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Dating Stiles might be the best thing that ever happened to him. Derek relishes in the simplicity of it all. Stiles doesn’t play games with him — except the vintage ones Derek retrieved from storage and set up with the TV at the loft, but Derek could learn to enjoy those again — and always says what he wants without any ambiguity.
What Stiles wants might be fleeting sometimes, but he’s earnest when he admits he got distracted, and even better: Stiles sets boundaries with good reasons. Clear boundaries, that he’s willing to discuss often enough for Derek to know if Stiles ever consents to anything new or changes his mind on something he previously agreed to.
Which is to say, catching whiff of sex pollen came as a particularly wrong time, wrong place type of deal.
They had just come to the conclusion that neither of them felt ready to go further than lazy handjobs when the timing is right, and frantic blowjobs after a life or death confrontation. Needless to add that Stiles, for all his bravado about his pesky virginity problem, remains a romantic at heart and not in any hurry to roll in bed naked with glistening lube on the inside of his thighs.
As for Derek… well he hasn’t allowed himself to be this close to someone in a very long time. Stiles called him out often enough about being touch-starved. How could Derek indulge himself after making so many mistakes in the name of so called “love”? He is far from ready to have any kind of penetrative sex in the foreseeable future.
They stumble into the loft just as the aphrodisiac effect of the pollen hits in full force.
Stiles has grown up, is the first thing Derek notices. He never really pays attention to the barely existing height difference between them, Stiles was always tall and lanky even before the last of his growth spurt, but now, Derek can only stare. Stiles developed broad shoulders throughout high school, that make his hips look slimmer than they really are. He can’t sit still, much less now with the pollen igniting a fire in their veins, and his muscular back is in constant motion, enticing.
“Just our luck,” Stiles throws over his shoulder, biting his lip as he takes his flannel off.
Derek wants to chase him and Stiles, as though sensing it, darts forward. The younger man trips in the stairs only to stumble to the landing and crawl forward. Derek is on him a moment later and Stiles collapses with the added weight, laughter spilling out of his plump lips.
Derek kisses him silent, fighting the shift for fear of hurting Stiles if he loses control.
He finds the familiar taste of arousal on Stiles’ tongue, as well as something deeper, but foreign, that threatens to turn the kiss bitter. Even though, breathing Stiles in is like quenching a thirst Derek never knew he suffered from, and it takes everything in him to pull away from Stiles’ spit-shiny lips.
“It’s going to last several hours,” Derek says through sharp fangs, rolling off Stiles.
“I know. I guess we’ll have to get over our insecurities, huh?”
Stiles doesn’t look at Derek as he speaks, his eyes blown wide and slurring on some words. The mere brush of their naked arms soothes the fire in Derek’s veins, and he snatches his hand away before he gives into the temptation of lifting the younger man’s shirt off. Stiles must be burning up, just like him, and if Derek were to press the palm of his hand to Stiles’ chest...
“I don’t want it to happen like that. You deserve better.”
“So do you,” Stiles replies hotly.
Derek gives in and kisses him again. Stiles arches into the kiss, sliding their mouths together, wet and deliciously warm. Derek licks into Stiles’ mouth, holding himself up against the rough carpet, too dark compared to Stiles’ milk white skin, the curve of the younger man’s jaw like a waxing moon, smooth and alluring. Derek rubs his nose along Stiles’ cheek then, breathing him in again, and feels Stiles chuckling again, shaking softly beneath the werewolf.
“Let’s do this on the bed, at least,” Stiles suggests, and Derek complies.
He stands, pulling Stiles up with him and nearly throwing the younger man over his shoulder, eliciting another peal of laughter from Stiles. The sex pollen seems to be crawling down Derek’s veins, inciting him to go faster, be rougher. When he deposits Stiles in the unmade bed though, with the overwhelming scent of them blending between the sheets and Stiles’ clothes falling off quickly, the intimate sense of belonging feels so much stronger.
“We don’t have to do anything we don’t want to,” Derek muses, holding unnaturally still, fighting for control.
“What do you mean?” Stiles stops with his shirt wrapped awkwardly around his neck and shoulder.
“We just have to be close and get off together. I love you too fucking much for this to be a problem.”
Stiles’ face turns burning hot red upon hearing those words, but watching Derek strip is enough of a distraction to make him forget about the confession. The werewolf joins Stiles on the bed, helping him out of his clothes before Stiles can knock himself out in his clumsiness, and soon enough they’re pressed close together.
Derek doesn’t need much more than the smooth expanse of skin between Stiles’ thighs to quench the burning thirst the pollen ignited in him. The friction is delicious, the meat of Stiles’ thighs sticky with sweat and precum as Derek thrusts between them.
It only takes one hand wrapped around Stiles’ own erection for them to spill their release on the unmade bed. Derek buries his face between Stiles’ shoulder blades, and they collapse into a heap of limbs and heaving chests as the burn of the sex pollen finally recedes.
“We should do this more often,” Stiles suggests.
Derek barks out a laugh, and it’s settled.