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If looks could kill—Stiles would already be a mangled corpse on the floor.
“How many times do you want me to apologize?” he sighed, shoulders slumping as Deaton studied the runes etched into the old shackles.
Derek’s lips curled in a sneer, a growl vibrating low in his chest.
“I thought it would be funny!”
“You thought cuffing us together would be funny?”
And there it was—claws-out Derek in all his irritated glory.
“It was supposed to be you and Scott! You know, like a ‘get-along’ T-shirt. Only… cuffs.”
“And how is it,” Derek asked, yanking their joined wrists up between them, “that I ended up stuck with you?”
Stiles shifted, eyes darting away to the floor. “Scott was too fast—the lock clicked around my hand instead—look, you were there. Why do you keep making me repeat it?”
He cringed under Derek’s stare, shrinking in on himself.
“Because, Stiles,” Derek said, voice low and promising violence, “I want to make sure you’ve learned your idiotic lesson.”
Deaton straightened, expression pinched in that special brand of silent sympathy he reserved for hopeless situations. “Would you like the good news or the bad news?”
“The good news,” Stiles said just as Derek growled, “The bad news.”
Deaton winced. “I cannot undo the lock.”
Derek surged forward, dragging Stiles a step with him. “What?”
“The runes are old—too complex and too dangerous to tamper with. Any attempt to destroy or remove the lock prematurely could backfire. Badly.”
Stiles’ throat constricted. Derek might actually kill him for this. And honestly? Fair.
“But,” Deaton added quickly, lifting a finger before Stiles could pass out from terror or Derek could commit homicide, “the cuffs can be removed.”
“How?” Derek snapped, patience already worn down to threads.
“It says the lock will open after it serves the owner’s purpose.” Deaton’s gaze slid to Stiles. “What purpose did you have in mind when you placed it?”
“Oh my god.” Stiles felt every drop of blood evacuate his face. “For them to—get along. I wanted to cuff them together until they were able to work together.”
He didn’t dare meet Derek’s glare. It would kill him. Instantly. No resurrection possible.
“Just cut off my hand,” Derek said flatly, turning back to Deaton with absolute sincerity.
The walk back to Derek's camaro, was awkward, Stiles had to practically sprint to keep up with Derek's wider stride.
Their wrists jerked between them with every mismatched step, and the chain clinked like it was laughing.
“Ow—quit pulling!” Stiles protested, nearly pitching forward when Derek suddenly halted.
Derek unsurprisingly ignored him.
"Get in," Derek grunted, the first acknowledged of Stiles' existence since Deaton had given them the less than stellar news.
Stiles' head dropped as he crawled in, tucking his cuffed hand against his back.
He slips over the gear shift and nearly brains himself on the passenger window.
Derek swears, grumbling something under his breath in irritation as he sits in the driver's seat.
Thank God it was spring break. Stiles had no idea how he would explain this situation to his father.
He closed his eyes, cringing as he imagined the look on his dad’s face. Not to mention, Stiles couldn’t possibly attend school like this either.
“I’ll need to text my dad—say I’m spending the week with Scott… or something.” He tapped his fingers anxiously against his thigh, left hand sprawled over the console between them.
Derek offered a grunt of acknowledgment, but nothing more.
Stiles had been to Derek’s house—the Hale house—before. He’d even seen the abandoned railway depot the pack sometimes used as a base of operations.
But he’d never been here.
“Is this place actually yours,” Stiles asked, eyes roaming over the huge ceiling-length windows and the bed sitting conspicuously in the middle of the living room, “or should I be worried about the homeowner showing up unannounced?”
“I own the building,” Derek said, dragging Stiles toward the open kitchen and tossing his keys onto the countertop.
“Huh.” Stiles’ fingers twitched, eager to poke around and explore. He took a step to do just that—but the handcuffs connecting them stopped him short.
Derek’s glare was icy as he tugged Stiles back, none too gently.
“Touch nothing,” Derek ordered, voice firm and commanding.
“I won’t, jeez,” Stiles huffed, attempting to cross his arms—only to fail when his wrist was still cuffed to Derek’s.
It wasn't until hours later, after a awkward and clumsy filled dinner something terrible accured.
His bladder.
Dread coiled in his stomach.
“Oh no,” Stiles whispered.
Derek turned slowly, suspicion sharpening every line of his face. “What?”
Stiles squirmed, shifting from foot to foot in a way Derek’s enhanced senses absolutely did not appreciate. “Okay, so, uh… funny story. Hilarious even. You’re gonna love this—”
“No,” Derek said immediately.
“You didn’t even let me finish!”
“I don’t need to. Whatever you’re about to say is something I don’t want to hear.”
Stiles took a deep breath. “I have to pee.”
Derek stared at him like he’d announced the apocalypse. “Absolutely not.”
“What do you mean absolutely not? You think I’m doing this by choice? You think I enjoy this? Trust me, dude, if my kidneys had an off switch—”
“No,” Derek repeated, voice low and final. “Figure something else out.”
“Like what?!” Stiles flailed his uncuffed hand. “Am I supposed to astral project my bladder into the void?”
A muscle in Derek’s jaw ticked. Hard. “I’m not going in there with you.”
“You don’t have to go all the way in,” Stiles countered. “You could just—hover by the door or something. It’s the bathroom, not a war zone.”
“You talk!” Derek snapped, pointing an accusatory finger at his face. “You narrate. And gesture. I’m not listening to you give play-by-plays while—while—” He waved vaguely at Stiles’ crotch.
Stiles groaned. “I’m not going to monologue while peeing! I’m shy, okay? Pee-shy! Stage fright! I’m basically a raccoon about it!”
Derek pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re going to make this difficult, aren’t you.”
“I’m literally about to explode!” Stiles took a desperate half-step toward the hallway. Derek reflexively moved with him, pulled along by the cuffs.
A new realization crossed Stiles’ face—bright, dawning horror.
“Oh god,” he whispered. “You’re gonna hear everything.”
Silence settled between them like a physical weight.
Stiles gulped. “We… we’re in too deep, man.”
Derek didn’t respond. His eye twitched. Twice.
Finally, he exhaled a long, suffering growl. “Fine. But make it quick.”
“Oh thank god.” Stiles practically sprinted toward the bathroom, yanking Derek along so hard the werewolf nearly stumbled.
They reached the bathroom door, and Stiles darted inside, pulling Derek over the threshold before the wolf caught himself and braced his hand against the counter.
Stiles positioned himself at the toilet, back towards Derek. Derek stared fixedly at the bathroom door like he was seeking divine intervention.
The sound of his zipper was loud in the small room, and it took several moments before—
Stiles let out a relieved sigh as he finally started to pee.
Derek made an agonized sound.
“Stop making noises!” Stiles yelped, stream stuttering. "You’re making it weird!”
“You’re the one—doing—that!”
“THIS IS A HUMAN BODY FUNCTION!”
“IT’S A NIGHTMARE!”
Somewhere in the loft, Peter called out, amused, “You boys alright?”
“YES!” they both cried in mortified unison.
When it was finally, blissfully over, Stiles washed his hands, shook them off, and peeked over at him.
Derek looked like he’d aged twenty years.
Stiles patted their joined wrists sympathetically. “See? That wasn’t so bad.”
Derek’s eye twitched again.
"Can you have the decency to at least pretend not to enjoy this so much?” Derek sneered, glaring at his uncle.
“You have to admit—it’s a rather comical situation, my dear nephew.” Peter examined the cuffs with vivid interest, head tilting as if he were appraising fine craftsmanship rather than a problem. His fingers drifted to Stiles’ wrist, lifting it just enough to test the weight.
Stiles scowled and yanked his hand back. Peter’s grin sharpened, distinctly feline.
“I’ll see what I can scrounge up,” Peter said, stepping back with an amused twinkle in his eye. “In the meantime, you two should work on your relationship, hmm?”
Derek’s jaw tightened, the muscle jumping once beneath his skin.
Stiles’ cheeks heated; Peter was very deliberately making it sound far more intimate than it was.
“Work together. Maybe try a puzzle.” Peter’s teeth flashed in a grin before, with a dramatic flourish, he headed for the door. The large metal slab clanged shut loudly behind him.
“I hate him,” Stiles grumbled, glaring at the door Peter had disappeared through.
Derek grunted in agreement.
He stood at the edge of Derek’s bed, staring accusingly at it like it had personally betrayed him.
“This is ridiculous,” Stiles declared. “This is torture. This is criminal offense territory.”
“It’s just a bed, Stiles.”
Derek, already exhausted from the day, sat on the edge of the mattress and rubbed his face with his free hand. “Just lie down.”
Stiles remained firmly where he was, staring at Derek in flustered horror at their predicament.
Derek was done. Utterly.
He yanked Stiles closer by the cuffs with one annoyed pull and fell backward onto the bed.
Stiles toppled with him, landing half across Derek’s chest.
“GOD—WARN ME—YOU CAN’T JUST—MANHANDLE—I’M DELICATE—”
“Stop talking,” Derek mumbled as Stiles scrambled off him, as far as the cuffs would allow.
Stiles huffed loudly… but finally—finally—settled beside him.
They lay in awkward silence—Stiles on his stomach, Derek on his back—their connected wrists sprawled between them.
Stiff.
Uneasy.
Unhappy.
Then Derek’s breathing changed.
It went slow.
Deep.
Suspiciously gentle.
“You’re shitting me,” Stiles whispered, irritation—and something uncomfortably close to jealousy—curling in his chest. “You did not just fall asleep that fast.”
Derek did, in fact, fall asleep that fast.
Stiles lifted his head to glare at Derek’s face. He looked… uncharacteristically relaxed like this. His expression was smooth, lips slightly parted.
Stiles found himself staring, taking in details he’d never really noticed before. Derek was really handsome—young, too, despite the angry-beyond-his-years façade he carried.
It was easy to forget Derek was only twenty-two. Just a few years older than Stiles himself.
Without consciously deciding to, Stiles shifted onto his side, fully facing Derek as the minutes ticked by.
“You’re staring,” Derek mumbled, eyes still closed, voice thick and gravelly with sleep.
Stiles’ heart stuttered. He flushed bright red, mortified at being caught.
“Sorry,” he whispered, rolling onto his back to stare at the ceiling high above. “I can’t sleep without my pillow.”
"You couldn’t have mentioned this earlier?” Derek grunted, then—to Stiles’ absolute horror—wrapped an arm around his waist and hauled him close.
Stiles ended up half-sprawled across Derek’s form once more.
“Go to sleep,” Derek commanded, pushing Stiles’ head against his chest.
And he surprisingly, he did.
Heartbeats thumped loudly in his ears—his and Derek’s—right where his cheek pressed against the older man’s chest. It acted like a strange lullaby, lulling him to sleep.
In the morning.
Stiles surprisingly woke up first—or, without his pillow, maybe unsurprisingly.
Derek, meanwhile, didn’t stir at all.
Instead, he inhaled—deep—and buried his face into the pillow beside Stiles’ shoulder, nose pressed into the fabric like he was scenting it.
At some point during the night, Stiles had ended up on his back, with Derek pressed close against his side—his left arm and leg draped heavily over Stiles’ body. A reverse of how they had fallen asleep.
He watched the werewolf breathe: slow in, long out.
And Stiles was once again struck by how young Derek looked.
Derek made a low, soft rumbling sound in his sleep.
Not a growl.
Not exactly.
More like… a content wolf-purr.
A quiet, vibrating noise.
It was really adorable.
Unfortunately, Stiles’ arm was starting to go numb beneath Derek’s weight.
He tried to wiggle free.
Derek’s arm tightened around him, keep him close.
Stiles let out a panicked whisper-squeal. “Oh god—it got worse.”
Time seemed to still for a moment, but then Derek shifted—face burrowing fully into Stiles’ shoulder, forehead resting against his neck.
Stiles’ soul evacuated his body.
“Okay,” Stiles murmured to himself, voice barely audible. “Okay, we’re not panicking. This is fine. I’m fine. He’s… cuddling me. Totally normal.”
He closed his eyes and tried to regulate his heartbeat. This was totally fine. Normal bro behavior.
He’d cuddled with Scott plenty of times.
Granted, the last time had been when they were twelve—before awkward morning boners became a thing.
Speaking of—
That was definitely Derek’s boner pressing against his hip.
Stiles whimpered in pure distress.
He felt it the second Derek woke up—the way his body stilled against him, even holding his breath.
Derek swallowed.
Stiles let out a strangled noise somewhere between a whimper and a prayer.
Neither of them moved.
Slowly—carefully—Derek shifted his weight just enough so the hard line of his erection was no longer digging into Stiles' hip. He cleared his throat, the sound rough and loud in the quiet of the morning.
“Stiles,” he murmured.
Stiles squeaked.
Like. Actually squeaked.
“Don’t move,” Stiles blurted, eyes still squeezed shut. “If I don’t move, maybe this isn’t real.”
Derek winced. “It’s real.”
“Okay,” Stiles breathed. “Okay. That’s… fine. This is fine. Morning things happen. Biology is bullshit.”
Derek pulled his arm back inch by inch, giving Stiles space, rolling onto his back away from Stiles as much as the cuffs allowed. He stared determinedly at the ceiling like it had personally wronged him.
“I wasn’t—” Derek started, then stopped. “I didn’t mean to—”
“I know,” Stiles said quickly, still not opening his eyes. “Sleep-wolf instincts. Heat-seeking. I’m basically a space heater. This is on me.”
“That’s not—”
“I radiate comfort,” Stiles continued weakly. “It’s my curse.”
Derek huffed a quiet breath that might’ve been a laugh if the moment weren’t so painfully awkward. He tugged the blanket up, creating a very deliberate barrier between them.
Silence stretched.
Then, cautiously, Stiles cracked one eye open. “So… we’re never talking about this, right?”
Derek didn’t hesitate. “Never.”
“Like, never never.”
“Not even under torture.”
Stiles nodded solemnly. “Good. Because I will absolutely lie.”
They lay there, just breathing , both very awake, both staring at ceiling like that was the safest possible arrangement.
The cuffs clinked softly.
Neither of them acknowledged it.
It was somewhere around day two that Derek really started to stop appreciating Stiles’ witty commentary.
“And did I mention how smart she is? She has everyone convinced she’s just a pretty face—no brains, but I see right through her!” Stiles gestured wildly in frustration. “If only she could see what was right—”
“STILES.”
Stiles paused mid-rant, blinking. “What?”
“You’re dragging me.” Derek flashed his teeth as he held up his cuffed hand between them.
“I’m not dragging you.”
Derek stared at him, nonplussed.
“I talk with enthusiasm!” Stiles protested. “It’s a cultural trait!”
“You’re not Italian,” Derek growled.
“I AM HONORARILY,” Stiles shot back, waving his free hand with even more dramatic flair.
The motion whipped Derek forward like a tethered cat.
“Your polish." Derek said flatly.
“I—what? How did you know that?” Stiles asked, thrown completely off-track.
“Stilinski.” Derek raised one impressive eyebrow. “It’s a Polish last name, is it not?”
“Yeah… it was my mother’s maiden name,” Stiles murmured, still staring at him in surprise. “Dad went against the grain and took her name.”
“STILES.”
“Okay—okay—NEW RULE!” Stiles declared, placing his free hand on his chest. “No gesturing in enclosed spaces.”
“You can’t gesture at all.”
“That’s unrealistic. Think of who I am as a person.”
Derek looked like he was thinking about violence.
“Come on, Derek,” Stiles threw his hands up. “You can’t seriously—”
Derek grabbed his wrist mid-gesture.
Stiles froze.
The air froze.
Time froze.
“Stop. Moving,” Derek said, voice low and dangerous.
Stiles swallowed. “Okay. Alright. Yup. No problem. I will… stand perfectly still.”
For three seconds, Stiles kept his word.
Then his brain turned back on.
“I mean, theoretically, if you think about it—”
Derek’s eyes closed in agony.
“Oh god,” he muttered. “It’s worse when you’re standing still.”
Stiles flinched. “You know, for someone who spent an entire childhood brooding in the woods, you are overly critical.”
“STILES.”
“Okay, okay! No gesturing!”
Beat.
“Well—minimal gesturing.”
Beat.
“Occasional gesturing—”
Derek yanked him closer, nose-to-nose.
Stiles squeaked.
The cuffs clinked mockingly between them.
“Fine,” Stiles whispered. “I’ll keep my hands to myself.”
He lasted eleven seconds before he started waving again.
Stiles was really starting to hate bathrooms.
“Or we could just not—” Derek cut him off.
“You smell.”
Stiles cringed at Derek’s very blunt—and not totally inaccurate—choice of words.
“You play sports,” Derek continued. “Don’t you shower together after practice all the time?”
Stiles gaped at him. “Not while practically holding hands!” He wiggled their joined wrists.
Derek sighed, heavy and irritated. “The sooner we do this, the sooner it’s over.”
Stiles’ throat constricted as he swallowed. “We won’t be able to put our shirts back on once we take them off.”
“So?”
“I’m not comfortable—not everyone is a werewolf with killer abs.” He ducked his head, his free arm curling around his stomach.
Derek’s gaze dropped, settling on Stiles’ shirt with an odd intensity. “I’ll tear one of my shirts. You’ll be able to put it on that way.”
Stiles’ head jerked up. “You will?”
“Yeah. Most of them are old anyway.” Derek looked away, shrugging.
Stiles’ lips stretched into a small, genuine smile. “Thanks.”
Getting naked.
It should be simple.
It isn’t.
It’s exactly Stiles’ luck that his shirt gets tangled around their cuffs, twisted beyond salvation. He turns, pulls, tugs—and gets stuck halfway out of it.
“I can’t—okay, I need help,” he mutters, muffled.
Derek sighs and steps closer. Too close.
“Hold still,” Derek says.
Stiles freezes as Derek’s fingers find the hem of the shirt—careful, precise. Fabric rips, brushing skin. Derek’s knuckles graze Stiles’ side—an accident, but neither of them ignores it.
Their eyes meet for half a second.
Stiles looks away first.
“Thanks,” he says, voice rougher than intended.
Derek steps back immediately, like proximity burns. “Yeah.”
The remains of Stiles’ shirt lie abandoned on the floor between them.
Derek tears his own shirt off in a similar fashion—minus getting stuck like Stiles had.
The sound of the shower door opening fills the room, and Stiles stills. “So how exactly is this going to work?” he asks quickly. “You and me.”
Derek eyes the cramped space, jaw tightening. “We’ll take turns.”
“Turns how?” Stiles gestures at the cuffs. “Detach our arms like Lego pieces?”
Silence.
The water starts running anyway—Derek ignoring him as he reaches in to twist the handle. The movement is close enough that Stiles has to lean back against the counter. Steam fills the room, fogging the mirror.
“This is not happening,” Stiles mutters, the cool bathroom air making him shiver.
Derek swallows. “We can stay… on opposite sides.”
Derek steps in first, tugging Stiles with him. The spray hits Derek’s shoulder, splashing warm droplets onto Stiles’ arm. Neither of them moves for a long moment.
“Okay,” Stiles breathes as the door clicks shut, like the final nail in a coffin. “This is worse than I imagined.”
“Don’t move,” Derek says at the same time.
They stand there, naked, bodies barely touching—but aware of every inch where they could.
It takes all of Stiles’ willpower not to look down, reminding himself exactly why that would be not only stupid but catastrophically embarrassing.
His face is aflame, humiliation curling hot in his gut as he stands toe-to-toe with Derek Hale under the showerhead.
Derek washes first, water splashing over him now and then to graze Stiles. Stiles takes the time to memorize the pattern of tiles on the wall.
He has to shift closer when Derek washes his hair, so Derek has the use of both his hands.
“Okay. Switch.”
Stiles startles at the sound of Derek’s voice, looking up into swirling pools of hazel. “What?”
“I’m done,” Derek says, before his hands settle on Stiles’ waist and he manhandles them into swapping places.
Warm water hits Stiles full-on, stealing his breath in a sharp gasp he can’t stop. It drums against his shoulders, his collarbones, down the line of his spine.
He shifts—and his feet slide a fraction on the slick tile, panic sparking hot in his chest. He adjusts too fast, toes knocking into Derek’s foot.
“Sorry—”
“I’ve got you,” Derek says immediately, steady, grounding.
Which somehow makes it worse.
Stiles plants his feet wider than necessary and stares very deliberately at the wall beside them. The grout line there has a crack shaped like a lightning bolt. He focuses on that. Nothing else.
Water trails down his spine in thin, intrusive lines, pooling at the small of his back before disappearing. He hates how aware he is of it. Of everything.
His elbows bump the wall when he reaches blindly for the soap. The bottle slips in his hand, clatters once before he catches it against his chest.
He closes his eyes.
Fantastic.
Steam curls thick around them, clinging to his lungs, making the space feel smaller. Derek is in front of him—not touching, but there. Close enough that Stiles can feel heat radiating off him. Close enough that the water splashing off Derek’s shoulder brushes his arm.
Every nerve lights up and immediately regrets it.
He soaps quickly, efficiently, like he’s being timed. Movements tight. Minimal. Professional. Definitely not shaking.
The water rinses suds down his arms, down his sides. He keeps his gaze locked to the side, jaw clenched, heart racing over absolutely nothing.
“Done,” he sighs, the word heavy with relief as the last of the suds swirl around the drain, he shuts off the water.
The silence that follows is thick as they both shuffle out and dry off. Stiles dries first, then Derek. They fumble one-handed into sweatpants, forgoing underwear for the sake of simplicity.
He’s only just pulled his pants up when Derek breaks the silence.
“You’re bleeding.”
Stiles blinks up at him, following the wolf’s gaze down to his wrist. The skin beneath the cuff is red and irritated.
“Am I?” He lifts his hand and squints. Now that Derek’s pointed it out, he can see a faint trickle of blood oozing from the skin. “I didn’t even notice.”
He watches Derek rummage through the cabinet, pulling out a small first aid kit—Stiles barely has time to wonder why a werewolf would have one.
“It’s small, you don’t have to—”
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
Derek’s larger hand closes around Stiles’ palm, pulling him closer to inspect the wound for himself. “The last thing I need is for you to get an infection.”
Stiles sighs, recognizing a losing battle when he sees one. Derek sits him on the bathroom counter and carefully dabs antiseptic over the red, puffy skin.
“Ow,” Stiles hisses, trying—and failing—to tug his hand back. “That burns.”
“Stop being a baby,” Derek scoffs, tightening his hold for a moment before the pain fades.
Stiles watches, wide-eyed, as spiderwebs of black veins creep beneath Derek’s skin.
“Wow—are you doing the werewolf pain sucking mojo thing?” Stiles gapes. “That’s so cool.”
Derek ignores him, which is fine. Stiles is used to being ignored—especially by the older male.
Once the skin is clean, Derek applies a thin layer of triple antibiotic cream and wraps a narrow bandage around his wrist.
“Thanks,” Stiles says, flashing a small smile as he flexes his hand. "Who knew werewolves make such great doctors for humans."
Derek only grunts in response—but Stiles catches the faint curl of his lips when he turns away.
Stiles is dozing; after a week of being cuffed together, they’ve grown into an almost comfortable routine.
Wake up, get dressed—pants only, because shirts really don’t work when you can’t put one arm in. Breakfast, research for several hours, a movie break, dinner, and more movies.
Then, when one of them called it—usually Derek—they would make their way to sleep, occasionally showering before hand.
His eyes blink slowly, watching as Dorothy meets the Cowardly Lion. His cheek is smooshed against Derek’s shoulder, legs tucked under a fuzzy throw blanket.
“We should probably call it. You’re about to start drooling,” Derek murmured, startling Stiles out of his near-slumber.
“’m not,” he protested, sitting up a little straighter, trying to blink the sleep from his eyes.
Derek was smiling, eyes crinkled around the edges and looking unfairly handsome.
Their eyes meet and then—they’re kissing. No. Derek’s kissing him.
It’s slow, gentle, barely a press of soft lips, but no less startling. Stiles’ eyes widen before slipping shut. He’s kissed a dozen or so times—with girls mostly, and Danny that one time at one of Lydia’s parties, when they were both drunk. That’s when he’d realized he was bi.
Derek’s warm hand cups his jaw and Stiles melts, pressing back against Derek with vigor. The soft kiss quickly becomes heated, hand grappling for Derek’s stubbled cheeks.
Derek’s chest rumbles—practically a purr—that Stiles both hears and feels. Then he’s being grabbed around the waist, hoisted up into Derek’s lap.
Where he can feel Derek’s hard-on through thin pajama pants—holy shit.
“Derek,” he gasped, the name muffled between their mouths. Like a whisper. A prayer.
Derek’s eyes are glowing red, and Stiles should be scared at the reminder that Derek’s not human, no matter how much he looks like one.
But he’s not. Instead, he’s so incredibly turned on. And judging by the way Derek’s nostrils are flaring, he knows it too.
Derek intertwines their joined hands together, long fingers holding Stiles tight as he asks, “Is this alright?”
“Dude,” Stiles licks his lips, stomach tightening at the way Derek’s gaze tracks the movement with a predator’s intensity. “It’s better than alright.”
Derek’s smile is almost blinding, and Stiles eagerly meets him halfway as they’re kissing again.
A warm, skilled tongue licks at his lips before slipping inside—stroking over Stiles’ own in a slow, teasing dance, coaxing him to follow it back into Derek’s mouth.
He’s dripping in his briefs, can feel the fabric dampening where it sticks to the head of his cock.
“Can I touch you?” Derek’s voice is rough, hungry.
A whimper leaves his throat, high and embarrassing. “Please,” he gasped, hiding his face in the span of Derek’s throat.
The first touch is electric, has Stiles shaking as Derek’s hand slips inside and works over his heated flesh.
“Oh, god—”
He can’t help the way his body’s vibrating, tremors wracking through his frame as Derek expertly picks him apart.
A broad thumb swipes over the wet, plush head and Stiles keens.
“Shh,” Derek presses kisses to Stiles’ cheek and ear, down to where his shoulder and neck meet. “It’s alright.”
Heat is coiling rapidly in his stomach like a spring, a dangerous snake ready to strike.
“You’re doing so good,” Derek murmured, fingers growing slick with Stiles’ fluids. He twists his wrist just so—sending sparks of pleasure up his spine.
Stiles’ thighs jump and bunch, his body unable to decipher if it wants to fuck into Derek’s fist or pull away from the overwhelming sensations.
Familiar but so different from his usual nighttime activities—so much firmer than how he touches himself. A borderline of too much, while also not enough.
“Just a little more,” a gentle kiss to his fluttering pulse. “That’s it.”
His chest is heaving, sucking in sharp, open mouthfuls of air as he clings to Derek. He can feel sweat forming on his heated skin, a bead sliding down the back of his neck.
He feels like a boat lost at sea, as wave after wave crashes over him. Derek is the only thing keeping him afloat.
“Come on, Stiles.” Blunt teeth find his ear, biting the flesh of his lobe. “Let go.”
And he does.
Stiles groans as he comes—spraying hot and messy between their stomachs, his back bowed and lips parted in a silent scream.
He’s still shaking as Derek strokes him through it, whispering gentle words of praise and encouragement as Stiles’ soul slowly comes back down to earth.
“I—” He has no words, can barely lift his head.
His cock is still out, slowly softening as Derek’s hand releases it, his large fist slick with Stiles’ come.
He watches in a daze as Derek lifts his hand, broad tongue licking through the mess there. Stiles' throat constricted, his softened cock giving a feeble twitch as the last flicks of white are licked away.
"We should get to bed,” Derek murmured, gentle hands tucking Stiles' cock back away.
“Should I…” Stiles’ gaze drifted downward, lingering on the impressive bulge in Derek’s pants.
“No.”
Stiles blinked in surprise as he was lifted out of Derek’s lap and deposited onto the couch. “No?” he repeated.
“You don’t have to do that.”
Stiles’ chest tightened with disappointment, the words but I want to on the tip of his tongue—but before they could slip free, Derek was already rising to his feet.
“It’s late," Derek sighed. "Come on we should get some sleep."
Stiles rose on unsteady legs, trailing after Derek toward the bedroom—after a quick pit stop at the bathroom, of course.
There’s an uncomfortable feeling in the air—one Stiles isn’t sure how to resolve.
It plagues his mind as they settle in for bed.
He can’t stop thinking about Derek’s touch, how soft his lips are, the way his tongue had licked into his mouth.
Stiles wants—he wants so desperately for it to happen again. For him to return the favor, to give Derek half as much pleasure as he’d given Stiles.
It’s those thoughts that have him slipping under the covers as Derek sleeps.
Derek’s pajamas are thin, practically a sheet over his hips and flaccid cock. The air is thick and a little stuffy beneath the blanket, but the subtle scent of Derek’s musk spurs him on.
His hands are surprisingly steady as he draws Derek’s pants down, tucking the band under Derek's heavy sack, revealing his cock to Stiles’ gaze.
Though he can’t see much in the darkness—just faint shapes—but what he can’t fully see, he feels.
Derek’s skin is smooth and silky, different, yet just like touching his own dick. He wraps long nimble fingers around it, feeling the hot throb of it under his hand.
There’s just one staggering difference.
Derek’s uncut.
He’s seen uncircumcised cocks before—pictures in health class, glances of other boys during showers after practice—but he’s never touched one.
Stiles slides a finger around the tip, drawing the skin back to reveal the squishy head. He tucks a finger under the skin, rolling it curiously between his fingers.
Derek dick throbs in his hand, a hard pulse as he further thickens under his fingers.
Stiles’ mouth waters as he gives a few slow, exploratory strokes, until Derek's fully hard in his hand.
He presses his nose against the base, inhaling the scent of him, heart racing a mile a minute. Trails his lips featherlight against the underside before tentatively taking the tip in his mouth.
Wrapping his lips over his teeth, Stiles slides slowly down the hot length, until his eyes water with the urge to gag and he's forced to draw back.
Above him Derek's breathing has shifted, and when Stiles wraps his mouth back around him Derek groans. His large muscular thighs, spread and his muscles flexing—fighting the urge to fuck up into Stiles' mouth.
Stiles' heartbeat is racing even more now as he suckles the heated flesh, tongue sliding curiously around the foreskin, hints of Derek's musk bursting on his tongue.
"Stiles," Derek groaned, the sound thick and strained. "Fuck," a large hand cups the back of his head, encouraging him down.
His eyelids slid closed, bobbing his head up and down, until Derek's cock is slick and shiny with a mixture of spit and precum.
The blankets are yanked off him, and Stiles startled peering up into Derek's lust filled gaze. He stills, heart stuttering with the fear of reprisal of rejection.
The open air is a great reprieve from the heat of the blanket, and Stiles let's Derek's cock slip from between his lips to suck in a ragged breath.
"God," Derek's voice is a wreck, one large hand coming down to stroke himself. "You just had to have my cock in your mouth, didn't you?" he drags the slick tip against Stiles' plush lips.
Stiles lets his tongue dip out, laving over the flushed head, licking away the beading fluid gathering there.
"Jesus," Derek groans, eyebrows pressing into a deep line as he exhales.
"I prefer Stiles," he says, offering a cheeky grin before sucking Derek's cock into his mouth once more. Derek swears above him—something that suspiciously sounds like: Smartass.
Derek switches his hands, the one cuffed together holding his cock while the other free hand tangles in Stiles' ever growing hair.
They build a steady rhythm together like that, Derek cursing heated praise while guiding Stiles to take him deeper, until his lashes are clumped together with tears.
"So fucking perfect," Derek growled, the sound sending Stiles' swooping, his own neglected cock leaking at the praise.
The air fills with the lewd sounds of slurping, and Derek's ragged breathing—groans of pleasure that are more animal than human.
It's so fucking hot Stiles might honestly combust from exposure.
"I'm gonna come," Derek's voice is thick, practically a growl, as his fingers tighten in Stiles' hair.
Stiles sucks with renewed vigor, head bobbing and salvia dripping down around their fingers.
The fingers in his hair pull, but Stiles resists it, swallowing as a rush of fluid fills his mouth.
It's salty, a little bitter, but it's the best feeling he's ever experienced as Derek's come floods his mouth—nearly choking him.
He swallows, slurping at the pulsing length until he's pulled off by his hair. His lips are tingling, jaw aching, sucking in sharp lungfuls as he meets Derek's gaze.
Derek looks like a god carved from marble come alive, chest glistening with sweat, soft treasure trail leading to his hairless cock and balls.
"Come 'mer," Derek said, voice thick, not even giving Stiles the chance to obey before he's hauling him up until their chest to chest.
It doesn't take long for Derek to make him come—a dozen or so rough strokes and Stiles is spilling between them with a cry.
They don't talk about it afterwards—what this means for them. Is there a them? Stiles honestly doesn't know, but he kind of hopes there is a them.
Stiles is too unsure how to bring it up, and Derek seems content to do anything but talk about it.
But there's definitely been a shift. They streamlined straight past timid-sorta-friendship into fuckbuddy territory.
Showers are no longer strictly business, and while there hasn't been any direct er—sex. There's lots of handjobs and the first time Derek blows him Stiles is left a useless puddle on the bed.
And kissing, Derek's really into kissing. Not that Stiles is complaining, he's all too eager to have Derek Hale's tongue in his mouth, or his teeth against his skin.
The cuffs don’t come off until a week later, when Scotty comes to visit and the two—Derek and Scott—finally settle into a tense truce. Scott agrees to join Derek’s pack on the condition that no more wolves are made.
The loud clank of the cuffs hitting the floor lands like a slap to the face, and Stiles is struck with sudden, dizzying clarity.
The cuff may have landed on him instead of its intended target—Scott—but his desire hadn’t changed when it happened.
Scott bursts into laughter, utterly unhelpful, while Stiles and Derek are left staring at each other.
Stiles is dumbstruck. Derek looks ready to pummel him.
…Or maybe fuck him.
Derek’s I’m going to fuck you face is unfairly similar to his I’m going to kill you face in its intensity.
Fin