Chapter Text
Stiles doesn’t know when this became, like, a thing.
Fucking Derek, she means. Letting him fuck her, rather. Asking him to. He’d say she begged, but she didn’t, not even when he rubbed his scruff up the inside of her thigh and just breathed, like the douchebag he is.
But, yeah. Sex with Derek Hale. Who would have thought, right?
It’s exactly what she expected – except not really, not at all. He’s surprisingly nice about it, for all the shoving around it took to get them here, like this, braced between his elbows, gasping into the hot kisses he presses to her mouth. He kisses with the same militant control he uses on everything else, and he fucks in short, sharp thrusts, holds her hips down if she even hints at setting the pace. And, okay, maybe that doesn’t sound nice, but. He doesn’t snarl, or growl, or bite, the way one might expect. He’s not an animal about it. He’s… Derek.
(The longer all this goes on, the more trouble she’s having explaining exactly what that means.)
They’re not… they’re not, like, together, because that would be strange and stupid and stupidly strange. But she doesn’t hide the bruises he sucks into her throat, and more often than not he spends his nights climbing through the bedroom window she keeps unlocked, so it’s almost like they’re… well. Friends with benefits sounds wrong, somehow. Derek Hale is a lot of things, but he’s not really her friend.
Which, okay, is weird to think when he’s this deep inside of her, hips grinding slow right up against hers with his fingers playing just this side of too-much on her clit. He’s close. Wants to get her off one last time; some testosterone-driven urge to make her come for the third- no, wait, fourth- time before he finally finishes off. Maybe it’s an Alpha thing.
She doesn’t care either way, because, whoa. Derek shifts his hips in a particularly crafty way and it’s suddenly all bright-hot sensation, slick and sensitive. Her body jerks, her toes curl, and she probably wouldn’t have even needed the way he brushes his knuckles between her legs. She’s coming, hard and fast and with the sound of his name gasped against his stubbled jaw.
Stiles feels it when Derek comes. Which is… different. She’s loopy, all smiles and sunshine from the force of her orgasm, but she’s not stupid, and it shouldn’t feel like that. They’ve done this a lot, like a lot a lot, and this isn’t… something’s off.
She doesn’t know a whole lot about condoms, but she thinks that when Derek pulls out, it isn’t supposed to be coated with come on both sides.
Turns out panic is pretty great at stealing the afterglow. “Is that,” she says, “Did you,” and for once, words fail her.
Derek, master of verbal communication that he is, grunts. Ties it off and throws it in the bin beside her bed. Which, gross. That seriously belongs down the toilet. If she weren’t having a mild panic attack, she would be taking it up with management.
As it is, she’s a little preoccupied with the fact that he came inside of her. She got The Talk, featuring a blushing, fumbling father and enough mutual mortification to last her a lifetime. She might have been a virgin before Derek Hale and his brooding eyebrows and disgustingly perfect abs, but she knows how this stuff works, okay?
“Get dressed,” she says, sliding out from beneath the sheet, and this is a night of firsts, because usually she takes her time with the privilege that is Derek Hale naked.
Then again, usually, she doesn’t have his come sticky between her thighs.
Derek kind of just… stares. He does that a lot, actually, and she’s gotten really good at this whole Sherlock Holmes thing, pinpointing a twitch of the eyebrow or tilt of the chin to sleuth out what he isn’t saying.
This expression is Number 76 in the Hale Handbook: exasperation. She gets this one a lot.
“Get dressed,” she says again, throwing a stray sock in his direction where she finds it on top of her jeans. “We have to go.”
“Go,” Derek repeats, in the way normal people would say, “Go where?” Derek doesn’t ever really ask questions so much as he demands explanations.
And honestly – if Stiles ever does decide to have kids with this guy, she hopes they get her brains. And his looks. Her train of thought is derailed for a moment on the possible combinations of their genetic makeup.
A were-baby would probably be really cute, she thinks. Pregnant at seventeen, less so. Morning sickness isn’t a good look for anyone, and maternity jeans are out this year. Lydia Martin would be ruthless. And her dad –
“You need to take me to the store.” And maybe she looks as horrified as she feels, because Derek has put some of his clothes on. His abs are covered, at least, which is great for the sake of her general effectiveness. Stiles is no less than 90% less productive when Derek is shirtless. These are facts. It’s in a powerpoint, somewhere.
Derek has perfected the art of expressing ‘your psychosis is testing my patience’ with his eyebrows. “It’s past midnight.”
“Luckily,” and maybe she’s a little shrill, but her Jeep’s last leg gave out last week and she thinks he’d probably eviscerate her if she even thought about taking his Camaro, which, hey, would actually solve a lot of problems except for the fact that she likes living, thanks very much, “CVS is 24/7.”
Logic is almost as bad as wolfbane to Derek. “I’m not taking you to the store,” he says, Alpha voice full-force. And when is he going to learn it doesn’t work on her. Unless they’re in bed, because, yeah. Hot.
There’s an argument to be made, but Derek is stubborn to the last, and he has already taken his shirt off again. It’s like he knows her weakness. There’s a direct correlation of Stiles’ mental productivity to how much skin Derek has exposed.
They could always go tomorrow, she reasons, a little fuzzily.
It’s not a hardship to crawl back into bed with the warm wall of muscle that is Derek Hale. Not many people get this chance. Actually, she thinks she’s, like, the second in the history of ever – which, wow. Life achievement unlocked.
Stiles sighs, relaxes into the cradle of his arms. His breath huffs against the shell of her ear; his thumb smooths over the sharp angle of her hip. He smells like sweat and sex and something stupidly woodsy, musky, the kind of smell she wants to roll her eyes at because it’s so Derek Hale.
She thinks maybe he’s asleep when she laces her fingers through his and whispers, “I like Samantha.”
Derek is really, really bad at asking questions – probably something to do with admitting Stiles knows something he doesn’t, which shouldn’t even be an issue anymore, because let’s face it, she’s totally the brains of this operation. But his hand twitches in hers and he snuffles at the back of her neck. Classic Hale Handbook indicators of ‘What the hell are you talking about?’
“For the name,” she clarifies. Goes on with, “We can even shorten it to Sam, if it’s a boy. We can’t have a baby and not give it a name, can we?”
Stiles thinks she would do anything in that moment – thinks she would take the freaking bite – if it meant seeing his face.
But she’ll settle for the way he rolls out of bed, preternaturally fast, and the abject horror of his tone when he grits out, “Get in the car.”
Sometimes, she thinks Derek is lucky she isn’t a werewolf. She does enough damage as a human.
She pulls on her jeans and makes a mental note to research ‘Alpha females’ when they get back.