Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/591847.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Choose_Not_To_Use_Archive_Warnings, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Derek_Hale, Stiles_Stilinski
  Additional Tags:
      Plot_What_Plot/Porn_Without_Plot, Frottage, Angst
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-12-13 Words: 2713
****** Sleep Now in The Fire ******
by Monty-BoJangles_(slinkymilinky)
Summary
     “Why do you want this so badly?” Derek says.
Notes
     Thanks to Tana for being everything. Erm. There is no plot here.
     There is just me with a couple of hours to kill and a fondness for
     purple. All mistakes are very much mine.
For the longest moment Derek’s mouth hovers just out of reach. A long juddering
exhalation flows over Stiles’ lips, fills the cavity of his mouth and floods
his senses with a wave of expectation…but nothing else. It’s torturous. Stiles
doesn’t dare move; his bones feel like they’re vibrating, joints humming in
their sockets, and he’s scared he’ll fly apart if he does. Another warm breath
folds over his face, bringing with it the scent of toothpaste and somewhere
under that the bitter tone of black coffee.
“Why do you want this so badly?”
Something cracked and brittle hides underneath the polished veneer of Derek’s
voice. For a second Stiles envisions wrapping a hand around the bastard’s
throat – pictures squeezing every last cubic inch of delicately fragranced
breath out of him.
The things that he wants and the things that he needs have gone all weird and
backwards these last few months. If the hyper vigilance he’d felt during the
kanima debacle had seemed like the end of the world then this; the Alphas, the
lack of oxygen in every room, the people that won’t even look at him anymore…
Scott, his dad, his own reflection… this is…
The words catch on the tip of his tongue where Derek’s breath holds them;
Why? because I can’t stand you, because you’re terrifying, because I want…
If he could keep a hold of his thoughts long enough to turn them into
sentences, he might tell Derek that hey, this is his room and it’s Derek that’s
come here hungry for something. But that’s a lie. Stiles has never felt so
starved. It’s a dull ache present in everything he does. Nothing seems to
satisfy it. It’s Derek Derek Derek all the time. Derek has eclipsed everything.
Everything is contradictions. He can’t keep himself in order.
Somehow between the counselors and the medication and the panic attacks and now
the werewolves, Stiles has never really considered the idea that maybe he’s
just fucking crazy. He should have though …because it can’t be normal to feel
this way but he can’t remember ever feeling anything else. It was just slower
before; a simmer not a boil.
The first wet press of lips against his is a hesitant and fragile thing. A
steady stream of ‘Is this happening? Is this actually happening?’ runs through
Stiles’ head as long fingers trip across the soft fabric of his t-shirt,
refusing to settle. They flit against his side like a fledgling bird; brief
points of contact made up of whispers and glancing touches that are barely
there at all. Stiles’ hands are fisted tightly by his sides; fingernails
cutting into his palms. He’s actually shaking, his breath coming choppy and
ragged and he hates himself in that moment – panting against the damp seam of
Derek’s mouth.
Derek’s lips print syllables on the swell of his lower lip, “What do you need,
Stiles?”
An animal noise crawls from his throat in response; something needy and raw
that causes Derek’s fingers to cease their migrant path down his side. Derek’s
thumb traces the cut of his hip before his whole hand fastens to that ridge of
bone in a grip that’s sure to leave bruises.
The other hand moves up and under his shirt, warm and solid. The digits slip
into the groves between his ribs like they’re meant to be there, like Stiles
was crafted with the shape of this hand in mind. The muscles in his stomach
jump, roll and shudder against the touch – everything pulled taught and tight.
Their mouths seal together and – finally – there’s the wet slide of Derek’s
tongue against his own.
It’s enough to snap the tenuous thread of control Stiles had been holding onto.
Stiles claws his hands into the tight fabric of Derek’s shirt and walks them
backwards until they hit the wall. Once there - Derek pinned like a butterfly
against a board - Stiles presses flush against him, nudges Derek’s legs apart
with his thigh to get closer. The full body contact is deliciously heady, the
role reversal more so, and Stiles can feel the fast thrum of Derek’s heartbeat
under his palms and the hard outline of Derek’s cock prodding against his thigh
through layers of denim and cotton.
Derek’s wandering hands have found purchase in his newly long hair, tugging his
head back to expose the vulnerable column of his throat and kiss roughly at his
neck. It’s all teeth; no finesse. A full body shiver runs down Stiles’ spine
making him hum like a tuning fork. His hips roll forward of their own accord
and for a short second there’s exquisite friction as they grind together. Derek
emits a quiet gasp that’s accompanied by the soft sound of his head hitting the
wall behind him and hell, that there is satisfying.
“You want me too, yeah?” Stiles growls, and who’s the Big Bad Wolf now? He’s
repeating the action, canting his hips and watching with fascination as Derek’s
eyelids flutter closed. “You do,” Stiles croons, “you totally do.”
They set a slow rhythm, rocking against each other until the hands drop from
Stiles’ hair to rest lightly on his shoulders. Stiles knows he should be
focusing on the liquid warmth pooling low in his groin and the pleasure-pain
drag of fabric over his sensitive cock…but mostly his focus is taken up by the
way Derek’s mouth has dropped open, red and kiss swollen, and the small frown
of concentration etched between his thick eyebrows. Derek Hale, the most
beautiful thing Stiles has ever seen,and here he is: debauched and dirty, dry
humping Stiles’ leg like a randy teenager.
“When in Rome...” Derek admits, pressing their foreheads together and fitting
the words around shallow pants. Stiles feels mortification mix thickly with
arousal; he’s never been able to keep his mouth shut why would sex be any
different? Derek’s hands still don’t know where to go, he rubs mindless circles
into Stiles’ shoulder muscles, subconsciously matching the rhythm of their
thrusts. It’s hot and exposing and Stiles could watch the minute changes that
run across Derek’s face all night. He tells Derek things, how he wants to take
time cataloguing every tiny variation in facial expression – learn every moan
and gasp. How he’s only human and fuck if he’s sporting a hard-on that could
dent metal. How he wants, he wants to come now but he needs- it needs to be
more than this. He wants to leave a mark, god, even if he knows it’s
impossible-
Derek huffs, “Do you ever shut up?” but it’s soft, almost playful.
He says, ‘sorry,’ on one breath and ‘fuck you,’ on the next because he can’t
stop talking and Derek should know that already.
“Less clothes,” he moans against Derek’s chin, tugs him by the collar, “Bed.”
He walks them backwards until the back of his knees hit the bed, sits on the
edge and spreads his legs far enough for Derek to stand between them or crawl
on top of him… but Derek doesn’t. Stiles collapses back onto his elbows and
gives Derek an impatient glare.
“What are you waiting for?”
Instead of answering Derek pulls his shirt over his head in one easy movement,
toes off his boots and then flicks open his sinfully tight jeans. He meets
Stiles’ eyes with a calm, hooded gaze and without a hint of self-consciousness
pushes the pants down his legs and steps out of them, standing there naked and
looking in control. And it’s not fair because a second ago Stiles had the upper
hand. He had the control and now it’s gone.
He’s not nervous. He’s not.
Derek’s skin is unblemished, pulled tight and pale over heavy muscle. Not pale
like Stiles is pale, but still – it’s December and the warm golden tan Derek
was sporting during the summer has faded. Stiles has seen Derek shirtless
before so his eyes flick lower, eager to map out the bits he hasn’t seen.
Derek’s cock curves up towards his stomach, dark and heavy…he’s thick and uncut
but not huge enough to make Stiles feel inadequate. In fact there’s a brief
moment when Stiles thinks ‘Huh, I might have a good half-inch on him’ which is
a bit of locker-room mentality he knows has no place here. Derek seems to be
waiting for Stiles to say something. Which is… novel.
“You know that protein shakes aren’t real food, right?” is the only thing
Stiles can come up with and he’s proud of how casual it sounds.
Derek’s lips twitch. He moves closer, and Stiles stutters out a shaky
inhalation when Derek places his hands on Stiles’ knees and strokes up his
thighs to the waistband of his sweats. He watches as Derek makes quick work
untangling the drawstring and tugging the fabric down. Even these movements are
smooth in a way that hints at an inhuman coordination. Stiles cants his hips
slightly to help and hisses through his teeth when his erection is exposed to
the cold air. He should shut the window really.
He shuffles up the mattress, pulling his shirt off as he goes and tosses it to
the side. Derek’s eyes flick over the protruding line of his collarbone, down
his chest and to his groin. Stiles sees Derek’s eyebrows jump up his forehead
and mentally fist-pumps because yes. He’s got a big dick and Derek just made a
micro-expression that could easily be translated as ‘Well shit, look who’s
packing’.
Then Derek is moving with purpose - crawling up Stiles’ body and dipping his
head to lick at a nipple and the sharp sensation has Stiles’ hips snapping up.
They rub together, skin on skin and it’s exquisite. Stile’ moans,
embarrassingly loud in the quiet room. Derek gasps against his shoulder, lifts
his head and kisses him hard and fast. Their noses bump, Derek’s tongue licking
into Stiles’ mouth without hesitation. Stiles tries to fight back, returning
every wet caress and sharp nip with something harder and brighter.
Derek lays over him, his weight settling fully so that they’re flush against
each other. Chest to chest. Cock to cock.  His body is so warm, Stiles thinks,
and thrusts again, keening desperately into Derek’s mouth and running his hands
over the hard planes of Derek’s back. He can smell them too; the musky scent of
sex that gets stronger the more they rut against each other. It’s everywhere.
And what must that smell like to a werewolf? Somehow that thought, the thought
of how fucking dirty it must be for Derek makes him shudder all over again.
Derek is all masculine weight, and Stiles strains against it, reveling in the
sweat-slicked slide of skin against skin and works a hand between them. He
manages to fist their cocks together and tightens his grip into something hard
and punishing. With no encouragement Derek starts to pump his hips, fucking
into the tight circle of Stiles’ hand, breaking their kiss to lever himself up
onto his hands so that he can make his thrusts longer and harder. He looks down
between them at the flush on Stiles’ chest, gaze catching on the small dark
mole below Stiles’ left nipple and finally to the sight of their cocks moving
together.
And Stiles is chewing on his own sore lower lip, too engrossed in how they
look, how they’re both looking. He doesn’t realize he’s been holding back
sounds until something high and kittenish slips past. Derek’s eyes snap to his
and- it’s intimate and intense and god, what the fuck is wrong with them. This
isn’t going to last long; Stiles is already at that knife edge waiting for the
white-out to cut in. The look on Derek’s face - his hair damp with sweat, his
eyes glazed and unfocused, his mouth parted slightly and the tension across his
brow – is enough to start a fire at the base of Stiles’ spine. It’s vicious and
consuming.
He’s aware he’s talking again. Nonsense mostly, but he keeps his mouth moving
in the shape of compliments and confessions, lets it all out until Derek sticks
two fingers between his lips, pressing down hard against his tongue, so Stiles
stops talking and starts sucking. Hard. Derek makes a noise Stiles never
thought he’d hear from him; a restless whine that sounds almost pained, the
movement of his hips starts faltering, knuckles white and sharp where his other
hand has twisted into the bed sheets.
Derek removes his fingers from Stiles’ mouth, hand scrubbing up cheek and into
his hair, digits spreading over his scalp to hold Stiles in place. He’s locked
down; his field of vision narrowed to Derek’s green eyes. Stiles is seconds
from coming; he can’t believe he’s held off this long. He briefly wishes they
could take their time and make it last – but right now foreplay seems like an
impossibly complicated task. He tells Derek this as he tightens his hold on
their cocks.
“It’s all been foreplay,” Derek gasps. The sentence is garbled and broken and
he sounds so young, younger than Stiles even. “all…all of it… I don’t kn-” he
breaks off to moan through a particularly long thrust, “It’s always been about
this for you…for me…”
Even now, teetering at the edge the way he is, Stiles feels like Derek’s spelt
out something that’s been bothering him for- well. That’s too complicated. So
Stiles just breaths out a “fuck yes”, which drifts away with all the other
sounds in the room as all sensations begin to blend. The harsh rasp of their
breathing, the rough friction of Derek’s cock against his, and the pull, burn,
stretch in his muscles – it all melds into one long column of pleasure running
the length of his body so good it makes his vision swim. Then Derek bites down,
blunt but hard on the hinge of Stiles’ jaw and they’re both coming, long and
messy all over each other. Derek shudders and collapses on top of him, mouth
twitching against the curve of Stiles’ neck while Stiles gasps harshly for air,
loud and obnoxious. Synchronicity. It’s a beautiful thing.
For a long while they just lay and breathe, limbs jumping through the
aftershocks. They’re both sticky with come, sweat and saliva but Stiles can’t
make himself care.
He’s starting to shiver when Derek manhandles him under the covers and pulls
them up to his throat. The mess on his stomach smears all over the comforter
but it doesn’t matter. Derek doesn’t climb in though. He swings his legs onto
the floor and sits with his back to Stiles.
Of course, that wary tension is already leaking back into Derek’s shoulders.
Filling him up. He keeps looking at the window in a way that’s borderline
twitchy. The mix of self-loathing and guilt is swift, familiar but unwanted.
“You said it’s always been about this...you and me,” Stiles prods when Derek is
still sitting there a minute or more later.
Derek stands up, pulls on his jeans. “What are you talking about?” he mutters.
Stiles pushes himself up onto his elbows and watches Derek fishes around on the
floor for his shirt.
“It’s just that-”
But Stiles already understands the futility of pushing this. Derek’s clearly
not ready for this conversation. Stiles isn’t either. He’s still too fucking
angry and yes, terrified. About everything.
“Look,” he continues after a breath, “Just come back sometime okay? People keep
looking at me like I’m gonna to implode. My dad, Lydia, Ms Morrell…even Scott
now. I’m fine when I’m distracted. It’s really fucking noisy the rest of the
time but, you know, when I have something different to focus on, something
simple-”
“What’s any of that got to do with me?”
Derek is trying to keep his expression schooled. He’s trying to look like he’s
done and bored and has no idea why he’s in a teenager’s bedroom at three in the
morning – like he isn’t as helpless to all this as Stiles is.
For Stiles it’s all Derek, Derek, Derek all the time. He’s eclipsed everything
else.
And if it isn’t Derek all the time…if it’s just Stiles…then…
“You’re a great distraction,” Stiles says, and stretches back against the
pillow. Derek lifts an eyebrow. Stiles grins.
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