Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Fuck her,” Derek says.

“Yeah,” Stiles concurs. “Fuck her.”

The outside of the beer can is cold and damp against Derek’s palm as he thrusts it out in front of himself, a faint clunk chiming in the air as his drink taps clumsily against the one held out by Stiles’ hand. The sound itself is almost immediately drowned out by the blaring of the television, relentless gunfire spitting out from the speakers as the bloody, gratuitous action movie takes up the screen.

Frowning, Derek grabs blindly behind a nearby pillow until he can lay hands on the remote. The insistent press of his thumb knocks the volume down a few – much needed – bars.

Around them, the living room of their apartment is warm, the clutter of their shared accumulation of trinkets scattered about the place all melting into a cosy sort of familiarity, slowly built over the time they have lived here together. The late evening is lit only by the dim, orange glow of the lamp standing in the corner, casting its rays over the multitude of empty cans tossed carelessly across the wooden floor.

Each of them creates a pronounced dent in the couch cushions they sit on, dipping lower and lower with every passing hour; hours spent with barely more than tiny shifts of movement from either of them. When they started their evening, the sun was just beginning to set outside of the open window on the far wall. Now, the night is late, the sky inky black and blotchy white with stars.

A slight twinge in Derek’s calf muscle has him twitching, his heels rubbing against the coffee table where his ankles are crossed on top of it. The movement presses the arches of Stiles’ feet just that little bit firmer into the side of his thigh, Stiles’ toes curling against the thin fabric of his shorts.

Stiles is quick to pull his beer back towards himself, tilting the can against his parted lips and tipping his head to gulp it down in a series of noisy glugs, his throat working around swallow after swallow. Derek doesn’t join him this time around, simply watches on with the frown he feels like he’ll never get rid of as he rests his own drink against his bare knee, scraping the pad of one finger back and forth over its metal tab.

He exhales heavily, long and drawn out, letting his head list back to thump against the couch. A dull ache throbs at the base of his skull as he blinks at the ceiling for a few seconds.

“No. That’s not right.” He sighs up towards the flaking paint. “Not fuck her. She hasn’t actually done anything... wrong.”

“Yeah,” comes Stiles’ far too easy change of tune. “Great girl, really top notch. I heard she’s due a sainthood, actually.”

Derek can’t help but huff out a laugh at that. He twists his neck, rolling against the back of the couch until he can peer at Stiles over on the other side. He watches with a raised eyebrow as Stiles wipes away the wet residue around his smiling mouth with the frayed sleeve of his hoodie.

“Are you just going to agree with literally anything I say tonight?” Derek asks.

“Duh,” Stiles answers, his grin slipping wider to show two rows of white teeth. “That’s what friends are for after a break-up.”

“You’re Paige’s friend too,” Derek points out.

“True.” Stiles taps a thoughtful finger against his chin. “But I don’t live with Paige, so – I think you won me in that custody battle.”

A palm smacks over the full expanse of Derek’s groaning features as he throws a hand roughly towards his face. He frowns against the line-wrinkled skin, spreading the gaps between his fingers that little bit wider until he can direct the furrow of his brow at Stiles through them. Stiles simply gazes sympathetically right back at him.

It may have only been a month since Paige threw five long, happy – or, at least, Derek thought they were happy – years back in his face by dumping him completely out of nowhere, but already he is getting real goddamn tired of seeing that precise look of well-meaning pity from pretty much everyone in his life.

He lets his hand fall away and feels his lower lip jut out into something he would absolutely deny is a pout.

“I don’t want a custody battle,” he says miserably. “I just want her back.”

Stiles reaches over to slap a couple of commiserating pats against his thigh.

“I know, buddy.” Stiles snakes his hand to the side to tap a noisy fingernail against Derek’s can. “Now drink your make-it-better juice.”

The only response Derek has to that is a short grunt and a fast eye roll. But – he does dutifully bring the beer up to his mouth to suck down a long, lukewarm pull, all the same.

Silence settles back over them like a warm blanket, comfortable and familiar, easy in that kind of way a shared quiet can only be when you know someone as well as Derek and Stiles know each other. They have been friends since the very first week of freshman year back in college, growing close to best friends over all the years that have followed.

Well, as close to best friends as anyone can get with Stiles, when Scott is in the picture.

Then, after graduation, just over a year ago now, everyone in their friendship group suddenly seemed to have a plan in place for where to go next.

Scott and Allison had a place lined up, for the two of them and the two of them alone. It made sense, of course; they had been dating since high school, chose not to live together during college to instead spend the years living with friends. It was only natural that now, with college over, they would set themselves up with a one bed, one bath on the nice side of town.

And Paige – ever since Derek has known her, she has been incredibly vocal about her dream of spending a year in Europe. He’s almost certain that she told him all about it the very first time that they met, when Allison introduced them in freshman year. Throughout their relationship, she has regaled him with her plans to journey around the continent, teaching as she goes. Before graduation day even rolled around, she had her ticket booked and her first job lined up, and Derek kissed her goodbye at the airport with a heavy heart and hopes for the future; for when she got back.

Leaving only two pieces of the puzzle out of place. Obviously, it was only natural for Derek and Stiles to move in together, just the two of them for the first time ever.

They found somewhere, in a not-too-bad part of downtown. Within the realm of their budget, and with enough bedrooms for two. Close enough to Derek’s office to make up an easy commute, and close enough to Stiles’ favourite Chinese restaurant that they weren’t venturing outside of takeout delivery territory.

It just... made sense. And it’s been nice, really, living with Stiles.

Sure, the guy might be more than a little bit messy, and sometimes he uses the last of the hot water because he gets carried away belting out noughties pop punk in the shower, and he is an absolute menace for putting the carton back into the fridge with barely enough milk to fill a damn thimble.

But he also irons Derek’s work shirts because he knows that Derek despises that particular chore with every fibre of his being, and he draws ridiculous, perversely against nature splices of cartoon animals in the steam of the bathroom mirror just to make Derek laugh with horror while he showers, and he has been solid as a rock in helping Derek to pathetically stumble his way through the first – and worst – break-up of his life.

So – yeah. Overall, it’s been pretty damn all right, being Stiles’ roommate.

The sharp point of a toe digs into Derek’s thigh, relentless until he gives in with an agitated huff, turning his head to look at Stiles once again. He finds Stiles looking back at him, an unhappy twist to his mouth. His big, brown eyes are still somehow so bright, even in the low light of the room, and he narrows them slightly, tipping his head to one side as he keeps on staring.

“Hey, man, you never know,” he says softly, leaning to set his drink down on the coffee table before settling back into the couch cushions. “Maybe she’ll come to her senses. Maybe she’ll realise she’s making the biggest mistake of her life and she’ll come around begging for you to take her back.”

Derek feels his mouth flatten into a tight, thin line, his eyebrows jumping up for a second. He lets his gaze drift from Stiles’ face, slipping down to where a small hole gapes at the collar of his loose t-shirt, a pale sliver of skin visible just beneath.

“She sounded pretty final when she said it was over,” Derek says quietly. “I just... I miss her so much.”

“I know,” Stiles replies, his face kind as he nods softly. “I know how much you missed her when she was away.”

“Yeah,” Derek mumbles, a quick breath as he winds a hand into the hair at the crown of his head. “God, yeah. Even – then, too, I missed her so much.”

“Of course, she was on a whole other continent,” Stiles says. “I’m sure she missed you, as well.”

At that, Derek laughs. But it’s hollow, humourless, sharp as he begins to shake his head.

“I’m not so sure about that,” he says. “She never had any time to talk to me, she was always so busy. I... I should’ve seen this coming.”

“Dude, quit being so hard on yourself.” Stiles launches across the couch until he can land a hand on Derek’s forearm, fingers curling around the sinewy muscle while he sweeps a reassuring thumb over the thin skin near the inside of Derek’s elbow. “You love her. You thought you were going to be together forever. There’s no way you could’ve seen this coming.”

Derek drops the hand from the top of his head, dragging it along his temple until it can rest against his cheek. He stays quiet for a few, passing beats, nails scratching distractedly against his skin as he blinks at Stiles’ waiting, pitying face.

“I could have. I should have.” He drops his gaze down to his lap, eyes roaming the crooked contours of the can of beer, nestled against his thigh. “It was always difficult to speak to her as often as I wanted to, with the time difference and all. But... but those last few months. Jesus. We barely fucking spoke. And whenever we did, all we did was fight.”

The couch cushions jostle with Stiles’ shifting movements, dipping as he sits back to his own side of the couch. Derek still doesn’t look up.

“It can’t have been easy,” Stiles says gently. “Being so far apart, and for so long.”

“It wasn’t.” Derek pauses to drain the last of his beer, one big gulp until the can is empty. He skids it carelessly along the coffee table. “It was – easier, I guess, towards the start. We talked more. Even had phone sex, too.” He exhales a dark laugh. “Although that dried up pretty damn fast.”

A choked, strangled kind of noise garbles out of Stiles’ throat. Derek’s attention snaps up to him with a frown, finding Stiles staring at him, eyes almost comically wide, his eyebrows shot halfway up his forehead, so high they almost meet the strands of dark, messy hair falling over the edge of his hairline.

“You guys,” he begins to say, cutting off for a second to clear his throat, “you guys had phone sex?”

The tips of Derek’s ears burn instantly red as the realisation hits him of what he just said, out loud and everything. He shuffles uncomfortably in his seat, distracting himself from Stiles’ question, if only for a moment, by running his fingers along the fabric arm of the couch, dropping his focus back down to his lap to avoid the stunned look on Stiles’ face.

This – this reaction, Derek’s reaction – is kind of ridiculous, to be honest. Why does the prospect of talking about this make him feel so... awkward? He and Paige are adults, adults who enjoy sex, so of course they started having sex when they got together back in college, and of course that carried on for the rest of their relationship, and of course they did what they could to find a way to keep that streak going even when she moved so far away. Even if that attempt did fail, in the end.

Really, he shouldn’t feel weird talking about this. Especially not with Stiles.

Stiles, who shares the sordid play-by-plays of his many, many Grindr hook-ups with the girls of their friendship group – and, more often than not, an entirely unwilling Scott – with devout enthusiasm and no detail spared. Stiles, who Derek has heard panting and moaning and begging for more, on numerous occasions, through the thin walls of every apartment they have ever lived in together, this one included.

This is what friends do, right? They hang out, they drink beer, they watch movies. And... and they talk about their sex lives.

Or – lack thereof, Derek should probably say in this instance.

“Uh,” he gets out, eventually, slowly sliding his gaze back to Stiles’ still-shocked face. “At the start, like I said, yeah. Or – or pictures, or videos, or stuff like that.”

“Pictures?” Stiles parrots back at him, sounding and looking a little dumb. “Videos?”

“Stuff like that,” Derek says again, his entire face beginning to feel hot. “It’s – well. It’s not the same as actual sex, obviously, but... but it was enough to get by on, while she was gone.”

Stiles pushes his lower lip out, eyes squinting thoughtfully as his gaze drifts just to the side of Derek’s head. He nods, slow and considering, fingers tapping out a choppy rhythm against his thigh.

“Huh,” he says. “That’s – interesting. I’ve never actually had phone sex.”

Derek doesn’t bother to hold back the snort that rumbles up his throat.

“Why would you need to?” He keeps his voice intentionally light and teasing, letting his eyes slide pointedly to Stiles’ closed bedroom door. “You’ve got a new guy coming out of that room pretty much every weekend. Why settle for phone sex when you’re clearly getting enough of the real thing?”

Stiles scoffs, his whole face screwing up with close to real offence. He lifts a middle finger directly in front of Derek’s face, huffing when Derek simply bats him away with another laugh.

“Okay, rude.” He sticks his tongue out. “They’re not always new. Sometimes I see the same guy twice.”

Derek throws up two placating palms, feeling the corners of his eyes crinkle with a smile as he watches Stiles flop backwards again, his arms crossed stubbornly over his chest as he melts back into the cushions.

“I’m not judging,” Derek says. “I’m just saying. It’s not exactly like we’re in the same boat here. At least someone other than you has touched your dick sometime in the last year.”

Stiles waves a wild, vague hand into the air between them – but his face does settle into something more neutral, so Derek feels like his damage control has succeeded, at least.

“Whatever,” Stiles huffs, before abruptly pulling his feet back from Derek’s thigh, swivelling to tuck them underneath himself, his hoodie slipping a little off his frame, pulling his t-shirt down with it to reveal the bony juncture of his pale shoulder. “I’m over the random hook-up shit now, anyway. Have been for months, in case you haven’t noticed.”

Derek lifts an eyebrow. “Oh, yeah?”

“Oh. Yeah.” Stiles nods, once, fast and firm. “It just – I don’t know. It got old. Once you’ve seen one unsolicited dick pic, it feels like you’ve seen them all, you know?”

“Sure,” Derek deadpans. “I know the exact feeling.”

Stiles cracks a laugh, his nose scrunching up with his grin as he presses forward to shove at Derek’s shoulder. Derek is powerless to do anything but smile right back at him.

“Shut up, asshole.” The very second the last syllable is out of his mouth, his tipsy eyes light up, his smile spreading even wider across his face. The hand flies up from Derek’s shoulder to snap fingers right in front of Derek’s face. “Holy shit. I totally have the best idea ever.”

“Doubtful,” Derek says drily, laughing when Stiles flicks him lightly on the forehead. “Fine. What’s the idea?”

“We,” Stiles begins, incessantly wagging a pointer finger back and forth between their noses, “should have sex.”

Which is... quite possibly the literal last thing he expected to come out of Stiles’ mouth, to be honest. Derek can only blink his completely speechless shock at him for several, stretching seconds, dragging out into what feels like an uncomfortably long time.

“You’re kidding,” he says flatly, eventually.

But Stiles just stuns him all over again with a vigorous shake of his head.

“It makes perfect sense!” he proclaims, even though Derek would very much beg to differ, actually. “You’re single and horny. I’m single and horny. You’re not ready to go out and find anyone new. I’m tired of pretty much everyone being new. We can say fuck it to our circumstances, and have casual, mutually beneficial sex. It’s totally logical. It’s genius, even.”

Derek can almost hear the beat of his heart throbbing in his eardrums, thumping away behind his ribcage with that rhythmic thud-thud-thud. His palms feel sweaty as he flexes his fingers against his bare thighs, his mouth more than a little dry as his brain pretty much short-circuits. All he finds himself able to do for a long time is sit, and stare, and stare and stare and stare in silence.

This silence is a whole lot less comfortable than the one before, he notices vaguely.

“You know I’m...” He cuts himself off for a moment to blink, to clear his throat. “You know that I’m... straight. Right?”

Stiles shrugs a shoulder. Unbelievably, he even lifts a hand to wave nonchalantly through the air.

“Whatever,” he says, just, entirely casual, leaning forwards the tiniest bit across the couch. “Me and Scott did it in high school, and he’s straight. He’s the straightest dude I know, actually. The guy washes his face with hand soap, for god’s sake.”

That particular nugget of information catches Derek off guard. He knew that Scott and Stiles went to high school together, and middle school and elementary and all that jazz.

But... but he didn’t know that they ever... they ever...

He scrubs a rough hand over his face while his brain tries desperately to catch up to the intensity of this entire goddamn conversation. His struggle to find some words, any words, let alone the right ones, manifests itself in a useless stutter of nothingness.

“That’s... I... We...”

“Hey,” Stiles interrupts, pointed but gentle, enough that Derek turns back to where Stiles is fixing him with a serious kind of stare. “It’s not a big deal if you don’t want to. It was just an idea. Obviously, we will not do a thing if you’re not into it – which, clearly, you are not.”

And before Derek knows what he’s doing, he finds himself blurting out, “I didn’t say that.”

Stiles pauses at Derek’s abrupt words. He quirks one eyebrow, halting where he was already starting to climb his way off the couch – to grab another beer, to go to the bathroom, to go to bed, Derek really doesn’t know. And he kind of... doesn’t want to find out.

He wants Stiles to sit back down. He wants to... discuss this, he thinks.

Which feels insane. Completely nuts.

To make one thing abundantly, perfectly clear – he is straight. He likes women, and he has always liked women. He liked women when he was in high school and he could chat them into the backseat of his Camaro. He liked women at the start of college, when everything was new and fun and his big sister wasn’t one room over from his bedroom for the first time in his life. He liked women when he met Paige, fell quickly in love, and decided he was more than okay with being a one-woman kind of man.

But... but he really wasn’t exaggerating earlier. Sincerely, nobody but him has touched his dick in a whole goddamn year. He thinks he’s actually beginning to forget what it even feels like, to have something wrapped around him that isn’t also attached to him. And with the added buzz of the alcohol in his system – not enough to wreck him, but enough to make him feel a little lighter, a little looser – well...

Well. Maybe it’s not so insane after all, that he finds himself considering this right now.

“I am straight, though,” he feels the need to reiterate.

“Okay,” Stiles says slowly. “But, like, really, I mean – a mouth’s a mouth. Right?”

Pure, basic instinct draws Derek’s gaze where it goes next, dragged instantly down before he has any kind of control over his cognitive reflexes. His eyes dart to Stiles’ crotch, shielded from Derek’s wandering stare only by the thin layer of worn, grey sweatpants, and he swallows thickly, his eyes wide and unmoving for far too long as he keeps on staring.

His skin feels like it’s on fire as he forces his eyes to snap back up to Stiles’ face.

Stiles’ stupidly amused, bemused, smirking fucking face.

“I don’t...” Derek starts to stutter out, his face so hot, sweat beginning to pool at this lower back, his brain racing to all these different ideas, thoughts, scenarios. “I’m not sure if I could... with my mouth...”

“Oh, don’t sweat it.” Stiles waves that carefree hand through the air all over again. “You wouldn’t have to give me head or anything, that’s a lot for a first timer.” He drops his hand down onto his knee, toying slightly with a fraying stitch between the rolling pads of his fingers. “We could... I don’t know. I could, like, blow you, maybe, if you wanted? And then – and then you could, you could maybe jerk me off? I don’t know. Maybe... maybe that.”

Derek gives himself a beat, a moment to breathe. He wets his lips as he stares at Stiles’ carefully neutral face.

“Is that what you and Scott used to do?” he asks.

Stiles lifts a shoulder. “Something like that, sure.”

Something like that. Derek refuses to let his mind wander to exactly what something like that might have been, might have looked like. It’s too... weird, thinking about Stiles and Scott like that, like together. They’ve all been friends for too many years. It’s not right. Derek would still like to actually be able to look Scott in the eye, the next time he sees him.

But... but that’s the thing. It really is only the Scott side of the equation that is settling so uncomfortably in the pit of his stomach. As he looks at Stiles, really casts his gaze over him, taking in his messy dark hair, the trail of moles marking up his pale skin, the gentle slope of his nose, the pink bow of his upper lip – Derek thinks.

He thinks maybe, actually, after all... this could work.

Setting his shoulders back, he twists around just enough to face Stiles straight on. A beat passes before he gives a single nod of his head.

“Okay,” he says.

Stiles raises both eyebrows. “Okay?”

“Yeah.” Derek nods again. “Okay.”

A slow, soft sort of smile spreads itself across Stiles’ mouth. Almost invisible, to the naked eye, barely more than a faint uptick curving at either side. Derek simply stares as Stiles sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, catching an edge between his teeth and biting down gently, only for a second.

“Holy shit,” he breathes. “Wow. Well. Okay, then.”

All Derek can do is watch with a closed mouth and bugged-out eyes as Stiles slips from the couch, landing on his knees on the wooden floor with a noise that sounds a lot like a stark purple bruise that will make itself known later tonight. But Stiles doesn’t look perturbed one bit, even if there is any pain with it.

Instead, he just crawls, or maybe it’s more of a shuffle, really. Either way – he moves slowly forward, going and going and going, up until he is kneeling right there on the floor, right at Derek’s knees, pressing in between his slowly spreading legs.

Derek’s mouth feels ridiculously dry, at this point. Like waking up the morning after a long night of drinking, that moment where you come to the abrupt, awful realisation that you are about to experience the worst hangover of your life. He slides his damp palms down his thighs, a low coil of heat building in his stomach as the breadth of Stiles’ shoulders inches his legs that little bit further apart.

The whole time, Stiles’ eyes never leave Derek’s face. He moves, almost sinuously, getting himself into position. It’s a place that is probably so familiar to him, Derek thinks, but this is a whole new goddamn world for Derek. In this form, at least; broad shoulders and sharp angles in front of him, where he is used to bouncing breasts and soft edges.

Lifting slow hands, unhurried like he’s moving in on a particularly frightened prey animal, Stiles hovers them over the bare skin of Derek’s knees, the little, hairy patches just above the cap. He raises an eyebrow at Derek, as though asking for permission, and Derek takes a second before he grants this with a lick of his lips, a clearing of this throat, and an intentional nod.

Stiles’ hands are big, his fingers long and slender, warm skin against warm skin.

“Do you want to pull your shorts down,” Stiles asks, “or shall I?”

“I can do it.” Derek’s voice is rough, scratchy. “Uh, just – just give me a second.”

His hands are shaking, just slightly, when he brings them up to the waistband of his shorts. He slips two thumbs beneath the elastic, one on either side, lifting away from his stomach and pushing himself up from the couch enough that he can shuffle them down his thighs.

Because he is at home, and because he is comfortable, and because he obviously did not anticipate the night finishing this way – he doesn’t have any underwear on underneath. So, the second the shorts are tucked beneath his balls, his entire dick is just – fucking – out there, for everyone to see.

For Stiles to see.

Fuck, this is weird.

It’s still soft, lying nestled in its bed of dark, curly hair. It’s been a while since he last did any trimming, what with his girlfriend being on another continent, and all, so it’s a little more unruly than he usually lets it get to when he’s planning on showing it to someone.

Not that he’s – that he’s showing it to someone, per se. Stiles has seen his dick before. He’s seen Stiles’ dick before. And Scott’s, and a bunch of other guys he’s known from high school through to college. Playing sports, working out – it comes with communal showers. It’s not a big deal. You don’t go out of your way to look, obviously, but seeing each other’s junk is kind of... unavoidable, sometimes.

Still, he feels his entire face burning up when Stiles smirks up at him, lifting a teasing eyebrow.

“You always go commando?” Stiles asks.

“Shut up,” Derek says hotly, a scowl wrinkling his sweaty forehead. “Obviously I didn’t expect – this.”

Stiles just hums, sliding his palms just a little further up Derek’s thighs, stopping just shy of the hems of his shorts, his fingers hovering over the bunched-up mess of fabric. His gaze drops, dipping to look at Derek’s cock, and really, he is just looking, just staring at it, his attention so rapt it’s as though he’s planning on interrogating the thing at some point tonight.

Derek can feel his dick stirring, starting to plump up under Stiles’ intense eyes, like it’s anticipating what’s to come – no pun intended. After many, excruciating seconds of focus, Stiles flicks his smirk up to Derek’s face.

“Ground rules,” he announces, his voice all low and soft. “I don’t care if you want to pull my hair or fuck my face, or anything. Just don’t, like, hurt me.”

“I would never hurt you,” Derek says, instant and honest, his mouth tugging into a frown. “Do guys usually hurt you?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Stiles deflects, and Derek very much wants to disagree on that direction, but then Stiles is talking again. “And – if it gets too weird for you, or you don’t like it and you want to stop, or whatever, just – just shove me away.”

The frown pulling at Derek’s mouth grows more severe, and he blows a frustrated breath out through his nose.

“Obviously I’m not going to shove you, Stiles,” he practically barks. “Jesus.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, a small, fond looking smile slipping onto his mouth as he shifts a little closer.

“I didn’t mean that, like, literally,” he says. “Just – tell me to stop, and I’ll stop.”

“Yeah,” Derek says, a distracted shake of his head. “Fine. Of course.”

With a resolute nod, Stiles takes that as the final missing piece needed to affirm consent, giving him the full go ahead to proceed. He leans forward, moving those last few inches closer, his fingers bunching into the wrinkled fabric of Derek’s shorts. He grips on tight as he hunches his shoulders, listing down and pressing forward, getting close enough that Derek can feel his breath, his hot and damp exhalations, directly against his rapidly stiffening cock.

It’s surreal. Derek is buzzed, his mind a little light and hazy, and this situation right now, right in front of him, is fucking insane, and he hasn’t had his dick sucked in longer than any person should have to live on without getting their dick sucked, and he cannot fucking believe this is happening as he watches Stiles inching forward, his pink mouth open and his tongue ready and waiting behind his teeth.

But – shit. Before he makes contact, Derek is quick to stop him with a hand on his shoulder.

Immediately, Stiles stops, retreating back quickly, almost guiltily. He blinks his surprise, his question, up at Derek with widening eyes.

“What’s the matter?” he asks. “Changed your mind?”

“No, no,” Derek rushes to assure, shaking his head faintly. “But don’t you... I mean, shouldn’t we... shouldn’t we use a – a condom for this?”

Stiles’ mouth purses into a perfect circle.

“Oh,” he breathes, before one eye screws shut, his face scrunching up as he cringes. “Shit. I – I don’t have any left.”

He leans back onto his haunches, running slightly shaky fingers through his already wild hair. His cheeks are flushed pink, so contrastingly obvious against his usually pale skin, and his brown eyes are wide, blinking their worry upward. He chews down on his bottom lip, the skin beginning to crumble between the gnawing of his teeth.

A thought flashes, unbidden, into Derek’s mind. A thought that – wow, guys must go absolutely fucking feral for Stiles, when he sucks them off.

Staring down at him, at the delicate angles of his face, at the jutting bone of his collar slipping out from his loose shirt, at the slender length of his fingers still resting against Derek’s thighs, Derek thinks that he looks... he looks like he was fucking made for this, somehow. Like he was created for this earth, for the sole purpose of being on his knees, with those big doe eyes and that soft pink mouth.

Guys – guys who aren’t straight, guys not like Derek, obviously – they must just fucking eat him up.

Derek coughs into his fist to clear that thought away.

“I don’t have any either,” he says lamely. “Paige was on birth control.”

Still on his knees, Stiles pulls a hand away from Derek’s thigh to press against his mouth, slipping the pad of his thumb in between his teeth and nibbling down on it. His gaze flicks from Derek’s face, over to his bedroom, then to the front door of the apartment, and Derek knows him well enough that he can pretty much read his thoughts, knows that he’s truly considering a late-night run to the store on the corner of their street.

It’s late, though – Derek isn’t even sure it would still be open. Otherwise, he’d already be halfway there.

Stiles’ eyes slide slowly back to Derek, gaze settling on him. Something passes over his face, an expression, something calm and considering. He lifts an eyebrow, dropping the hand from his mouth to slap against the cotton fabric covering his own thigh, and he offers up a small, impish smile.

“I mean,” he begins to say, drawing out each syllable, “we could...”

And that – that tone of voice. That goddamn tone of voice. It’s this specific lilt that he gets, this particular slant to his words, and it spills from his tongue whenever he’s about to try talking Derek into doing something absolutely moronic. That voice is the exact reason they almost got kicked out of college in sophomore year, when Derek stupidly allowed Stiles to convince him to play a dumbass prank on the Dean’s office. That voice is never up to anything good.

“What?” Derek asks, flat and cautious.

“Well.” Stiles starts to move in closer, all over again. “You got tested just the other week, right? And the results came back okay?” Slowly, Derek confirms this with a nod. Stiles shrugs a shoulder, his face the put-on picture of nonchalance. “Well. I swallow, when the mood takes me. I don’t mind if you don’t.”

Derek heart beats double-time inside his chest: thud-thud, thud-thud, thud-thud.

“I... I don’t mind.” His fingers grip into the plush couch, nails scoring against the fabric. “That’s... it’s fine with me.”

“All right.” Stiles flashes a brief, bright smile. He gets himself quickly back into position. “Here goes nothing.”

And before Derek knows what has hit him – Stiles’ warm, wet mouth is wrapped around his cock.

Instantly, a groan rips from his chest. It’s loud, almost as loud as that damn action movie on the television, still blazing away with yelling and gunfire and mayhem in the background. But Derek’s ears are fuzzy to all that chaos, his eyes screwed shut as his head tips back and his hand moves instinctively into Stiles’ hair.

The length of it, the shortness, is strange for a second, that unfamiliar length soft between his fingers, nothing at all like the long, curling strands of Paige, or any woman before her. He manages not to dwell on it for too long, though, instead letting himself zone right into the tight heat enveloping him, the insistent tongue at his slit, the fingers kneading into the meat of his thighs.

Stiles was right, it would seem. Stiles is pretty much always right, Derek mostly chooses not to admit out loud. But about this... yeah. He was on the money.

It doesn’t matter that this is a guy. A mouth, is a mouth, is a mouth. And a mouth – is fucking amazing.

A vibration runs through Derek, like a hot current underneath his skin, zipping all the way up and down his spine as Stiles hums around him. He is fully hard, rock fucking hard, and he knows this, he can feel it, the twitch of his cock inside Stiles’ mouth and the work of Stiles’ jaw around the stiff length of him.

Opening his eyes, he blinks up towards the ceiling, his grip tightening just that tiny bit more in Stiles’ hair. Stiles said he could pull it, Derek remembers, and he knows how to be careful, how to err on the right side of playful, never too painful.

But still, he doesn’t. He doesn’t feel that bold; doesn’t feel like he’s allowed, even with such express permission.

His touch on Stiles stays gentle, but to his side, to his side he is pretty sure that his nails are raking deep marks into the couch. It’s a piece of furniture that came with the rental, and any damage will be his to pay for, but right now, right now he does not fucking care, he just does not fucking care.

“Fuck.” It’s the first word out of his mouth in minutes, exhaled between gritted teeth. “That feels – fuck.”

Honestly, it feels... fucking crazy. Absolutely batshit insane. The best head Derek has ever received in his life, hands down, no contest at all.

Stiles is just so completely shameless, messy and enthusiastic and relentless. His mouth is so wet and so hot and he knows how to just suck, and suck, and not stop fucking sucking. His tongue is damn perfect where it traces the underside, taking him deep, deeper than anyone ever has before, because he’s not exactly small, knows he can never be accused of that, and all the girls he’s had before have struggled a bit with that.

But not Stiles. Oh, no – not Stiles. Derek can almost feel himself nudging at the back of Stiles’ goddamn throat, that’s how far he is taking him, with one tight hand working around the only part he can’t quite fit inside his mouth.

Pulling in a sharp breath, Derek winds his neck up, doing his very best to focus until he can blink hazy eyes down at Stiles, down there in between his knees. Stiles’ head is bowed as he bobs down and up and down and up, but Derek can still see the hollow of his cheeks, his long eyelashes fluttering shadows against his pale skin, his pink lips stretched wide around a whole mouthful of cock.

When Stiles skates a hand over Derek’s thigh, sliding along the sweat dampened skin to dip low, low, lower still, far enough that he can cradle Derek’s balls against the palm of his hand, rolling them between his long fingers – Derek knows that he’s running on limited time, here.

“Fuck,” he breathes again. “Stiles, I – I’m close.”

And he is, truly barely five minutes into this. But of course he is, how could he not be, when Stiles’ talent for sucking dick is as good as this.

Time has passed so quickly; embarrassingly quickly, some might say, but Derek doesn’t have the brain cells to bash together to feel anything like humiliation right now. There is nothing he can do to stop the way his balls are drawing up tight, the tell-tale jerk in his thighs that reveals he’s catapulting right close to that edge, his fingers sliding further into Stiles’ soft, short hair.

For his part, Stiles doesn’t seem to mind this warning. He seems like he’s going to be true to his word and let... let Derek come all the way down his throat, Jesus. Nodding faintly, not enough to dislodge the cock in his mouth, he begins to suck harder, and faster, circling his hand around the base at the same steady rhythm.

It’s good enough, great enough, to tip Derek just that little bit further, that tiny bit more that he needs. He holds Stiles’ head steady with the hand wound into Stiles’ hair, and finally, he lets himself go, lets himself thrust, his hips snapping forward, the cut of his groin slapping against Stiles’ jaw as he fucks into his mouth, as he chases and chases and chases, until – fuck.

He comes; yet another long, drawn-out groan. Someone on the television gets shot, dying all loud and dramatic. He watches the column of Stiles’ throat working around his swallows.

“Jesus Christ,” Derek hisses, punctuated by an obscene, slick noise as Stiles pulls off his dick. “You are... you are fucking good at that.”

Stiles grins up at him, crooked and cheeky, wiping around his mouth with the sleeve of his hoodie, the same one already sticky with remnants of beer. His mouth looks fucked raw, in all honesty, his face red and flushed, and Derek chooses to busy himself with tucking his soft dick back into his shorts, pulling them back up over his hips.

“Thanks,” Stiles says, a graceless flop back onto his side of the couch. “I know.”

It’s a little quiet between them again. Derek tries to get his breathing back to normal, focusing a lot of energy onto returning it to a respectably stable cadence. Stiles sits silently on his cushion, his legs tucked up underneath him, his gaze pensive as he watches Derek with his head tipped to one side.

Once Derek feels like he has the full range of his hearing back, he meets Stiles’ eye.

“What?” he asks.

Stiles pauses. His gaze drops down to his own lap, fingers toying with the zipper of his hoodie; pulling up, then pushing it back down again. A repetitive motion as he keeps his neck bent and his mouth shut for a little while longer.

Eventually, he lifts his head, his mouth twisted up and his eyes still lowered as he tilts his head vaguely in Derek’s direction.

“You don’t have to, like,” he says, “reciprocate, or whatever.”

Derek blinks. Frowns. Breathes out sharply.

“I thought that was the deal,” he says.

“It was, but – like. It’s fine, if you don’t want to, is what I’m saying.” Stiles shifts in his seat, eyes dropping even lower. “I don’t mind giving head. I’m good at it. It’s not... it’s not the same for you, obviously, so. You don’t have to, like... touch me.”

Derek shakes his head, starting small as Stiles begins his explanation, growing more intent with each passing word. By the time Stiles is finished, Derek’s shoulders are shaking with it, his features all screwed up, his stomach churning uncomfortably.

“Do you really think I’m that much of an asshole?” he asks, a genuine question.

Stiles’ eyes go wide, his protests flowing from his mouth quickly.

“What? No! No, no, no, no way, man, that’s not – shit.” He runs a hand through his hair. It’s even crazier than usual, even than earlier, because Derek really had been holding on tight, really had his fingers wound all the way through it. “I just meant, like – you’re straight. You said it yourself. You are a straight, heterosexual man. Touching dicks that don’t belong to you is not your usual thing.”

The same frown is still tugging at each one of Derek’s features. His dick feels sticky and damp, distractingly uncomfortable inside his shorts, still a little tacky with leftover come, because he didn’t do a great job – or any job at all, really – at wiping himself off before putting himself away. But he can do this.

And – okay. Stiles may have a point. He is maybe a little fucking nervous about touching another man’s dick for the very first time in his life, but – but he said he would. And he’s not an asshole, not someone who breaks his side of a deal. So he can do this.

“If you still want me to,” he says, tipping his chin up high, “I’ll do it.”

“Obviously I want you to,” Stiles laughs, an anxious air lingering to it, but dissipating in his eyes with each passing second that Derek stares into them. “Jesus, dude, of course – okay. Let’s... how do you want to do this?”

Ideas flash through Derek’s head. Awkward angles, wrist cramps, having to look a hard, foreign dick directly in the eye as he fists it. He shakes his head and tries to come up with something new.

“How about,” he says, words more than a little unsure, “you sit between my legs?”

Stiles blinks, a second or two of blankness before comprehension dawns over his face.

“Like, with my back to you?” he says.

“Exactly,” Derek replies. “So it’s like –“

“Like you’re jerking yourself off, yeah.” Stiles nods slowly. “I get it. That could work.”

They make quick, quiet work of arranging themselves into position. Derek digs the couch cushion out from behind his back and tosses it onto the floor, giving himself more room to settle into, making more space in front of him as he spreads his legs out wide.

It’s almost like an imitation of before, of literally minutes earlier, but instead of Stiles getting down on his knees, ready to suck Derek off, now he sits between Derek’s legs, his back pressed tightly up against Derek’s chest, getting ready for Derek to jerk him off.

Wow. Shit. Okay. Derek... he can do this.

“Are you sure you can do this?” Stiles asks, like a goddamn mind reader.

“I can do this,” Derek tells the world.

The short hairs near the base of Stiles’ skull are ticklish against Derek’s nose, making it wrinkle as he twists his neck slightly, trying to get away before he does something embarrassing like sneezing all over Stiles’ nape. He moves until he can almost rest his chin on top of Stiles’ shoulder, the curve of his jaw brushing up against the side of Stiles’ throat, and he stares straight ahead at the credits rolling on the movie as Stiles fumbles his way out of his sweatpants and boxers.

Unlike Derek, he is already all the way hard the moment his cock springs out into the open air. Derek watches like a hawk as he fists himself a few times, dick twitching in his own grip, and Derek licks his lips and moves his gaze out to the far wall, out of the window and into the bright night sky.

“Okay,” Stiles says, his voice quiet and nervous in a way it hadn’t been at all when he was preparing to suck Derek off. “I’d like to avoid friction burn, so you’re going to have to wet your palm up a bit.”

Derek blinks. “I don’t have lube. Do you have lube?”

“Obviously I have lube, man, I’m gay.” Stiles laughs, a ripple passing through his shoulders, right beneath Derek’s chin. “But I’m too strung up to go get it right now, so – just, like, spit in your palm, or something.”

“You really want my spit on your dick?” Derek asks incredulously.

“I have your jizz in my stomach right now,” Stiles deadpans back. “I think I can stand a little spit.”

Derek distracts himself from the flush burning every inch of his skin by lifting his hand in front of his mouth and obligingly spitting into it.

Neither of them says a word as Derek lowers his arm, the bend of his elbow just curving around Stiles’ waist. His hand dips, delving lower and lower, until Stiles gets the hint, pulling his own hand away from his cock, fluttering his fingers against his thigh and making space for Derek to curl curious fingers around the hard length of Stiles’ dick.

The angle – the angle helps, for sure. It makes this not feel too... alien. Too unfamiliar. Stiles’ dick feels different, of course; shorter and thinner, not that he will say that out loud, because there’s no need to get into a literal dick measuring contest right now. But it’s similar enough as he starts to pump his hand, up and down and up and down, getting the hang of it pretty quickly, all things considered.

His confidence only grows, the assured twist of his wrist and grip of his fingers, with Stiles’ responses.

The way that Stiles’ head drops back, just slightly, his temple brushing up against Derek’s cheek. The way that Stiles’ eyelashes flutter as his eyes slip closed. The way that Stiles’ breathing speeds up, going all choppy and shaky, soft little moans falling from his open, fucked-raw mouth.

“Not gonna last long,” he murmurs, Derek rubbing a thumb over his leaking slit, a move Derek is partial to, himself, and then, carrying on with, “Shit, definitely not gonna last long.”

It’s really just a handjob – and probably not even a very good one, at that. Especially considering Derek’s total lack of experience with the same sex, and Stiles’ abundance of experience in that exact same department, his intimate knowledge of having probably well-seasoned man after well-seasoned man touch his dick on an almost weekly basis for years on end.

But you’d think Derek was the fucking Olympic gold medallist of pulling guys off, with the way that Stiles’ body is shaking, and squirming, his head tilting even further back until his skull thunks against Derek’s forehead. His body goes all rigid in Derek’s clutches, his cock twitching in Derek’s grip, and his breathing is laboured, erratic, his moans growing louder and louder by the second.

Derek kind of wishes that stupid action movie was still playing, because now he’s worried their neighbours might be hearing this through the walls. Usually, it’s just the ones on the other side of Stiles’ bedroom wall – along with Derek, of course – that gets themselves an earful of this on many given weekends.

“Derek,” Stiles says, all low and breathy, hand jumping up from his thigh to land on Derek’s forearm, nails scoring into the skin. “Derek, fuck, I – I’m gonna – gonna – oh fuck.”

The sensation of someone else’s come spilling over his fist is... new. He ducks his head so that Stiles won’t see the grimace passing over his face at the warm, viscous wetness sliding over his knuckles.

There’s a box of tissues on the coffee table, and Stiles leans quickly forward to grab a couple out, making easy work of meticulously cleaning the mess from Derek’s hand. His skin is still a little sticky, even after Stiles has wiped him down so efficiently, and he shoves that hand into the pocket of his shorts as Stiles stands up on slightly shaky legs and turns around to face him.

This could be awkward. This could be really, really awkward. There is a very genuine, very present possibility of discomfort making a home of this situation real fucking fast. They both agreed to that, sure, but now that it’s over, now that there’s a little more sobriety in Derek’s system, and probably in Stiles’ too, they could realise, all together at once, that this really wasn’t the best idea.

As amazing as that head was. As pleased as those noises spilling from Stiles were.

But of course – Stiles is Stiles, and they have been friends for years; half of a whole decade. He isn’t going to let this be awkward.

“A solid seven out of ten,” he says, smiling lazily down at Derek. “Not bad, but room for improvement.”

“Fuck off,” Derek laughs, swatting a hand out to catch Stiles at his hip. “You came quickly enough.”

Stiles catches his tongue between his teeth, one eyebrow going up.

“So did you,” he points out.

“Yeah. Well.” Derek feels himself flushing all over again, pinned by Stiles’ teasing gaze. “You’ve had a lot of practice. It’s not a fair comparison.”

Stiles shrugs a shoulder, only slightly, possibly only in half agreement. He follows it by bending down to collect as many of the empty beer cans in his arms as he can manage, a row of them all across his chest as he stands back up to full height.

“Want another?” he offers.

“Sure,” Derek agrees.

“I’ll grab you one after I hit the bathroom.” Stiles begins to move towards the kitchen, hollering back over his shoulder as he goes. “Your turn to pick the movie, big guy. But nothing too sappy, please – I beg of you.”

Derek scoffs, rolling his eyes and waving Stiles off with a hand thrown up in the air. Whether Stiles sees it or not, he doesn’t know, but he leans forward to grab the remote from where he tossed it earlier, thumbing over the buttons to start flicking through the options. He scrolls on and on, movie after movie, pausing every few when he comes across something he thinks that Stiles would like.

As he settles back into the couch he feels... good. Light. Comfortable.

Better than he’s felt in a whole goddamn year.

*****

The metal jangle of keys rings in Derek’s ears as he twists his wrist in that familiar motion, shoving the front door to his apartment open with a rough shoulder and stumbling over the threshold on exhausted legs. He lets the door slip closed behind him, not even bothering to take the time to soften the blow as the loud slam bounces off the walls around him, and he is quick to toe off his dress shoes, distractingly uncomfortable and already worn for far too many hours in one day.

A single step through the door, and he gives himself a moment to breathe. His eyes closed, his mouth frowning, the sharp ridges of his keys digging into the palm of his hand as he curls tight fingers around them. He breathes. One, two, three.

Only once he begins to feel a little more human, the stress of the day starting to ebb away from the stiffness in his limbs, does he fall into his usual routine. He shucks himself out of his suit jacket, hanging it up on the wall hook beside his face, and he tosses his keys into the dish at the table by his knees, their indents left behind against his skin as they hit the ceramic with a clatter.

Shuffling his way along the hall on socked feet, he belatedly realises that he can hear music drifting through the half-open plan; a low intensity accompanied by a soft, mostly off-tune humming. The apartment smells pretty fucking delicious, actually, too.

It isn’t difficult to let himself follow his nose, finding that it routes him quickly towards the kitchen. He pauses beneath the doorway, pillaring his shoulder up against the frame, and folds his arms over his chest, taking in the scene before him with a small, soft smile.

“Oh, hey!” Stiles notices Derek with a flash of a grin thrown over his shoulder, returning his attention back to the sprinkling of cheese over a baking dish after a second. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Because you’re too busy singing along to this crap.” Derek waves a vague hand towards the speaker, propped up on the kitchen counter. “Are you making lasagne?”

Stiles twists to smile at him once again, a scrunch of his nose as his mouth curves up on both sides, spreading wide and coy. His fingers continue to rub together, sending a sprawling waterfall of cheese down onto the plate below with each motion.

“Maybe I am,” he hedges.

Derek pushes himself away from the door to move fluidly into the room. It’s only a matter of a few, long strides before he can hover just shy of Stiles’ shoulder, his mouth watering as he gazes longingly down at the plate of pasta that Stiles is working on.

“Lasagne is my favourite,” he says.

Or, more accurately: Stiles’ lasagne is his favourite.

Somehow, inexplicably, Stiles’ recipe tastes pretty much exactly how his mom’s used to. Laura, bless her heart, tried to emulate it after their parents passed away, failed attempt after failed attempt, but she never quite managed to hit the mark with it, always missing just a hint of seasoning, a dash of something.

Stiles, though – he came pre-loaded with the exact right combination of ingredients to create Derek’s single, favourite food in the world. Stiles told him, years ago now, that the recipe he uses comes from his mom, handed down to him when she passed away.

The world can be a complicated, interesting place, Derek has always thought.

“You’re making my favourite dinner,” he continues out loud, a relatively pointless observation. “Why are you making my favourite dinner?”

“You said you were having a crappy day,” Stiles says, shooting him a look. “Crappy days get their favourite dinners. Duh.”

Derek feels a warmth spreading through his chest, a smile touching his mouth before he can do anything about it. His chin is almost hooked over Stiles’ shoulder, his knees almost knocking into the backs of Stiles’ legs, and when Stiles turns to throw that smile right back at him, the same but looking a million times brighter to Derek’s eyes, their foreheads are so close that it would take just one tip forwards to actually touch.

Before Derek can linger too long on any more stupid ideas, Stiles twists his attention back to the dish in front of him. His hand darts quickly to his side, long fingers curling around a little jar of fresh seasoning, and he tosses it lightly over the dish, the final step before the oven.

Truly, today was an unbelievably crappy day. It started off with him getting stuck in insane traffic on his usually short commute into the office, and when he finally did get there, the coffee machine was broken, meaning he was forced to fork out five hard-earned bucks for a damn black coffee at the artisan shop underneath his building.

And it only snowballed into more misery from there. His boss was up his ass all goddamn day, needling him for pointless update after pointless update on their latest project, each second spent sparing every detail another minute not spent actually moving the project along. Even then, no matter what he said or what he did, his boss didn’t seem the least bit satisfied with a single decision he made.

Then, to top it all off, not one, but three of his co-workers brought in fish to microwave for lunch.

So, yeah. Pretty crappy day.

The only thing that really got him through was the endless stream of consciousness he sent to Stiles throughout the day, commiserating and complaining, somehow finding it within himself to actually laugh in the midst of the misery when Stiles would inevitably text something back that was beyond mean-spirited and beyond hilarious.

It was the only thing until now, that is. Getting to come home to the smell of his favourite meal. It’s even better that it’s being cooked for him by someone who ranks pretty damn close to his favourite person in the world right about now.

Even in light of recent, uh – events.

A couple of weeks have passed since... that... night. Afterwards, all they did was carry on with another movie, Derek’s choice that Stiles spent more than half the runtime loudly and proudly heckling, before heading to their respective beds at an unreasonable hour.

They didn’t talk about it that night. They certainly haven’t talked about it ever since.

Waking up the morning after, Derek battered up some pancakes to sit around the kitchen table and eat together, and, still, they did not mention it. Work called out to them the day after that, Derek journeying out for his office while Stiles set himself up at the cluttered desk in the corner of his bedroom, and, again, they did not mention it.

And the same, for every day that has passed since. Every minute, hour, second spent hanging out together or messaging apart – they did not, do not, will not, mention it. It’s a topic that neither of them has been willing to broach.

Or maybe Stiles just isn’t thinking about it, obsessing over it, as much as Derek is. He really doesn’t know.

The thing is, too, is that it hasn’t even been all that awkward, which is completely crazy. It should be this huge elephant in the room, this uncomfortable piece of knowledge they share that is going to shake the very foundations of their previously solid friendship.

Only – it isn’t; it hasn’t been. In fact, they’ve been able to carry on with their lives as best friends who live together as though Derek has no idea at all what it feels like to have Stiles’ warm, wet mouth wrapped around his cock.

But the memory is there. Oh, god, is the memory there.

Time has moved on, but still, he has caught himself going back to it, a few times.

Okay, full disclosure – more than a few times. By a wide margin.

He finds himself trapped by images flashing up in his brain, like what Stiles looked like down on his knees, like the sharp hollow of his cheeks, like the wide, pink stretch of his mouth. He finds himself hit by sense memories, striking at the worst of times, rippling through his body when he tries to fall asleep at night, stretching his pants when he’s desperately trying to avoid a budding half-chub at his desk at work, helplessly recalling the tight heat, the fingers digging into the meat of his thigh.

If he thought he was horny before, lonely and untouched by another person for a whole goddamn year, it’s starting to feel like an entirely different ballgame. It feels like he’s been catapulted into thinking about sex, and coming, and doing all of that with another person, all the fucking time, now.

His own hand just isn’t cutting it anymore. It just can’t feel as good as a mouth does.

As Stiles’ mouth, to be precise.

Only, he hasn’t brought it up. He hasn’t asked for... anything... again.

But he wants to. Fuck, does he want to. Except – Stiles hasn’t mentioned it, either, and he’s the one who is actually gay, actually into being touched by other guys, and out of the two of them, if anyone should be craving... more... it should be him.

A fear has been niggling away at the back of Derek’s mind. Growing with each day, getting bigger and bigger, infiltrating his brain cells until it’s almost this all-encompassing anxiety trembling right down to his fingers.

What if he was terrible? What if his handjob skills were so fucking awful, that Stiles has no interest in ever suffering through a repeat of them? It feels entirely possible, to be perfectly honest.

Except... except the noises that Stiles made when Derek jerked him off. The noises he made when he came. They make Derek think that, maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t so abysmal, after all.

So – he wants it. Derek wants it, again, he thinks. And Stiles could want it again, maybe.

Well. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

Quietly, he makes his way over to the burning hot oven, taking up residence beside it as Stiles moves to yank it open, one oven-mitted hand carefully sliding the filled baking tray inside. Once the door is slipped shut again, Stiles pulls the glove from his hand, tossing it carelessly onto a nearby counter and twisting as if to leave. Derek stops him with the faint brush of fingers over his bare forearm.

Stiles turns to him with a lifted eyebrow, tipping his head to one side as he waits for Derek to speak. He has always had this weird knack for knowing when Derek just needs that little bit more time to psych himself up into doing something.

“Hey,” Derek says, slow and deliberate. “I’ve been... thinking...”

“Don’t hurt yourself.” Stiles scrunches his nose up in a laugh when Derek swats him on the chest. “Sorry. Had to. What ya been thinking about, big guy?”

Nerves roll through Derek in an instant. They were already starting to bubble up, just beneath the surface of his skin, the very second that he made the decision, standing right here in this kitchen, watching Stiles make his favourite dinner for him with a smile simply because Derek had a lousy day, to bite the bullet and say something. But now, they are out in full force, his palms damp with clammy sweat and a muscle in his jaw jumping around nervously.

In this moment, he has absolutely no fucking idea how Stiles was able to suggest the idea so easily, so blithely, in the first place. He wonders how much the alcohol coursing through their bloodstreams had to do with it.

Probably a lot, he decides in the sober light of day.

“I was just... I was thinking about, uh...” He trails off for a few beats of uncomfortable silence. The heel of his foot scuffs against the linoleum for a few taps as he musters up all of his courage, forcing his eyes not to wander from Stiles’ face. “You remember... the other week?”

Stiles blinks back at him for a second, before his eyebrows knit all the way together.

“I remember lots of weeks,” he says slowly, obtuse or oblivious, Derek isn’t sure. “Anything, like, in particular that you’re asking me to remember?”

Derek grinds his teeth. Obviously, the most significant event that has happened in the past couple of weeks was that night. What the hell else would Derek be referring to, for god’s sake.

But the wrinkles in Stiles’ forehead look genuine, Derek thinks. The blank lack of recognition in his eyes, too. Derek blows out a long sigh and bites the inside of his cheek for a second.

“I mean,” he begins to explain, hands wringing awkwardly in front of his stomach, “I was talking about... when you... when I... when we...”

He can see the moment the metaphorical lightbulb shines to life above Stiles’ head. His eyes go all wide, his eyebrows unfurrowing to jump halfway up his forehead, his mouth circling into this surprised little o.

Now, he gets it. Finally.

“Oh.” Stiles breathes out a surprised huff of laughter. “All right. Shit, we’re talking about that now, huh? Okay... yeah. What about it?”

The heat steaming from the oven burns against Derek’s skin where he stands too close to the closed door. Stiles’ music continues to play softly over the speakers, drifting out to fill up the room, still switched onto whatever generic radio-pop playlist Stiles had been mindlessly singing along to before Derek got home. Stiles just stares back at him, his head cocked to one side, waiting, and waiting, so damn patient, where Derek is concerned, at least.

This is it, Derek tells himself. Just fucking – do it.

“It was... fun,” he says lamely. “Right?”

Stiles’ mouth purses into a smile, one eyebrow lifting up.

“I’d say we enjoyed ourselves, yeah.” His smile takes on a teasing slant. “I had to brush the taste of your enjoyment out of my mouth later that night, actually.”

Instantly, the flush rises to Derek’s skin, burning hot enough to feel over the tips of his ears, crawling steadily up the sides of his neck. He’s never tasted, uh... that... before, but he’s heard it’s not always particularly pleasant. A pang of anxious shame hits him as he worries that Stiles didn’t like the way that he tasted.

But that is – that is really not the point right now. Focus.

“Yeah. Well. So.” He fidgets, entirely unlike him, entirely like Stiles. It’s like they’ve body-swapped, with Stiles all calm and collected as he watches Derek coolly, while Derek is this shuffling, nervous wreck. It’s beyond weird. “I was thinking maybe if you... wanted to blow off some – some steam, or something, we could...”

Stiles’ face distorts back into that mask of shock, his mouth perfectly round all over again. He rears his head back slightly, tilting from side to side in a gentle sort of shaking motion.

“Oh,” he repeats.

Derek winces, a hiss through his teeth as one eye screws shut. He waves his hands in front of his chest, tiny little rotations of his wrists, as though he can use them to swipe the words right back into his mouth, and he jumps quickly back in.

“That’s not – obviously we do not have to,” he gets out stutteringly fast. “If it was just, just a one-time thing, I get it, you don’t –“

But Stiles blurts out, “I didn’t say that.”

And Derek pauses. Something like hope – horny, illicit hope – warming through his chest.

“Oh,” he echoes, taking a second to wet his lips before continuing. “So... so we could...”

It is silent, for a moment. Not long, nowhere near long enough for Derek’s nervous system to kick into action, to do any real damage to the hair trigger anxiety he’s had on tenterhooks this whole time.

When a slow, easy smile starts to spread its way across Stiles’ face – any lingering worry is cut dead immediately, anyway.

“Will it help your crappy day?” Stiles asks.

Derek laughs, ducking his head, his chin pressing against his chest. He looks up at Stiles from beneath his eyelashes and gives a small nod.

“I think it might,” he answers. “Yeah.”

Still wearing that lazy, crooked smile, possibly more of a smirk than anything else, Stiles flicks a pointed glance towards the oven, before quickly snapping back to Derek’s face.

“Thirty minutes until the lasagne’s done,” he mentions casually.

Derek grins, trying to tamp its intensity down as he shrugs a nonchalant shoulder.

“A lot can be done in thirty minutes,” he says.

“Sure can.” Stiles grabs onto Derek’s shoulder and shoves him roughly down into a kitchen chair, its legs scraping noisily against the floor as Derek blinks stunned, interested eyes up at him and his almost predatory smile. “Get ready to have your world rocked for a second time, big guy.”

Derek is ready. Derek is so, so ready.

*****

Like the most natural thing in the world, it evolves easily from there. It’s simple, barely requiring even a moment more of thought, let alone any real further conversation on the matter, and as time passes, they fall into something like a routine.

When the mood strikes them – either of them – they hook-up. For the most part, it’s every few days, never any longer than a week, and all it takes to indicate what they want is a quickly hulked shoulder, a pointedly nodded head, an encouragingly quirked eyebrow, and, in less than a minute, they find themselves assuming the usual position.

Stiles blows Derek, his dick and his mind, if Derek is being honest, and Derek jerks Stiles off, growing less awkward with each encounter, or, so he hopes, at least.

Overall – it’s good. It works.

Sure, Derek is straight. But he’s single, and he’s lonely, and he’s horny, and he’s all those terrible things that come with those particular character traits, like frustrated and needy and annoying. He misses Paige way too much to consider anything like dating, still too in love with her to even think about actually seeing other women. This works in place, for now.

And Stiles seems pretty content to give up the random hook-up life, too. Derek isn’t sure whether he’s deleted the apps altogether, but he can say for sure that he hasn’t heard that tinkling little Grindr notification in probably a good couple of months at this point.

Plus, they both made a pact with each other that if either one of them starts anything up, anything real – if Derek somehow, by some miracle, manages to get Paige back, or by some even bigger miracle, manages to move on, or if Stiles finds himself wanting to go back to that hook-up life, or, even more unfathomably than the rest put together, finds himself actually interested in truly dating someone for the first time in his life – they will stop. They will call it quits, then and there, all either one of them has to do, is say the word.

But, until then – it’s their little thing. Not a secret, or anything like that. Nothing to be ashamed of, or to act clandestine about. It’s just... private. It’s something for just the two of them, theirs and nobody else’s, something between a pair of best friends, and nothing more.

He is almost certain that Stiles probably had a very similar setup going with Scott, with whatever it was that went on between them back in their high school days. There’s no need to really clue anyone else in, because it’s not really any of their business.

Scott would surely understand, Derek thinks, that they aren’t going out of their way to tell him.

This presumption is sifting through Derek’s mind as he sits across from the guy, tucked away in the back booth of a dimly lit bar, one Friday night. Stiles is beside Scott, like he always is, with Derek opposite, a whole bench to himself, like he always is.

In the year since they all collectively graduated college, it’s been a staple that they hang out at this specific bar to start off every weekend. It used to be that Allison would join them, but now that Paige is back...

Well. Derek may have gotten Stiles in a custody battle, and maybe even Scott for the most part, too. But Paige has firmly and definitely laid her claim down on Allison.

“So,” Scott says after a short lull in conversation, his grin stretching stupidly from ear to ear, practically vibrating with excitement in his seat. “I have news.”

Over the length of the table, messy with half-empty glasses and a half-full pitcher of beer, Stiles shoots Derek a smile. It’s quick, and sly, and a little bit lopsided, and Derek brings his drink up to his mouth to hide his own grin behind it, raising an eyebrow at Scott to show that he’s listening.

“Do I need to take a sip so I can do a spit-take for this news?” Stiles asks.

Scott rolls his eyes. “I’m sure Derek would prefer that you don’t drool all over him, actually.”

A thought jumps suddenly to the forefront of Derek’s mind. About spit, and drool, and using it, and where, precisely, he has used it on Stiles, and Stiles has used it on him. Spit in Derek’s hand when the lube is too many steps too far away, and spit gathering in Stiles’ mouth, dribbling sloppily down his chin.

Derek feels his entire face starting to heat up. It only gets worse when he accidentally meets Stiles’ eye and sees, clear as fucking day, that he is thinking the exact same thing.

“Tell us,” Derek says; a distraction, a call to move his thoughts onto literally anything else. “We’re listening.”

For a second, Scott just keeps shifting, turning, in his seat. Beaming at Derek, then twisting it to shine in Stiles’ face, then back to Derek, over and over and over again. Just smiling away like an idiot, completely silent, while Derek and Stiles both wait on him with growing impatience.

“I’m going to ask Allison to marry me,” he eventually announces.

Derek and Stiles share another look.

“You already told us that,” Derek points out.

“Like, three months ago,” Stiles adds on.

Scott scoffs, loud and long-suffering, somehow, like Derek and Stiles reminding him of this is annoying to him. Even as he shows visible signs of this irritation, he is still smiling, though, wide across his mouth. He slaps a palm down on the table for a sharp second before pushing one extended finger into the air.

“That was different,” he declares. “That was, like, abstract. But this – this is real.”

Stiles snorts, bringing his own beer up to his mouth for a quick pull. Derek pointedly does not watch the workings of his throat as he swallows the liquid down, does not let his mind drift to... other things.

“And why is that?” Stiles asks.

“Because,” Scott leans back in his seat with the smuggest look on his face that Derek has ever seen, “the custom ring is finally done, and when we go on that vacation in a couple of weeks – I’m popping the question.”

Stiles wastes no time at all in throwing himself at Scott in a clumsy, fierce hug.

“Holy shit, dude!” His words are muffled against Scott’s shoulder, their arms all tangled up in a messy, uncomfortable looking hold. But from the big, bright smiles on both of their faces, it’s clear that neither of them much care. “That’s so freaking awesome! Holy shit! You’re getting engaged!”

They separate just enough to look one another in the face, their eyes shining brightly with shared joy. It’s times like these that Derek is reminded; even though they are his best friends, and probably will stay that way for the rest of his life – the bond the two of them share is just... different.

He’s known them both since college, but they have been practically glued at the hip since birth. It can’t begin to compare and, honestly, he doesn’t even begrudge them this one bit.

It’s nice seeing Stiles this happy. Scott, too, of course.

When they both simultaneously swing their heads around to loop Derek in on their elation, he cracks a grin out to match with theirs.

“Congratulations,” Derek says sincerely. “That’s great news.”

“Assuming she says yes,” Scott says.

“Obviously she’s going to say yes,” Derek replies.

“She’d have said yes if you asked her back in high school,” Stiles chimes in.

“Maybe,” Scott says vaguely. “But I think her dad would’ve actually killed me.”

Derek laughs at the obvious joke, right up until Stiles swivels towards him, his mouth pursed and his eyebrows up high. The amusement dies on Derek’s tongue. Wow. Okay, then. Possibly not actually a joke.

“Either way,” Stiles moves them on, hand clamping down on Scott’s shoulder. “This is freaking great news, dude. We’re so psyched for you both.”

“Absolutely,” Darek heartily agrees.

It’s entirely possible that the huge, happy grin on Scott’s face won’t budge until the day of the actual proposal, when nerves are most likely to overwhelm him for at least the few hours it takes to reach whatever it is that he has planned. The second Allison’s inevitable yes is out of her mouth, though, he is certain that it’ll be right back there, just like it is now.

“Thanks, guys.” Scott raises his glass towards the middle of the table, met quickly there by Stiles and Derek lifting theirs, too. “One man down, just two single losers to go.” Scott makes a noise of protest when Stiles jabs him sharply in the ribs. He swallows it down at the look Stiles shoots him, before turning to grimace apologetically in Derek’s direction. “Oops. Sorry, Derek.”

But Derek just breathes a laugh, quiet and genuine. He shrugs a shoulder as he lets his beer drop back down to the table, his fingers curled loosely around it.

“It’s fine,” he says. “I am a single loser, now.”

Stiles grins at him. “And we’re happy to welcome you into the club, big guy.”

Scott turns to Stiles with narrowed eyes.

“You know, you don’t have to be part of that club,” he says. “Lots of guys want to date you.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, huffing an agitated breath through his nose as he shakes his head.

“Lots of guys want to bone me,” he corrects. “Big difference there, Scotty.”

“That’s because you don’t let them date you.” Scott’s voice grows more annoyed, more frustrated, with each word out of his mouth. “It wouldn’t hurt you to let one of them stick around a while after they put their dick in you, for fucking once.”

Derek opens his mouth. He has had his dick in Stiles, pushed in there deep between Stiles’ lips, and... and he has stuck around. It’s probably not quite what Scott means, but –

Stiles shoots him a look, nothing more than the side of his eye. Derek closes his mouth again.

“The day I find a guy where there’s mutual interest beyond just our dicks, I’ll let him stick around.” Stiles tosses a smile at Scott; brief and thin. “I promise.”

“Well, okay, if we’re making promises,” Scott ploughs on, like a dog with a juicy bone between his teeth, his whole face more severe than the situation really calls for, in Derek’s opinion. “This new guy started at my work last month, and he’s totally your type, and he’s totally into dudes, too. I want you to promise me that you will at least consider going out with him.”

Stiles snorts, flashing a sardonic look over at Derek for a second, maybe just to keep him involved in this conversation. Derek isn’t all that sure whether he wants to be involved in this conversation, to be honest, but before he can react either way, Stiles is switching his focus back to Scott.

“And how did you figure out he’s into dudes?” Stiles asks. “Did you walk right up to him and go hi, hello, nice to meet you, brand new co-worker, any chance you’re into dick, because you totally look like the kinda guy my best friend would fuck, if you think you could be down with that?”

Scott’s immediate scowl and red cheeks scream guilty. It’s possible that Stiles has hit the nail embarrassingly close to the head, although perhaps with slightly cruder language than Scott would have opted for. Stiles just knows the guy too damn well.

“Shut up,” Scott argues weakly, and Stiles just snorts again. “Whatever. He really is your type, I swear. He’s, like, six-two and built as fuck. You’ll like him, I’m sure of it.”

“And I’m not interested in dating anyone,” Stiles says. “I’m sure of that.”

A muscle twitches at the crooked edge of Scott’s jaw. His eyes narrow, a faint shake to his head, and a line of tension appears all through the rigid hold of his shoulders.

“You’re never interested,” he says, voice low. “It’s not – healthy.”

Between them, a look passes. Long, and significant, and sailing way over Derek’s head as he frowns at the both of them. Scott looks upset, almost angry, even, and there’s this guilty slant to the twist of Stiles’ mouth, the bow of his head. It makes something tighten uncomfortably in the pit of Derek’s stomach.

“Jesus, Scott,” Derek hisses. “Would you get off his back for once?”

He doesn’t know why, but it’s starting to really piss him off that Scott is being so insistent on this. Sure, he’s attempted to call Stiles out on his sexual habits before, his preference for casual encounters above all – or anything – else. He has tried to push Stiles into dating, into getting serious with someone. He has talked Stiles into considering set-ups, with guys that Scott deems suitable, but invariably end up being nothing on the few, rare occasions Stiles has actually given up and agreed to go on the date.

All those other times, when this topic has come up before, Derek has been okay to just sit by and let them go about repeating that same song and dance that they have, the one they’ve pretty much perfected after going at it almost daily ever since halfway through freshman year of college. But this time – something is different.

It’s agitating the hell out of Derek. Scott needs to back off. Stiles looks fucking miserable.

There’s a tension across the table, a tension shared by all three of them, now. It lasts more than a few beats, dragging on longer than it should, and it’s only broken when Stiles breathes out a long sigh, running his fingers through his hair to wind them at the crown of his head, using his other hand, his free hand, to flap above the centre of the table.

“Look, let’s just – move on,” he says. “All right?”

He throws another serious look at Scott, all raised eyebrows and unsaid words. Scott capitulates before their very eyes as Derek vaguely wonders what those words might be.

“All right,” Scott sighs in return.

“Whatever,” Derek mutters.

“See? All kissed and made up.” Stiles leans across the table to slap Derek on the shoulder, a big smile plastered on his face that doesn’t quite make it all the way up to his eyes. “Scott, why don’t you tell Derek what Allison told you? About how Paige said she thinks she might have made a mistake?”

Derek is unable to stop the instant, hopeful gaze he turns on Scott.

“She said that?” he breathes.

Scott doesn’t answer right away. He glances at Stiles with an eyebrow raised, instead.

“We don’t want to talk about something else?” he asks.

“Nope,” Stiles answers quickly. “Look at him. He wants to hear it. Go ahead and tell him, man.”

Scott exhales heavily. His eyes slip closed for a moment, his mouth twisting up, and he only opens back up to complete neutrality when Derek spies Stiles squeezing gentle fingers around the sharp bend of his elbow. The brief, barely-there touch is gone by the time Scott launches into the story.

Holy shit, Derek can’t help but think as he listens, entirely enraptured. He might still have a chance.

He flashes a thankful smile at Stiles as Scott continues to reel off detail after detail. His heart skips over a beat at the smile Stiles sends him back.