Fandom: Teen Wolf
Disclaimer: Say it with me now ~ me ... don't ... own.
Summary: Stiles feels like he can't breathe with Derek looking at him like that. Stiles has always felt so small and insignificant under Derek's gaze, like he was just some lowly creature barely worthy of his attention. But now he feels strong and empowered and wanted. He desperately wants to know what's happening between them, what it all means and what it is exactly that Derek wants from him, but he's terrified of the answer not being what he wants (if Derek deigns to answer him at all). So instead he submits to his other desire: he crosses the room and sinks into Derek's lap as he presses their mouths together. [sequel to under the cover of darkness]
Authors Notes: So, when I posted under the cover of darkness and everyone started asking for a sequel I was completely blown away. Mostly because it was my first Teen Wolf fic and I honestly had no idea if people would even like the fic or not lol. But also because it was written as a one shot, and when the inital idea for the fic came to me it had an angsty ending, but I couldn't write it that way and changed it to what it is now, and that felt like a complete story. But you guys demanded a sequel, and the Muse came to the party, so here it is. I hope you enjoy it as much as the first one (even if the plot probably isn't exactly what you thought it'd be).
Much love, as always, to my dear, dear beta, smartalli.
under the glow of a warm morning light
When Stiles wakes, it's to soft dawn light spilling through the windows.
The room is silent and still. The events of the previous evening are a foggy cloud in his mind, thick and grey as he slowly wakes up. But then he realises his arm is thrown across Derek's chest and he can feel Derek's legs tangled with his own and the fog clears.
He had sex with Derek last night.
He rubs the heels of his hands in his eyes as he tries to wake himself up. With bleary eyes he squints at his watch in the low light of the room. Nearly six am. He wishes he'd had more than three hours sleep, can already anticipate the crash his body will endure this afternoon. But on the upside, at least he can untangle himself from Derek and get cleaned up so the pack doesn't awaken to the sight of a completely naked Stiles and semi-naked Derek all tangled up together.
He carefully extracts himself from the older man, who stirs slightly at the movement but doesn't wake. He grabs his soiled clothes from the foot of their makeshift bed as well as the clean clothes he'd shed, bundling everything up and doing one last check of the room to make sure everyone is asleep before quickly but quietly sprinting upstairs.
He gently closes the bathroom door behind him and finally breathes. He drops his clothes on the floor and moves to stand in front of the mirror. He stares at his face for so long it doesn't make sense anymore.
Stiles figures a mild panic attack would be appropriate at this juncture. In the last twenty four hours his life has gone from one extreme (his life being in actual mortal peril) to the other (having sex with Derek friggin Hale), and he can't understand how this has become his life. Well, okay, this became his life the moment he dragged Scott out into the woods, inadvertently setting forth a chain of events that couldn't be predicted and have all incredibly lead to him losing his virginity to a twenty one year old werewolf.
But seriously, how has this become his life?
He ignores the pounding in his head in favour of showering. Because as hot as the whole coming onto their stomachs thing was in the moment, it's now sorta crusty and actually kinda gross and he just wants to feel clean.
The warm spray of the water feels like heaven. He has to give Derek props; when the man finally chose a decent place to live (and decent was still a relative term when the previous homes had been an abandoned train car and a burnt out shell of a house), he hadn't scrimped on what Stiles considers the necessities, like awesome water pressure.
There are few things in life Stiles loves more than awesome water pressure.
Without even thinking he wets and washes his hair, using some exotic looking shampoo and conditioner Derek probably imports from Europe or something. And then the smell finally hits, and it's Derek. It's the smell that invaded his nostrils this morning when he woke, pressed to Derek's side, his face mere inches away, and like an unstoppable cascade it all comes back to him. He thinks about Derek's mouth and hands and body and cock. His stomach tightens and his dick hardens, and even though part of him still can't believe that it happened he knows that it did.
His mind, overactive at the best of times, is suddenly filled with images of them together, notions fleeting as his imagination determines to consider every possible scenario. There are images of them fucking in his jeep or Derek's Camaro. He imagines Derek sneaking into his room with his dad asleep in the next room. Sex in the woods. In Derek's bed. In this very shower.
Stiles comes with a few unthinking strokes.
Afterwards he tries his best to tamp down the guilt (admittedly he and Derek had had sex but still, this was fairly inappropriate) and just focuses on getting clean. When done, he wraps a towel around his waist, grabs his clothes, and after checking the coast is clear, slips across the hallway to Derek's bedroom.
Stiles makes good on his promise of raiding Derek's closet, settling on a simple dark grey t-shirt. His underwear is ruined, but stealing Derek's feels like it would be taking this to a whole weird place, so he goes commando, dressing in his jeans and hoodie from yesterday. He wraps his t-shirt and boxers in his wet towel but has no idea what the fuck to do with them. After turning in circles around the room a good three times he shrugs and leaves the bundle beside Derek's dirty clothes hamper (because, what the fuck, he actually has one).
Stiles pads softly downstairs to be greeted with a bubbling room. Everyone is awake (well, in various states of awake), sitting up in their makeshift beds or drifting off to the kitchen.
Scott is the one who sees him first. Stiles has barely made it down the last step before he is accosted by Scott, looking mostly surprised but also vaguely suspicious.
"Stiles, hey. When did you get here?"
"Uh, last night," Stiles says, figuring the less lies he attempts with his werewolf best friend the better.
Scott nods. But then his nose does that twitchy thing, his eyes going unfocused. Stiles has seen that look far too often. Panic floods through Stiles' veins.
"Why do you smell weird?" Scott asks, blunt and straight the core of the matter like always.
Stiles scoffs, dismissive. "I don't smell weird, and I resent the implication that-"
"Yes, you do," Scott interrupts. Dammit. They've been friends for too long for Scott to let him get away with rambling as a diversionary tactic. Scott sniffs again. And then his eyes widen with realisation.
"Why do you smell like Derek?"
He opens his mouth to say something, only he doesn't know what to say. He begins stammering and throwing in some hand movements for good measure (anything to simultaneously distract and stall for time) until he can come up with a good excuse.
"Because he slept in my bed," Derek says, suddenly right there, and he has his alpha voice on, like he is just daring Scott to call him on it.
And because Scott is Scott, he does. "He slept in your bed?" he asks, like it was literally the most ridiculous thing he'd ever heard.
But Derek nods, all serious, and says, "Yes. Because I wasn't using it and he needed somewhere to sleep."
Scott looks back and forth between them and Stiles nods like yeah can you believe it how weird is my life (which has the bonus of placating Scott while being absolutely true) and Scott obviously decides he believes them because he shrugs and walks back into the lounge.
Which leaves Stiles alone and face to face with Derek for the first time since the whole hey we had sex while your pack slept mere feet away incident. He manages to look Derek in the eyes and fuck he really is too beautiful to be believed. Stiles smiles shyly as everything comes flooding back to him, and he really wants to just kiss the life out of him, but there are people around and he still doesn’t know what this thing between them is and now is so not the time. So he whispers, "Thanks," and Derek nods.
Stiles follows Scott into the lounge, and when he walks past Derek the older man brushes his fingers briefly against his hand.
Stiles tries (and fails at) not grinning like an idiot.
"What's with you?" Lydia asks, and Allison, Scott and Boyd all turn to look at him.
"Nothing!" Stiles cries, desperate for once to not be the centre of attention.
"You look weird," she continues, staring him down.
"No, I don't. I look like me. Unless you are implying that I always look weird. Because if so, let me tell you something, I don't appreciate-"
"Ugh, okay Stiles, we get it," Lydia says, bored already.
The group continue raiding Derek's surprisingly well stocked pantry and fridge. If Stiles had known that the pack dynamics sleepover included such an awesome breakfast he might've crashed it a lot sooner than this.
Everyone eventually settles around the counter in the kitchen or on the couches and beds in the lounge, eating their breakfast and debriefing the latest monster of the month encounter. Stiles really doesn't need to hear the blow by blow description of what happened. Experiencing it once was more than enough, and hearing them dissect and analyse what they could've done differently (which ultimately would've saved him from being captured) is unsurprisingly difficult to listen to.
Plus, there is that whole Derek is sitting across the other side of the kitchen and he looks fucking delectable in his wife beater and tight jeans and Stiles really just wants to go over there and basically run his tongue along every inch of his body… thing.
But he tries to school his mind, because of course he is surrounded by his super smelling friends who can probably tell if he is in the mood for steak or pizza just by the scent he emits. And normally he doesn't mind the implicit lack of privacy inherent with constantly being surrounded by a group of people who can tell when something is up with the power of their mighty noses, because it has definitely come in handy in the past. But when he wants to fantasise about someone in private, well, then it's just annoying.
He finishes his bowl of cereal and gets up to leave.
"Where are you going?" Derek asks, and despite the fact that they are at opposite ends of the room, the group of people in between them are so deep in discussion they barely notice.
"Not really in the mood to relive all the gory details. I'll be back when you're talking about something a little bit more Saved by the Bell-ish."
Derek has that look, like he knows Stiles just made some specific pop culture reference and he has no idea what he's talking about (and seriously, he has heard Derek quote from almost every Avengers movie there is, how has the man not see the Scream series??? Stiles needs to rectify this immediately), but there is amusement and maybe even fondness there. It's an expression Stiles has become increasingly familiar with, but before he can think too much about it or do something he regrets he moves into the lounge where the rest of their ragtag group is.
But he doesn't want to be there either. He loves his friends (well, except Jackson, because he's still a dick) but with how jumbled his mind is, he just wants to be alone. So he smiles at them as he moves through the room, like that was always his intention, and he heads back upstairs.
It's probably some weird invasion of privacy to keep sneaking into Derek's room, but then he thinks fuck it, because Derek has snuck into his room more than enough times and he's probably due for a little payback. So he sits on Derek's bed, runs a hand through his hair, and just enjoys the peace and quiet.
Stiles wakes two hours later, having not intended or indeed realised that he'd fallen asleep in Derek's bed. The last thing he remembers is lying down on Derek's soft pillow, staring at the incredibly boring ceiling and listening to the muted sounds of his friends talking downstairs.
The house is quiet now, and when he pads over to the window and looks out onto the street all he can see is his jeep and Derek's Camaro.
Everyone is gone. He's alone with Derek.
A mixture of nerves and anticipation rolls around in his stomach as he heads downstairs. All the temporary beds have been removed and the room reordered to its normal state. Derek is sitting on the couch, and even though his back is to Stiles, he can see him stiffen slightly, and Stiles knows that Derek knows he's there.
He walks around to stand in front of him. Derek is calmly reading a book, but he looks up as Stiles halts a few steps away from him. He very calmly bookmarks his page and sets it on the lamp table before returning his attention to Stiles.
And Stiles feels like he can't breathe with Derek looking at him like that. Stiles has always felt so small and insignificant under Derek's gaze, like he was just some lowly creature barely worthy of his attention. But now he feels strong and empowered and wanted. He desperately wants to know what's happening between them, what it all means and what it is exactly that Derek wants from him, but he's terrified of the answer not being what he wants (if Derek deigns to answer him at all). So instead he submits to his other desire: he crosses the room and sinks into Derek's lap as he presses their mouths together.
Derek chuckles against his mouth but he also wraps his arms around Stiles' waist to keep him in place and slips his tongue past Stiles' lips. He can't help but crowd his hands on Derek's jaw, fingers lightly brushing his stubble. Derek presses closer, his right hand travelling up Stiles' back and through the neck hole of his shirt (well, Derek's shirt, but fuck if he is ever getting it back) so his large hand can cup his neck. He feels so warm and secure in Derek's embrace, and even with Derek sitting straighter, seemingly just to get closer, he still has to lean up into Stiles. And Stiles loves it, being above Derek, the power dynamic implications making his head spin.
Derek moves down to his neck, slow and careful. His stubble is scratchy against his soft skin, and Stiles tips his head back, mouth open and eyes closed, fingers slipping into the soft hairs at the nape of Derek's neck. He wants to submit to the sensations, savor the feeling of Derek's tongue slowly working its way down the pale column of his throat. Because he can't believe he'll ever get this again. He still doesn't know what this is, what it means, and as much as he wants to he can't believe that this will last. It has to be temporary insanity or something, at least for Derek, because there is no way someone like Derek could be interested in Stiles…
Stiles is pulled from his thoughts by Derek saying his name, quite insistently apparently. Stiles blinks, refocuses, realises Derek has stopped his attack on his neck, is looking at him in a way Stiles wouldn't know how to even begin describing, and Stiles just feels dazed and confused.
"I can hear you thinking. What's wrong?"
"Nothing," Stiles immediately insists, trying to kiss him. But Derek pulls back, and though Stiles could force the issue he knows better than to try.
And the thing is, Derek looks concerned, like he genuinely thinks something is wrong, like Stiles is uncomfortable in some way about what is happening between them and he won't go any further until they talk it out. But Stiles so doesn't want to talk about this. He is perfectly content panicking internally and pretending like everything is fine.
But there's no way Derek will let him get away with that. Stiles knows this. So he figures if he has to say it then he'll do it his way: by pulling Derek's wife beater off as he admits, "I was just wondering what exactly this means but then I realised I was scared of the answer and decided not to ask so can we go back to making out now please?"
Derek just looks at him. They've known each other for so long now, Stiles really should be able to read him better at this point. But he can't. Derek just stares and Stiles panics, is convinced he just ruined everything.
"Good," Derek says with a decisive nod. He kisses Stiles, and Stiles barely has time to react before he pulls away, mouthing down his neck. "I'm glad you didn't ask," he continues, hands gripping the hem of Stiles' tee and pulling it over his head. "Because then I might have to answer, to admit that I like you," he presses his mouth to Stiles' neck, "that I want you," he breathes the words into Stiles skin, "but we both know I don't do emotional confessions," he trails his mouth down Stiles' chest, "so it's better that you don't ask so I won't have to not tell."
Stiles is still reeling from the power of Derek's words when the older man bites into his skin. It's near the centre of his chest, right over his thundering heart, and Derek sucks and bites a hickey into his pale skin. His teeth aren't sharp, he's nowhere near wolfed out, but it reminds Stiles that he knows intellectually that Derek is powerful and dangerous, but Stiles trusts him, knows Derek would never hurt him. And Stiles may be physically weaker, but he allows himself to let Derek do this, and there is power in that too.
Derek takes a moment to admire his handiwork (actually licking his own lips as he stares hungrily at the red mark, like he is desperate to do it again, and fuck if Stiles wouldn't let him cover his body in as many marks as he wanted) but Stiles needs to feel closer. His hands frame Derek's face to shift his attention up and then Stiles kisses him, deep and desperate. His hands slide down Derek's neck and he can't help but grind down into Derek's lap. The older man groans, wrapping his arms around him and quickly flipping them so they're now lying on the couch, Stiles flat on his back and laughing lightly.
Unsurprisingly Derek ignores him, mouth pressed to his stomach as his fingers deftly unbutton Stiles' jeans. When he opens the fly to see Stiles is going commando, he just groans helplessly, displaying his superhuman strength by pulling his jeans off in one fluid motion before Stiles is engulfed by the warm wetness of Derek's mouth.
"Fuuuck," Stiles moans.
To say it's incredible is an understatement of near epic proportions. And Stiles feels what he thinks is a rather generous lack of jealousy for whoever Derek has done this with before. Because it's clear he has done this before. He's fucking amazing at it. But lucky Stiles gets to reap the benefits now.
Derek sucks hard, pulling off to lick the flat of his tongue along the length of Stiles' balls and shaft before sinking down again, and Stiles knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that nothing in this world exists outside of him and Derek. All he knows is Derek's mouth, his large hands flat on his stomach and hips. All he feels is the blood rushing through his veins and the fire spreading throughout his body.
It's all warm heat and soft wetness and then he does this thing with his tongue curling around the head of his cock and Stiles loses his fucking mind. He starts mumbling words, random and chaotic, practically performs a sonnet in honour of Derek's tongue, and would probably have kept talking until he ran out of words if it wasn't for Derek pulling off and asking, "Are you always going to talk this much during sex?"
His tone was annoyed but Stiles sees amusement in his face. Stiles grins, internally doing jumps for joy at the promise of more sex.
"Oh please, like you didn’t know I was going to be a talker. I bet that’s why you seduced me when there were seven other people in the room."
"Nope, that was just an added bonus," Derek tells him before sinking back down.
"Oh God, you need to never stop doing that. I'm serious, no more Kanimas or Alpha Packs or Chimeras or witches or Gorgons, just your mouth and my dick twenty-four seven…"
Stiles keeps rambling nonsensically and Derek keeps moving, cheeks hollowing with his desire to drive Stiles insane, and soon enough Stiles comes, his orgasm washing over him with unexpected force. It leaves him gasping for breath, somehow simultaneously wrung out and itching for more, but on the upside, at least it's stopped him from talking complete and utter crap.
As soon as he regains enough breath he half sits and reaches for Derek, who moves willingly. Their mouths meet and they fall back to the couch, Stiles wrapping his legs around him as his tongue invades Derek's mouth, twines with his.
They make out for a stupidly long time, and it feels just as incredible as everything else they've done. Because Derek kisses him like he wants to live in this moment. It's deep and passionate and weirdly more intimate than anything else. His hands wander all over Stiles' face and neck and body, can't stop touching, but that's okay, because Stiles doesn't want him to stop either. The house could come crashing down around them and he wouldn't notice, so wrapped up in the way their mouths move together.
"God, this is the stupidest thing I've ever done," Derek says, and Stiles doesn’t disagree, doesn't even feel offended, because he's right. This is really fucking stupid. But being aware of this doesn't stop either of them from wanting it still.
"I really shouldn't want you as much as I do," he continues, the words sounding like they were ripped from his throat against his better judgement, a confession and insult all rolled into one, and doesn't that just match Derek perfectly.
But then Derek kisses him, so fucking hungry, body pressed into his, and Stiles can't breathe, but that's okay. He doesn't need to. All he needs is Derek touching him like he'll die if he doesn't. It's a feeling Stiles can relate to.
Derek breaks the embrace long enough to whisper, "You feel fucking incredible," against his mouth before kissing him again, and Stiles is so done. That's it. He will never give this up. For better or worse (and knowing them, it probably won't be a fifty/fifty split) Derek is never getting rid of him.
Stiles' fingertips skim the hard muscles of his abs as they skirt down Derek's body. He cups the bulge in Derek's jeans and the older man moans into this mouth.
"What do you want?" Stiles asks between kisses. "Tell me," he demands, fingers slowly undoing his jeans, pushing them down his thighs. "Do you want my mouth?" he asks, and Derek groans, throws his head back. Stiles kisses down his neck, scrapes his teeth lightly across the skin. "Do you want my hands? My cock? My ass?"
Despite Derek's rather filthy groan at Stiles' suggestion, he regrets the last option as soon as he says it, fear flooding through his body. Because as turned on as he is, and as much as he likes and trusts Derek, he is so not ready for that yet. Derek kisses him, deep and dirty, rutting against his thigh. Stiles can feel just how hard he is, and he can't help the surge of pride, because he did that.
Luckily (or maybe there was nothing lucky about it, maybe Derek sensed his anxiety) when Derek stops kissing him he wraps his fingers around Stiles' wrist and brings his hand to his face, licking a thick stripe along Stiles' palm.
Stiles drops his legs from around Derek and the older man positions himself, knees and hands digging into the couch as he gives Stiles enough room to slide a hand between them and wrap it around Derek's hard cock. Stiles takes a moment, a deep breath, grips Derek's hip lightly with his spare hand and leans up to kiss him before starting to pump.
Derek lets out a shaky breath of relief, like he has just been given the one thing in the world he truly needs, and Stiles can't look away. Derek's face looks as relaxed as he's ever seen, eyes closed and head thrown back, submitting completely to the moment.
But Stiles wants something more. As good as this is (and it really fucking is) he wants something else. A connection. He wants this to mean something.
"Open your eyes," Stiles commands, and surprisingly Derek actually obeys.
Derek opens his eyes, looks down at Stiles. He increases the pressure of his hand but keeps his movements slow. He wants to give Derek this, a moment of unadulterated pleasure, something without ulterior motive, unselfish and generous. He wants Derek to know that he's not alone, that he's in this for real if that's something Derek would ever want, that he would never hurt or betray him, could never abuse the trust that Derek has bestowed upon him.
Derek's eyes flutter closed, but Stiles needs to see him, needs to keep Derek right here in this moment with him.
"Derek," Stiles murmurs. "Derek, look at me."
Derek does, and this time he keeps his eyes open. They just stare at each other, silent but for the occasional gasp or moan, and Stiles feels the intensity of the moment charging the air around them.
Stiles wants to tell him everything, how he can feel himself falling harder with every second that passes, that Derek deserves more than the life he's accepted, that he thinks Derek is one of the most human and real people he has ever met. The words get caught in his throat, because this isn't about him. It's about Derek. It's just about Derek, his needs and his pleasure, and Stiles won't ruin that by filling the quiet with words that Derek wouldn’t want to hear anyway.
So Stiles just keeps pumping, twisting his hand, alternating pressure, using the little sighs and hitches of Derek's breath to figure out exactly what he likes. And Derek keeps looking at him, wide eyed and wondrous, and Stiles feels the want like a blow to the chest. He leans up and slowly kisses him, lips and tongue caressing Derek's mouth, and they both keep their eyes open the whole time, truly seeing each other for maybe the first time.
Derek's breath shortens into rough gasps and his body bows as he loses strength in his arms and he whispers Stiles' name before coming, whole body collapsing onto Stiles.
Stiles wraps an arm around him, his skin warm and sweaty beneath his touch. Derek's chest pushes into his as he regains his breath and Stiles can do nothing but grin like an idiot, kissing his shoulder lightly.
But Derek is a fucking full grown werewolf who has muscles that shouldn't even exist, and after a short while is becomes difficult for Stiles to breathe.
"Uh, Derek, kinda lacking in oxygen here," he complains.
Derek chuckles, getting up off him and sitting on the other end of the couch. His jeans and boxers are still around his thighs, and instead of pulling them up he shucks them off completely, adds them to the pile of clothes on the floor.
Stiles watches him for a moment, breathless and turned on. He considers his options for a grand total of three seconds before sitting up, crawling down the couch and throwing a leg over Derek so he can straddle his lap. He automatically starts rolling his hips, and Derek presses his fingers into his hipbones. He kisses him, tongue immediately surging into Derek's mouth, home again.
Derek chuckles against his lips, mumbles, "You're insatiable."
"Fuck yeah, I am."