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Stiles likes the summer. He only teaches one class, so he gets to focus on research instead. Which means he might actually finish the stupid book he’s been working on for the past two years (instead of just nodding vaguely in the direction of the folder on his laptop as he heads on to greener, less work-intensive pastures).
But he has a problem.
“You gave me the Alpha Pack ARC from D. Hale.”
Derek blinks at him, thumb moving against Stiles’s ankle as he scrolls though something on his computer. “Yeah.”
“Do you know if he’s a werewolf?” The expression turns confused, and Stiles hurries to explain (that no, no, he isn’t trying to stalk this author, no matter how fantastic they are). “I’m finishing up my research on different portrayals of werewolves by unaffiliated humans versus affiliated humans versus werewolves, and I want to include the D. Hale universe, but I can’t really do that without knowing if they’re human or not.”
Derek looks somewhere between amused and bemused, but then he says, “Yeah, they’re, uh, they’re a werewolf.” He bares his teeth as though to show that he’s also a werewolf which, okay, way to feel the need to compete with someone Stiles doesn’t even know, and Stiles kicks at his leg.
The hand closes around his ankle, then starts to inch up, and that look in his eye says they might get further than making out this time. And even if they don’t, Stiles is totally okay with that, because he really does enjoy making out with Derek, feeling the hard lines of his body on top of him, feeling safe (which is kind of ridiculous because he knows what werewolves are capable of, but he’s also pack-affiliated, and packness makes him feel protected).
So he sets his laptop to the side (because he really doesn’t want to break that, because that would suck) and makes grabby hands at Derek, who laughs at him. “Don’t mock me, or I won’t put out for you.” Derek closes his laptop and sets it on the floor half-under the couch, then very deliberately leans down and nips his ankle, which sends a flair of painwant through him. “Jesus. Okay. Maybe I will put out for you.”
Derek laughs, hotwet tongue trailing around his ankle. “Maybe I’m the one who’ll put out for you.”
“That works for me. That really works for me. That so works for me. Will you—Jesus—will you please come up here so I can kiss you why are you trying to give me a hickey on my ankle there are better places to put hickeys.”
One last suck on his ankle (and there’s not even anything special about his ankle, seriously, it’s just an ankle) and then Derek sort of launches himself and ends up on top of Stiles, hands bracketing his head, mouth hovering over his. “Do you have any other suggestions?”
“First off, come down here and kiss me properly instead of this weird Eskimo kiss you’re doing—yes, like tha-mmph.” Derek’s mouth drops down on his, open and wet and nipping at his lower lip, and Stiles moans into it because holy fuck that feels good, reaching his arms up to pull Derek even closer, dragging fingers through his hair. When Derek lifts up, Stiles keeps going, breathing hard between words. “And then maybe we can do this—God, your hands feel good—without shirts on. Or pants. Maybe if we’re doing no pants we should do no shirts too. Because shirts without pants is like…like just wearing socks. Which is weird.”
Derek seems to be more interested in sucking on his throat than responding, so Stiles drags his hands up Derek’s shirt, trying to find something that will make Derek react the way he’s been reacting; he wants to flip him and slide against him, skin against skin or even cloth against cloth, but they’re on a couch, and they haven’t talked about it, so that’s not going to happen, not just yet.
His fingers brush Derek’s nipple, and Derek bites down hard on his throat, almost too hard, then eases back to lave it with his tongue. Derek laughs, breath cold against the moisture on his skin. “You’re going to be the death of me.”
Stiles does it against, because he can, and Derek jolts, then shoves away and up fuck, where’s he going, what did Stiles screw up to pull his shirt up over his head and drop it somewhere next the couch which does some fantastic things to his muscles. “You want to move this somewhere else?”
Stiles surges up, or tries to, except Derek is still in the way (whoops) and he crashes back down, hands scrabbling at the legs straddling him so he doesn’t crack his head on the arm of the couch. One hand ends on something hot and hard and shit, that’s a dick, and he kind of didn’t get permission to do that except Derek is making happy eager noises and reaching down to unzip himself which Stiles is totally on board with because he really likes dicks and he really wants to see Derek’s dick—
And then the phone rings.
Which is just his fucking luck.
Derek freezes, then lowers himself down on top of Stiles so their foreheads are pressed together (in a surprisingly impressive show of ab work). “Fuck. Yours or mine?”
The phone trills again, and that’s definitely Stiles’s, because it’s that awful fucking noise that he uses because he wants to not miss phone calls. “Mine. It’s next to my laptop. Sorry.”
Derek reaches over and grabs the phone then hands the phone to him, sitting up again and moving to his side of the couch as Stiles scoots up and answers it. “Yeah?”
“Hi.” It’s Malia. Of course it’s Malia. Malia has possibly the worst timing of anyone in existence, and it’s unsurprising that that continued to this. “I want to talk.”
“I’m busy.”
There’s a beat of silence, and then Malia repeats, “I want to talk.”
Right. Of course she does. “What is it?”
“I had sex.”
Derek covers his mouth with his hand, his cheeks poking up like he’s smiling behind it, and that’s super embarrassing, because he can hear the conversation. Because he’s a werewolf. Duh. “Congratulations. Why does that necessitate calling me?”
“It was with a woman.”
That’s…new. “Congratulations. So has like half the pack. Why is this something you’re calling me for? I mean, congratulations, you’re bi or pan or gay or…something, but I’m not really the expert on having sex with women.” And this is probably not how he’s supposed to be responding, but he doesn’t particularly want to talk to his ex about her sex life, not when he was about to possibly have sex with his boyfriend. “Look, I’m—never mind. What did you want to talk to me about?”
“What am I supposed to do?”
That’s an amazingly broad question. “Cut your nails.”
Derek snorts, and Stiles kicks out at him, which lands his foot on Derek’s unzipped crotch, which is a pretty great place for his foot to be. He wiggles it a bit, and Derek sucks in a breath, hardening again.
But Malia’s talking again, and Stiles should probably listen. “That’s not what I mean.”
“What do you mean?” And can he hold this conversation while getting Derek off with his foot on his dick? Because he’s done that before, once when he was feeling particularly adventurous, but never while holding a phone conversation with someone. Though nobody ever said Stiles couldn’t multitask. It’s like his superpower.
“I mean how do I date someone of the same sex?”
Oh, Stiles is so not mentally prepared to have this conversation. “You date someone, and you have sex with them. If you both want. I don’t know. What do you want from me?”
She groans. “What if I screw up? What if it doesn’t last? What if I hurt her?”
“You probably will, and it might not.” He slides his toe across the hard line of Derek’s dick, who makes a fantastic choking noise; Stiles beams at him. “Look, Malia, if you really want to know about dating girls—or sleeping with girls—talk to Lydia. She probably has the most experience of being a girl sleeping with girls.”
“But she’s straight.”
Stiles continues dragging his foot against Derek, enjoying the noises coming from Derek’s throat (and he wonders if Malia can hear them, but he doesn’t particularly care; if she wants to interrupt him when they’re about to finally have sex, she can suffer through listening to it). “Lydia won’t tell anyone what she is. But she’s dated women.” Derek runs a finger across the bottom of his foot, and he swallows a laugh. “Can I go now? Please?”
“You should distracted.”
For God’s sake. “Yes. I’m distracted. You distracted me. I’m busy. Talk to Lydia.”
“But you can give me advice.”
And this is why Stiles dating Malia didn’t work. Also she didn’t understand not to bite during blow jobs, which was…disconcerting. “Bye, Malia.” And then he hangs up and drops his phone down next to the couch, then launches on top of Derek, his mouth catching the side of Derek’s for a second before Derek flips them so he’s on top.
Stiles slides his hands around Derek’s neck, pulling him down, and Derek goes willingly, nipping at Stiles’s lower lip until he opens his mouth to him. “You’re so fucking gorgeous under me.” Derek leans down to lick a stripe up Stiles’s throat. The sensation—and the voice (because Jesus, that growl, it’s like sex all in itself)—send a jolt through Stiles’s body.
Stiles grins up at him. “You’re gorgeous over me.” He starts to slide one hand down Derek’s chest, reaching towards that open zipper, and Derek shudders, then freezes.
“Maybe—” Derek breaks off, panting slightly, then continues, “Maybe we should wait a bit. Not sure I won’t hurt you.” A whine starts in his throat, he leans down to rest his forehead against Stiles’s. “Sorry. Sorry. God, sorry.”
“All good.” Stiles does want to have sex, but he doesn’t want to have sex with someone who’s unwilling, even if they will consent. “You want to keep making out, or you want to take a break?”
Derek’s eyes open, and so close, they’re blurred. And then he leans down to suck Stiles’s lower lip into his mouth, and apparently that answers that question.