tries not to bust out in a victory jig at the sight of Scott and Derek civilly agreeing with each other without Scott having to whine about Derek's domineering streak and Derek not walloping Scott over the top of the head every time he starts complaining about how tough his teenage life is, but he suppresses the urge and goes for a cheery wave instead.
"This is a little weird. Is one of you dying?" Stiles admits while he looks upon the scene in slight awe. Derek carefully pulls a block out from the middle of the tower and sends Stiles a glance of warning from his peripherals.
"Don't say anything. You might ruin it," Derek murmurs, precariously placing his piece on the top of the pile and watching as the tower sways ominously. "And I'm not just talking about the Jenga."
Stiles obediently shuts up and sits down when Derek pats the spot on the floor next to him, scooting into his side when Derek pulls him closer. He's still apprehensive about draping himself over Derek when Scott is watching with what is quickly becoming his default deer-in-the-headlight expression he wears whenever Derek kisses Stiles or Stiles makes an offhand comment about how sexy Derek is when he does his workout routine in the morning, but he supposes that exposure might be the only way that Scott will ever get to used to the new, truly bizarre paradigm that Stiles has brought into their friendship. He willingly molds himself into Derek's arm and successfully pulls a block out of the middle rows. The entire room tenses up with baited breath until he places it on the top. The tower survives.
"That was a close one," Stiles breathes into Derek's neck, reveling in the shiver that he feels course down his chest. He pokes Derek in the stomach right when he's reaching for a middle tile and watches as his hand unceremoniously crashes into the foundation and sends the blocks sprawling over the table and into everyone's laps. Scott laughs the most obnoxiously of them all.
"I hate you," Derek mumbles on Stiles' head.
"What did you just say?"
"He said he loved you, dumbass," Scott says while he scoops the remains of their Jenga tower into a pile of debris and tries his hardest not to look smug while Derek blushes a brilliant shade of red and his mouth takes a u-turn into a grim line. "What? If you're dating my best friend, I'm allowed to make fun of you."
Stiles laughs, pokes Derek in the stomach a few more times, and stops him from throwing rogue Jenga pieces at Scott's head.
All things considered, his best friend's brother is pretty cool.
ETA: Now turned into a series with sequel(s) in the making! First timestamp to be found here.