Archive of Our Own ^beta

His finals are finally over, his notes have been burned courtesy of Erica's lighter, there's an overpriced cocktail in his hand, the music is loud, the bodies are dancing and Stiles… is moping. 

Okay, well not mopin– yeah, no, he's moping. 

Now, you might says: Stiles! Why are you moping? Your finals are over! Your notes have been burned - again, thank you Erica! You've got an overpriced cocktail in your hand! The music is loud! The bodies are dancing! The fuck is your problem? 

Well, the problem is that despite all those aforementioned reasons, and despite having just completed another successful year at Berkeley, being closer to his goal  of becoming an FBI agent, and being one of the only people to try and complete a five year program in four years, Stiles is still a virgin. 

Yes, ladies and gents and lil’ ducks who don't prefer to be genderized, twenty-one year old Stiles Stilinski is a bonafide mystical ✨virgin✨. And he would really like not to be. 

The ironic thing is that Stiles loves to refer to himself a whore. In his friend group, he's the overly sexual one, flirting with all his friends, dropping sexual innuendos left, right and center, and reading enough filthy smut to even bring a flush to Erica's face. And Erica’s a practicing slut (affectionate). Stiles is what he likes to call a theoretical slut. Which, again, he really wants to change.

His friends know of this, though Stiles knows that Scott, his best friend since they were in diapers, wishes he knew less about Stiles’ fantasies. 

However, Stiles is of the opinion that if he had to go through high school listening to Scott wax poetic about Allison’s beautiful breasts, the dimple near her belly button, and the way she clutches at Scott’s hair when she's close, then Scott can hear how Stiles wants to be held down and fucked to within an inch of his life, eaten out till his legs stop holding him up, and cuddled right after being made to cum four times. It’s only fair.

Scott has apologized twenty times for that. Stiles only continues to torment him with even more filthy fantasies.

Anyways, back to the issue at hand. Now, it’s not that Stiles is unattractive. He knows he's good looking. He’s got the cute moles dotting his pale skin, enough muscles to get a few second looks, and a face that has received more than a few interested glances tonight. 

The issue is that Stiles is… picky. Oh, come on! He’s a romantic, alright! Sure, he wants to be fucked senseless until his legs start shaking but he wants to be romanced too! He wants someone who'll be rough and gentle with him. Someone who already knows him and likes his spastic personality enough to want to know him without clothing as well. Someone to… maybe fall in love with him.

And if Stiles is being completely honest, he also wants someone a little older. Hey! He might be a virgin but he knows what he wants. He knows his kinks (god, even the thought of a hand around his throat is making his cock twitch right now), and he’s comfortable in his fantasies. 

So what if his fantasies involve an older man with facial hair and a jaw to cut glass, hmm? What does it matter that he thinks about expressive eyes that can never choose a color, pinning him in place with just a look? Who cares that he dreams about a voice that promises to break him but put him together too, hands that would leave bruises but would dance over his skin with such affection, and bunny teeth that would lave over his nipp– 

Huh… well… that got disturbingly specific. Stiles shakes his head and takes another sip of his mojito, trying to will away the images in his head. Bad idea Stiles! Very bad idea! That particular fantasy is just a recipe for disaster, and in any case, it’s never going to happen so it's not even worth going down there. 

Suddenly a body is pushing its way into the booth and against him, and Stiles has to move his drink so that Isaac’s flailing hands don't knock the whole thing off the table. 

The lanky curly haired boy doesn’t notice, throwing his hands around Stiles and pouting at him. “You're being sad in the club! We're not supposed to be sad at the club!” He yells over the music in an effort to be heard. Given that they have a private booth where the music is not that loud, and he's right next to Stiles' fucking ear drum, Isaac can be heard perfectly. 

Wincing, Stiles rubs at his ear, then tries not to laugh as Isaac attempts to do the same. “Get off me, you weirdo, I'm fine. And I'm not sad, I'm just–”

“PMSing like a bitch?” Isaac asks and then the boy yelps, pulling away from Stiles to rub at his aching head and his thigh. His thigh because Stiles pinched it viciously and his head because Erica has just smacked him soundly upside it.

“That's fucking sexist and I don't care if you were trying to quote the Katy Perry song. Budge over, my feet freaking kill.”

Pouting but moving anyways (and nearly moving into Stiles’ lap, the idiot; Stiles has to move before he lets Isaac settle next to him), Isaac makes grabby hands at Erica and Boyd. “Ooohhh! Gimme gimme!” 

He’s like a child but honestly, Stiles is right there with him. Because Boyd and Erica might be juggling bottles of beer between their fingers but Erica is also clutching a large order of curly fries. How the hell she’s managed to hold onto two bottles, plus a basket of fries, Stiles will never understand but he simply chalks it up to Erica being a veritable goddess. 

Especially when she slides the basket over to Stiles first, smacking Isaac’s reaching hand. “Not for you. And definitely not after that comment! Stilinski gets first pick.” 

Stiles might be moping but when Erica does things like this, he fucking loves her. He says so as grabs a handful. “Have I ever told you I love you?” 

“Not enough times, in my opinion. Fix that.” 

Stiles nods in acquiescence. He can do that, he can totally do that. Right after he shoves fried goodness into his mouth.

“So, why are you PMSing like a bitch?” Erica asks and Stiles promptly chokes on his fried goodness. 

Did he say he loves Erica? He fucking hates her. Vindictive bitch. 

Erica’s grin tells him she knows exactly what he’s thinking but Stiles doesn't get to answer (cause he’s still dying and none of these fuckers are helping) before Isaac’s making an indignant noise. 

“Hey! How come you get to say that?” 

“Cause I’m a woman. We bleed out once a month, our insides get used as bouncy castles when we’re pregnant, and we’re the victims of a male-dominated society. Excuse me if I take my wins where I can get them,” she says, leaning in to kiss Boyd’s cheek as he slides an arm around her. “Love you, baby. Now, where was I? Ah yes, PMSing Stilinski. Spill. What’s going on?” 

Having finally overcome his near-death experience, Stiles swipes at the beer bottle and chugs a bit to clear his throat. When he swallows, he levels Erica with a glare, wiping at his mouth. “Nothing’s going on. I’m just… tired, I guess. We just finished finals today. Give me a break.” 

Erica doesn’t buy it, one perfectly arched eyebrow rising. “Stilinski, I’ve spent the last year in class with you. I’ve seen tired you, it usually involves you forgetting to wear pants, Cheetos in your armpit, and a general aura of death. This right here? This is moping. Try again.” 

Stiles engages in what he calls a battle of wills, staring down Erica. Because he refuses to budge on this. She will not break him, he is impervious to her devious stare, and Stiles will hold the secret of his moping until his very last brea–

“He’s still a virgin,” Boyd cuts in and Stiles squawks, sending the large black man a betrayed look. 

“I told you that in confidence,” Stiles hisses, fist over his heart, “You were never to reveal to anyone my secrets even under pain of death, you heathen!” 

Boyd looks unperturbed (barely anything perturbs the man, if Stiles is being honest). “You told me that right before our Eco finals because you said you really thought you could complete your second year having been fucked once.” 

Erica looks delighted, Boyd continues to look unperturbed (seriously, does he not have another emotion?), and Isaac looks… Isaac is making a slinky dog out of a curly fry. Stiles is on his own. 

Growling, he takes another swallow of his beer. His mojito still sits there but this really does not feel like a mojito sort of conversation, you know? “Yeah, okay fine. I was hoping to get fucked at some point during this year and it didn’t happen and I’m sad about it! Can we move on now?” 

“I thought you went on a couple of dates? You went with - what’s his name - Tyler?” Erica asks, biting into a fry. 

“Theo,” Stiles corrects. “His name was Theo and he was… he was a bad idea. Things moved too fast with him and I just… no. Not him.” 

“What about Jordan? The guy from my Social Justice class? I thought you two hit it off.” Oh, look, Isaac’s back in the conversation, yay. He’s peering up at Stiles through his bangs, which is giving Stiles a headache for some reason, which is why he reaches out to comb the hair back, grinning softly when the tall boy leans into the touch. God, Isaac is affectionate when he’s drunk. 

“Jordan was a nice guy. And yeah, we hit it off. But–” Stiles trails off, pulling his hands back to wrap it around his beer. 

“But…” Isaac prompts, and Stiles sighs. 

Jordan Parrish had been nice. He was a year older than Stiles, funny, cute, a right gentleman, opening doors, paying for their date, even kissing Stiles on the cheek at the end of the night when he dropped him off at the dorms. He was the perfect affectionate boyfriend Stiles was looking for.

But… there was just no spark. Nothing that heated Stiles up from the inside out, nothing that made his head spin, or his breathing deepen. Jordan and he had gone on a total of three dates, and they’d made out once heavily against the side of Jordan’s car before Stiles knew he had to call it quits. Because that kiss was nice but it was just that. Nice. 

And Stiles wanted nice but he also wanted rough. He wanted hands that manhandled him into place, holding onto his neck, pinning him against a wall. He wanted lips that made his extremities tingle, teeth that bites into him and licks away the pain, beard burn that turns his pale skin red with–

Fucking hell. Stop it, brain! 

Chasing a drop of condensation on the glass bottle, Stiles shrugs. “But there was no spark. He was nice but he wasn’t for me,” he explains, and really, Stiles gets the eyeroll he gets from Erica. 

“Stilinski, you can’t afford to be picky when all you want is to be fucked. Just get out there, pick a dick and drop down,” she throws out just as a group of guys wearing letterman jackets (seriously? In summer in Cali?) pass by and one of them, a blonde with a smarmy smirk trains his eyes onto them and winks. 

Stiles ignores the guy, keeping his attention on Erica. “Look, it’s not just about getting fucked, okay? I just… I want the romance of it. I need both: the hard fucking and soft loving. What’s wrong with that?” 

His face must be doing something particularly pathetic if Erica’s smirk softens into something sweet and she leans past Isaac to squeeze Stiles’ hand. “Hey, nothing’s wrong with that. And nothing’s wrong with waiting. I mean, sure, I didn’t wait with Boyd–” 

“That’s because you’re a slut,” Stiles automatically says, and he squeaks when the grip tightens painfully. “Affectionate!” he tacks on quickly, “Always affectionate.” 

The grip lightens and Erica smiles beatifically, ignoring Stiles’ mutter of demon woman. “As I was saying, I didn’t wait with Boyd but I lucked out with him. He gives me both. Maybe your guy just isn’t here yet. Patience, Stilinski, patience.” 

Stiles wants to tell her that he knows exactly where his guy is… but that’s going to open a can of worms he really doesn’t want to deal with tonight. Erica might… maybe sorta kinda know about his crush, but she's the only one and she's not cruel enough to bring it up now. Plus, even she knows it's not a possibility. So, for now, Stiles simply nods and squeezes back. 

“Yeah, okay.” 

Satisfied, Erica falls back in her seat and then thumps the table, effectively toppling the little pyramid Isaac has been building out of curly fries. His indignant cry is quickly forgotten for a happy whoop when she announces, “Okay, come on! We’re a year closer to graduating and we’re here to celebrate! That means shots and dancing! Let’s go! Especially you, Stilinski. You skipped out the first time!” 

She nudges at Boyd, who dutifully gets out and holds out his hand for her (see that? That’s what Stiles wants, okay?) before tugging her up to kiss her filthily (and that. Stiles also wants that). Isaac tumbles out and Stiles follows because if he says no to Erica again, he’ll end up with a stiletto in his jugular. He does empty the last of both his beer and his mojito because fuck if he’s going to waste overpriced alcohol, before following his friends out of the booth and down to the main part of the club.

The Red Wolf is their favorite haunt, one of the nicer clubs that Berkeley has to offer but still affordable enough for a couple of broke ass college kids. Okay, well not that broke: Erica’s the (rebellious) daughter of a politician, Boyd’s got some investment thing that he never explains and Stiles doesn’t ask about, and Isaac sells feet pics successfully. 

Stiles is not judging. He’s not. 

Maybe a little.

Stiles isn't poor either; yeah, he’s here on a full scholarship and his dad might not be raking in dough as Sheriff, but Stiles has a good savings nest that he's been building for a while. Especially after his junior year in high school when Lydia had taken a look at his bank account the one time Stiles forgot to close his laptop, called him an idiot and set down to draw up a savings plan for him. 

So yeah, not broke. But still… it's the principle of the thing. 

Anyway, the club is good and has a large space, easily hosting a mess of tangled bodies on the dance floor, a large wraparound bar that also plays host to a small kitchen that churns out bar food, and a few private booths on a raised dais that have to be paid for. There’s a second floor that houses what Stiles knows are offices. The wall is basically a floor to ceiling window, letting the owner look out at their club but it’s got the feature to turn opaque. Stiles knows cause he once looked up right as it happened. 

But yeah, it’s a good club and he’s now at the bar where Erica pushes two shots into his hand and orders him to drink. Who is Stiles to say no? He downs both shots, licking salt off Isaac’s outstretched hand, then downs another, because why not? Erica’s right: they’re here to celebrate finishing another year! 

By the time they’re on the dance floor, Stiles is four shots in but he’s pleasantly buzzed. He knows the mojito and beer from before probably added to his slightly intoxicated state but he’s fine. He really is! He’s having fun, wedged in with people with Isaac at his back and Erica at his front and Boyd… somewhere? It's fun, and with the strobe lights flashing and bass pumping, Stiles lets himself go lax, losing himself to the thumping music, trying to forget why he was so gloomy in the first place. 

So what if he's still a virgin? So what if he hasn't found someone to love him? He's a year closer to his goal of being an FBI agent and making his good ol’ dad proud. He's got awesome friends both here and back home who love him (shut up Erica, you totally love me!). He's got his health and… some type of wealth and…

And he's got a hand on his ass. 

Now normally, this wouldn't be cause for concern. Isaac, as mentioned before is a very touchy feely affectionate drunk, and Stiles has been on the receiving end of more than a few drunken kisses and a little groping when he’s tried to pour his roommate back into bed at the end of the night. So, if it were Isaac touching his ass right now and grinding a drunken boner into him it would be fine. 

Except… Isaac is not behind him. Isaac is on Stiles’ right, having migrated at some point, his arms looped around Erica's waist and dancing with her, whooping loudly. 

Which means someone else is touching Stiles. And he sure as fuck did not consent. 

Not really wanting to make a scene, Stiles just tries to move forward, breaking the unknown man’s grip on him. It's fine, it’s not the first time it’s happened, all’s good, just another handsy idiot with no respect for boundari–

Stiles is pulled back with hands at his waist gripping tight, and an oily voice calls into his ear, “Now, where do you think you’re going, gorgeous? Come back here, let’s have some fun.” 

Oh fucking hell eww. Who the fuck was this guy? Stiles scowls as he pushes at the man’s hands to turn around. And then he scowls even harder because he recognizes this guy. It’s the blonde douche from earlier and he’s still wearing the fucking jacket despite it being so hot in the club. 

Taking a step back, Stiles puts his hands up in an X, yelling over the music. “Not interested, okay dude? Get your rocks off somewhere else!” Even if the guy can’t hear him, he should understand the ‘no touchy’ zone Stiles is holding in front of himself. 

Turning away from the guy, Stiles tries searching for either Isaac or Erica, both of whom have conveniently disappeared (oh, Stiles is gonna have words with them), when the blonde asshole grips his wrist tight (motherfucker oww) and yanks him back. The floor’s slick with sweat and people’s drinks and fuck knows what else, and Stiles isn't exactly steady on his feet so he stumbles into the fucker’s chest, where said fucker wraps his arms around Stiles, pinning him in place and grinding his fucking boner against him.

Oh, absolutely the fuck not.  

“Let go of me, you fu–”

“Come on, don't be like that. I heard you and your pretty blonde friend earlier. You want a fuck? I can give you that. Make it fucking good for you, fuck my cock right up that virgin ass–”

Stiles doesn't even think, he just reacts. 

His knee comes up and he drives it into the man’s crotch. Hard. The second the guy lets go of him, Stiles is swinging and he catches the creepy fucker right across the jaw. 

His knuckles ache but it's worth it to see the fucker go down with a pained yell, crashing into another group of people. “Learn to take a hint, you fucking asshole! I said no!” Stiles snaps over the sound of screams, very much intent on leaving the pathetic looking shit for brains idiot on the floor. 

Except he’s turned around yet again and before Stiles can do anything, pain explodes across his temple, and he nearly crumples to the ground. He doesn’t, only because there’s another guy in a letterman jacket, looking murderous, and Stiles recognizes him from the group. This one’s got a grip on his shirt, dragging him close, and people are shrieking around them, fuck ow, his head hurts, and Stiles can still hear the man call him a fag and a bitch and a host of other unpleasant names, and there’s a fist coming at him - oh Jesus shit, Stiles is about to get punched aga–

A hand stops the fist coming for his face, and hello, that’s another hand on his shirt. But this one is breaking homophobic-letterman-jacket dude’s grip on him. Painfully. Because, ouch, yeah, that dude’s wrist is definitely broken, and then the hand is tugging Stiles backwards carefully, and oh wow, that’s a firm chest against him, hello to you too. 

He should be mad about more hands touching him but the hold on him now is gentle, just steadying him, which is great because Stiles feels a little woozy. And his head aches, a combination of the drinks, the music, the screaming, and getting punched, and there are two women in front of him, their backs turned to Stiles, and there are bouncers coming over and great, Stiles is about to get kicked out of his favorite club! 

Wait… not him. Oh yay, they’re hauling the douches away - score one for the good guys! 

Then the women turn to face him, and wow, they’re pretty. The one with short brown hair looks dressed for the club: ripped jean shorts, laced up stilettos that look like death traps and a purple sequined bikini top that leaves little to the imagination. The other woman is Asian and is dressed in all black, down to her boots, and she looks like she could stab Stiles with said boots. 

The purple top lady is speaking to him but Stiles can't hear her cause she's too far and honestly, everything is kinda swaying right now and there’s so much happening, he can’t fucking think straigh–

An arm wraps itself around his shoulders, coaxing Stiles to press his face against a chest and Stiles goes because yeah, he doesn’t know this man (and yes, it’s a guy, those are some very firm pecs his face is pressed up against), but this guy saved him and he’s holding Stiles carefully. Like he’s something precious. And Stiles just melts into the hold. 

He presses his face deeper into the man’s shirt, even as he can feel them walking off the dance floor, and he inhales greedily. Because this guy smells amazing. Like something familiar and known. Like leather and paper and pine and something musky, but there's so much perfume and AXE body spray surrounding him that he can’t fucking remember where he’s smelled this before. 

Then his name is being called, and Stiles pulls away from the man’s pecs (booo) to see Erica, Isaac and Boyd all standing near the bar, looking worried (Boyd; aww, he does have another emotion!), out of it (Isaac, the absolutely useless walnut), and… elated (fucking Erica). 

And Stiles is abruptly pissed because what the hell is she smiling about? And where the hell have they been? How could they leave him on the dance floor like that to get molested and then fucking assaulted??!! 

He’s inhaling, about to launch into his perfectly justified tirade, rant and rave about how they’re all dicks and the worst friends ever for leaving him in the middle of the dance floor, when Amazing-Smelling guy shifts and his jawline steps into Stile’s peripheral.  

A very familiar jawline. A jawline he’s been seeing and fantasizing about for a year. A jawline he’s dreamt of kissing. A jawline with a healthy amount of stubble that Stiles has wanted to feel against his skin, between his legs, under his fingers. 

A jawline connected to a face that Stiles knows all too well and what the fuck is he doing here–

Stiles nearly trips as they're moving again, Erica, Boyd and Isaac walking ahead with the two women, but the hands around him keep him steady and upright and there's a huff of breath over his neck, something that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. He kind of wants to turn and scowl but doing that means confirmation and right now, Stiles is still in that I could be dreaming this is all a dream this ain’t fucking real this isn’t happening to me zone, and that is a good zone, it’s a safe zone. It’s a zone where Stiles is absolutely positively not in the hands of the man he's been having sexual fantasies about for the last year. He’s not. 

But he is. 

Because they're being led into that office and the big window that overlooks the club goes opaque at the press of a button, and the door is shut, and the sounds of the club fade away, and his friends are there still staring at him, and there is absolutely nothing stopping the man who saved him from carefully herding Stiles into a comfy couch and then settling in front of Stiles. 

His face is still not in view though. Because Stiles keeps his head down, eyes trained on the carpet. It’s a very interesting carpet, okay! There’s a mysterious stain right there, next to his bright red and white sneakers, and oh, look at that, his shoes are scuffed just lightly, possibly because someone stepped on it… probably Stiles at one point, and wow, isn’t that a complicated pattern on the carp–

“Stiles? Can you look at me, please? I just want to make sure you’re okay.” 

He wants to say no, that’s he’s fine, that his head absolutely does not ache anymore (the pain has dulled a little; shock and a healthy dose of fear probably helped), but there are fingers under his chin, tipping his head up, and Stiles is forced to finally meet the eyes of the man who saved him. 

Derek Hale. 

More accurately, Professor Derek Hale. 

AKA, Stiles’ Professor Derek Hale. 

AKA, the older man Stiles has had in his head, on repeat for the last 365 days, when he stuffed a dildo up his ass and came for the third time in a row, legs shaking.  

Motherfucker. 

Ooo

Derek Hale does not do clubs. He does not do loud music, gyrating bodies, and overpriced drinks. He does not do screaming, and shrieking, or putting his hands up in the air like he just does not care. 

Derek cares. A lot. 

But Derek does do support. And he does do family. And that’s the only fucking reason he’s sitting in this pretentious office, holding a pretentious drink, standing near the pretentious window overlooking this pretentious club that his cousin opened and ran with her girlfriend so that he can celebrate said cousin’s birthday.

“Jesus Christ, you look like someone fucked you with a wooden dildo. And being fucked with a wooden dildo is very pleasureable, I would kno–” 

“Malia!” Derek squawks, feeling a flush rise in his cheeks. 

“Prude,” she teases, and Derek bristles at her. 

“I’m not a prude. I just don’t want to hear of my baby cousin’s sexual exploits. I’ve known you since you were in diapers, Malia,” Derek says pointedly. 

“And now, you’re seeing me again in barely any clothing! Get over it,” Malia tosses back as she leans back in her seat, long legs crossed. “Come on, relax! It’s my birthday! Turn that frown upside down!” 

Just to stick to his guns, Derek scowls harder, but it doesn’t seem to deter Malia who simply grins, tosses him a finger gun and then downs her shot. Scampering up to her feet, and surprisingly not falling right on her face in those fucking death traps she calls shoes, she joins him at the window. 

“You excited to see everyone Sunday?” 

Derek lets out a non-committal grunt, and Malia nudges him in response. Her smile has softened a little, going warm around the edges. “Don’t front. I know you’ve missed them. They’ve missed us too.” 

Beacon Hills isn’t too far from Berkeley but Derek’s been so busy this school year that he’s barely had time to go home and visit, and he knows it's the same for his cousin. Which is why they're flying down on Sunday to celebrate Malia with the rest of the family. Technically, he shouldn’t because he has finals to grade but given that he’s barely used his TA’s this year, Derek doesn’t feel too terrible about asking them to get a headstart on grading. He’s lucky to have good TA’s who like working with him. Derek’s going to miss them next year. 

But he’s missed his family more. The Hales are that type of family where every holiday, you can’t take a step in the house without tripping over a relative. For someone who hates crowds and loud noise, Derek has always loved being at home, surrounded by numerous cousins, well-meaning relatives, annoying sisters, the scent of his mother’s cooking, and the warmth of his dad’s hugs. 

He wouldn’t trade them for anything in the worl–

“You know they’re going to ask you if you’re ready to settle down yet.” 

…maybe he doesn’t have to go down and see his family. There’s always next year. 

Huffing out an annoyed breath, Derek eyes his cousin. “The answer is going to be the same. There is no one and I’m quite happy being single. I enjoy the company of others when I want it and that’s it. I’m happy.” 

He expects that to be the end of it. 

Unfortunately, he’s forgotten that Malia is Peter’s daughter, and his uncle is nothing if not a thorn to Derek’s side. Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. 

Case in point: “That’s a lie and you know it. You’re not happy. You’ve barely gone on any dates this year. I know that because when you used to have a date, you’d call Kira or myself for fashion advice and that has barely happened in the past eight months. The only time I’ve ever seen you happy–”

Immediately, Derek is snapping his neck across to her, burning glare in his eyes. “Don’t.”

“-is when you rant about that kid in your class. The one with the weird name. What was it– oh, yeah. Stilinski.” 

Gritting his teeth, Derek tosses back a swallow of his cocktail. Gah, it’s too sweet. Why the hell was he here, drinking an overly sweet cocktail? Oh, yeah. To celebrate his goddamn menace of a cousin. Derek doesn’t even like her, he’s got other cousins that he likes more. 

That’s a lie. Malia’s his favorite and she knows it. 

At his side, the brunette nudges him again gently. “Come on, you know I’m right. You like the kid. He gets you going like nothing I’ve ever seen before. Non-sexually even.” 

The thing is, she’s not wrong. Stiles Stilinski has gotten under Derek’s skin like nothing he’s ever known in his three years of teaching at Berkeley. 

It’s not that he hasn’t had interesting students before. But the most that ever happened with those students was Derek being pleased to write a letter of recommendation for them or agreeing to a cup of coffee if he ever met them outside of class. 

With Stiles though… oh, Derek would be pleased to write him a letter of recommendation. And he’d agree to a cup of coffee with him too. If the coffee was being drunk at Derek’s apartment. While in bed. With them under the sheets. Preferably naked. 

See the issue here?

It’s a problem, and it’s one Derek has struggled with since the first day of classes when he looked at his attendance roster, saw a star next to a name that had no business being a name, noted that said student was a second year in Derek’s third year course, and then spent the next five minutes trying to figure out how to say the mouthful of consonants. 

He’d spoken to a few of his colleagues who’d had Stilinski in their classes and all of them had nothing but praise for the man, admiring his wit and intellect, yet commiserating on how his snark could get on your nerves. 

So, Derek went into his first day of classes with an idea of who Stiles Stilinski (because that’s what he preferred to go by rather than the Polish monstrosity his parents gave him) was thanks to a quick student search and the word of his peers. 

And then he’d actually met the guy. 

When Derek walked into the lecture hall, he could have rolled his eyes at how every single female and a few males sat upright in his presence. He gets it, he’s attractive. Stiles had done the same, eyeing him up and down, and for the life of him, Derek had no clue as to why he’d felt a twinge of disappointment over this one student eyeing him like a piece of meat. But he’d shaken himself, told himself it didn’t matter, and relegated Stiles to the box of vapid students who chose looks over brains. 

But Stiles, after that initial look-over, had given Derek a run for his money. Stiles asked questions, good questions that had Derek smirking slightly, silly ones to garner a bit of a laugh from the class, and push-back questions when he didn’t agree with something Derek said. He never took Derek at face-value, always ready to debate and counter-argue if it was at all possible. 

Derek liked it. Like him. Stiles was smart, quick on his feet, and unafraid to question the world around him. He was also kind, happily sharing his notes and explaining concepts to his fellow students the few times Derek had seen him around the library or campus. 

It had been so easy to fall for Stiles’ personality that his looks actually came in second. Yes, he was beautiful, with that pale skin, the amber eyes, and the chestnut hair that flopped on his head. 

But Derek liked the way that pale skin would flush red every time Stiles got into a passionate debate with him. He liked the way those eyes would flash, going from amber to chocolate brown under the sunlight as he peered at the power-point slides. He liked the way that hair would stick up in all sorts of ridiculous angles every time Stiles ran a frustrated hand through it as he sat through tests. He liked how that long line of his neck would stretch (fuck, how he wanted to mark that skin, bite down and suck so that a bruise would mar that pale expanse) as Stiles laughed with his whole being. 

But for all that Derek liked Stiles, he knew it didn’t matter. It couldn’t matter. Because Stiles was his student. Even if he put aside their age difference (a mere seven years), the mere idea of starting up a sexual relationship with the guy was insane. Not only would it destroy Derek’s career, but it would tank Stiles’ very bright future with the FBI. 

There was nothing more damaging to a career, especially for one in law enforcement, than a sexual scandal. It wouldn’t matter that it was consensual or that Stiles was of age. All people would see was a student fucking their professor. Forget his top grades, or the fact that Stiles’ will most likely be the one to set the grade curve for their year, or his potential FBI placement next year thanks to glowing recommendation Derek’s going to ensure other professors give the boy - Stiles would have absolutely fucking nothing if anyone even had a hint that he was sleeping with Derek Hale. 

So, it didn’t matter that Derek seemed happier talking about Stiles even though he wasn’t in a relationship with him. It didn’t matter that Stiles had burrowed himself deep in Derek’s heart with his large doe eyes, his upturned smirk, or the easy way he’d grin at Derek as he left the class. It didn’t matter that after this year Derek was probably never going to see Stiles again because Derek only taught third years, and Stiles was going to go to fourth year courses and Stiles was…

…here. 

He’s here. 

Derek blinks, then rubs at his eyes because maybe the strobing flashing lights have gotten to him. But no, that’s Stiles Stilinski throwing back shots with Erica Reyes and Isaac Lahey and another man Derek recognizes but can’t remember the name of. Booth something? 

Heart in his throat, Derek edges closer, watching hungrily as Stiles licks salt off Lahey’s palm, then throws back his shot without a chaser. The mole-speckled man grimaces before dissolving into laughter, and then he’s letting himself be led out onto the dance floor, Lahey at his back and Reyes against his front. 

“What’s caught your attention?” Derek starts a little, having completely forgotten about Malia at his side, and then he jumps again, because now Kira’s next to her as well. 

“When the hell did you get here?” 

Kira smirks at him, wrapping an arm around Malia’s waist and dipping her hand into the woman’s back pocket. “Right when you started staring a little too intently out that window. Spill. Who caught your eye?” 

“No one. I’m just… watching.” Neither of them are happy at the answer, and they crowd Derek, whining at him, something he easily ignores. Malia decides that she’ll simply figure it out herself which Derek is more than happy to let her do. She has no idea what Stiles looks like, and right now, Stiles is wedged smack dab in the middle of the floor with a bunch of people around him so Derek’s gaze can’t be pinpointed. 

So while the two of them search desperately for what caught his eye, Derek is content to simply watch. Were he a jealous man, he’d be incensed at the way Reyes wraps her arms around Stiles’ neck, leaning close enough to brush lips against his pale cheek. But Derek is not a jealous man, and Stiles is not his, so he’s fine. He is. Besides, he knows there’s nothing between them. He’s seen Ms. Reyes plastered against the black man (Barton? It was some stiff snobby name) from before, kissing him hungrily on the quad. 

Then his eyes fall onto Lahey and Stiles… and Derek hates the way his fingers clench around the glass he’s holding. One of Lahey’s hands is curled tight over Stiles’ hip, the other somewhere near his thigh. His entire front is stuck to Stiles’ back, hips moving in a way that is definitely not platonic. 

He might know about Reyes and Stiles not being a couple but Derek has no clue about Lahey’s relationship with Stiles. He knows the two are friends, and that they’re roommates. Lahey isn’t part of Derek’s roster but he’s arrived at the lecture hall to pick Stiles and Reyes up enough times that Derek knows who he is. And he’s seen more than once, the easy way Lahey drapes an arm over Stiles’ shoulder, smacking a kiss against his cheek, or ruffling his hair. 

The touches are innocent and innocuous but they leave Derek aching. Because he wants to be the one touching Stiles like that. He wants to be able to drape an arm over the younger man’s waist, pulling him close enough that Derek can rub the line of his nose up Stiles’ neck. He wants to be able to pull Stiles’ feet onto his lap, holding onto his ankle as they work. He wants to have his head in Stiles’ lap as they lay on the quad, those long bony fingers running through Derek’s hair, pressing against his closed eyes gently just to shield them from the sun. 

Derek wants. And he can’t fucking want because–

“Oh fucking goddamnit. Babe, call security!” 

The harsh snap of Malia’s voice rips Derek from his thoughts and he blinks to see Kira move over to their desk and press a button that he knows alerts their bouncers. 

He’s about to ask what’s going on when movement on the floor pulls his attention, and Derek turns to look at the dance floor. 

The anger that fills him is sharp and hot, and he’s moving without thought, glass slammed down on the office desk, and long legs taking him out of the office and down to the main part of the club. 

He can hear Kira and Malia behind him, Kira calling out for him not to get involved and legally, Derek knows why. He doesn’t work for them, and if things get physical, he’s looking at assault charges. 

Realistically though? Derek is going to kill the blonde bastard that is touching Stiles who is very clearly saying no to the advances. 

He’s just cleared the staircase, forgoing the last three steps in his haste, when he sees Stiles lash out with a knee and a fist, catching the guy clear across the jaw and dropping him. And even through his anger for Stiles, Derek feels arousal and pride thrum in his veins, because Stiles is magnificent and he is capable and…

And someone just fucking decked him. 

Derek is going to rip the fucker apart with his bare hands. 

The crowd parts for him easily, (he might have also pushed people but that’s a problem for Kira and Malia to deal with), and he’s across the floor to stop the fist coming for a very dazed and lightly bleeding Stiles. 

When he’d been a young boy, Derek’s father had said it was important that his kids learn how to protect themselves, and every Hale kid had been put in some sort of self-defense classes. Derek puts those teachings to good use and takes vindictive pleasure in snapping the fucker’s bones, ignoring the scream as he clutches Stiles to his side. 

The blonde fucker from before has clambered to his feet, one hand still around his crotch, and Derek can see more of the idiot’s friends coming through (seriously? Letterman jackets? In this heat? They deserved to get their wrists broken), but Kira and Malia are there then, arms crossed and backed by their security. 

It takes no time for the pissants to be thrown out, and Malia’s turning around, trying to talk to Stiles but Stiles looks very out of it, his eyes glazed over and body slumping into Derek. 

And it suddenly hits Derek, right there on the sweaty sticky dance floor, surrounded by drunk students, that he’s holding onto Stiles Stilinski. 

The baggy hoodie and flannels he prefers to wear in class have hidden the lithe muscle and smooth curves of Stiles’ hips. Pressed against his side, Stiles is just about as tall as Derek is, but slumped as he is now, he comes under his chin. Which means Derek can smell Stiles, that complicated scent of cinnamon, lead, Kool-aid of all things, and just Stiles wafting up his nose. Even with the copious amounts of perfume and AXE body spray, Derek can pick Stiles’ scent so clearly, and he can’t help but inhale deeply. 

Kira’s suddenly at his side and she yells over the music, “Take him up to the office! I have a first-aid kit there!” 

Yes, yeah, office. First aid. Derek can do that. What the hell is he doing, sniffing Stiles like an animal? He’s not a wolf, for fucks sake. 

Shaking his head, he tightens his hold on the younger man and leads him off the floor. Stiles stumbles along the way, even stepping on Derek’s foot once or twice, but he ignores that when he sees Reyes, Lahey, and Reyes’ boyfriend near the washroom hallway. 

Derek scowls at them, even as Reyes opens her mouth. “Professor Ha–”

“Where the hell did you go? You left him alone for some asshat to assault him!” Derek snaps. 

Reyes, as ferocious and snarky as Stiles, doesn’t back down. “Isaac felt sick so I was trying to get him to Boyd so they could go to the washrooms. I was on my way back when I saw what happened.” Her glower takes on an agonized edge though, betraying her worry. “I didn’t mean to leave Stiles alone. It was just for a minute, I swear.” 

Lahey does look a little pukey and shaky on his feet, Boyd (that’s his name!) steadying him with a hand on the shoulder. And Reyes looks all sort of guilty but also… elated? 

Whatever, Derek doesn’t have time to dwell on that. Stiles is frozen in his grip, stiff for some reason, and Derek is worried about that head wound. It’s barely a trickle of blood from what he can see, but still, head injuries aren’t something he takes lightly. 

They get into the office where Malia blocks out the window and ups the brightness of the lights. Derek settles Stiles onto the couch while Kira roots around for the first-aid kit. 

For some reason, Stiles keeps his eyes on the floor, refusing to look up. Derek calls his name out once, twice, and when he gets no response, he shoots Reyes a concerned look before edging closer to the brunette. 

“Stiles?” Fuck, he’s never called him by his first name. It’s always been Mr. Stilinski. But it’s out there now, and Derek can’t take it back. “Can you look at me, please? I just want to make sure you’re okay.” 

And fuck it, he’s already had his hands on Stiles once tonight. Derek slides two fingers under Stiles’ chin and tips his head up and oh… 

Fuck. Fuck fuck fucking Jesus on a goddamn cracker fuck. 

Amber doesn’t even begin to compare what Stiles’ eyes are this close and chocolate is too dark and solid. Too plebian.

No, Stiles’ eyes are… it’s warm honey, liquid and free-flowing, ever moving, never still. It’s whiskey, dark and mysterious, alluring and bewitching. 

Stiles’ doe-like eyes are a vision, captivating Derek, rooting him in place, making him forget how to breathe. 

It’s only Kira’s cough that shakes him, her hand on his elbow as she hands over the first-aid kit. 

Swallowing, Derek chides himself. What the hell is he doing? He’s the goddamned adult in this situation; he’s supposed to be helping Stiles! Not fucking ogling him like a love struck teenager! 

Popping open the first aid kit, Derek asks Kira to get him a glass of water so that he can clean the little bit of blood trailing down Stiles’ temple. Under the better lighting, Derek can see that the head wound isn’t that bad. It won’t need stitches, and once they check Stiles for a concussion, he’ll probably just need painkillers and an ice pack to keep the worst of the aches away. 

He says as much, fingers light over Stiles’ hair, carding through the brown locks - fuck, they’re soft - focus, idiot! “It doesn’t look too bad. You won’t need stitches but you might have a concussion. You got hit pretty hard.” 

Kira’s back with the water and a clean cloth, something Derek takes with a thank you and he gets to work wiping off the dried blood. He doesn’t miss the way Stiles’ shoulders seem to hunch in on himself, jaw clenching. Derek doesn’t know if he’s allowed to feel the frisson of hurt that goes through him at the thought that Stiles doesn’t want Derek touching him. But Stiles hasn’t said anything out loud for now so Derek works quickly. He doesn’t want to make the brunette anymore uncomfortable than he already is. 

Behind him, Reyes steps close enough that Derek can smell her perfume, something floral and spicy. “Shouldn’t we take him to a hospital?” 

For the first time since getting him off the dance floor, Stiles speaks, voice a little hoarse. “No hospitals. I’m fine.” 

Reyes growls a little, stepping into Derek’s peripheral as he roots around for a plaster. “Stilinski.” 

Derek absolutely does not turn around at the little gasp of delight Malia lets out. In all the times he’d ever talked about Stiles, he’d never used the man’s first name so when he’d said it out loud earlier, she wouldn’t have known. But she does know the name Stilinski. And she is not going to shut up about it the second she gets him alone. Goddamnit. 

“I’m fine, Erica. Just a bit dazed, I swea–” Stiles cuts himself off as Derek smoothes a plaster over the wound, his thumb pressing down gently. 

“There. We should check you for a concussion.” Derek reaches out, only meaning to peer into Stiles’ eyes to make sure his vision has cleared but the way Stiles flinches back has his hand dropping. As well as his heart. 

Fuck, Stiles really does not want Derek touching him. 

Tamping down the hurt, Derek gets to his feet and backs away, very pointedly not looking at Malia as Stiles also rises to his feet, albeit a little shakily. “I’m fine, I’m not concussed. I just need to go home and rest.” 

Stepping up beside him, Reyes crosses her arms, one long red fingernail tapping at her bicep, and her face… her face promises nothing but mischief. 

Something Stiles must recognize because he narrows his eyes at her. Before he can say anything though, Reyes speaks, “I don’t think you should be alone tonight. Okay, fine, you’re not concussed but you still got hit on the head. And you got violated. You’re high on adrenaline right now and when you crash, it’s not going to be pretty. You should have someone stay with you.” 

Reyes isn’t wrong, and Derek is remembering why she’s one of his favorite students after Stil– 

“Professor Hale can stay with you.” 

…Derek is going to fail her. 

Stiles’ mouth has dropped open, wordless spluttering falling from his lips, and it’s only sheer dumb luck that Derek’s jaw isn’t agape too. In fact, he has to clench down on his teeth as Reyes turns to him, eyes bright and wicked. “Professo– Derek, can I call you Derek? We’re off campus and you’re not my professor anymore, I’m calling you Derek. Derek, can you help take care of Stiles? Boyd and I are already going to have our hands full with Isaac, and I’d hate for anything to happen to Stiles just because we weren’t there.” 

“Isaac needs both of you to take care of him?” Stiles finally manages to hiss out, and Reyes turns to him, lips upturned in a devious smirk. 

“Yup. One to hold his hair and one to hold his hand. It’s a tedious job, you know.” 

“Erica,” Stiles snarls out, but the blonde woman is looking at her wrist, exclaiming at the time, and herding her friends out. Her bare fucking wrist. Boyd is basically carrying Lahey who offers a feeble wave before they disappear out of the office, and Reyes leaves but not without a last kiss to Stiles’ cheek and a whispered conversation that ends with Stiles muttering death threats. 

Left alone with Malia, Kira and Derek, Stiles shifts from foot to foot, looking uncomfortable. “Look, you don’t have to stay with me. I fucking live with Isaac, those idiots are going to be there and–” 

“Your friend Erica is right. If they’re busy taking care of Isaac, then they won’t have time to worry about you. Derek can take you back to his place!” Malia says brightly. 

Did Derek say she was his favorite? He lied. Malia’s getting fucking coal for Christmas. And a bad review on Yelp. One star!

Beside her, Kira is fighting a smile, and Derek decides he hates both of them. The worst friends, seriously. 

But Derek isn’t going to put Stiles in this position. The man is obviously not willing to be anywhere close to Derek so Derek is more than ready to offer him an out. “He isn’t comfortable with me, so let’s not pu–” 

“That’s not… no, I’m fine with you, Profe– sir? Mr. Hale? I don’t know what to call you, sorry, but it’s not that I’m uncomfortable, I just don’t want to inconvenience you, you know. You’ve got better things to do on a Friday night than to take care of one spastic ner–” 

“You’re not an inconvenience, Stiles. And uhh… you can call me Derek. We’re off-campus. I’m more than happy to help. It’s just one night. My place has a pull out couch that’s pretty comfortable.” Oh, be still his stupid beating heart, be fucking still. 

Damn, it’s good to hear Stiles rambling again, his silence from earlier had unnerved Derek. Not that he hasn’t seen a quiet Stiles; it happens when he’s in the library and busy studying. But even then, Stiles is on the move - fingers drumming, pen cap in his mouth (and hasn’t that spawned some NSFW thoughts), legs twitching under the table. 

The quiet, still Stiles from earlier was different, wrong, and it had made Derek ache to see this boisterous young man be stifled like that. 

Stiles still doesn’t look sure but he’s nodding, and then he startles suddenly when Malia claps her hands together. “Well then! That’s settled! Also, Mr. Stilinski, on behalf of The Red Wolf, my girlfriend and I would like to offer you our apologies for the incident that took place on the floor. The club has cameras so if you’d like to press charges against that man, we’re more than happy to provide the footage. You and your friends can come here anytime, drinks are on the house for your next visit.” 

Turning to Derek and wrapping a hand around Kira to tug her out of the office, Malia says, “And Derek, if that asshole tries pressing charges for assault, I have it on camera that he went after Mr. Stilinski first, so it’s nothing but self-defense. Now, Kira and I have to show our faces downstairs, so lock up, and I’ll see you on Sunday, cuz!!” 

With that, she’s out the door, pulling Kira with her who offers a quick goodbye. 

And then there were two. 

There’s silence for a moment and then Stiles ventures, “She’s your cousin?” 

“Yes.”

“And that’s her girlfriend.” 

“Yes.” What is Stiles getting at?

Another beat of silence, and then, “The thought of them together is both arousing and terrifying.” 

Derek can’t help it. He barks out a laugh, and sees Stiles jerk at the sound. Can’t blame him for being surprised, it’s not like Derek spends his days on campus laughing. He’s there to teach, damnit! Mould the young minds! Think delicious thoughts about Stile– Jesus Christ. 

Clearing his throat, Derek shifts in place. “Are you sure about this? I can drop you home right now, if you’re uncomfo–

“No, I’m…” Stiles takes a deep breath, clenches his fingers into fists, then exhales. “Erica’s right. I shouldn’t be alone and honestly, if there’s anyone who should check to make sure I’m okay, it should probably be the guy who saved me, yeah?” 

…well… can’t argue with that logic.

So Derek nods, and hates the way traitorous hope blossoms in his chest, hates the way his mind now conjures up images of Stiles in his home, in his bed. “Follow me, then.” 

And he definitely hates it when Stiles follows without another word, close enough that Derek can feel his heat. 

Fuck, it’s going to be a long night. 

Ooo

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH I’m going to kill Erica, AAAAAAAHHHHHHHH going to murder her AAAAAAHHHHHH gonna break her red lipstick AAAAAAHHHHHHH fucking useless group of friends AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH leaving me with Derek Hale AAAAAAAHHHHHH oh my god I’m in Derek Hale’s house AAAAAAAAHHHHHH I’m in Derek Hale’s clothes AAAAAHAHHHHHHH I’m in Derek Hale’s bed AAAAAHHHHHHH fucking hell Erica I love you AAAAAHHHHHH but I’m still going to kill you AAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH, is basically the loop of thoughts going on in Stiles’ mind as he settles onto the very soft bed. 

Screaming has featured quite heavily in Stiles’ thoughts since the confirmation that it was his professor - okay, ex-professor - who’d saved him from those letterman-jacket douchebags. 

And it continued on as Derek led him to his car, a sleek as hell, sexy as fuck black Camaro, and were Stiles not mid-freak out, he’d worship and coo over the car for the beauty she is. As it is, he only managed a wide-eyed look when Derek opened the door for him and ushered him into the leather interior. 

The mental screaming and murderous threats didn’t stop as Derek drove to his high-rise condo in the nicer area of Berkeley, as the man held the door for him as they got into the building, and when they finally entered the spacious apartment. 

The screaming abated just a little so that Stiles could marvel at the cityscape before him. The apartment has floor to ceiling windows and is high enough that no one can look in, unless someone’s pressed right up to the glass. But that also means that the city is spread out, lights twinkling bright as Stiles watches, like a benevolent god from up above. 

The screaming picked up again when Derek offered the use of his en-suite bathroom so that Stiles could shower off the sweat and dirt of the night, the screaming continued as Stiles washed up with Derek Hale’s fucking bodywash (that’s why he smells like pine; oh dear god, Stiles is going to smell like pine now!), and went on when he stepped out to see a brand new toothbrush and clothes left for him on the counter. 

It’s a pair of sweatpants that Stiles has to roll three times to make sure they stay on his hips, and an I Love Lucy t-shirt that’s so soft from the wash that Stiles immediately burrowed his face in it to inhale. And then screamed. Internally, of course. 

In the bedroom, Derek had turned down the covers, another set of clothes in his hand. The tips of ears were adorably pink as he told Stiles that he’d put his clothes in the wash, offered painkillers and a glass of water, then told Stiles to take the bed because he was the guest. Despite Stiles’ vehement protests, the older man would hear none of it, turning just the slightest bit stern as he pointed his finger to the bed and essentially ordered Stiles into it. 

What was Stiles supposed to do? Say no?? Does he look like an idiot? (No one fucking answer that.) 

But yes, now he’s under the covers, in Derek Hale’s clothes, wrapped in Derek Hale’s blankets, surrounded by Derek Hale’s scent. The man himself had finished up in the ensuite, wished Stiles goodnight, said he’d come to check on Stiles every few hours, and then left, door closing shut in his wake. 

That had been two hours ago. The time on his phone says a damning 2:45am and despite the exhaustion he feels in his body, Stiles hasn’t been able to sleep. Again, he is surrounded by the very essence of Derek Hale. He’d like to see anyone try and fucking sleep when they’re being constantly buffeted by the scent of leather and pine and fucking musk. 

The thing is, Stiles still feels too keyed up. He’s already tried the sheep counting thing, tried to sing the entirety of Bohemian Rhapsody from memory, even tried jogging in place as softly as possible to maybe tire himself out. Nothing has worked. He just feels too wired. 

So he checks his phone for ideas. There has to be something he can do to fall asleep, anything to make his body all loose-limbed and pliant and– 

The thought hits him even before he sees it on his phone. 

And then Stiles shoves the thought away. 

No, absolutely not. He is not going to rub one out in the middle of his ex-professor’s bed! That’s illegal! Okay, not illegal, but definitely immoral! Unethical! Uncalled for! Things that mean bad and a stupid terrible fucking idea! 

…and yet… 

Stiles is not going to deny that he’s been just the slightest bit turned on from the time Derek saved him in the club. What, he has a thing for hunky men who swoop in, okay? Not that Stiles can’t handle himself - second douchebag punching him notwithstanding - but he’s not averse to being a little of a damsel in distress. He likes it when people take care of him. And Derek has been taking care of him since tugging him off the dance floor. His fingers were gentle and soft as they’d probed the cut, feeling for bumps, carding through his hair, even putting that plaster on him. Even walking him to the car, Derek had a hand on the small of Stiles’ back, tiny pinpricks of heat that Stiles could feel through his shirt. 

God, all that touching. It had made Stiles feel things. Horny things. And he’d had to step back once or twice because he was 99% sure that if Derek touched him, even just to check for a concussion, Stiles was going to pop a very ill-advised boner in that office. 

But he’s popping a boner now. Stiles sends his dick a very traitorous look but he can’t blame the poor thing. Again, surrounded by Derek Hale. It can make a dick do very stupid things. 

Like chubbing up slowly, hardening under the cotton. Stiles bites at his lip as he shifts, feeling the head of his cock scrape at the fabric. 

Fuck, would it really be that bad to rub one out (yes! - Shut up, brain!)? Stiles could do it really quickly and then wash up. And he could use the tissues on the side of the bed to catch anything. And he could totally shove his face into the pillows to make sure he couldn’t be heard! 

His fingers are already moving, trailing down his chest, flicking over a covered nipple, until it reaches the waistband of the sweats. There’s just the slightest bit of hesitation, one second where Stiles condemns himself for being the horniest and most unethical fucker alive… and then he’s plunging his hand in to grip his cock. 

The first tug is a little dry, with only a bit of pre-cum at the head, so Stiles spits into his palm before going in again. He sighs as the smoother slide, melting a little into the mattress. 

Normally, he'd watch a little porn, an old classic fave of a pale twink being railed over a couch by a bearded man (yes, he knows the implications - shut up!), their moans and the slap of skin aiding his own movements. But honestly, Stiles is wound up enough that he doesn't need that today. 

Today, he has the musky scent of Derek Hale permeating his nose as he tightens his grip on his cock. Today, he's got the memory of Derek Hale holding him close, lips close to Stiles’ cheek, as he protects him. Today, he's got the sound of Derek Hale’s growling, the feel of it rumbling in his chest, vibrating through Stiles. Today, Stiles has all of that and he’s pushing the sweats down to let his cock spring free, the head red and wet. 

His second hand tugs up his shirt, the cool air of the room sending goosebumps across his skin, pebbling up his nipples. Stiles pinches one nipple, abusing the little nub, breath escaping him in a gasp as the sting of pain sends arousal pooling in his belly. 

Licking his palm, and uncaring of the musk he tastes, Stiles wraps his hand back around his cock, and starts up a steady pace, turning his head to one side so that he can press his face into the pillows. Fuck, everything smells so good. It's masculine and perfect and Stiles wants to smell it every goddamn day. 

Tightening his grip, Stiles adds a twist to his strokes, thumb pressing over the cock head with every downstroke. Spit and pre-cum quickens his pace, and he's panting, blankets kicked off him, lip caught between his teeth and he's so close, so  fucking close, please please plea–

“What are you doing?” 

Stiles screams, grabbing at the blankets to cover himself but it's for naught. There's enough light from outside that everything in the room is perfectly visible even without the lights on. But add that to the fact that Derek has the bedroom door open, where the hallway light spills in, shedding more than enough light in the room, there's no mistaking what Stiles was doing. 

Oh god. Oh fuck, how long has Derek been standing there? Did he see? Fuck, of course he saw, oh god, Stiles is dead, so very very dead, he's going to have to drop out and move to Mexico. Or Timbuktu. Maybe a tiny island in Australia. Do they have tiny islands in Australia? Doesn't matter - just someplace where Derek Hale can never see him again, because Jesus fucking Christ, Stiles was masturbating in the man’s bed! 

After said man told him that he'd come by to check on Stiles!! 

Fuck fuck fuck Derek was going to kick him out or probably kill him - wait would he kill Stiles? He's a professor, he probably doesn't want that on his conscience or to tarnish his reputation. But he is a consultant for the FBI and oh dear god, they can make a person vanish and fuckity Christ, Stiles is gonna vanish - oh fuck, he has to make sure Scotty checks on his dad and he hopes people come to his funeral and someone says nice things about him because Stiles is? was? a good person - masturbating in his crush’s bed aside - and he hopes there are tears and– why the fuck is Derek Hale still staring at him?! 

The man has remained frozen in the doorway, one hand clutched on the knob, the other hidden behind the wall, and he's just there, looking at Stiles. Planning his demise? Wondering if he should fail him? Kick him out of the apartment? What the hell is he thinking?? 

Then Derek takes a step into the room and his voice sounds hoarse when he asks again, “Stiles. What were you doing?” 

And Stiles snaps because he's been panicking and he definitely forgot to take his Adderall yesterday because his mouth opens and words fall, “I’m a goddamn virgin who's horny after being saved by the man I've been crushing on for the past year and wearing his clothes and sleeping in his bed - what the fuck do you think I was doing??” 

And now Stiles is panicking again because why the fuck would be blurt that out? God, this is why he hates painkillers, it makes his brain all floppy and his lips all loosey and he says shit like loosey lips and word-vomiting about his crush on Derek Hale and… why is Derek Hale walking closer to him? 

“You… you have a crush on me?” 

Any man with survival instincts would clam up and refuse to speak. Stiles, apparently, does not have those instincts (and he's going into a program where they entrust him with a gun and the safety of the people goddamnit). 

“Have you seen yourself? You're like a veritable specimen of a man. A marble status brought to life by gods. Of course, I have a crush on you.” 

For some reason, Derek’s face falls lightly and he pauses halfway into the room. “Oh. You like me cause I'm hot.” 

Stiles would roll his eyes if he weren't half naked and his heart wasn't beating twenty times faster than the average amount. “No, that's only like 35% of it. Okay, maybe 45%. But the rest 65%... wait, fuck math, I hate math, hundred minus forty-five is… fifty-five! Yeah, the remaining 55% is just you. Like how you tell us you won't ever give extensions but I know for a fact you extend deadlines for Whittemore because he was going through something with his boyfriend. Or the fact that you know every single one of our names, even though I have had professors for the last three years who still get my nickname wrong. Finstock still calls me Biles when he sees me walking by. Oh, and let's not forget about the fact that when you laugh it's the most amazing thing in the world to me because you look so fucking happy, and I'm kind of obsessed with your bunny teeth which is a weird thing to say about a man who is older than yo–”

“Stiles?” Oh, he's closer. When did Derek get closer?

“Uhh, yeah?” Wow, he's close enough to touch, should Stiles move? No, he's not moving, his ass is bare on this bed! 

“Shut up.”

Well, that's kinda mean but also valid and, oh, Derek Hale is touching him now, his hands on Stiles’ cheeks and… they're kissing. 

They're kissing?! 

Oh, fucking hell, they're kissing! 

It takes Stiles a solid forty-eight seconds to get his brain into gear, during which Derek’s grip loosens just that bit, like he's going to pull away, and fuck no, that's not happening. 

Stiles grips the front of Derek's shirt and kisses back, sucking on that lower lip, feeling heat sizzle through him as stubble scrapes against him. Derek lets loose a noise that rumbles through Stiles in the best way and he shivers, moaning a little as Derek slides a tongue in against his own. 

God, Stiles has been kissed before but never like this. Never like he's the air someone's been desperate to breathe. Like he's the oasis in the middle of the desert. Like he's everything they've ever wanted and now that they have him, he'll never be let go. 

The sheer desperation of it makes Stiles light headed. Though that might also be the lack of air. But when he pulls away to breathe, Derek doesn't let go of him. He snakes his lips over Stiles’ jaw, nipping at him, laving his tongue over the bites, and when he gets to Stiles’ neck, Stiles nearly arcs off the bed at the teeth that clamp onto him and suck. The sound that leaves his lips is hedonistic, hands grappling for support over Derek's bicep, whether to pull him closer so that Derek can press him into the bed, or push him away because fuck if he does that again, Stiles is going to come untouched. 

Stiles is holding onto him to yank him closer because god, he's so close again, Derek just needs to brush against him the right way, please fucking hell please– and Derek is pulling away, what the fuck, no!

Stiles even verbalizes it, in case his whine is misunderstood. “What the fuck, no! Come back, why are you–” 

His reaching hands are gripped tight and pressed to the bed, not enough to hurt but just to keep him in place. “Stiles,” Derek says, sounding wrecked, and fuck, if that doesn't do things to Stiles. God, yes he wants to hear his name like that again, preferably with Derek over him, in him, fucking him deep and slow into the matt–

“We can't do this. I can't do this.” 

It's like ice cold water over him, freezing Stiles in place, his heart dropping somewhere near his feet. “What?” 

Derek lets go of him to sit back, and he looks so fucking… repulsed, that Stiles feels sick. Fuck, he just took advantage of his professor! Okay, fine, ex-professor. And okay, fine, his ex-professor kissed him first. But he must not have meant to do that because god, the way Derek’s looking at him, like he can’t believe he ever put his hands on fucking Stiles Stilinski… it hurts something terrible and fierce, and all Stiles wants to do is curl up and cry. 

But not in Derek’s bed. Because that would just add to the lousiness of this clusterfuck of a situation. Fuck, he needs to get out of here, he needs to go home and fall into Erica’s arms and cry and have her whisper that she’ll hurt anyone who made him cr– 

“I’m sorry, Stiles.” And fuck, how did it become worse? How is Derek the one apologising when it should be Stiles begging for forgiveness for violating the man–

“I shouldn’t have done that. It didn’t– fuck, I couldn’t help myself, because the sight of you in my bed, fucking touching yourself because of me - god, do you have any idea what you do to me, Stiles? What I want to do to you? I– fuck, you make it so hard to control myself.” 

…wait…

What the fuck? 

Derek’s still talking, running an agitated hand through his hair. “I want you so much, it fucking kills me. But I can’t do this to you. I can’t– you’re my student, Stiles. You… you’ve got such a bright future ahead of you, I can’t be the one to ruin it just because I have no control.” 

What the fuck? 

“Hold on,” Stiles rasps out, fingers still clutched in the blanket, and traitorous fucking hope blooming somewhere in his chest. “You… you want me?” 

Derek looks at him, uncharacteristically flustered, eyes still bright in the low light. “I… yes.” 

“And you’ve wanted me for how long?” 

“A while.” 

“How long is a while?” 

“... third week of your first semester.” 

Stiles blinks. Derek blinks back at him, looking forlorn. Stiles blinks again. 

And then he explodes.

“Are you fucking kidding me? You’re telling me we could have been kissing for the last eight-ish months? What the hell, Derek!” 

Now it’s Derek’s turn to blink. “Stiles… you’re my student, I couldn’t–” 

Stiles shakes his head, incensed. “Okay, fine, maybe not for the past eight months. But why the fuck are you stopping now? You want me. It’s very fucking obvious I want you, I was jerking myself off into your sheets, so what the fuck is the problem?” 

Derek’s starting to look a little annoyed but Stiles doesn’t care. “For the last time, you’re my stud–” 

“Ex-student! The year is literally over, your TA’s are grading my papers - I know that because Liam told me how happy he was that you were letting him do it - there is literally no reason you should not be fucking me into the mattress right now.” 

Oh dear god, is Derek Hale blushing? He is, isn’t he, he’s totally blushing! And when Stiles isn’t mid trying to convince his crush to fuck him, he is totally going to coo over how adorable the man is. 

But for right now, he has other issues. Mainly, getting Derek Hale to fuck him until Stiles can’t remember his own name. 

“Stiles, I’m older than you–” 

“I like older men.” Stiles counters right back, “And you’re not that much older, seven years is nothing. Hugh Hefner is banging women twelve years younger - that’s an age difference, if there ever was one!” 

“Your first time shouldn’t be–” 

And now Stiles is a little pissed because not wanting him is one thing, but using his lack of experience as an excuse is something he won’t tolerate. Which is why he reaches out to grip Derek’s t-shirt, shaking him a little as he scowls. 

“If you’re going to use bullshit excuses to cover up the fact that you’re being a coward, I don’t want to hear it.” 

Derek glares back, tone going defensive. “It’s not bullshit, I just don’t want to hurt you–” 

“You won’t. If there’s anyone who I’d ever trust for my first time, it’d be you.” 

Derek falls silent then, and Stiles releases his grip but doesn’t stop touching Derek, leaving his hand against the man’s chest. “Look, I want this. I want you. And you want me. It doesn’t have to be complicated if we don’t make it. I’m not…” 

And oh… oh, fuck, Stiles is going to say it. He’s going to say what he shouldn’t say because saying it is only going to hurt himself. He says it anyway. “I’m not asking you for a relationship if that’s not what you want. You don’t have to wine and dine me or be my boyfriend or hold my hand or anything romantic like that - I’m not going to ask you for more than what you’re willing to give. And if it’s fucking me into the mattress and making me experience something amazing… then give me that. Give me something we both want.” 

If Erica were to hear him, she’d rage at his stupidity, because of course Stiles wants a relationship with Derek. He’s wanted one ever since the first time he made Derek laugh and those bunny teeth came out. He’s wanted one since the day he saw Derek speak to a pregnant student on the quad, sitting on the grass cross-legged while playing with her other kid. He’s wanted one since the day Derek asked to see him for a minute after class, on a day that Stiles was not doing so well because he was still recovering from the flu, and Derek told him not to worry about the assignment he had due and handed over cold medication he apparently just kept him at all times.

Stiles wants a relationship and he wants sex with Derek Hale but if all he gets is this one night, then fine. So be it. 

Shifting forward so that he can get both hands onto Derek, cupping the man’s cheeks and stroking over his jaw with his thumb, Stiles pleads one last time. “Please, Derek? Please give me this.” 

There’s silence for a minute. A long minute where Stiles’ heart beats faster than a jackrabbit, sweat beading on his brow, his entire being laid out at Derek’s feet. 

Then Derek lets out this noise, something pained and fond and exasperated all at once, before he reaches up to hold onto Stiles’ wrists. “Fuck, you drive me crazy.” 

And before Stiles can ask whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing, Derek is surging forward, capturing his lips in a bruising kiss, pushing Stiles backwards onto the bed, and yeah… that’s a very good thing. 

The mattress hits his back and the air rushes out of him in a huff but Stiles doesn't care about breathing, not when Derek is trying to see just how far he can stick his tongue down Stiles’ throat, while the man’s hands are dancing up and down Stiles’ side. He vaguely realizes that Derek wants the shirt off and yup, yes, Stiles is so on board with that plan. 

He leaves the deliciousness that is Derek's lips long enough to tug the t-shirt off himself properly, and then he whimpers because Derek falls onto the new expanse of skin with a vengeance. He's nipping and licking, tracing the moles dotted down Stiles’ chest with his tongue, leaving new marks with his teeth, until Stiles is nearly in tears because fuck, he's so turned on, and Derek hasn't even touched his cock. 

And then the blankets are gone and suddenly, Stiles is bare ass naked in front of Derek Hale. 

He's naked and Derek Hale is just staring at him. Stares long enough that Stiles feels little tendrils of anxiety crawl up his spine. 

Because it just hits Stiles that he's about to sex with Derek Hale. He's about to sleep with the man he's been kinda sorta maybe falling for, and Stiles is… shit, he's scared. 

Yes, he wants this, don't get him wrong, but this is something Stiles has built up in his head for so long… what if… what if he's not good? What if Derek doesn't enjoy himself? It's all well and good to drop filthy innuendos but to actually do the deed, to be intimate in that way… Stiles is– fuck, he wants this to be good, he wants them to enjoy, he wants– oh, god, don't get emotional! Fuck! 

He turns his face away to push it into the pillows, drawing his legs closer, hoping that Derek hasn't seen his distress. 

But Derek has, and he's there, moving so that he isn't hovering over Stiles anymore but at his side, and a hand touches his open cheek, cupping the jaw. “Stiles? Hey, we can stop this right now if you're not ready–”

“That's not it,” Stiles whispers, still keeping his face partly hidden, vision obscured by the pillow. He feels Derek stroke his cheek, waiting patiently for Stiles to find the words. “I… I want this, I do. But… what if… what if I'm not good enough. For you? I want you to enjoy yourself and I don't have enough experie–” 

“Stiles.” And Stiles has to cut himself off because no one has ever said his name like that, like it's a prayer. Like its devotion.  

He shifts his head enough to peek out, and feels something warm and wiggly in his chest at the absolute fondness in Derek's face. “Sweetheart, is that what you're worried about? That I won't enjoy myself?” 

“It's a valid worry! I know you’ve slept around before - which is so fine, no slut shaming here - but I'm– I just want it to be good fo–”

The hand on his cheek coaxes his head out completely and then Derek is kissing him again. Not in desperation. But like Stiles is something to be revered. To be worshipped. Savoured. It's sweetness and affection, benediction and praise all rolled into one. It makes Stiles melt into the mattress, his body uncoiling and arms coming up to wrap around Derek’s shoulders pulling him closer. 

They kiss like that, slow and unhurried until Derek pulls back to nip softly at Stiles’ jaw. His thumb strokes Stiles’ cheek, and he's smiling softly, in a way that makes it difficult for Stiles to breathe. 

“Stiles, what we do is going to be amazing. For me. And I will make it amazing for you. I promise. I've wanted you for so long and now that I have you… fuck, sweetheart, there isn't anything that you could do that would make me not want you. You… you have no idea what you do to me, Stiles. What you make me want to do to you–” 

“Tell me then,” Stiles whispers, because despite the gentle way Derek is holding him, there's something wild and wanton in his gaze, something that makes heat pool deep in his belly, makes his cock twitch with interest. “Tell me what you want to do to me. Please.”

Something like a growl explodes out of Derek's chest and he drops his head to mouth at Stiles’ neck, marking the skin. “Fuck, fuck, I want to taste you. Want to see if you taste the way you smell. Been wanting to push those legs apart, lick up your cock, swallow you down as you cry for me to stop. And then, just when you're about to come, I'd stop. I wouldn't leave you wanting though baby, I wouldn't do that to you. I'd lick down, all the way down to your little hole that's never been touched, that's all mine. Slide my tongue in, fuck it into you until you were wet enough to take my finger. Would you like that, Stiles? Would you like my fingers?” 

Oh, Stiles can't breathe. He can't do anything but whine, clutching at Derek as the words wash over him. Fuck, he wants it, wants all of that. “Please, Derek– yes! Yes, all of it! I want– just touch me! Please!” 

He tugs at Derek’s shirt, wanting it off, wanting to feel him against his skin. Derek complies, ripping it off and throwing it somewhere behind him. His shorts follow too, and before Stiles can cry in pleasure at the brief friction against his cock, Derek is gone, sliding down his legs, and settling in between the vee of Stiles’ thighs.

Stiles feels a puff of air hit his cock, and he twitches, a whimper caught in his throat. Then Derek leans in to inhale deep, the line of his nose brushing against the dark curls that frame Stiles’ cock. “God, you smell so good here. Been dreaming about this - fuck, I've stripped my cock raw here just imagining how you'd taste.”

Stiles doesn't even have time to dwell on the fact that Derek has masturbated to the thought of him before there's a long line of wet heat being licked up his cock and he nearly arcs off the bed with a cry. 

Derek holds him down with an arm across his hip which is a good thing because he suckles at the wet head, tonguing into the slit, and Stiles writhes over the sheets, fingers scrambling for a hold. 

Stiles has no idea if Derek has slept with men before but he certainly sucks cock like he has. Derek licks him until spit runs down his balls, over his perineum and down to the sheets, and then he swallows Stiles down to the root, until the head is hitting the back of Derek’s throat. Hands grip Stiles’ ass, having slid under at one point, and it's almost like he urging Stiles up, encouraging him to fuck Derek's throat. 

It’s slobbery and it’s messy and it’s fucking loud, the wet sucking noises obscence in Derek’s bedroom, and it’s more than enough for Stiles to curl his fingers into Derek’s hair and tug in warning, pleas and moans falling from his lips. “I’m gonna– Derek, fuck so go–ahh fuck, yes, just like that, don’t stop, please don’t– fuck I’m so clos– Derek, please let me cum, please!” 

He’d been right on the edge earlier, so close to painting his hands white and with a plan to cover up his illicit activities as silently as possible. But now, Stiles cums with with a loud scream, fingers tightening in dark locks as Derek ignores his warnings and drinks him down, swallowing every last drop. The aftershocks run through him even as Derek pulls off with a wet pop, licking at Stiles’ cock to ensure nothing has been wasted, and then at his own lips, and it’s too much for Stiles. 

He’s yanking Derek closer, desperate to taste himself on the man, and the moan that rips through him at the press of their lips is enough to make his cock twitch again. As they part, Derek smirks at him, looking all sorts of smug and satisfied. “I was right. You taste fucking delicious.” 

And Stiles, who is all about equal opportunity, thinks it’s time he had a turn. “Do I get to taste you?” 

“Do you want to?” 

Stiles looks at Derek like he’s stupid, and rather than answering, he falls back onto the mattress, hands curled Derek’s impressive ass (motherfucker, this guy is firm everywhere) to tug him forward. Derek gets the hint, his eyes going molten as he knee-crawls, until his thighs bracket Stiles’ head and Derek’s equally impressive cock is staring Stiles in the face. 

Lord in heaven, did he save a nun in a past life? Maybe he helped bring down Hitler. It’s the only explanation as to why Stiles has been gifted with this: Derek Hale leaning over him, one hand braced against the headboard, the other wrapped around his veiny dick, pumping it with long languid strokes. 

“Go as slow as you need to,” Derek says above him, shifting forward just that bit more, close enough that Stiles could move his head up and lick. “There’s no rush.” 

Agree to disagree. Stiles is very much in a rush to taste Derek Hale, like he’s been wanting to for months. 

But he stays put, waiting as Derek fists his cock again and then lets that bulbous head tap against Stiles’ cheek and the seam of his lips. When Stiles lets his mouth fall open, Derek feeds him an inch at a time, thrusting in and out slowly, to let Stiles get used to the taste and the weight of Derek on his tongue. 

Stiles has his hands free and he makes good use of them, rubbing them up and down Derek’s side, running his nails over the hairy thighs, trying to memorize the lines and divots of the man’s skin. And while he does that, he lets the scent and smell of Derek consume him. 

He’d tried head with Theo once, an ill-advised blowjob in the man’s car after their first date that had resulted in disastrous consequences. Namely spunk in Stiles’ eye, and the painful scrape of teeth over Theo’s cock. Which, Stiles does not feel bad for because the dickhead had nearly choked him, shoving Stiles’ head down over and over. 

It’s not like that with Derek. Derek leaves the stability of the headboard and slides that hand under Stiles’ head, holding him steady as he’d fed Derek’s cock. Derek tells him to open his mouth, to let his tongue hang out, and Stiles does it, feeling musk and pre-come burst over his taste-buds. When Derek tells him to cover his teeth and suckle the cock head, Stiles does, feeling so many things as Derek groans over him. And when Derek tells him to go ahead, to let loose and do what he wants, Stiles does, letting the cock drop free from his tongue so he can mouth at the man’s balls. 

Derek shudders, his grip tightening in Stiles’ hair, almost to the point of pain, but it’s good, and Stiles doesn’t want him to stop. So he sucks one heavy testicle into his warm mouth, rolls it over his tongue, before doing the same for the second one. And when Derek is panting, Stiles’ name falling from his lips in short gasps, Stiles takes the cock back into his mouth and he sucks. He does what Derek did for him, gathering as much spit as he can to smoothen the glide, relaxes his throat so that he can go down to the root (though he very nearly gags doing that; Stiles backs off because puking while sexing up his crush? Absolutely the fuck not), pulling off with a gasp, and then sucking at the thick cock head again, tonguing the slit there. 

Above him, Derek is mess of groans and pants, and Stiles thinks he’s close; Derek’s nearly humping his chest, his balls dragging over Stiles’ pecs, and Stiles wants to see him fall apart, wants to feel Derek come all over him, wants to feel Derek come down his throat.

But at the last second, the man shifts back, pulling his cock free, one hand wrapped tight around the base to stave off his orgasm, and Stiles whines his displeasure. 

“Hey, no fair! I want to make you come too! I want it on me; why’d you pull back?” 

Derek grins, something soft and warm and sweet - which really shouldn’t work given the absolute filthy state of him - and he thumbs at the corner of Stiles’ mouth, gathering the lines of spit there and pushing it back into Stiles’ mouth gently. “When I come for the first time, I want it to be when I’m balls deep in you, fucking you like you deserve. I’ll come on you another time. Drench you in my cum until I can rub it into your skin. Sounds good?” 

“...yeah, that… yup, on board with that.” Stiles’ voice sounds faint even to his own ears and he knows his face is flushed red. Which is ridiculous given that he just sucked the man’s cock! But Derek Hale has a way of making Stiles feel many many confusing things. 

Derek leans down to kiss him, a sweet peck even as his hand roots around in the bedside drawer for something. Stiles figures out what it is when he hears the snick of a cap. 

Against his cheek, Derek asks, “This would be easiest on your knees but you tell me what you want.” 

Stiles has fantasized about being fucked while on his knees, ass pulled up, face pushed into the pillows and he really really wants that. But for this time, his first time, he wants the intimacy of being able to face Derek.

When he says as much, mumbling the words, Derek lets out a little laugh, sweet and fond, and he kisses Stiles’ nose, brushing against him. “Anything you want, sweetheart."   

It's not the first time Derek has used that endearment and yet, Stiles flushes, red blooming over his cheeks and going far down his chest.

“Do you like that? You like being called sweetheart? You like being sweet for me?” 

Oh fuck, Stiles is going to die from blood rush. To his brain. Is that possible? Maybe it is. He's a medical marvel, it could be totally possible. 

When all he's able to do is flap a hand at Derek, the man lets out a pleased hum, pressing soft little kisses all over, tracing the moles like that dot Stiles’ torso, almost like he's mapping out constellations. “You are sweet, Stiles. So sweet for me, so good for me. But you're a brat too, aren't you? It's good. I'm glad. I like a little bite in my partners.” 

Just for that, Stiles brings one of Derek's hands to his mouth and nips at it, sucking the fingers in to soothe the sting. 

Derek retaliates by sucking a mark into Stiles’ hip where he's somehow travelled to. He spends time there, sucking the skin into his mouth just to watch Stiles tremble, breathing over the wet spot. As he passes over Stiles cock, now back to full hardness, he swipes a cursory hand over the hot length, almost like it's an afterthought. 

And then his hand travels down further, past Stiles balls, against the furled hole there. Stiles jerks, breath leaving in a gasp, fingers wrapped in the sheets as Derek teases him there gently, just rubbing against the skin. 

“Have you ever played with yourself here, darling boy?” Oh, that's a new one, Stiles thinks with a slight amount of hysteria, his cock twitching. Darling boy also does it for him. Good to know. 

He lets out a little whimper as he nods. “Yeah, but I didn't– it was too difficult to get my fingers in there. I didn't find it good.” 

Derek hums as he settles between Stiles’ spread thighs, his stubble scraping against the sensitive skin, one leg over his shoulder. “Next time,” he says, fingers leaving Stiles for a moment, “I want you to show me. Show me what you did and I'll teach you, okay, baby?” 

Baby. Fuck a duck, Stiles is going to explode. He doesn't even have time to think about the fact that there'll be a next time because Derek's finger is back against his asshole, cold and wet as it brushes against him, and just as Stiles tenses up in preparation of being breached, his cock is enveloped in heat. 

He cries out, not having expected it, and at the same time, the finger slides in. 

“Oh, fuck– Derek– fu–ow.” Because as nice as Derek’s mouth is on him, Stiles can’t ignore the ache and pressure of that finger in him.

Derek pulls off, a line of spit still connecting him to Stiles’ cock as he says, “I know, baby. It hurts now but I need you to breathe and relax. I'm right here. Gonna take care of you. Gonna open you up until I can slide in all easy, fuck you open and fill you. Would you like that?” 

Would he lik– yes, he fucking would! 

“Jesus fucking Christ Der, your mouth. Fuck, none of my fanta– oh Christ, right there yeah suck me fuck– I didn't have you as a dirty talker– shit!” 

“Well,” Derek hums, popping off to lap at Stiles’ balls, his finger still probing, sliding in and out, “I look forward to knowing what exactly I'm doing in all these fantasies.” 

Stiles is about to tell him because fuck, he has so many and they all vary, when Derek nudges at something, and Stiles feels his entire body light up. 

“Mother shit fuck, what the hell was that?!” 

Derek lets out a soft laugh. “That, baby, was your prostate. And if you've never played with it before, oh sweetheart, you're in for a treat.” 

Honestly, even if Derek hadn't introduced him to his prostate, Stiles thinks this entire night would be a treat. Because at the beginning of tonight, he'd convinced himself that there wasn't a chance in hell that Derek Hale would ever look at him twice, let alone be interested. 

Now, not only is he more than interested, he's also sliding a second finger in, stretching Stiles out, muttering absolute filth over his skin, and making plans for next time. 

Stiles definitely killed Hitler in a past life. 

Derek takes care with him, adding lube and absolutely smothering Stiles’ cock with kitten licks and sucks as two fingers turn into three, and then four. Stiles isn’t even sure how much time has passed but he knows he’s at the very fucking edge. His legs have been twitching, cock fucking leaking spurts of pre-cum every time Derek presses against his prostate, every thrust of his fingers accompanied by a word of praise or a lick up his cock.

Every time the stimulation becomes too much, everytime Stiles tries to push at Derek’s head, trying to writhe away from the dual stimulation, Derek fucking bats his hands away, doubling down with both mouth and fingers until Stiles is near tears. It also doesn’t help that at one point, when Derek pulled away to get more lube, Stiles tried to scamper further up the bed, in an effort to get away from the demon fingers, and Derek fucking dragged him back like a rag doll, Stiles squeaking and Derek laughing. The manhandling did things for Stiles. 

But he's so fucking hard right now and he's stretched to the point of being able to take a whole fist now (he doesn't know but it sure as fuck feels like that!) and he's crying, blabbering, begging Derek to fuck him. 

“Derek! Der, please, please I'm so ready just fuck me fuck I want your cock fuck me full please please stop teasing me, come on!”

Pushing up to his knees, Derek keeps his fingers where they are, little thrusting motions that's both too much and not enough. “You think you're ready, baby?” 

“Yes!!! You make me anymore ready I could take the full fucking varsity lacrosse team up there!” Stiles snaps, tears leaking down the corner of his eyes. 

Derek tsks, the absolute asshole, leaning over to lick away the tears and press a kiss to the corner of Stiles’ mouth. “Do you feel empty? Is this what you want? My cock filling you up nice and full?” He nudges the head of his dick against Stiles’ hole, still filled with his fingers, and the thought of being filled with both Derek’s fingers and cock makes Stiles whine. 

“Derek, I swear to fucking god!” 

There's another soft press to his lips, a hint of a laugh in the kiss before Derek says, “Almost there, baby. Almost.” 

He pulls away just far enough for Stiles to pout, hating how cold he immediately is without the body heat to smother him. There’s a crinkle of plastic, a slight hiss as Derek slides the condom over himself and slicks up his cock. Then he’s back, his arms coaxing Stiles’ legs to wrap around Derek’s waist. 

And then that mushroom head is nudging at him again, pressing in gently but not completely. Stiles nearly whacks the man in his distress. “Derek, I swear if you don’t get your cock in me ri–” 

The rest of the words are lost somewhere in a choked off moan as Derek finally slides in, thick and slow, past that first ring of muscle. 

“Holy fuck.”

Derek seems to share the sentiment, his groan rumbling in his chest. “Fuck, even after four fingers you're so goddamn tight.” 

“You complaining?” Stiles asks with a breathless smirk, and he grins even brighter when Derek smirks back, a warm hand rubbing down his flank. 

“Not in the slightest. Breathe for me, sweet boy.” 

Stiles wants to quip back that without breathing he'd die, but he chokes on the snark as Derek pushes in again, until his hips are flush against Stiles’ ass. 

There's the initial little discomfort, almost like pressure, but when Derek shifts, his own breathing steady as he tries to center himself, all Stiles feels is… good. 

So good and so fucking full. Jesus fucking Christ, Derek is in him. Which means… Stiles is officially off the virgin market! Fuck yeah! 

The realization makes him huff out laugh, and he grins when Derek raises an eyebrow in question. “I just realized,” Stiles says by way of an explanation, “that if witches and virgin sacrifices were real, I am no longer a viable offering!” 

Derek blinks at him and then rolls his eyes. “The way your mind works astounds me.” 

“I think you meant that as an insult but I’m going to take it as a compliment. Now, do you plan on moving some time soon? I was kinda hoping to get fucked here,” Stiles snarks, clenching without a thought, and he grins triumphantly at the low growl Derek lets out.  

“Sweetheart, if you want this to last, don't do that.” 

Giggling a little (what? He’s finally getting fucked - Stiles is allowed to giggle!), Stiles reaches out and feels warm wiggly things as Derek lets himself be tugged down for a kiss, both of them hissing as the movement jostles the cock deep in him. 

“You telling me you're old, Professor? Can't keep up with my young nubile body?” he teases, brushing their noses together, and his whole body shivers at the dark wild look that crosses Derek’s face.

“I'll show you old, Mr. Stilinski,” Derek rumbles out, leaning up with a grin that does not bode well for Stiles. “Don't say I didn't warn you.” 

And that is literally Stiles’ only warning before Derek pulls out and slams back in. 

The scream that wants to rip itself out of his throat doesn't even have enough air to do so, because Stiles doesn't have the brain cells to breathe. All he knows is the rapid pace of Derek fucking him, pounding into him, of the little growls, the slick slap of skin in the room, and the mewls that's most likely Stiles. 

Dear god, Stiles’ has never been so full. Derek’s fingers had been something, but his cock? Every ridge and vein brushing against his walls, pushing against his prostate, coaxing little spurts of pre-cum out of his own cock, shoving him up the mattress - Stiles decides then and there that he’s been ruined by Derek’s very god-like cock and he will have no other. 

And fuck, Derek doesn't let up one bit. He's pushed Stiles’ legs up to drape over his shoulders and then he leans down, effectively folding Stiles in half, and fucking into him like he's nothing more than a rag doll. 

When Stiles tries to squeeze a desperate hand between their bodies to wrap a hand around himself, Derek pins both his wrists to the bed with one fucking hand, and Stiles absolutely loses it, because what the fuck? 

“You come on my cock alone, baby boy. Nothing else. I'll fuck you until you see stars,” Derek promises, somehow fucking him harder and faster, punching out air and thoughts from Stiles head. 

For how slow and meticulous he was with prep, Derek now fucks him brutal and fast. Not uncaringly, though. Despite the harsh thrusts and the filth falling from his lips, Stiles feels the care Derek touches him with. The hands holding him down? Yeah, they’ll be bruises tomorrow, but there’s a thumb stroking at his pulse point with every slam into him. The lips biting at his mouth and sucking marks into his skin? It’s tempered with long strokes of Derek’s tongue, soothing away the sting, showering Stiles with praises. 

The words fall and Stiles falls with them, heart beating in his chest, sweat on his brow, body slick with cum and lube: you feel so good sweetheart - fuck look at you taking my cock - god, you’re fucking beautiful, fucking perfect - you were made for this, Stiles - you were made for me. 

That’s how he comes. Arms pinned to the bed, cock pinned between their bodies, words pinning him in place, Stiles comes with a wail, the pleasure exploding through his system, turning his back taut, toes curling as white splatters between them, hitting his chin. 

Derek fucks into him four more times before his hips stutter and then he’s gripping Stiles tight as he comes too, falling forward to bite at his neck. It fucking hurts but fuck if it doesn’t also have Stiles twitching, his cock spurting weakly at the pleasure-pain that goes through his body. 

They lie there in silence, just the whir of the air-conditioner, and the heaving of their breaths the only noise, before Stiles ruins it. The silence, not anything else. He doesn’t think anything could ruin this. 

“That was awesome,” he pants out, grinning at Derek as the man levers himself up with a chuckle, “Ten out of ten. Knocked it out of the park. Swing and a hit. All those things that means fuck yeah!” 

Now properly laughing, Derek carefully pulls out, his touch apologetic as Stiles winces, fingers quickly taking off the condom to dispose of it. “I’m glad I’ve exceeded expectations, Mr. Stilinski.” 

He uses the Stiles’ borrowed t-shirt to wipe them both down quickly then lays on his back on the bed, one hand tucked behind his head. Stiles wastes no time in flopping on top of him, smiling wide when he feels an arm wrap around his shoulders and pull him even closer. “I’d say you damn near blew the grading curve out of the water, Professor.” 

Another huff of laughter and they fall back into silence. It’s comfortable, actually, and Stiles really doesn’t want to move, though he knows he’s going to have to because dried cum is never fun for anyone to deal with. 

But he’s warm and comfy and fucking sated in Derek’s arms, so he lets himself lie there for a little longer. 

He thinks he might be dozing lightly when Derek nudges him gently. “Stiles?” 

“Mmm?” 

“This thing… with us. You… you said before that… well, it didn’t have to be a relationship if I didn’t want it.” 

Oh, look at that. Stiles is now awake. 

Shit, yeah, he did say that. Swallowing, Stiles flexes his fingers where it lays on Derek’s chest, not daring to look up at him just yet. If this was done, if this was over, then Stiles wanted a few more seconds to pretend. Derek may have had plans for next time but maybe all he wanted was sex with Stiles… and as much as Stiles would love that, he knows he shouldn’t. It would only hurt him in the lo–

“What if I wanted it? A relationship with you.” 

…

What? 

Stiles feels himself freeze, heart somewhere in his throat. “You want that? With me?” 

Above him, Derek sighs softly, his fingers tracing nonsensical patterns over Stiles’ skin. “Yes. If you want it. I… I really like you, Stiles, and yes, I was worried about you being my student and I still am, if I’m being perfectly honest, but… you’re right. You aren’t my student anymore. If I make sure that Liam grades your paper, then I remain objective, and we’ll only go public once your grades are posted. But again, that’s only if… if you want this. With me.” Derek ends it sounding unsure, like he thinks Stiles is going to say no. 

Oh.

Oh my god, Stiles is in love with an idiot.  

Stiles pushes up to look at Derek for a long second and then reaches out with his hand to pinch the man’s nipple, reveling in the little yelp that he gets. 

“Ow, Stiles, wha–” 

“You’re a criminal profiling consultant for the FBI, how are you this dumb?” 

Okay, if he thought Derek Hale looked hot leaning over him feeding his cock, he looks downright adorable now, eyebrows furrowed, mouth open to reveal those damn bunny teeth, and confusion written across his expressive eyebrows. “I… what?” 

Leaning up to kiss him - because what else is he supposed to do when given such a sweet dumb sexy man? - Stiles bops him on the nose. “Yes, I want this. Yes, I want you. Not just us fucking, though I am so on board with the fucking, you have no idea - but us dating. Relationship. Hand holding. Dinner dates. Movie dates. All of it! I want that. If you want that too.” 

The smile that spreads across Derek’s face is fucking dazzling, and it makes something skip in Stiles’ heart as Derek leans up to kiss him., soft, sweet and slow “Yeah, I want that. Very much.” A second later, “And all the fucking. Want that too.” Derek punctuates that with a very deliberate roll of his hips, and yeah, Stiles is, like he said before, very on board with that plan.

“Then it's a damn good thing I don’t have a shortage of all the filthy things I want you to do to me,” Stiles says, and he laughs, high and happy as Derek flips them around in bed, already licking his way down. 

“Oh, really? Like what?” 

Twisting his head to the side, Stiles smirks, stopping Derek with a tug of his hair. “You ever fucked someone against a window?” 

The agonized groan Derek lets out sends Stiles into peals of laughter. Though he isn’t laughing when Derek fucking hefts him up by the thighs to carry him to said window (what the fuck dude, I’m not light!! - I work out: is Derek’s response, and damn does he ever). 

And later on, much much later on, when the sun is rising and Stiles is texting Erica to let her in on the good news, and Derek’s in the kitchen making them coffee, Stiles will laugh again. 

Because he’s about to make Scott’s life so miserable by telling him all the ways Derek Hale fucked him twenty-five ways to Sunday. 

Being a practical slut (finally) is a damn good feeling.  

Ooo