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Stiles stumbled out of bed—literally stumbled because the swamp of cast off clothes on the floor was getting thick enough to impede movement.
Yeah. College was hard. He’s supposed to do laundry too?
A door opening and closing had woken him. Last thing Stiles remembered: Scott was there, whining about something (somebody) and drinking a lot and…
Stiles had left him passed out on the couch, after talking to him for twenty minutes before realizing Scott was passed out on the couch.
But on the couch now: no Scott.
"Scott,” Stiles tried to call. He sounded like a goose with severe laryngitis.
“Scott, you here?”
“Scott left,” came a monotone voice from the area of the kitchen. Stiles followed the sound.
Derek stood in the kitchen. Derek was naked. His laundry status being equal to Stiles’s (see above) Derek was less inclined to wear dirty underwear if that was all he had. So, Derek was naked, standing in the kitchen.
Stiles could appreciate the philosophy and also could appreciate the sight of his roommate’s fuzzy ass and solid sausage dick.
Very much appreciate.
“Scott left because there’s nothing to eat here,” Derek said, standing with the cabinet door open. In the cabinet Stiles could see: a bottle of Worcestershire sauce, half a box of plastic forks, and a sock.
“Sucks, dude,” was all the sympathy Stiles could muster.
“There’s no cereal,” Derek continued.
Stiles feigned indifference.
“Just sweep the floor,” he suggested. That’s what the shit Derek ate for breakfast looked like anyway.
But Derek didn’t get the joke. Derek’s eyebrows said so.
“There are no Pop-Tarts,” Derek said, with insidious intent. Derek never ate such crap, but Stiles thrived on them.
Stiles winced. There was only so much a man could take before crumpling.
“There’s no coffee.” Derek piled on the pain.
Stiles groaned. Life was meaningless.
Semester’s end loomed; all order, never much to begin with, was breaking down—already broken down in fact.
Even for Derek.
“Someone needs to go to the store,” Stiles suggested.
“Yes. Someone does.”
“I’ll blow you if you go to store,” Stiles offered.
“Yesterday you’d blow me if I gave you some of my raisins,” Derek reminded.
“Which you didn’t. And so, no blowies for Derek.”
It was never blowies for Derek. This was a problem. This was a growing problem. Possibly a major problem.
Subtlety was never a thing anyone had ever attributed to Stiles Stilinski, but maybe he was being too subtle.
“Maybe Scott has food,” Stiles proposed. He’d be welcomed by Scott even in his ratty boxers. Scott was a bro, even if Isaac was not.
“Scott left less than fifteen minutes ago,” Derek said. “He and Isaac are still in the first stages of no-it-was-all-my-fault sex.”
Stiles affirmed, “You do know the man.”
“So…” Stiles sighed, hands braced on the back of a chair. “Here we are. At an impasse.”
“At an impasse,” Derek agreed.
“Wanna shoot for it? Loser goes to the store?” Stiles asked.
This would not be the modest proposal it might have sounded like.
“Shoot for it? Like, rock-paper-scissors?”
Derek smiled. He was always lucky at that game.
“Not rock-paper-scissors.” Stiles smiled back, only wickedly. “More like cock-fapper-jisms.”
All appearance of comprehension left Derek’s face.
“What?”
“A shoot out. A shoot off. Whatever it’s called,” Stiles rattled on. “A jerk-off match. Whoever shoots farthest, wins.”
Derek’s expression shifted from blank to scowl.
“You’re never serious,” he grumbled.
He headed to the doorway but Stiles stepped into his path.
“I’m always serious, Derek,” Stiles asserted. “Whoever makes shortfall does the shopping.”
“You’re nuts,” Derek said.
Too subtle? Not Stiles Stilinski. He shoved down his boxers. They fell loosely round his ankles. He held his dick out of the way and cupped his balls.
“I’m nuts,” he said, looking Derek in the eyes. “And I’m dick.” He gave a few yanks to said member.
Derek had looked down then right back up.
Stiles pulled away the chair from the little kitchen table and started clearing the table top. “Important” things, like books, went onto chairs, the rest to the floor.
This was their shooting range.
He made room for Derek to his left at the short side of the table.
Given Derek’s inclination to in-house nudity Stiles realized weeks ago he’d never win a dick-size contest with his roomie. But Stiles, Jr. made a fine impression when called to duty: long smooth shaft and shapely head once free of its hoodie. (Newborn Stiles, at parental insistence, had remained uncircumcised, so he had that in common with Derek’s dick at least.)
Derek, who if Stiles’s eyes were not deceiving him (they sometimes did that) was already semi-hard without having yet touched his cock.
Stiles was already stroking. Merely thinking of Derek naked, at the kitchen sink, on the couch, had fueled many a Stiles-time session; standing next to him naked, with Derek’s—estimating by eye alone—eight-inch, thick, incipient hard-on in plain real-time view had Stiles regretting he hadn’t made this a who-comes-first-wins contest ‘cause that one, baby, he’d have won hands down, hands on, hands around, whatever.
Derek's ears were flushed pink; pink bloomed here and there on his cheeks, his chest. He was obviously not the exhibitionist his apparent preference for clothing-optional living suggested he might be. Not that kind of exhibitionist anyway. He was radiating heat. His scent, god, his natural body odor—Stiles caught a whiff of it now and then just living with the guy; it was nice. But the way Derek smelled with his dick in his fist was giving Stiles a new appreciation of his olfactory senses.
Tropical forest on a mountainside? Stiles had never been to any such place. Downwind of a spice factory in a desert? Stiles could trot the globe through every environ to find a scent comparable to Derek’s. Or he could lie on top of (or under, he was fine with either) Derek and just breathe him in.
Maybe there really was some benefit to never eating Pop-Tarts or any other members of that fine family of over-processed artificial ingredient stuffed foods. Maybe drinking mostly water and herbal tea gave you armpits worthy of sticking one’s nose into.
Maybe that was only Stiles’s thing.
And maybe only if Derek’s armpits.
Stiles’s had a problem.
He glanced over at Derek, whose eyes were closed while he stroked his cock with heartbeat-paced strokes, his lush foreskin sliding over his ruddy glans, back and forth.
“Can we talk while we—?” Stiles asked and Derek’s “No!” shot out before Stiles had finished the question.
“Oh. Kay.” But Derek kept his eyes closed so Stiles felt licensed to look his fill, even behind Derek’s back, at his excellent butt. The top of Derek’s ass cheeks were fairly hairless. Fuzz shaded the lower hemispheres. Stiles knew this well.
Derek’s magnificent dick was one thing, his armpits, yes, his armpits another, but Derek’s ass…
Derek had won the genetic lottery. It had been the super mega-millions game.
Stiles doubted there was any part of Derek that wasn’t praise-worthy—and Stiles had once found Derek sprawled asleep on the couch, drool drying in his scruff.
If Stiles didn’t shave for two weeks he looked like the kind of juvenile delinquent creep people crossed the street to avoid (it had actually happened.) Derek with unkempt beard looked adorably burly. Moms would still give woolly Derek their babies to hold and to babysit.
If Stiles closed his eyes it would be over soon. If Stiles closed his eyes and thought of sniffing Derek, prelude to licking him, his nips, down his abs, his dick, behind his balls, it would all be over soon, the shot fired. If Stiles thought of kissing Derek, holding him close, so close—
Derek started panting, or exhaling urgently. Stiles let the sound take him to bed. Derek panting on top of him (or under him, again, either location worked for Stiles.) Derek about to come, with Stiles.
The thought struck all the right nerves. The orgasm express was departing the station—
Stiles came with a strangled, “Ohh. Yeah,” and a groan.
Standing apparently marred the experience of orgasm though. Stiles’s head cleared quickly. He could see he hadn’t shot far at all. Only if Derek was a dribbler—something Derek most likely was not—did Stiles stand a chance of winning their contest.
Stiles could see Derek looking, if only through half-lidded eyes.
Maybe he was assessing the distance.
Stiles let Derek think he was still recovering, twisting his neck, flexing his shoulders. In case Derek opened his eyes and caught Stiles looking.
But Stiles was watching everything.
Derek started with little twitches and jerks; his breath started hitching.
It made Stiles’s hands tingle, the desire to touch Derek’s trembling body.
“Oh,” Derek said. “Oh,” again, with more voice. Then “Oh,” and a snarl.
If Derek pleasured himself in his room, Stiles never heard. In fact sometimes Stiles wondered if Derek were some kind of monk with a celibacy vow.
A semi-nudist celibate monk. There could be such a thing—Derek, for example.
“Ohh—” and that one came out more like a whimper.
Derek was being noisy now, maybe because there was no longer reason to keep quiet.
Stiles bit his tongue so as not to start cheering him on. He started breathing through his mouth, blowing off his own rebuilding excitement.
Derek looked so hot, jerking off, one hand wrapped around his stiff ample cock, the other tucked under his balls, the stance of his legs a little wide for support, feet turned out a little, toes flexing.
What if Derek was giving him a show? The thought rocked Stiles where he stood.
At the same instant, Stiles knew, the short fuse to Derek’s orgasm bomb ignited.
The tempo of Derek’s cock strokes sped up, a storm of tiny chaotic spasms swept over his body, his head tipped back and the tense grimace on his face released with a strained roar like the sound a power-lifter might make letting a five hundred pound weight drop to the ground.
And Derek came: a ropey unbroken stream of semen erupted and sailed across the table top; a money-shot to garner trophies at porn flic award shows. A second spurt, still inches in length, shot half the distance. A third just dripped, coating Derek’s fist, puddling on the table.—There was so much cum.
Derek gasped and panted.
Stiles could no longer resist. He clapped a hand on Derek’s back, longed-for contact disguised as a congratulatory pat. He kept his hand there.
Derek looked at him and smiled coyly, still re-gathering breath.
“The winner,” Stiles said quietly, grinning.
Derek giggled.
Stiles had questions, starting with how long all that spooge had been stacked up in there. But, not now. He actually didn’t care.
Post-orgasm Derek Stiles had never met. He liked this beautiful stranger.
“You should come more often,” Stiles invited. “It’s a good look on you.”
That coy smile returned, but the look in Derek’s eyes was—
Stiles leaned his face in; he felt drawn toward Derek, magnetized even.
Derek pitched up his chin, so his mouth met Stiles’s mouth.
They kissed.
Wow.
A whole series of questions neither had ever asked seemed suddenly answered.
Stiles’s boxers were still looped round one ankle. He reached down for them, handed them to Derek to wipe off his spermy hand. Derek wrinkled his nose a bit, but took them and did it.
Then he put both hands on Stiles’s shoulders and they kissed once again.
Kissing was a thing now.
“OK,” Stiles said, “This is really nice…” he sighed. “But guess I should get dressed, go get some food for this place? Being as I lost?”
“We could go get breakfast somewhere,” Derek offered. “First.”
Stiles nodded. “OK.” He stepped back, started to turn for the doorway.
“One of us should, umm, clean this up,” Derek proposed, still speaking softly, gesturing at the table.
“I’ll blow you if you’ll do it,” Stiles said with a smirk.
Derek stared at Stiles. His next words were both a question and not: “You serious—”
Stiles stepped up face to face with Derek, smiling.
“As fuck,” he answered.