Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/8572735.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Stiles_Stilinski, Derek_Hale
  Additional Tags:
      Plot_What_Plot/Porn_Without_Plot, Bottom_Derek_Hale/Top_Stiles_Stilinski,
      Anal_Sex
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-11-16 Words: 2769
****** summer lovin' ******
by PrincezzShell101
Summary
     Stiles's first day of summer break is pretty shitty until it
     absolutely isn't.
Notes
     So, this has been sitting in my drafts for WAY too long. I decided to
     finish it tonight because, hey, why not right?
The temperature is sweltering, the breeze of seasonal air coming in through the
open window combining with the smouldering rays of the sun. Together they feel
like heated gas, melting through the ozone layer in Stiles's room.
"Oh my God, I am literally having hot flushes and I'm not even a woman on her
period," Stiles groans. He's lying on his bed, blankets a cringe-worthy fluffy
mess on the floor after he'd tried lying on them but ended up taking them off
because the skin of his back had started going clammy underneath his clothing.
Summer break is meant to be great. School is over so he doesn't have to deal
with kids' snobby attitudes and glares. He's usually watching porn and jerking
off for half of the day, the other half spent playing video games with Scott.
Well, as it so happens, the climate seems to have a really big impact on his
masturbation tendencies.
He'd woken up just like every other morning, dick swelling inside his boxers
and blood flooding through said organ in a fast rush of hormones. Grinning,
he'd decided to get a good head start at his summer break routine, wrapping his
hand around his cock and closing his eyes, letting the sensations ebb and flow.
For a couple of minutes, it had gone just like normal, fingers looping around
hard flesh, pre-come slippery and wet beneath his fingertips. And just like
that it had ended, a blast of heat (and not the good kind) sweeping over him,
causing him to stop stroking and notice the sweat dripping down his forehead
and the stifling warmth of the blankets trapping him under their perspiring
depths.
Yeah, let's just say he's not happy with how the start of his summer break has
turned out.
Scott hasn't messaged him at all, which is weird because they've got a thing
going on and it's been going on every summer break since the 7th grade. They'd
snack on junk food and soda, playing PlayStation until well past midnight and
only falling asleep when his dad would knock on his bedroom door with a time to
sleep off all that sugar, boys.
"C'mon Scott, save meeeeeee," he whines, pressing the buttons on his phone with
a mix of both forceful determination and petulant misery.
There's no sound of a message coming through. No sign at all that Scott has
heard his weak, pitiful cries for attention.
"Damn it," he sighs. "What good use are those wolf senses if they can't hear
the cry of a wounded brother?" Wounded by boredom, his conscience mocks. "Shut
up, you know what I mean."
"Actually, I don't think I do."
"Whoa!" Stiles yelps, jumping up in a flurry of arms and quickly propelled
feet, dropping his phone as he whips around to face the window. The window,
where Derek has just randomly decided to poke his head through, eyebrows raised
and probably questioning the entire existence of the spastic idiot in front of
him.
"Jeez, Derek, what the hell? Stalker much? And why the hell are you outside in
this weather? You're going to fry your wolfy brain. Y'know, canine owners keep
their dogs inside when it gets this hot. Also, plenty of water, buddy. Stock
up. Don't want your tongue lolling out on a day like this, do we? That'd be a
sight I wouldn't want to see."
Would too, his conscience says as it leaps in again to his utter displeasure.
Derek rolls his eyes. "Born werewolves can adjust their body temperature."
Stiles blinks dumbly. "Are you saying that right now you don't feel any of that
heat out there, or hey, in here?"
Derek shrugs. "I can feel a little. Kind of like when you drink a glass of warm
milk." Stiles's mouth drops open and he smirks. "It's a good feeling, not too
hot or not too cold."
"You've got to be kidding me," Stiles huffs. He kicks at his computer chair.
"Ah, well, small miracles for you, I guess."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Derek actually sounds offended and yeah, Stiles
is not going to even try and pretend like he expected that.
"Uh, n-nothing. Yeah, absolutely nothing. You're hearing things. Um." Stiles
coughs, eyes nearly watering (he blames it on the heat, not embarrassment) as
he turns his head to the side to avoid eye contact with Derek.
"Right," Derek says doubtfully.
"So, you wouldn't happen to know why Scott hasn't text me at all today, would
you?" he asks, scratching the back of his head awkwardly. He wonders if Derek
can smell what he'd done earlier that morning, hopes that he can't because
now that would be something to get teary-eyed over. Shame city, yep, that's
what that would be.
Derek swings his legs over the window sill in such graceful movements that a
fucking ninja would be jealous, closing the window when he gets in. "Probably
out with Allison." Stiles must make a face because then Derek rolls his eyes.
"He's being quite sensible, unlike you. If you haven't noticed the temperature,
which you obviously have, you must have realised that maybe you shouldn't be
spending all of your day indoors."
"Should too," Stiles snaps. "Are you crazy? You'd want to go outside and deal
with that monstrosity of so-called weather instead of staying indoors away from
it?" He shakes his head sadly. "Derek, dude, I think you've gone senile. You
know what they say about old do—"
Stiles isn't sure when Derek's become so good at pinning him up against walls
but, y'know, the guy has had heaps of good years' practice so…
"Call me a dog one more time, I dare you," Derek snarls.
For a few seconds, Stiles weighs his options.
He could either—
   1.    a) Call Derek a dog again and risk getting his throat ripped out by
      the werewolf's teeth (oh, yes, the irony would be strong and bloody in
      that one).
 or
   1.    b) Keep his mouth shut and live another day.
Ah, the latter sounds good. Great, actually. Terrific. That's his first choice.
Yep. He's sticking to it.
So, he stays silent, not even moving a muscle or taking in a breath (stupid on
his part for that one) while waiting for Derek to let him go. But Derek? Derek
only stares at him just as speechless.
"Stiles, wha—are you holding your breath?" Derek sounds incredulous, like he's
just realised that Stiles is the kind of kid that will still find fart jokes
funny at the age that he is. (Which he does. How can someone not find a fart
joke funny?).
"Stiles. Stiles. Damn it, Stiles. Breathe, you idiot!"
Stiles gulps in a huge, gasping breath of air, surprised when Derek takes a few
giant steps back like he's just touched a hornet's nest. Stiles is still trying
to get air back into his lungs, when Derek growls loudly.
"What the hell were you thinking?"
"I wasn't, duh," he croaks, massaging his chest with open palms as he takes a
few deeper, shorter breaths. "You right up in my business didn't help either,
you know."
"Sorry," Derek huffs, lips a thin and grim line. "I'm just going to go." He
turns his back and Stiles bites out a wait! that turns him back around again.
"What did you come over here for?" he asks, moving to his blanket-less bed
(Derek tracks his movements patently, raises an eyebrow at the bare mattress)
and taking a seat.
No answer. Just Derek clenching his jaw, nostrils flaring.
Stiles squints his eyes a bit. "Uh, oooookay then. Well."
"To invite you over to my loft," Derek blurts out suddenly, mouth snapping shut
instantly like he's just admitted somebody's deepest, darkest secret. He side-
eyes the window, almost as if he's investing in a quick getaway.
Stiles snorts. "Invite me? Over to your loft? Me?" He chuckles softly. "Sorry,
but I find that kind of hard to believe."
"I'm standing here, aren't I?" Derek retorts flatly.
Stiles nods easily. "Yes, true, but you could be here for
anything. Anything but inviting me over to your loft. Which, yeah, now that I
think about it, sounds more realistic to me. So..." He claps his hands. "What
do you want? I've got nothing else to do today since Scott is a lying brother
who lies." He fakes sniffs. "Makes a promise only to let a dude down years
later. I mean, I should have expected it, what with him getting a new
girlfriend and all, but…"
"If I tell you that Scott's at my loft will you shut up?" Derek grumbles.
Stiles stops rambling, blinking at Derek slowly. "What. Why would Scott be—you
said he was with—what?"
Derek's sigh is so strained that if Stiles didn't know Derek's anger noises he
would think the werewolf was constipated. "Scott's at my loft with the rest of
the pack, Stiles."
"Why didn't you just say so?" Stiles asks, a tad confused. "I mean, not that I
care that you're leaving me out of stuff—"
"I'm not leaving you out of stuff," Derek growls, a hint of fang peeking out
from under his curled lip.
Stiles lifts his hands up in defence. "Sorry, sorry! Just, y'know, kind of
weirded out that you're here instead of with the rest of them." He pauses. "And
hey, wait one second, before you said I shouldn't be indoors and now you're
telling me that the pack is inside at your loft?" He frowns. "Hypocrite much?"
Stiles must step over that invisible line, the one that says put one foot over
that line and you'll regret it. No sooner as he's finished accusing Derek of
being a hypocrite, said hypocrite is dragging him by the arm—roughly, totally
the ruffest of the ruffest (heh, dog joke)—toward the window.
"Hey, where we going? Oh, no, you're planning on killing me, aren't you? Look,
I'm sorry I talk too much. It's a condition. I take Adderall for it… Wait. You
know this. See? Incessant talking. Got to give me credit for that, right? I
mean—"
Derek slaps a hand over his mouth, covering it. "Shh. Quiet time."
"I'll give you quiet time," he mumbles, voice muffled by Derek's hand which
is—um, ew, as sweaty as Satan's asshole. "Please, kindly remove your paw off of
my delicate face."
Derek's face does the 'complete shut-down' movement, and that is when Stiles
remembers that call me a dog one more time, I dare you was so not a dare at all
and he is going to die a slow, horrible and painful death.
Apparently 'a slow, horrible and painful death' means getting slammed into a
wall again and kissed like the world is ending.
Huh.
"You are so insufferable," Derek moans against his mouth. Stiles isn't capable
of replying since, uh, you get the picture. His hands are currently planted on
the alpha's shoulders, fingernails digging into the soft material of the
werewolf's maroon Henley.
By the time Stiles's brain catches up with what is happening, pretty much every
piece of clothing that was on his body is now gone and Derek's standing in all
of his half-naked glory in his bedroom. The abs that are staring him in the
face are like the ones you see movie superheroes flaunting at starry-eyed
damsels and oh hell no. He is not a damsel, nah-uh.
"I'm feeling a bit, uh, unworthy of your body," he manages to squeak, eyes
ogling the more than nice view.
Derek rolls his eyes, stripping his—oh, God, his boxers. That's penis. Derek
Hale's penis. He is going to die, after all.
"Shut up and get on the bed," Derek growls. Stiles doesn't need to be told
twice, throwing himself onto the mattress and preparing himself for the death
of a champion—cos, come on, having sex with Derek Hale is surely the feat of a
champion. It doesn't stop him from running his mouth, though.
"Is this a heatstroke thing? Are you delirious, confused perhaps? Because, um,
buddy, you're about to consensually put your cock up my—"
"I am fully aware of what I'm about to do, Stiles," Derek sighs, mattress
dipping further as he kneels above Stiles, staring down at him. "Although,
you'll find that I'm not one to…"
Stiles doesn't catch on to what Derek is getting at, until he notices the
alpha's raised eyebrows and spread legs. "Oh. Oh, shit."
"Flattering," Derek deadpans.
"So, you—you, uh… You bottom then?" he chokes. He's honestly freaking out now,
because in what universe does muscly, big bad alpha Derek take it up the ass
from him and enjoy it? He'd expected the guy to top and to top like a pro,
though the image of that gorgeous, tan ass sinking down on his cock is a very
likeable one.
Derek sighs hopelessly. "Yes, Stiles, I take it up the ass. Is that such a
surprise?"
"Um, I don't know, is that a surprise—YES! Yes, it is! Derek, that is the most
unexpected thing I've ever heard in my life, and I've had Scott tell me that he
watched gay porn once," he babbles.
"Scott watched gay porn, like that's shocking," Derek remarks, shaking his
head. "Ignoring the fact that he and Allison have been banging Isaac in my loft
for the past few months now."
Stiles's mouth drops. "Are you kidding me!?"
"No. I'm not. I'm also not kidding when I saw that I want you to fuck me," he
mentions. Stiles's eyes bulge. "Getting it now?"
Stiles nods his head frantically, almost like a bobble-head. "Yes, yes. Yep.
Getting it. So, so getting it."
"Good." And then Derek's lifting himself up effortlessly and lowering himself
on Stiles's dick, squeezing his eyes shut as he lets out a soft noise of
pleasure.
"Oh my fuck," Stiles curses, whining as his cock is clasped tight by quivering,
wet muscle. "Your ass is everything I knew I wanted."
Derek barks out a loud, startled laugh, hazel eyes opening to reveal their
amused shine. "You're unbelievable."
"Don't tell me you're just getting that now," Stiles jokes. He whimpers,
though, when Derek rises and lowers, clenching on the slow way down. "Fuck,
please don't stop with that thing you're doing with that glorious butt of
yours."
"Not my intention." Derek smirks, twisting his hips and grinding them back and
forth, rubbing Stiles's cock into the deepest, sensitive part of him. "As
long… ah… as you don't stop doing that, I think we've got a deal," he groans,
arching his neck skyward, gasping in hot little pants.
Stiles watches Derek fall apart—observes every tic of his facial expression,
every coil of his abdomen, every shudder of his thick, bobbing cock. The
alpha's ass is well past sloppy, the sounds of his pre-come making very lewd,
wet noises as he pistons in and out of the werewolf's hole.
"Come on, come on," he mutters, breathing heavily, almost winded as Derek rocks
into his every thrust, hair mussed and damp, eyes clenched shut and lips parted
on high-pitched sighs. He can feel the alpha's inner muscles beginning to
gently start twitching, the usual sign of an approaching orgasm. "I know you're
close. I can feel it."
Derek doesn't respond, instead rolling his ass down onto Stiles's cock in fast,
jolting movements. His breaths pick up, high-pitched sighs turning almost
feminine and oh wow, Derek Hale is an embarrassinglyhot mess. Stiles hasn't got
the time to think about how pretty the alpha is before said werewolf stops,
trembles in shaking tremors, and lets out a noise somewhere between a squeak
and a whimper, painting his and Stiles's chest in white, milky ropes of come,
cock jumping against his belly as it spurts.
"Oh, fuck," he whines, the alpha's inner muscles milking him for everything he
has. He has to gather himself afterward, aftershocks running through him as his
cock continues to squirt, the action causing him to sob a little bit.
They both lie there for a few minutes as Derek has slumped forward and hasn't
moved since, his breathing still quick and erratic. Stiles rests a hand on the
werewolf's back, fingers tracing the swirls of Derek's tattoo. He feels as well
as hears when the man falls asleep, his breaths reducing to tiny inhales and
exhales.
"G'night, Derek," he murmurs, smiling despite the small traces of heat that are
beginning to seep between their sweaty bodies. He closes his eyes and lets
himself rest, the warm ghost of Derek's breath against his neck.
Maybe this summer break won't be so bad, after all.
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