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Everything was awful and would be forever, because he was gonna get murdered. Why? Because the pack went camping which somehow meant Stiles got dragged along.
On the one hand, hey, it meant he was pack, right? Fuck yeah! But on the other hand this was absolutely a major risk to life and limb.
It wasn't the camping itself that was the problem. Okay, maybe it was, just a little bit? Sort of. Honestly it was the consequences of camping, and the main consequence was Derek. Stiles didn't understand the man. He'd insisted on forcing them into tiny little tents, tents that had no business being labeled as two person tents, because seriously. Why the hell were supposedly two person tents barely big enough for a single guy!? Stiles dreaded the night.
What the shit was Derek thinking?
Because of course, the rest of the pack paired off, leaving Stiles stuck with his nemesis.
He tried. He fucking tried, pulling out every trick in the book. He'd crassly cajoled. He joked and bitched, he'd yelled and flailed. Hell, he'd even made a goddamned powerpoint to demonstrate how they ought to have their own tents but for some reason, Derek insisted on punishing himself and, in the process, punishing Stiles, because there was no way Stiles was getting out of this alive.
See, Stiles acted like a heat seeking missile in his sleep. He knew this. Nights spent crashing in Scott's room provided ample verification that Stiles can and would sleep-shimmy to the nearest warm body and latch on, but would Derek listen?
No!
Stiles spent the whole trip with a solid, leaden weight twisting his stomach. They hiked out, enjoyed a fire and had what should have been a good damn time. The weather graced them with scenic beauty. Banter ricochet between them like a bouncy ball. The crackling of the fire in the evening punctuated stories and jokes. It should have kicked ass.
Instead, Stiles spent the whole day mentally preparing for his inevitable doom. It didn't help that the rest of the pack gravitated towards their significant others, leaving Stiles stuck with their surly-faced alpha.
Despite Stiles' best efforts to keep his mouth shut, he'd spent the day yapping Derek's ears off. It was a miracle Derek hadn't body slammed into a tree yet, because Stiles?
Stiles had it fucking bad.
Watching Derek hiking in a tank top didn't help one damn bit, nor did Derek tearing branches and logs apart with his bare hands, or the way the dappled light from the trees played across Derek's biceps.
Stiles was fucked.
He really, truly tried to keep that ugly old crush under wraps but this was too much. He knew when he slipped.
Every so often when Stiles forgot to keep his mouth shut, when he got into Derek's space, well. Derek would get this look; a look full of eyebrows, a look with pursed lips, a look that Stiles couldn't entirely parse. Whatever it was, it did a pretty good job of replacing Stiles' butterflies and arousal with dread and shame.
Still. Derek, wonder of wonders, endured without a single injury to Stiles' person. Maybe Derek figured out the whole 'slamming' thing caused activity downstairs that Derek didn't wanna smell? That's probably it, Stiles thought, because Derek spent most of the trip with that stormy look on his face.
Now, crickets sang. Night fell. He steeled himself to meet his doom as he walked away from the couple-filled fireside. And Derek. Derek, who stared unto the flames with an intense expression, deep in thought, the same look Derek wore as Stiles'd yapped nervously at him for the last half hour.
Stiles finally gave the guy a break, headed to sleep early, and crashed, hard. His last thought before falling asleep drifted through, 'I'm glad I don't have to hear the other tents tonight.'
Some time later, he found himself in the best damn dream of his life. Someone was grinding down against him. Hands roamed beneath his PJs. He squirmed, deliciously pinned beneath a body that radiated heavy heat, warmth that staved off the chilly morning air. Lips pressed searing kisses against his neck as he arced his back up against—
The heat vanished. He blinked awake. The tent zipper sounded. He gathered his wits, then, stumbled out into the harsh, cold morning air. Derek was nowhere to be found.
The wan light of pre-dawn seeped through the trees. The rest of camp still slept.
Derek had felt him up. Derek felt him up in his sleep and, naturally, the moment he realized his hands rested against Stiles' skin, Derek fled.
Naturally. Of course. The fuck else did Stiles expect?
The cold weight of shame settled deep in his gut as he gathered his things and hiked, alone, back to the car. He drove away, cursing at the sunrise as it hit his eyes. Roscoe creaked and complained with every mile as crusted eyes and a lack of coffee made for a miserable drive.
Half-way home, Scott called.
"Dude, where'd you go? We woke up and Derek was, like, in a mood. Everything ok? Do I need to beat him up?"
"No, it's fine. I wasn't feeling good. Decided to head home, you know? He was probably offended by my smell or something."
It wasn't even entirely a lie, not technically. Not that Scott could tell over the phone, but it never hurt to lace the lie with truth, especially when dealing with werewolves. Scott, thank fuck, recognize that he shouldn't goddamned push.
"Dude, that sucks. You sure you're gonna be okay?"
"Yeah," Stiles sighed, "I just need to get the fuck home and rest, you know?"
"Okay. Just, like, message me when you get home, ok? And lemme know if you need my mom."
"Can do. Talk to you later, dude."
"Talk later," Scott replied, ending the call.
The rest of the drive, predictably, fucking sucked. He'd forgotten his adderall at camp and emotionally, he was a goddamned mess. This was exactly why he wanted his own tent. If only Derek had—
It didn't matter. He put the thought out of his mind. He couldn't stew on it, not while driving. He'd deal with it when he got home, and he did.
For Stiles, 'dealing with it' entailed masturbating furiously, enacting a valiant attempt at distracting himself, followed by more masturbation and, finally, sulking.
The hottest thing that ever happened to him ended with the man he loved running the hell away in disgust.
Damnit.
Guilt wracked Derek. He let his stupid thing for Stiles get the best of him. He should be better than this. He usually clawed his way through force or will to be better than this.
He was a born wolf. He should know how to keep himself under control. He should be an expert at acknowledging and controlling his impulses, including the impulse to slam Stiles against things to elicit that delicious smell, at controlling the way he wanted to touch, the way he wanted Stiles' scent on his clothes, in his bed.
Stiles was a teenager for christ's sake. A teenager who smelled like everything Derek wanted. A teenager who didn't back down, who wouldn't be cowed. A teenager he could trust, who treated Derek like an equal, never treated Derek with kid gloves or acted like Derek's past made him fragile or lesser, someone who did what needed to be done, no matter how dangerous or illicit or illegal those things might be.
Someone who saved Derek's life despite hating his guts. Repeatedly.
God, after the pool he wanted so much to believe that Stiles-
It didn't matter. Beneath Stiles' typical eternal scent of teenage lust, Derek smelled the dread and second-hand shame Stiles felt when Derek looked at him.
It was an ugly reminder that to Stiles, the man inside Derek was perfectly horrifying, a complete contrast to his perfectly attractive exterior.
At least Stiles never tried to use him for thrills. Not that Derek'd say no; his pathetic streak ran deep. He was desperate, not deluded. It was better this way, better that Stiles reviled him. If Stiles had suggested a physical relationship, Derek would have hurled himself upon those rocks chasing the siren song of Stiles and broken the shambling wreckage of himself to pieces.
God, Derek felt pathetic. Worse, today, in his half-awake state, he crossed a line he couldn't uncross.
He'd molested Stiles.
Derek endured the scent of Stiles' arousal and distressed shame that clung to canvas as he packed up the tent. The others woke as he stashed it beneath a bag of his sweat-soaked workout clothes, hiding his shame.
The dregs of the outing were torture. He pretended everything was fine, dodged glances, and postured his way into convincing the pack that it was worry and worry for Stiles alone that ate at him. He hated the looks of pity he got from the others. His distress soured the morning as they ate camp-stove fare and shuffled off.
He hung back as the others left, opting for one final run. The fresh, clean air brought him no solace. His mind endlessly ran back to the taste of skin upon his lips, to the smell, to the warmth of Stiles stretched out beneath him.
Finally, he turned towards home, but not before palming Stiles' forgotten medication.
Starts began sparking into sight in the night sky the time he reached Beacon Hills.
He needed to talk to Stiles.
Fuck.
Stiles wasn't sure how he knew. Maybe it was the way the night sounds outside his open window quieted. Maybe it was Derek's surly aura. Maybe Stiles' intuition was a little more than average for a squishy human.
Whatever the reason, when Stiles woke in the night, he knew Derek watched him.
"What, here to tell me off? Fuck you, jackass. I warned you" his voice scratched with sleep, "I fucking warned you, but did you listen?"
The silence felt sad, somehow. Stiles' temper flared at the thought of Derek's pity.
"I know I disgust you. I know I piss you off. I don't understand why you fucking insisted on one tent!" He hated the way his voice cracked. Silence in return.
"And like, I get it. Idiot jackass kid with a crush? That's gotta be the worst to deal with, but it's not like I pushed my stupid asshole crush. I went out of my way to avoid offending your delicate sensibilities. I fucking tried! I gave you a chance, I gave you space, I—"
His words cut off as movement startled him silent. Bright eyes glowed in the dark. Derek kneeled by the bed, watching, waiting, face inscrutable in the dark.
Stiles' words dried up, catching on his tongue.
"Say that again," said Derek.
"I gave you space?"
"Before that."
"I piss you off."
Derek sighed, frustrated, then he fell silent again, watching. Considering. Stiles wondered if this was how chess boards felt mid-game.
"You're not upset," Derek said.
"Of course I'm upset!" Stiles flailed, sitting up. "You ran out of the tent like a bat out of hell. I repulsed you, which, like, I get it. I'm fucking repulsive, I'm aware of this, ok? But did you really have to be so obvious about how disgustingly unattractive I am to you!? Jesus fucking christ Derek! You rubbed on me, not the other way around, I don't understand why—"
"You're not upset that I touched you," Derek interrupted.
"No? Like. Why would I be upset? You were asleep. Besides, you are aware that I have a big damn motherfucking crush on you, right? It was the sexiest thing I've experienced in my entire pathetic little life, I—"
Stiles words were cut off. Lips. Yep. Those were lips kissing him like Derek wanted him, like Derek needed him. Derek was kissing him within an inch of his damn life.
Stiles confusedly kissed back. Of course he did; he wasn't gonna miss the chance even if this was a trick, because who was he kidding? This was definitely the lead-up to some fresh new humiliation.
He'd be humiliated either way. Might as well make the most of it before whatever the fuck this was blew up in his damn face.
And—and oh, huh. They should probably talk, he thought, as Derek divested him of his sleep shirt. Lips landed on Stiles' neck, followed by the scrape of blunt, human teeth.
Talk could wait. Yeah, talk could definitely wait if waiting meant more of this.
"I have no clue what's going on, dude, but for the love of god please don't stop."
Derek stopped. Stiles whined.
"You have a crush," Derek said, "on me."
"Yes? I thought it was fucking obvious with the whole—" Stiles waved his hand around vaguely, "following you around being an annoying piece of crap, pissing you off thing. Can't you smell that shit?"
"You smell like you're repulsed when I look at you"
Stiles felt the heat rise in his face for an entirely different reason this time. "Maybe don't look at me like you're five seconds from tearing my dick off and shoving it down my throat?"
Derek huffed softly. He turned away looking— holy shit, was Derek bashful?
"I was trying not to picture..." Derek trailed off.
"Trying not to picture what?"
"Your hands. Your lip. Your skin." Derek twined their fingers together as he watched the muscles move beneath Stiles' skin, "the ways you bend, the ways you could bend with me," those glowing eyes snapped back to Stiles' face.
Stiles' mouth went dry, his eyes hooded as his mind conjured thoughts of what Derek implied. He licked his lips. "Yeah?"
Derek responded not with words, but by kissing each and every knuckle on Stiles' hand.
A moment of doubt assaulted Stiles. He wanted more than sex. He wanted to make Derek coffee in the morning, to piss him off drinking milk out of the jug, to wake up to those damn arms, to research in companionable silence as Derek read on the couch beside him, to have a thousand chances to make the corner of Derek's lip quirk up, to see him smile with more than just his eyes.
Stiles opened his mouth but Derek beat him to the punch, "If we do this," glowing eyes held Stiles' gaze. "I want more than just sex."
Stiles let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. "Good. I mean, I'm kind of way past just wanting something physical with you too so like—"
Derek pleasantly cut him off with a kiss once more.
Derek grounded himself in his senses, senses assaulted by Stiles. His mind reeled. He couldn't believe, couldn't fathom how he'd read Stiles so wrong.
He still didn't understand, not entirely, but the way Stiles smelled, the way he moved so eagerly beneath Derek's fingers, beneath Derek's lips… It was undeniable.
God, he scented lust so strong he could taste it. It filled the space, lust for him. Welcome lust, for once. The thrill as Stiles kissed back, as Stiles' fingers gripped him, as Derek scented Stiles' excitement, it lit a fire in Derek.
He'd tried so hard, worked his ass off to avoid thinking of all the ways they could ruin each other. Every time Stiles looked his way, every time Stiles tried to make Derek laugh, each and every instance where Derek covered a grin with a glare…
Where might they be if Derek hadn't held back?
"Derek?" Stiles' voice brought him back to the present.
Derek kissed away the doubt that had crept into Stiles' scent. Fuck, he could touch now. The thought struck lightning in his veins as he reached out. The raised texture of moles brushed against his fingers as he cradled Stiles' face in his hands. Stiles leaned into the kiss, tilting forward till he teetered on the edge of the bed, then fell.
Derek found himself with a lap full of enthusiastic, horny teenager as they sprawled on the floor. Hands roamed. Lips pressed. Derek's shirt landed on the floor somewhere in the mix as Derek let the warmth of touch and waft of scent lead him to match Stiles' frenetic rhythm.
Fingers flicked to Derek's fly. "How do you want it?" Stiles panted, flushed the most beautiful shade Derek had ever seen.
Derek swallowed, hard. Thoughts rolled through his mind, thoughts of rolling in the sheets, of fucking, of being fucked, of handjobs and blowjobs, of mouths in places that would bring forth the most delicious sounds.
Stiles laughed. "I've broken you, haven't I? Fuck. Nobody's gonna believe this, you're totally BSODing," Stiles grinned as Derek tried to figure out how this constituted a bullshit overdose, or whatever the fuck BS OD meant.
Stiles interrupted his thoughts as warm fingers wrapped around Derek's dick. Fuck, it felt good. His hips shifted forward of their own accord, chasing the friction. Stiles grinned, eyes deliciously dark.
"Do you think of me as you get off?" Stiles' tongue stuck out of the corner of his mouth as one hand worked Derek's dick and the other franticly fumbled Derek's fly. "Please tell me you do. What do you think about? What do we do?"
Derek's hips jutted up into those long, strong fingers as his pants came loose. Stiles pulled them down. "Fuck. Uncut. Commando too. Jesus, you're unreal, you know that?"
Derek let Stiles" words wash over him till that delicious hand disappeared from his dick. The sound of Stiles' zipper soon followed.
Derek watched with hooded eyes, waiting to see what Stiles would do next.
"Well?" Stiles raised an eyebrow, demanding. "Spill, jackass!"
"What?"
Stiles climbed into Derek's lap, getting right up in his space. "Do you ever think about me? You know, while jacking off?"
Derek felt himself blush.
A shit-eating grin spread across Stiles' face. "What'd you think about?"
"Various things," Derek hemmed and hawed, sifting through his favorite Stiles-based fantasies. "Mostly about your mouth. Or your hands. Or—" he paused, unsure if Stiles would laugh at him.
"Or what?" Stiles' breath ghosted across Derek's lips.
Derek stayed silent.
"C'mon. What is it? I won't laugh. Me in panties? Public sex? Scent kink shit?"
"You. Fucking me," Derek said before he could think the better of it.
Stiles eyes went wide. He licked his lips. "You— you'd let me?"
Derek nodded.
Stiles' fists went in the air in a silent sign of victory. Derek relaxed at Stiles' excitement.
"Ok so like fair warning I'm not gonna last long but—"
Derek reached beneath the mattress and deposited a bottle of lube into Stiles' hands.
"Oh. Do you wanna prep yourself or should I—"
Derek shrugged.
Stiles considered. "I wanna watch. Get on the bed," he ordered.
Derek obliged, but not before swiping the bottle back. Derek positioned himself on the bed, legs splayed wide as he worked in first one, then two fingers.
Stiles watched, utterly transfixed. Derek felt himself blush beneath the intensity of that gaze.
"You're fucking perfect, you know that?" Stiles said softly, reverently, like Derek were something special, something to cherish.
Stiles couldn't believe his eyes. Derek looked so fucking hot and vulnerable and— god, he couldn't believe he got to see this, got to do this.
Fuck, but Derek really was a work of art, inside and out. Stiles relished every little grunt and groan as Derek took his time. Stiles got the feeling that Derek was putting on a show, the way his eyes tracked Stiles' face.
Stiles swallowed hard. It was all he could do to keep his hand off his dick. Damn.
He wanted, he wanted so fucking bad. He had to wait until Derek was good and ready and then?
Then, he'd get to sink into that tight, warm werewolf heat, to feel Derek beneath his fingers, beneath his teeth, because as ephemeral as it was on werewolf flesh, Stiles still itched to mark, to press, to bite, to feel Derek squirm, to hear him groan.
Fuck.
Derek looked at him, eyes hooded, mouth open just enough to entice. Stiles wondered, then. Would he get to feel that warm wet mouth someday? God, the thought of Derek sucking him off sent an electric shiver down his spine.
Derek's nostrils flared. His mouth twitched just a hair. "Eager."
"No shit, Sherlock, have you fucking looked at yourself? Jesus fucking christ."
"Then get over here and fuck me."
Stiles licked his lips at the challenge in Derek's eyes. "How do you want it?"
Derek shrugged, then stretched, a long, languid movement that showed off every inch of skin and muscle heaped upon his goddamned perfect bones.
Stiles licked his lips. "I kinda wanna see you. Your face, I mean." He moved forward, hesitant suddenly. It felt— this seemed— "This is real, right? I'm not having the world's hottest wet dream?"
"I could pinch you if you want."
God, the warm creases in Derek's eyes did things to Stiles' stomach. Definitely not a dream. Derek was never this… this chill in Stiles' wet dreams.
"I'll pass, thanks," Stiles said, scooting forward between Derek's thick, heavy, hairy legs, legs that settled on Stiles' shoulders like they belonged there.
Stiles slid in slowly, holding the base of his dick to keep from ruining their fun way the hell too soon. Fuck. He wasn't gonna last, even after all his earlier masturbating.
Derek, for his part, seemed to be enjoying himself as his eyes followed Stiles. Bless the fucker for his god-damned patience. Were the roles reversed, Stiles would have been bitching up a storm.
Finally, fucking finally Stiles felt ready to move. Fuck. It felt good, so fucking good. Derek was warm and tight and so goddamned perfect. Every little catch in Derek's breath threatened to send Stiles spilling as he watched Derek sinking into the rhythm.
He set off at a steady pace, until a deep, appreciative groan pushed Stiles over the edge. Stiles let out a string of curses as he collapsed down into Derek's arms.
He'd been too busy holding back to kiss or bite or nibble. Damnit.
Derek chuckled. "You'll last longer next time." Large, warm hands trailed across Stiles' back, his sides, sifted through his hair, ghosted across his jaw.
"You didn't even get off," Stiles whined as he sat, still facing Derek.
"I could always fuck you too. If you're up for it," he added.
Stiles perked up. "Yeah?" This was a terrible idea. He'd gotten off repeatedly that morning, but then, Stiles was the king of terrible ideas.
Ok he was probably co-king because Scott absolutely shared that throne with him and—
Stiles' brain short circuited as Derek kissed him again, a long, slow, indulgent affair that soon involved tongues and roving hands and—
Stiles sucked in a breath as he heard Derek open the lube with his free hand. "We're doing this then? You're fucking me?"
"If you want," Derek purred.
"Fuck yeah," Stiles said as Derek made use of the lube.
Stiles was acquainted with playing with his ass. Very, very well acquainted. Intimately so. Still, he couldn't help but wonder at how fucking different it felt to have Derek's fingers pressing in.
The first slipped in easily; Stiles had fingered himself open earlier, imagining the way Derek's cock would feel messing up his guts.
He never would have imagined, those scant hours ago, that Derek might actually make that particular fantasy a reality but here they were.
Still, as finger after finger made their way in, Stiles had to wonder just what the fuck Derek was prepping him for.
Maybe he was into fisting?
Derek took his time working Stiles open as he tried to figure out how to broach the topic of a particular aspect of his anatomy that Stiles might not be privy to.
Then again…
"Jesus Christ dude, are you readying me for a knot or something!? Because I'm pretty sure no dick is big enough to need that many fingers," Stiles joked.
Derek gaped. Stiles stilled.
"Wait. Wait wait wait. Is that a thing? Please tell me that's a thing. I swear to god if Scott lied to me—"
"Scott won't get one," Derek corrected. "It's— it runs in my family," like the full shift, though god only knew if Derek were capable of that. He could feel the blush creeping down his face as Stiles grinned.
"How big is it?"
"Big enough," Derek groused.
Stiles waggled his damn eyebrows. Derek wriggled his fingers in retaliation, drawing out some truly unique sounds as Stiles squirmed.
"Dick," said Stiles.
"Fingers," Derek corrected with a smug smirk.
Stiles snorted. "Am I sufficiently stretched or do you wanna spend a couple more hours down there? Honestly it's a miracle your hands haven't cramped."
"Werewolf." Derek could feel the ache start, then soothe as his healing kicked in, sending little shivers down his spine.
Stiles leaned forward and bit him on the meat of his shoulder. Derek grunted, desperately trying to cover just how much he liked it. Stiles shifted to tonguing the tender flesh as it knit itself back together.
"Dude," Stiles' breath skated over damp skin, sending an entirely different type of shiver down Derek's spine. "Watching you speed run the stages of bruising will never get old."
Fuck. Stiles needed to stop talking like that before—
Blunt human teeth pressed against Derek's jugular. Derek instinctually stilled. Stiles worked his way up, biting and nipping and gnawing as he made towards Derek's ear.
Derek's hips jutted forward and, fuck, he pulled his hand free to clutch at Stiles' skin, no doubt leaving bruises of his own.
Fuck it. Stiles was stretched enough. Teeth scraped against Derek's ear, then released as he lifted Stiles by the ass.
"Fuck that's hot," Stiles said as Derek wrangled Stiles into position. Long limbs clutched at Derek, long legs braced against the bed. Derek pushed in.
He watched Stiles, watched his face, watched the way his eyes moved, watched Stiles' mouth, Stiles' tongue. Derek drank in every detail as Stiles slid down along Derek's length, eased greatly by the ambitious fingering.
A string of curses followed Derek's slow, torturous upward movement. Stiles' breath came fast, his heart beat rabbit-quick. Derek could practically taste him as a fresh burst of the hot, salty scent of Stiles' arousal coursed through the room once more.
Derek waited. Derek was a patient man when needed. Not that it was much of a hardship with the warmth of Stiles wrapped around Derek's length. He sat back and enjoy the show as his eyes trailed along every exposed inch of mole-speckled skin.
Stiles though? Stiles wasn't patient.
"Move, damnit," Stiles remanded.
Derek obliged. A strangled, startled noise greeted Derek's ears. Warm hands grabbed Derek's shoulders before wrapping around as Stiles rested his forehead upon Derek's shoulder.
"Fuck," Stiles panted.
"I am," Derek snarked with a particularly rough snap of his hips.
Stiles groaned. "Shit. I— fuck."
Derek snorted. He'd finally found a way to put Stiles at a loss for words. He certainly wasn't complaining either, not as he placed his hands against Stiles skin and pumped, again, again, and again.
More incoherent little expletives littered the air of the room as Derek's sure, steady pace kept Stiles occupied. It kept Derek occupied too, occupied by the smell of him, by the feel, occupied by every sound and breathe breaking free from Stiles' lungs.
Derek chased every little expression of pleasure he could draw forth. He'd imagined, yes, but imagination paled in comparison to hearing the way Derek's name poured from Stiles' lips through utterly fucked-out babble.
Hands tightened against his skin. Blunt teeth scraped against Stiles' shoulder as Derek returned the favor. Stiles' head fell back, an offering, a rare moment of genuine surrender. Derek kissed his way up that long line of skin as blood coursed, so close, so fragile, so virile, so alive. He could feel Stiles' cock slapping against his skin with every thrust. It was all he could do to keep from reaching down to grasp it but the layers of fading come-scent warned him it might be too much.
Another day, maybe.
For today he leaned in close to whisper filthy words in Stiles' ear, words of promise, words that made Stiles whine with want until finally, Derek felt it begin.
His dick pressed up and in as his hands pressed down, impaling Stiles upon Derek's full length. He scented rising panic before Stiles said a word.
"Breathe," he coaxed. "You'll be ok."
"It's so much," Stiles said in a small, terrified voice, "I didn't think it'd be so much."
Derek ran soothing hands along Stiles' back. "I know. You're doing good," he encouraged, "you'll adjust."
Stiles' eyes shut tight as he breathed through, still clinging, waiting for that slow, steady adjustment. Derek talked him through with low whispered words as Stiles' fear and distress slowly but surely ebbed away.
"I swear to got if you tell anyone—" Stiles started.
Derek nipped his shoulder, earning an outraged protest. "Nobody gets to know the details of what I get to do to you. Nobody but me."
"Oh," Stiles said breathlessly. "I— not even Scott?"
Derek growled.
"Come on, he shared all the down and dirty deets about Allison."
A derisive snort conveyed exactly what Derek thought of that.
"Come on, he's basically my brother."
Derek raised an eyebrow.
"You really wanna tell me werewolf siblings aren't all up in each other's business?"
"We don't ask for details, no," Derek said.
Stiles pouted with his whole body and in the process, moved just so. Stiles' eyes lit up.
"Can I, like. Rock myself on your knot or are you too oversensitive?"
Derek gestured to say 'go right ahead' and so Stiles did. He didn't disappoint. Derek would definitely remember this later, the way Stiles wrapped his hand around his own dick, the unabashed way he moved, the warm, firm force of him squeezing and swaying around Derek's knot.
Derek folded his hands behind his head, enjoying the warm, pleasant pressure as Stiles went to town. Finally, finally Stiles spilled across Derek's chest in a warm, wet, sticky stream.
For half a beat Stiles fretted, probably concerned that Derek might be upset. Derek responded by pulling him in for a hard, deep, filthy kiss that left the mess shared between them as sticky streaks coated Stiles' chest and happy trail now too.
Stiles rested his forehead against Derek's in a calm, quiet, intimate moment, the first of many, or so Derek hoped.
Finally, Stiles leaned back.
"So, wait. Like. Did you intentionally set up the whole 'stuck with Stiles in a super small tent' thing? Was this part of your nefarious plan all along? Oh my god it was, wasn't it?" Stiles crowed.
Derek just sat back and smirked.