
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1518692.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Additional Tags:
      Sexual_Fantasy, Sexual_Tension, Masturbation, Voyeurism, Exhibitionism,
      Clothing_Kink, Shirtless, Sweatpants, Attraction, No_Sex, Just_Lots_of
      Inappropriate_Fantasizing, Porn, Smut, Imagination, Sleepovers, Desire,
      Awkward_Boners, Awkward_Sexual_Situations, Epiphanies, Size_Kink, Stiles
      the_Unapologetic_Size_Queen
  Series:
      Part 17 of The_Sterek_Porn_Collection
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-04-25 Words: 1155
****** All the Pleasures Prove ******
by Saucery
Summary
     Derek, shirtless and in sweatpants. Stiles, desperate and horny.
     That’s about it.
Notes
     The title is from this_poem.
See the end of the work for more notes
===============================================================================
 
At first, Stiles has no clue that an impromptu slumber party will change his
life. He has to stay overnight at Derek’s loft because the pack has gotten
together to strategize, and they wind up talking so late into the night that
they decide to sleep over. It’s not like they can go home. The clock’s struck
two a.m. and it isn’t a wise idea to venture out onto the streets of Beacon
Hills at this hour, especially considering the man-eating beasties currently
stalking those very streets.
Yeah, Beacon Hills is still the equivalent of an actual Hellmouth. Or possibly
that inter-dimensional rift from Torchwood. Either way, it sucks. Only the fact
that Peter isn’t here—that he’s out-of-state with Cora—makes the suckage mildly
tolerable. Stiles hates that bastard. Everybody hates that bastard.
Stiles is so tired, he’s practically falling over in the midst of all the Post-
it notes and bestiaries, so he gives his dad a drowsy call and mumbles
disjointedly about staying at Derek’s before literally collapsing on top of his
papery nest and drifting off with his head pillowed on a grimoire.
He’s vaguely aware of Derek covering him with a blanket, but the next thing he
knows, it’s dawn and the pale sunlight from the loft’s windows is gently urging
his eyes open.
So he opens them, blearily and with every intention of shutting them
immediately, but then he catches a faint scent of coffee in the air and glances
at the couch at the end of the loft, where Derek is already up, hair sleep-
mussed, cradling a steaming mug of coffee as he slowly sips from it. He’s
shirtless, which is, uh, interesting—Stiles’s brain isn’t exactly online
yet—but he’s also relaxed like Stiles has never seen him, his right leg
casually crossed over his left. He’s in sweatpants, and the soft, worn folds of
fabric clinging to his thighs and his crotch make it abundantly clear that a)
he’s going commando and b) he’s hung like a horse.
Stiles is abruptly, blindingly awake, a shocking spark of lust sizzling across
his nerves, and hello, he’s got an erection, which is inconvenient because he’s
surrounded by sleeping werewolves and one sleeping kitsune, but all he can
think of is mouthing Derek’s dick through those sweatpants, wetting them with
his tongue, drooling on them until they’re damp and Derek’s painfully hard, and
then dragging them down and swallowing Derek’s thick, bobbing cock, choking
himself on it because it feels so good, making sloppy, greedy sounds—
Eventually, Derek looks at him, and Stiles jolts, eyes wide and caught and
guilty, because he forgot that Derek could smell him, but he can blame it on a
simple case of morning wood, can’t he? Teenagers get that, and he’s a teenager,
and…
“The bathroom’s free,” Derek says dryly, which, praise be to god, Derek does
apparently believe this is a normal morning wood issue. Stiles stands up
awkwardly, ensures his baggy T-shirt is hiding his embarrassing—nay,
humiliating—boner, and croaks, “Thanks.” He crab-walks to the bathroom, passing
by Derek as he does, and tries desperately not to notice that Derek is
ridiculously sexual when he’s sprawled lazily like that, all loose limbs and
warm, touchable sensuality. Derek’s nipples are stiff, dark points in the
coolness of the loft, and his pornographically perfect abs rise and fall with
each breath.
Stiles stumbles into the bathroom and locks it and shoves a hand down his jeans
without even bothering to unbutton them. He bites his other wrist to keep
himself quiet, and wonders what the hell is happening, why he’s suddenly
thinking of Derek like… that. Of course, he’s appreciated Derek’s hotness
occasionally, but it was an academic pursuit, an abstract admiration, not this
vivid, shuddering, ferocious heat.
When he finally unzips and jerks off, he can’t get Derek out of his mind, can’t
picture anyone else, and Derek is directly outside, probably doing his best to
ignore the horny kid in his bathroom making stupid, breathy, bitten-off noises
punctuated by the slick, slippery, audible rhythm of a fist flying over a
leaking dick.
Rather than feeling ashamed of being heard, Stiles flushes, from head to toe,
so violently and completely that sweat springs out all over his skin. Wild,
half-formed fantasies flash through his imagination, of Stiles showing Derek
just how slutty he can be, just how rough he can take it, just how much he
needs—
Fuck—
And Stiles is coming, in deep, wracking pulses, shooting into the toilet bowl
and getting a bit of spunk on the seat. He curses and clumsily wipes it clean
with a shred of toilet paper, still gasping and panting like he’s run a fucking
marathon, his legs trembling, his knees as weak as a newborn foal’s.
He washes his hands and his face and steps out of the bathroom when he figures
his blush is under control. He’s wrong, it’s not, because it flares up again
the moment he sees Derek, still sitting there with his goddamn coffee, as
though Stiles didn’t just whack off to thoughts of him. But Derek doesn’t say
anything, staring into his coffee mug like it holds the secrets of the
universe, and his body isn’t relaxed anymore. It’s strung tight with a weird
tension, the line of his shoulders oddly rigid, and his sweatpants are—
Are they…?
They couldn’t be tented, surely not, but before Stiles can gather the courage
to edge closer and have a better look, Derek is moving off the couch with a
speed that only a werewolf can manage, growling something unintelligible,
slamming his mug onto the kitchen platform and striding into the bathroom as
well, banging the door shut behind him.
And Stiles is—
Stiles is left standing there, gaping, as the rest of the people in the loft
gradually start waking up. Scott resembles a confused puppy as he questions why
the whole place smells like jizz, but Kira makes this urgent shushing motion
and Scott brightens a little more and says, with an exaggerated sense of
epiphany, “Oh, right.”
Stiles wants to ask him what that means.
If it means what he thinks it means.
If it means that Scott knew Stiles was attracted to Derek sooner than even
Stiles did.
And if Scott knew that Derek was attracted to Stiles, too.
Is attracted to Stiles?
Maybe?
Stiles can’t bring himself to say that, however, instead retrieving his
favorite grimoire and muttering about spells and potions and consulting with
Deaton. Everyone contributes meaningful insights and takes turns going to the
bathroom after Derek comes back out, and if any of the others can smell all
that semen, they’re polite enough not to mention it.
Which is great, because the filthy daydreams Stiles is having aren’t fit for
polite company, anyway.
He resolves to stay overnight at Derek’s loft again, when nobody else is
around.
This time, in Derek’s bed.
 
===============================================================================
                                     fin.
 
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