Chapter Text
It's Thursday afternoon, and what Stiles would like to be doing is hanging out with Derek again. What he's actually doing is sitting gloomily at a desk in Mr. Harris' classroom, serving the first of his three detentions for punching Matt Daehler last week.
Stiles stands by his earlier opinion that it was totally worth it.
Derek has been Stiles' boyfriend for three days. Three awesome days of sitting together every day at lunch, and texting each other at all hours, and sneaking off at all opportunities to make out. (Stiles has proudly accumulated a whole row of vivid hickeys along his collarbone, all carefully hidden under his hoodie. He has high hopes for accumulating a lot more in the near future.)
If this is what dating is like, then Stiles can see why everyone is so obsessed with it. He's also gained a new appreciation for why Scott almost failed two classes right after he and Allison first got together. The one upside of this detention is that it's getting Stiles to do some actual work for the first time all week. Up until now, he's just had a lot of... distractions.
At least Mr. Harris isn't making him scrub floors or clean toilets or anything like that. Small mercies. Instead, Stiles gets to spend the whole time putting the finishing touches on his English paper and trying not to feel too creeped out by Mr. Harris' watchful gaze from behind his desk. It's like he's just waiting for Stiles to so much as breathe wrong so he can slap him with another detention. Stiles makes sure not to give him any ammunition. He even turns his phone off.
When he finally gets out, groaning a little because he's been sitting so long, it's almost 4:45. He has a bunch of missed texts from Scott, Allison, and Erica. They've been on a group chat, making plans to see a movie Stiles has already been to twice.
He's just finished deleting all the little notifications by the time he steps out into the bright sunlight of the parking lot. He looks up, squinting, and then stops.
Derek is standing—no, leaning, like some kind of male model—against Stiles' Jeep. It looks like he's been there a while. He has on a pair of aviators that make him look super chill, like some kind of secret agent, and he's holding a book, shading the pages against the sun with one hand as he reads. When he glances up and sees Stiles, he waves.
Stiles grins and walks over.
When he gets close enough, he leans in and kisses Derek hello, because he can do that now, and he's planning to take advantage of it at every opportunity.
"Hi," Derek says when he pulls back.
"Hi. I thought you'd get the bus?"
Derek shrugs. "I thought about it, but I wanted to see you."
It's corny, but Stiles still gets a little thrill out of the words. He grins and takes a step back, gesturing down at himself theatrically. "Well, ta-da, now you've seen me."
Derek rolls his eyes, but fondly.
"So... You wanna come over?" Stiles offers, and Derek nods.
*
At the house, Stiles' dad (to Stiles' surprise) doesn't interrogate Derek even a little bit. Well. He says, "So you're the young man Stiles punched someone for," and Derek says, "Yes, sir," and his dad asks Derek all the usual parent small-talk questions, like what grade he's in and how he likes school and what his college plans are. But overall he's remarkably cool about it.
Still, Stiles has been waiting to get Derek alone for entirely too long. It feels like this conversation is going excruciatingly slowly.
"Okay, well, Derek and I are gonna go, um, study in my room now," Stiles finally butts in, tugging on Derek's sleeve.
Stiles' dad agreeably sits back down at the table and picks up his newspaper again. "Alright," he says, and fixes them with a look. "Just leave the door open while you're studying, and remember I have very good hearing."
"Oh my god, Dad," Stiles groans. He herds Derek up the stairs before his dad can say anything else embarrassing.
Derek doesn't say anything about it. Instead, he wanders around Stiles' room, taking it all in like he's browsing exhibits at a museum or something: the pile of CDs and print-outs and various cords on Stiles' desk, the framed photo of his mom on the dresser, the skateboarder sticker on the wall, the abstract painting Allison made for him as a birthday present...
He stops in front of Stiles' bookshelf, tilting his head to read the spines. "I have this one," he says after a minute, pointing at The Werewolf of Paris.
"Oh yeah?” Stiles is a little surprised. It’s not a book most people have heard of. Sure, it was a bestseller back in the 1930s when it came out, but Stiles isn’t sure it’s even in print anymore. “Did you like it?"
Derek wrinkles his nose. "It was a cool idea, but ultimately disappointing. I mean, at one point the werewolf ends up sucking his girlfriend’s blood to keep from shifting. I thought that was stupid. Werewolves aren’t vampires."
"Yeah, that was a little unexpected, but I thought it was kinda cool, in a gross way," Stiles says. "Anyway, I’ve been reading a lot of supernatural fiction lately. Pretty interesting stuff.”
“Yeah,” Derek agrees, “except they don’t usually get anything right.”
Stiles laughs. “How do they get it wrong? It’s all made up anyway.”
Derek winces, bewilderingly. “Right. I… um… I just meant they deviate from the traditional myths.”
Stiles studies him. For some reason he gets the feeling Derek is lying about something, or at least omitting, but he can’t think why anyone would want to lie about something as insignificant as an old book. Oh well. Maybe Stiles is just seeing things that aren’t there. It’s been a long day. He shrugs it off and says instead, “I dunno, I think that can be kind of cool. Making something new out of old ideas, you know?”
“Yeah,” Derek says, although he doesn’t look like he’s entirely convinced.
Stiles decides a change of subject is in order. “So... you have that Spanish vocab quiz tomorrow, right? Want me to quiz you?"
"Sure," Derek says, so they sit down facing each other on Stiles' bed, and Derek digs around in his backpack and pulls out a truly impressive stack of flash cards held together with a rubber band. There must be at least a hundred.
"Still want to do this?" Derek asks, amused.
Stiles shoots him a look and reaches out for the cards. He's not going to be intimidated that easily. "I'm up for the challenge. Let's see what you got."
It's probably the first time all week they've been alone together and not spent the whole time making out. Stiles is proud of himself. Unlike Erica seems to think, he is capable of self-discipline. Sometimes.
Derek spends about half the time getting questions right, one after another without any apparent hesitation, and the other half of the time laughing at Stiles for butchering the pronunciation. Stiles has never taken Spanish; back in middle school when they had to choose a language track, he opted for Latin because it seemed like it'd be easier. Jury's still out on that one.
Stiles' dad checks in on them at one point and seems pleasantly surprised that they're actually studying instead of fooling around. Stiles shoots him a smug look and goes back to reading off the next card.
It's almost six when Stiles finally reaches the last card in the deck. Derek gets that one right, too.
"Whoa, I feel like I just learned so much Spanish," Stiles sighs, flopping back on his bed. "You wanna watch a movie?" He can’t see Derek from this position, but he can practically feel him warring with himself. He nudges Derek's leg with his bare foot. "C'mon, you deserve a break."
"Yeah, okay," Derek relents.
*
Five minutes into the movie, Stiles starts getting restless. He’s alone in his bedroom, on his bed, with Derek Hale for the first time ever. He can’t be blamed.
He bumps his hand up against Derek's. Touches the sensitive inside of Derek's wrist, just lightly. Drags his fingertips up Derek's forearm, back and forth. Derek shivers a little and looks down at where Stiles is touching him.
Emboldened, Stiles slides his hand over to Derek's thigh. Derek is wearing his tight jeans again, the ones he wore to the driving lesson the other night.
Almost as soon as Stiles does it, Derek grabs his wrist and hisses, "What if your dad comes up here?"
"Relax," Stiles murmurs, "there's a creaky stair. I'll hear it in plenty of time if he does."
He twists around a little to brace himself on Derek's thigh and press a trail of light little kisses up Derek's neck to his ear. He's already discovered Derek has a thing about necks. Derek doesn't move, but sure enough, Stiles can hear his breathing get a little heavier. Ha.
He takes a risk and opens his mouth, pressing his teeth teasingly to the smooth skin just under the join of Derek's jaw. He's also discovered Derek has a thing about biting.
It works. Derek grunts, his hands flying up to Stiles' back, holding him there, and Stiles bites down a little more, satisfied that things are getting good.
The stair creaks.
"Crap," Stiles mutters, dropping back down to Derek's side. He drags his comforter over his lap a nanosecond before his dad appears in the doorway.
"How's the studying going?"
"We, uh, it was good," Stiles nods. He schools his features into something that hopefully looks appropriately innocent. "We're just watching a movie and not touching at all."
Stiles glances over at Derek and almost facepalms; Derek's eyes are wide and alarmed and fixed on Stiles' dad like a deer in the headlights.
His dad eyes them suspiciously and says, "I'm going to give you the benefit of the doubt and assume that's true, because I have to leave for the station now."
“Okay," Stiles says neutrally, thinking, Thank god thank god thank god.
"Have fun and don't get up to anything," Stiles' dad says, and Stiles pretends to be affronted.
"Dude, relax," he says when his dad is gone. He jostles Derek's shoulder. "He's not going to shoot you."
"I wouldn't be so sure," Derek says darkly, but he does let some of the tension out of his shoulders.
Downstairs, Stiles can hear the garage door rumbling open and shut again. That's his cue. He kicks away the comforter and straddles Derek, settling comfortably down on his lap.
"Stiles, what—" Derek starts, and Stiles quiets him with a kiss, as deep and dirty as he can think to make it. It's a pretty good strategy. Derek groans and pushes Stiles down on the bed. Stiles blindly shoves his laptop out of the way and focuses on getting Derek out of his clothes.
He gets as far as tugging Derek's shirt over his head and tossing it somewhere before Derek gets impatient with that and goes back to kissing him, shifting them so they're lying together on their sides on the bed, pressed together from chest to knees in a delicious wall of heat.
They make out for a long time after that, luxurious and heated, until Stiles gets a little sidetracked by Derek's chest—the lean muscle, sure, but also how the skin there is silkily smooth. "Dude, do you shave your chest?"
Derek hunches his shoulders. "So what if I do? It looks better."
Stiles dissolves into snorting laughter. "Derek Hale manscapes. This is the greatest day of my life."
"Shut up," Derek grumbles. He tugs Stiles back up against him so he can get his mouth on Stiles’ neck some more, and Stiles agreeably tilts his head back and lets the manscaping thing go for the time being.
Derek sucks a few more hickeys into Stiles’ neck and shoulders, each one sending frissons of pleasure straight to Stiles’ dick, then just spends some quality time licking and nuzzling contentedly at the marks he’s made, which is kind of weird but also weirdly working for Stiles.
Between nuzzles, he groans against Stiles’ skin, “You smell amazing. It drives me crazy.”
Stiles isn’t quite sure what to say to that. As far as he knows, he just smells normal. He buys name-brand deodorant and shampoo from the drugstore; he’s pretty sure half of Beacon Hills probably uses the same stuff. He settles on a cautious, “Okay?” and forgets about it, swinging a leg over Derek’s hips to grind into him more.
That feels really good, actually. Before he knows it he’s falling into a rhythm, spine tingling, the pleasure building. Derek rakes his hands down Stiles’ back and cups his ass, urging him on and pressing him closer, and Stiles slams his head back and comes, hard. He's pretty sure he bites his own tongue a little, but everything else feels so good that he barely notices.
When he's had a minute to gasp at the ceiling and recover, he realizes Derek has ducked down and unzipped his jeans. He's nosing at him through his boxers, pressing his face into Stiles’ groin, and while Stiles watches, he peels down the fabric to lick at him, cleaning him up. Stiles can't believe he would want to—he's tasted his own come before, out of curiosity, and it was so gross and bitter that he immediately spit it out again—but he's not complaining about any situation that gets Derek’s mouth near his dick, especially when he seems so enthusiastic about it.
If Stiles hadn't literally just come his brains out, he would definitely be really, really close now from the wet heat of Derek's tongue on him and his humid breath on Stiles' damp skin and the way he looks, nestled between Stiles' legs with a blissed-out look on his face. It's almost overwhelming, especially now, when Stiles is so oversensitive from just coming.
After a minute or so he reluctantly shifts his hips away from Derek's mouth. "Too much," he explains when Derek frowns up at him.
Derek rubs a possessive hand over Stiles' hipbone and says, "Sorry. Just got—carried away." He still looks really worked up, actually, his pupils huge and the outline of his dick clear through his jeans when he sits back on his heels.
"You really don't have anything to apologize for," Stiles assures him, trying and failing not to gawk. "So, um. What do you want to do now?"
Derek drops down on top of him, going for Stiles' neck again. Stiles is going to have to wear a scarf for a week, he thinks cheerfully. Maybe two weeks.
Derek mumbles something into Stiles' skin, too quiet to catch.
Stiles nudges him with his knee. "C'mon, just say it. You can do whatever, I won't judge." He's pretty sure whatever it is, he's going to be 100% on board with anyway. He's watched a lot of porn, enough to know there's not much he doesn't find at least a little bit hot. Usually more than just a little.
Derek says in a rush, "I—want to come on you and rub it into your skin."
It's kind of adorable how embarrassed he looks about it.
Stiles grins and twists up under him enough to wiggle out of his shirt. "Okay, yeah. Awesome. It's all yours."
A shudder goes through Derek at that, and he practically pounces, shoving his jeans down his thighs and crouching over Stiles to work his dick furiously. Stiles reaches out to help, tangling his fingers with Derek’s, and it’s not long before Derek is coming with a throaty groan, smearing his palm into the mess on Stiles’ stomach and burying his face in the side of Stiles’ neck.
Almost immediately, though, he tenses up and jerks back like something's wrong, only it’s not Derek leaning over Stiles, it’s this masked thing with fangs and glowing yellow eyes and what the everliving fuck —
Stiles flails and falls off the bed.
*
Five minutes later, Stiles is sitting beside Derek on the kitchen counter, pressing an ice pack to Derek’s forehead and trying to decide if he overreacted when he grabbed his baseball bat off the floor and hit Derek in the head with it.
To be fair, he didn’t know what the fuck was going on or even if Derek was still Derek. He was kind of running on instinct and adrenaline. It was intense. His hands are still shaking.
In any case, he’d definitely hoped that losing his virginity was going to involve a lot less yelling and bleeding and general embarrassment. Silly him, he’d thought that when he finally had sex with someone, it would be at least mostly normal and not pants-shittingly terrifying.
The good news is that Derek has a very hard skull. Almost superhumanly hard, Stiles would even venture to say. After only about half a minute with the ice pack, he bats Stiles’ hand away and hops down off the counter, grumbling that it doesn’t hurt anymore.
“At least let me clean the blood off your face,” Stiles says, so Derek meekly sits back down and lets him.
The weird thing is, Stiles definitely broke the skin a little bit—otherwise where did the blood come from?—but when he’s washed Derek’s face clean, there’s no wound. Not even a bump or a bruise. It’s like the last five minutes never even happened.
“I heal fast,” Derek says, not meeting Stiles’ eye.
That’s just about the last straw. Stiles needs to know what’s going on, and he needs to know it now. “No one heals that fast, and are you ever going to explain what the hell you were playing at back there? Where did you even get that mask? Was that some kind of sick prank or what?”
Derek buries his head in his hands and groans. “Fuck, my mom is going to kill me.”
Stiles isn’t sure what Derek’s mom has to do with any of this, but he lets it slide for now. There are bigger questions. “Dude, I’m going to kill you first if you don’t explain what’s going on. Whatever it was, it wasn’t funny, okay?”
Derek lifts his head up, looking very sincere. “Trust me, it wasn’t a prank. I wouldn’t do that to you.”
“Okay, but where’d you get the mask? Why did you even have a mask?”
“It’s… not a mask. It’s my face.”
Which makes absolutely no sense at all, a lot like everything else that’s happened in the last five minutes. “Uh, I would beg to differ. I’m looking at your face right now and there are definitely no fangs or sideburns or weird glowy eyes anywhere. Also, I'm pretty sure that would be physically impossible, so.”
“Don’t hit me again,” Derek says instead of a real answer, and before Stiles can ask just why Derek thinks he would hit him again, Derek blinks and his whole face changes—eyes brightening from hazel-green to electric gold, the bones of his face rippling under his skin, his ears getting fleshier and pointier, little fangs sliding down from his mouth to press into his lower lip.
Stiles shouts and stumbles backwards against the sink.
When he’s calmed down a little (not much, but enough to get air into his lungs again), he gasps, “Whoa, do that again.”
Derek does.
Stiles makes him do it another three times before he finally has to accept that what he’s seeing is real. That, or Stiles took some LSD today without knowing about it and is now hallucinating. Neither option feels like a really compelling choice.
It’s a little easier not to freak out now, though, with the element of surprise taken out of the picture. Just sitting there on Stiles’ kitchen counter with his jeans still undone, watching Stiles almost apologetically, Derek looks more ridiculous than anything else. He can barely close his mouth around his fangs, and his ears look like something out of a Lord of the Rings orc Halloween costume. Not to mention, his hair is still sticking out all over the place from where Stiles had his hands in it.
“So… I guess we should talk about this,” Stiles says at last. “Is it some kind of, um, medical condition?”
“Not exactly,” Derek says.
*
So it turns out werewolves exist, and Stiles’ boyfriend is one.
Derek’s feelings about the inaccuracies in The Werewolf of Paris suddenly make a lot more sense. Among other things.
“Is that why you keep offering to let me borrow your jacket even when I haven’t asked? Is it, like, a scent thing?”
Derek nods, a little abashed. "I like it when it smells like both of us, together. It's comforting."
“And oh my god, that’s why you have all that wolf-themed stuff! Like the notebooks and the socks!”
Derek looks a little chagrined. “Yeah, compliments of my sisters. They think it’s hilarious to give me things like that for every single Christmas and birthday. It's all one big inside joke to them.”
“I have to agree with your sisters on that one. It is pretty funny.”
“Maybe it is, the first dozen times. After that it gets a little old.”
“What about your parents, are they werewolves too?”
“Yeah,” Derek says, and then, blushing, “They know about you. They could smell it.”
And Stiles thought having a sheriff as a dad was hard. “That’s gotta be so inconvenient. I bet you can’t hide anything from them.” Speaking of which... “Wait a minute, does this mean they’re going to know we had sex?!?”
Derek goes pale.
*
They have about fifteen minutes until Derek’s curfew. Derek has showered three times, thoroughly, and changed into some of Stiles’ clothes. Not much in Stiles’ closet actually fits Derek, especially through the arms and shoulders, but they managed to dig up a baggy t-shirt and sweatpants that fit okay. Hopefully it’ll be enough. It’ll still smell like Derek was at Stiles’ house, of course, and one look at him is enough to tell those aren’t his clothes, but it’s better than Derek wearing home the clothes he had on when they were making out. He’s got those in a plastic bag so he can wash them later.
“I texted Cora to come outside and give me the smell test before I go in,” he assures Stiles when they’re saying goodbye, parked outside Derek’s house. “She’ll make fun of me, but not as much as my other sisters, and anyway, she’s the most easily bribable. It should work out okay.”
Stiles shakes his head. “Man, your life is so weird. Okay. Good luck. And, uh, sorry again for hitting you with the baseball bat.”
“It’s okay.” Derek shrugs. “It’s not the worst reaction I’ve ever seen to the werewolf reveal.”
Stiles doubts that, but he appreciates that Derek is trying to make him feel better. “Okay, well, I promise I’m done freaking out about it, and”—he throws in a wink—“I’ll be thinking about creative ways to make it up to you.”
Derek grins. “I bet.”
“Anyway, I actually think the werewolf thing is pretty cool. I’m probably going to be texting you questions about it nonstop all night, just as a heads up.”
Derek’s smile gets a little wider. “Just about the werewolf stuff?”
“Well,” Stiles says playfully, sliding a hand up Derek's arm, “I could also start to fill you in on my extensive mental list of sex stuff I want to try with you sometime. But only if you wanted.”
“I want,” Derek says. He leans over the gearshift to give Stiles a lingering kiss goodbye, and Stiles almost accidentally honks the horn with his elbow. “Smooth,” Derek laughs against his mouth.
“Yeah, but you love it!” Stiles calls after him as he climbs out.
Derek pauses to look back up at him. “Yeah, I do,” he says softly, and then he closes the car door and starts heading up the driveway.
“What— Derek! You can’t just drop a bombshell like that and then just walk off before I can say it back!” Stiles yells, knowing Derek will be able to hear him just fine.
Derek just throws a smirk over his shoulder and keeps walking. That asshole. Stiles loves him anyway.