Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/998756.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Derek_Hale, Stiles_Stilinski
  Additional Tags:
      Scenting, Dreams, Sleeptalking, Watching_Someone_Sleep, Hand_Jobs, Blow
      Jobs, No_Spoilers, Derek_POV, PWP
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-10-10 Words: 2749
****** Between Sleeping and Awake ******
by vampireisthenewblack
Summary
     Derek witnesses Stiles talking in his sleep, and it gives him the
     impetus to act on thoughts he's been having for months.
Notes
     Just some porn I wrote because I needed some separation time before I
     conclude the conclusion of my WIP. All my love to venis_envy for
     enabling me and checking for errant kiwiisms and stray commas.
See the end of the work for more notes
"Urgh, Derek," Stiles mumbles, his voice sleep-thick and husky.
Derek's feet hit the floor inside Stiles' bedroom window. "Good," he says.
"You're awake. I've got that book you want—"
Stiles makes a very intimate sound, Derek's heart stops and he turns toward the
bed.
Stiles moans and twists under the blanket, eyes closed, mouth slack. "Derek..."
His heartbeat—already quick—spikes, and he starts to pant. "Please," he
whispers, voice pitched so low even Derek can barely make it out. Under the
covers, Stiles' knees part and there's movement between his legs as he gropes
himself in his sleep. Stiles' bedroom always smells like arousal—Stiles'
particular brand of healthy-teenage-boy—but that spikes too, the salty-sweet
smell of precome hitting Derek like the percussion wave of a bomb going off as
the covers lift with the motion of Stiles' arm.
Derek is almost immediately hard. At the usual levels, Derek can handle the
scent in here, but this is too much. He wants so much to get closer, to go to
the source of it, but Stiles is asleep, he's dreaming and everything about this
smacks of exploitation. Derek swallows heavily and looks toward the window and
his escape route. He's got a hand on the sill, and is about to throw himself
out when Stiles starts to talk again.
"Derek, fuck me."
Then he can't. Oh god, he can't. This, more than anything else, is a reason to
leave, and right now. But he can't.
He moves closer to the bed, unable to drag his eyes away from the way Stiles is
writhing on the mattress. Yeah, he's thought about it, at night, in the dark,
sometimes within his own dreams. Stiles may be unpredictable and mouthy—but
Derek likes the way Stiles challenges him. And Stiles has matured over the last
year, his shoulders have broadened and he's put on muscle. Derek noticed, and
he thinks about it a lot.
Apparently so does Stiles, at least in his dreams.
"Please, Derek..."
Derek takes a deep breath and puts his hand on Stiles' shoulder. "Wake up,"
Derek says, giving him a shake.
Stiles grunts and frowns, brings a hand up and shoves Derek off. Derek steps
back, watching as Stiles starts to swim toward consciousness.
Stiles rubs at his face, big hands and long fingers scrubbing over his eyes
before he blinks up at the ceiling and then rolls toward the wall. He leans
over the side of the bed, and when he comes back, there's a tissue box in his
hand. He pulls a few out and shoves a hand back down under the covers. "Fuck
you, Derek Hale," Stiles whispers, before Derek hears skin on skin as Stiles
wraps his hand around his cock.
"I'm sorry," Derek says.
Stiles squawks, head jerking toward the source of the sound, bed springs
protesting as he scrambles up into a sitting position. Tissues fly into the air
and drift slowly down around him. "Derek? What the fuck are you doing in my
room?"
Derek blinks and lifts the book he's still holding in his hand. "You wanted
this."
Stiles gapes at him as he rearranges the covers over his lap. "I was sleeping.
You don't creep into someone's bedroom while they're sleeping, man. That's not
cool."
"I thought you were awake," Derek says, putting the book down on the desk
behind him and then taking a step toward the bed. "You were talking."
A blush spreads up the neck of Stiles' T-shirt and he looks as if he's going to
be sick. "Oh my god."
"You were talking tome," Derek says, taking another small step toward the bed.
Stiles takes notice, eyes flicking down to Derek's feet as he inches closer.
Stiles leans back against the pillow, but his eyes slowly slide up Derek's
body, finally reaching his face. Stiles swallows heavily and licks his lips.
"It was nothing," he says. "I was dreaming about the book. Yeah. That's it. I
really wanted that book."
"You weren't talking about the book, Stiles." Derek's knee hits the edge of the
bed and he halfway sinks toward it, bending at the knees, pressing his
fingertips into the mattress right beside Stiles' calf under the blankets.
"There was..." He darts his tongue out to wet his lower lip, tasting Stiles'
arousal in the air. "There was swearing, and begging, and my name. And moaning.
A lot of moaning, Stiles."
Stiles stares back at him, jaw working. He drags his eyes away and pushes his
tongue out between closed lips to wet them. "Fine. I dream about you," he says.
"There, is that good for your ego? Is that what you want?" He looks back, eyes
shifting down over Derek's body. "I bet you I'm not the only one. Look at you.
On any one night you're probably the subject of countless sex dreams all over
town."
"You're the only subject of mine," Derek whispers, lowering himself to sit on
the edge of Stiles' bed. He moves his hand, wrapping his palm around Stiles'
calf through the blankets, watches the twitch rolling up through Stiles' body
before training his eyes on Stiles' face.
"Huh?" Stiles says, eyes wide, mouth hanging open.
"Was that the first time?" Derek asks, eyes on his hand as it slides up, over
Stiles' knee, up his thigh. "Or do you dream about me often?"
"Every fucking night," Stiles breathes. "I think maybe I'm dreaming right now.
And I'm gonna wake up and you'll be pissed at me for daring to undress you in
my head."
"I'd prefer you did it in real life," Derek says.
"Oh, Jesus," Stiles says, and with shaking hands reaches out to brush his
fingers across the top few buttons of Derek's shirt. He looks up from his
fumbling attempts to get them undone. "Are you actually okay with this?"
Derek doesn't answer. He doesn't even trust himself to give Stiles a simple
'yes' because it might not stop there. He doesn't want to admit that he's been
thinking of Stiles like this for months. So he lifts his weight, moves up the
bed, and then slips his hand around the back of Stiles' neck.
Stiles' eyes go very wide when Derek kisses him. Derek pulls back, smiles at
the shock and disbelief on Stiles' face. "Are you?" he asks. "Just tell me, and
I'll leave. I should have left as soon as I realized you were asleep, I know,
but when you said my name...when you started begging..."
"What?" Stiles' heartbeat kicks up a notch and his body shivers. He pulls up
his knees, disturbing the blankets, and there's a fresh flood of the scent from
before. Stiles has been hard this whole time, leaking precome, and Derek can
imagine it soaking into his boxers, maybe dripping down his shaft.
Derek's mouth waters and his tongue slips out to wet his lips. "'Please', you
said, and my name. And then I woke you. I didn't want you to come like that."
"Fuck," Stiles says, dropping his eyes back down in a renewed effort to open
Derek's shirt. "Help me, please, I've gotta—"
Derek knocks Stiles' hand aside, opens his shirt to the waist in a matter of
seconds. Stiles' eyes move over Derek's chest like he's never seen him
shirtless before—maybe because now he's allowed to stare. "Off," Derek says,
bunching up the hem of Stiles' T-shirt, dragging it up over his head.
Stiles' hunches his shoulders, drops his eyes, and there's heat coming off his
cheeks. It's like he doesn't even know how good he looks. "You're gorgeous,"
Derek says, gripping Stiles' shoulder, squeezing once before letting his palm
slide down, thumb dragging over Stiles' nipple.
Stiles lets out a tiny, broken sound, and pushes into the touch.
Derek smiles as Stiles' shoulders move back, as he arches his neck and exposes
his throat. It makes the wolf in him ecstatic, though it's got nothing to do
with submission and everything to do with trust. "You like that," Derek says,
rubbing the pad of his thumb around the hard peak at the same time as he leans
in, needing to get his mouth on the long column of Stiles' neck.
"Mmm," Stiles whimpers, then tips his head to give Derek better access to his
throat. "That too, oh my god." He reaches out, runs tentative fingertips up
Derek's abs and then he flattens his hands and just clings. "Derek," he pants,
his breath coming fast, his heart racing. "Oh god, I—"
The smell of need in the air gets thicker, becomes overpowering. "Tell me,"
Derek says, lips moving on Stiles' throat where the pulse twitches. "What do
you want?"
"Not to fucking come before you touch me," is what spills out of Stiles' mouth,
even as he's groping at the sheet bunched in his lap, squeezing the base of the
shaft outlined through the white cloth and grimacing as he attempts to hold on.
"I was close already when I woke up." He looks at Derek, eyes heavy lidded,
pupils blown wide open. There's a challenge there in his eyes, as if he's
waiting for Derek to make the next move, as if he's refusing to ask for what he
needs.
Derek smirks and slides his hand down Stiles' chest, wraps his fingers around
Stiles' wrist and pulls his hand away. "Okay," Derek breathes, and he slowly
pulls away the sheet.
Stiles is wearing gray knit boxers, and the fabric is dark with moisture,
glistening where the tip of his cock strains beneath the waistband. Derek
closes his eyes and inhales, almost overcome with the scent of Stiles, hot and
hard and leaking. He wants to rub his face on it, get the scent all over him,
wants it to stick for days so everyone will know where he's been, who he's been
with. He settles for inching backward so he can get down close, so he can hold
his mouth over the spreading patch of damp and breathe it in.
"Oh my fucking god, Derek," Stiles says, hips rocking up toward his face. "I
can't even, man, holy crap, please."
Derek moans, fingers tucking into the waistband, tugging down before he knows
what he's doing. He peels away wet fabric, exposing Stiles' dick to the air,
licking away the thick bubble of precome that immediately appears.
As soon as Derek's tongue touches, Stiles jerks his hips up. "Fuck,
sorrysorry."
But Derek compensates, rocking back so he doesn't get stabbed in the back of
the throat.
Stiles' dick is thick, plenty fat enough to stretch Derek's lips wide as he
sucks him down. Long enough to fill Derek's throat, but not so long that Derek
can't bury his nose in Stiles' pubes without gagging. It's fucking perfect,
skin so soft over a shaft as hard as steel, pumping out precome that leaves a
trail on his tongue as he pulls back up.
"Oh," Stiles says, sucking in little gasps of air that can't possibly sustain
him in the long term, but Derek gets the feeling Stiles is going to come very,
very soon. He's teetering on the edge of a cliff, poised to fall, and all Derek
has to do is suck, twist a little, bob his head in short, sharp pushes that rub
the underside of Stiles' head on the back of his tongue.
And he already tastes so fucking good, but the hot, violent spurt that hits the
back of Derek's throat is like nothing he's ever had in his mouth before. All
Derek's senses come alive, he can smell it, rich, strong; he can taste it,
bitter and salt. The sounds Stiles makes, little gasping whines, twist Derek's
gut and he ruts against the bed to ease just a little of the pressure. The
pulse of Stiles' cock as it jerks on his tongue, the texture of his come as it
coats the back of Derek's teeth, as it sticks, like it's meant to paint itself
there and linger.
Stiles quivers at the end, gets a hand on Derek's shoulder and pushes him off.
"Holy crap," Stiles breathes. "Dude, that was...fuck. And quick, sorry, dream-
you and then real-you and oh my god, you just blew me."
Derek lays his head against Stiles' thigh and thinks about the fact that he's
got Stiles' come in his mouth, in his throat, in his stomach. He moves his
hips, rubbing his cock through his jeans against the mattress.
Stiles catches his breath while he strokes down Derek's spine with gentle
fingertips. "You should come up here," he whispers, breath hitching, palm flat
and dragging against bare skin.
Derek lifts his head, crawls up Stiles' body. He kisses Stiles, mouth closed,
lips soft and gentle though he wants to devour, to take, to claim and consume.
Stiles is panting again, heart skipping and fingers clumsy as they pick at
Derek's belt. "You should..." His eyes flick down, as if he can't handle the
weight of Derek's gaze. "Do you...? Are we gonna...? Oh god, I don't know what
you want."
"Just touch me," Derek says, getting the button of his jeans open, the fly
down. "I want to feel your hand on me."
"Yeah," Stiles breathes, hand moving quick now, uncertainty gone as he pulls
out Derek's cock and gives a slow, hard stroke, watching, head tipped to the
side, as he guides the foreskin up over the head, rubs the underside with his
thumb.
Derek lets out a whimpering gasp that he should be embarrassed about but can't
find the impetus to care. "Stiles," he says, and then mashes their lips
together, dipping his tongue deep into Stiles' mouth as Stiles' hand winds him
quickly up.
Derek expected this to be awkward, expected Stiles to be nervous and clumsy,
but there's a confidence in the way he handles Derek and with the taste of
Stiles in his mouth, the scent of Stiles in his nostrils, the feel of Stiles on
his skin, it only fuels his climb to orgasm. And Derek doesn't care that it's
not going to take long, he wants so badly to come apart, to lose control in
Stiles' hands. "Please," he breathes. "Stiles, please."
"Fuck," Stiles grunts, upping his pace, twisting his fist over the head on the
upstroke. "Derek, so fucking hot, Jesus, you're gonna come on me, and I'm gonna
smell like you—"
Derek roars when he comes, Stiles' acknowledgment of the fact he's going to be
marked sparking the feral in him. He barely holds back the shift as the
pressure is released, and then he's pumping out over Stiles' fingers, painting
Stiles' stomach and groin in wet, sticky scent.
As soon as he can trust that he's not going to sprout fangs, he captures
Stiles' mouth again, kisses through the shuddering aftershocks.
Stiles hums happily into his mouth, sliding his hand off Derek's softening dick
and up his own stomach, spreading Derek's come right up his chest, rubbing it
in everywhere.
"They're all gonna know, aren't they?" Stiles whispers, breathy and excited.
"How long will it last?"
"Days," Derek says. "You're gonna smell like you belong to me. Is that what you
want?" Maybe Stiles doesn't understand what it means.
"Yeah." Stiles sighs, lips stretching into a grin before it fades. "Is that
okay?" he asks, hand stilling in his efforts to cover all of his skin in
Derek's come. "Should I not have...?" He curls his hand, bites his lip. "Sorry,
I—"
Derek lets out a soft growl and jerks back, holding Stiles' hips and pulling
him down the bed, laying him out on his back. He blinks up as Derek's eyes
track down to find a streak of his own come. He scoops it up, rubs it up
Stiles' throat with both hands, under his jaw and into the places behind his
ears. "I want them all to know," he says. "I want them to know that you're
mine."
Stiles grins again, showing his teeth. "Awesome," he says. "That means we get
to do this again, right?"
"Right, Derek says, then flops down beside Stiles, curling around him.
"Does it work both ways? Like, if I come on you, will you smell like mine?"
Derek's insides hum with pleasure and his dick gives an enthusiastic twitch.
"Yeah, Stiles," he says. "It works both ways."
Stiles reaches for his dick, hard again, gives it a couple strokes. "Awesome,"
he says. "Because I'd really like to make that a thing."  
End Notes
           If you enjoyed reading, please hit the [Kudos ♥] button.
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