Work Text:
Everything started with a kiss. Isn't that a catchy phrase? Yeah, well, too bad that the sad truth is that in reality everything started with a fist.
Specifically, everything started with Stiles' fist colliding with Derek's jaw. Because, you see, as every other genius on this earth, there are times when Stiles can be slow like a catatonic sloth high on drugs. Not mentioning the fact that his sense of preservation seems to be a bit fucked up lately. What with crazy, murdery werewolves bursting into his life like the scariest assault squad ever?
Besides, it isn't like Stiles didn't have the chance to step aside and let Scott, Derek and Mr. 'I'm gonna rip your throat out with my teeth- kidding, I'm just his uncle' Hale solve their trivial, life-threatening question between them. Truth be told, he’s had more than a chance to step aside and watch the show from the sidelines, where he would have enjoyed a bowl full of buttery popcorn while waving one of those small flags with a silly phrase on it; phrases like ‘I cheer for Scott, other werewolves I do want not’ or ‘Derek’s uncle scares me, I feel the sudden urge to flee’.
There is no doubt that such thing would’ve been way more safe than let himself get involved in a family-sized blood feud for power, but Stiles’ curiosity had already often fucked Stiles in the ass in the past and didn’t fail to strike that time too.
Okay, maybe the fact that Scott, his best friend, had been suddenly turned into a werewolf – and, basically, it had been all Stiles’ fault, hadn’t it? – could’ve somehow influenced Stiles’ decision too.
Still, that doesn’t explain what had followed. Because no one in his right mind would have accepted to put up with full moons transformations, sudden mood swing – and, hey, Stiles had looked it up on internet and the symptoms totally matched a thing called IMS, as in ‘Irritable Male Syndrome’, which says tons about werewolves and their total lack of sense of humor – and quite scary fangs. So Stiles doesn’t understand what kind of hallucinogens were partying in his head when he’d agreed to be around Derek ‘smiles are banned from my half-burned up kingdom’ Hale.
Because, let’s face it, that had been a tragedy announced.
So yeah, everything started with Stiles punching Derek. But he could swear that it was totally accidental, more like his fist had launched itself towards Derek’s very solid jaw in an outburst of affection. It’s not like Stiles was trying to harm Derek.
Hell, he’s going to die, isn’t he?
He won’t even get to say goodbye to his dad, won’t even get to tell him that he’d noticed that the whole lasagna was gone from the fridge this morning and dad, you are not supposed to eat like a bear about to go into hibernation- He didn’t plan to die so young, there are still so many things he wants to do, places he wants to see. Places like- like- Hokkaido! He wants to visit it and then pursue the path of the sword so he will be able to defend himself next time a supernatural being will attempt to murder him and- “Stiles,” Derek says, hands reaching for him.
Holy shit, that’s it, Stiles thinks. And then, he faints in a very manly way.
When he comes back to his senses – too bad, dreaming to be a radioactive bunny hadn’t be so bad – the first thing he realizes is that someone has placed a wet cloth on his forehead and that he is lying on his bed, on the covers, as if he’s been placed there by som- Fuck.
“Don’t start panicking again,” Derek’s voice says from somewhere at his left.
Stiles doesn’t. Or at least he tries to. Because he’d told Derek that yes, it was fine for him to kiss Stiles and, hell, Stiles would’ve even kissed him back, that’s how perfectly fine it was. And then, when Derek had kissed him for real, tongue licking his bottom lip and fingers carefully touching Stiles’ hips- Stiles had punched him.
Now that he thinks about it again, not only does the whole thing look even much more dreadful that he thought it would, but he isn’t sure that acting like a lunatic, menstruated teenager has helped his cause to work his way into Derek’s pants. Nope, nope.
So Stiles keeps his eyes shut – don’t look him in the eyes, just don’t – and asks: “Am I supposed to take it like a man or you prefer me to be loud?”
A chocked sound comes from right beside him. “Take it like a- What the fuck are you talking about, Stiles?” And ok, now, Derek doesn’t sound too angry, maybe a bit shocked, but angry- not on the menu.
Stiles tentatively opens his right eye and dares to shot a glance to Derek’s face. Whoa, Derek’s really flushed face. He opens his other eye. “My fist. Your face,” he explains, slowly. Too bad he is still a bit distracted because, wow, was Derek gaping? “Aren’t you gonna beat the ever living shit out of me?”
A light of understanding flashes into Derek’s eyes and Stiles sees perfectly the aborted face palm even if he tries to hide it by smoothing some nonexistent wrinkles on his shirt – the cloth is on the verge of exploding under the pressure of his pectorals muscles, how could there possibly be wrinkles? – and then leaning forward, elbows on his thighs and face dangerously close to Stiles’. “You thought I was gonna hit you? That’s why you fainted?” he asks, a smirk curving the angles on his mouth.
Stiles blushes. “Of- of course not,” he babbles. Way to go, Stilinski. “I just- You were too hot- I mean, I! I felt too hot and-” Why can’t some asteroid choose his house as landing point when he needs it?
“It’s December,” Derek deadpans glancing outside the windows, where snow is covering pretty much every inch of Beacon Hills.
Of course it is. Must be the reason why Stiles has suddenly turned into a guy with the IQ of a slush. The only positive side of this utter disaster is that Derek doesn’t seem much prone to use Stiles as a punching bag, which could be counted as a win, seen the circumstances. “Does this mean that you aren’t, like, seeking revenge for the affront suffered?” he asks, just to be sure.
Derek looks at him like Stiles’ math teacher often glares at Scott, which isn’t much of a compliment, really. “Stiles,” he sighs.
But Stiles has to assure himself that Derek isn’t lulling him into a false sense of security to get him to lower his defenses and then- then do things like hang Stiles outside his window. By his ankle. There, that wouldn’t be pretty. So, you see, it’s a vital issue that Stiles makes certain that Derek isn’t plotting his violent death. “Not even denounce me to the sheriff for, what, assault? Because, I have to tell you, no one would believe for even one minute-”
“Stiles,” Derek repeats, frowning in a clear ‘the lord is testing me’ way.
“Besides, it’s not like you were supposed to be here in first instance, so-”
“Stiles,” Derek says again. And then – because Stiles has not only dug a deep hole into Derek’s patience, but is even building one of those complicated, underground labyrinth into Derek’s brain – he kisses Stiles.
This time Stiles is more prepared, so he flinches just a tiny bit when Derek’s lips collide with his, or maybe the fact that he doesn’t jump away is due to Derek’s hand placed on his neck and keeping him in place. Derek’s stubble scratches his chin when he opens his mouth against Stiles' lips, his tongue lazily licking his teeth, seeking and waiting for a consent to explore further, there where Stiles is hotter and slicker.
When the mattress deeps under Derek’s weight, Stiles moans, breath hot against Derek’s mouth. He opens his legs, makes room for Derek to settle between them as he runs his fingers against Stiles’ bottom spit-slick lip, a growl softly echoing in his throat when he pushes past them, caressing the insides of Stiles’ mouth, there where everything is hot and wet and so fucking soft- Derek pushes his hips down, hungry and demanding, and Stiles’ back arches like the most sensitive, beautifully responsive bowstring.
It feels like a million lights switching on in his brain, pleasure running up his spine in delicious, overwhelming waves. “Derek. Derek,” he pleads. He doesn’t even know what he is asking for, lust clouding his thoughts, the only thing he knows is that he wants- needs more.
“Right here,” is a growl against Stiles’ ear as Derek kisses him once again, open-mouthed, teeth and tongue conquering Stiles’ mouth like the sweetest of the prices, as he pushes his hips down once again, pressing the hard line of his cock against Stiles’, making him whimper with desire.
And Stiles is pretty sure that his boxers are a mess of sticky pre-come, can’t imagine it being any other way as he – “Oh. Oh.” – moans and hooks his legs around Derek’s hips, frantically pushing his body up to meet the solid, fucking perfect weight of Derek’s body.
There are too many layers of clothing separating them and the air feels burning hot in Stiles’ lungs, a sheen of sweat covering his forehead, and the way Derek is moving against him- It’s almost maddening, how the veins in his arms bulge under his smooth skin under the strain of keeping himself from totally crushing Stiles, the way his hot, broken breath lands right into Stiles’ mouth, mixing with his, matching Stiles’ breathlessness when he finally feels on the verge of coming.
Stiles fights it, fights the excruciating, delicious tension in his balls, the blazing fire in his abdomen- “Come on,” he grits between clenched teeth, buries his nails into Derek’s biceps as he finally opens his mouth, gulps down fresh air as he comes with violent, copious spurts in his pants, jizz drenching his slacks.
And then the heat of Derek’s body abandons him, as the werewolf gets on his knees, hands fumbling with his jeans in the frantic urge to open them. “Oh, fuck- Stiles. Fuck,” he is so beautifully incoherent that Stiles can’t do anything but watch fascinated as he finally frees his own cock, his red, thick cock, and starts jerking himself off like Stiles coming into his pants is the hottest thing ever.
And maybe it really is, because it doesn’t take much than five, maybe six strokes, and then Derek is coming all over Stiles, splashes of come landing over his wet pants, on his shirt, even on the bare, flushed skin of Stiles’ neck.
It’s hot in so many different, unexplainable ways that for a moment Stiles finds himself speechless, lost in the contemplation of the relief painted all over Derek’s face, of the glistening liquid sliding between his fingers. Stiles watches, lazy and satisfied, until Derek lies down beside him, burying his nose into Stiles’ neck and licking him, tongues flat and rough against Stiles’ skin as Derek licks his own come away and then sniffs him- “Sleep,” he then murmurs against Stiles’ ear, tone balanced between a question and a suggestion.
Briefly, before the pleasant weariness in his limbs gets the better of him, Stiles thinks that maybe, after all, it really was fine for Derek to kiss him.
So yes, everything started with a fist. Doesn’t mean there can’t be a happily ever after, right?