Stiles buys the bed on a whim.
He isn’t trying to be mean, really. The bed looks soft and warm and is nearly as big as his actual bed, only rounder and lacking things like a frame and the mattress box. Only it is mean because even without those normal, mattress-y type things, it’s still better than what’s currently being used, plus what it literally is, the name written on the side and everything.
And fine, so Stiles is kind of an asshole. He can accept that. He’s god damned surrounded by assholes so if he wants to buy a bed that is more like a pallet he’s going to do it, and put it by his window too.
Because why the hell not.
* * *
His Dad doesn’t notice.
Stiles tries not to feel relieved. Or resigned. Upset? There are all these feelings and honestly, Stiles is pretty crap and dealing with them.
Sometimes when he’s sitting at his desk, browsing on his laptop, he’ll glance over to the bed and when all those feelings start coming up, he’ll concentrate on how much of an asshole he is.
And how fucking funny it’s going to be.
* * *
It isn’t funny.
* * *
Ok, it is the first time. When Derek climbs through his window like the creeper he’s decided he’s going to accept and embrace since it obviously isn’t going away. He’s getting stealthier about it, no longer this sudden presence, tall and broad and so damned full of muscles that seriously, Michelangelo would have wept to use him as a model.
Instead Derek sticks to the shadows. He actually creeps now, hands and knees sometimes, with his back low and his head down. Stiles bites back every single joke he desperately wants to make because he’s already made the worst one possible.
Derek stares at it.
He’s in the shadows by Stiles’ bed- the real one, not the one he just bought and occasionally piles his clothes on because it’s easier to find stuff that way, stupid drawers- and Stiles honestly doesn’t notice him for probably a half hour. Maybe more. Derek is barely breathing, just sitting there, legs drawn up with his arms around his knees like some sort of classic heroine pose of angst and pain, staring.
His expression is fucking hilarious Stiles doesn’t even startle when he notices Derek, just laughs and laughs. Cruel and cutting as any scalpel, he laughs until Derek stops staring and glares instead.
There is absolutely a difference. Stiles has been the recipient of both and he can study, okay, and research and learn. It’s just really hard sometimes.
It isn’t a question. Stiles continues laughing so hard he cries, stomach aching. When he’s done catching his breath he looks over at Derek and manages a not-at-all-giggly shrug. ”Because, dude. It fits.”
On the side of the bed-pallet-thing it reads For A Good Puppy.
* * *
It actually does fit. That’s when it stops being funny.
* * *
Stiles doesn’t know when Derek starts to use it. Just that the plush brown fabric stops looking absolutely pristine. There are patterns in it that sort of indicate a body, depressions along the curve of it and heavier marks at either end.
Nobody comments on it. Nobody being Stiles since no one else knows. Scott doesn’t come up to his room that much anymore and no, Stiles is not bitter, it’s summer vacation, nobody is in their rooms unless they want to be.
Derek, clearly, wants to be in Stiles’ room. To sleep. Sleep deprivation is something Stiles is sadly a little too familiar with, same with the hyper-vigilance that no one else seems to see in Derek but Stiles does. He remembers it, that tension that buzzed under his skin until his muscles felt like they were going to snap, bones brittle and pressing too close to the skin.
He’s read the DSM-IV.
Yes, all of it. He got bored once and read about half of it, then couldn’t stop thinking about it so a couple months later he read the other half. It’s oddly come in handy.
So Derek comes to his room and sleeps in a dog bed, curled up and sort of adorable looking with his face relaxed out of that permanent scowl, mouth curving in what could maybe be an upward direction if the stubble wasn’t obscuring it, the lines between his eyes smoothed out into the skin of a man just into his twenties.
A werewolf. Who is, and this cannot be stressed enough, sleeping in Stiles’ room.
On a dog bed.
* * *
It isn’t funny.
Only Derek is still there, sleeping, and doesn’t mind that Stiles is watches him when he does. Or sleeps in the bed next to them, the sound of their breathing matched into a white noise that makes Stiles sleep without nightmares. Or that sometimes Stiles rubs his cock through his boxers, tingling and half-hard, because curled up like this Derek does look like a good puppy.
He looks like he’s Stiles’ good puppy.
* * *
Stiles is a complete and utter asshole.
And kinky as hell.
* * *
One day in the heat of early August, when everything is sticky and slow no matter how many trees try to combat the pervasive, oppressive weight of the sun, Stiles pushes his shorts down and his boxers too and he strokes his cock past half-hard. He’s done this before but usually on his bed. Derek would be asleep, or pretending, whatever Stiles is ok with Derek’s creeper self, he really is. So Stiles would jerk off with Derek right there.
They wouldn’t talk about it. Ever. But Stiles started doing it more often and sometimes over the sound of his own breath, wet and jungle-hot in his lungs, the roar of his own blood, sometimes he’d hear something else. A gasp, maybe, or a hitch of breath that is definitely not his own.
He’ll come from that, sometimes.
This day, though, this day Stiles is feeling mean. He’s feeling like it’s good that he’s standing over Derek, curled up and cozy looking, holding his cock and stroking it so that Derek has to watch. He has to see that Stiles is hard from this, from him, from this situation.
Stiles thumbs over the head of his cock and tries not to gasp. ”A good puppy,” he says.
Derek makes a noise. It isn’t a growl, or at least it definitely isn’t an angry sound. It’s just a sound- awareness, acknowledgement.
"Good puppy," Stiles says again, and this time he does gasp because he’s cupping his balls now, rolling them with his legs slightly spread and his back arched just a little. "That’s right," he says in the tone everyone uses with dogs and babies and small things they want to patronize and please. "Good puppy.”
Derek smoothly uncurls up onto his knees. The light makes his nose look like a blade, the darkness of his eyebrows hiding whatever might be going on his eyes.
His mouth is wet, though, and sweet. It’s hot and slick and it slides over Stiles’ cock like he’s done this before, like he likes it. Stiles definitely likes it. He thrusts when he feels like it, instinct and uncaring pleasure both driving the head into the back of Derek’s mouth, into his throat. It makes Derek choke but he never stops, just sucks and flicks his tongue like he can’t get enough of the taste.
Stiles isn’t quite sure when he started petting Derek’s head, sliding over hair that has way, way too much gel in it, seriously Derek, down to the silky heat of the back of Derek’s neck. Over and over he does this because whenever he does Derek hums. Or growls. A low, pleased sound, helpless and hated, and fuck does it make Stiles feel fantastic.
"That’s it," he murmurs, "good puppy, that’s right. Gonna come, boy," is a gasp, and he grips Derek’s hair tight in his fist.
Derek straight up whines.
And swallows every drop.
He even licks Stiles clean, his tongue carefully flat and light as he glides over the length of Stiles’ cock, his balls and even some of his thighs.
Just like a puppy, Stiles thinks, and pets Derek’s head again. ”Good boy.”
* * *
Stiles isn’t surprised to learn he likes getting blowjobs.
He is surprised that Derek loves to give them.
* * *
Anytime he wants, all he has to do is push his boxers down. At least at first. By the end of the second week, Stiles can starfish over his bed, mostly naked because it is so hot, the heatwave clearly not going anywhere.
He’ll say, “Where’s my good boy,” is that tone, everyone knows the one. That half cheerful, loving tone that dogs always respond to no matter what the actual words are. ”C’mere, cocksucker, come be a good boy for me.”
Sometimes it’s ‘puppy’, still. Derek likes them both equally as he crouches on the bed and puts that slick-hot mouth to use. He loves when Stiles pets him especially, leaning into the caress whether it’s given when he’s got both of Stiles’ balls in his mouth, focused on gently sucking them, or when Stiles is sitting at the computer, Derek settled at his side with his head leaning on Stiles’ thigh.
Somehow that part is hotter than the way Derek is so eager every time, the way he tries no tricks and techniques Stiles has never even dreamed of, anything to get Stiles off.
To get him to stroke Derek’s hair and croon what a good boy he is, such a good puppy boy.
* * *
"Do you want to get off too?"
It’s been weeks since this started. Derek is always hard when he’s on his knees for Stiles but as far as Stiles knows, Derek doesn’t ever come. He’s learned he tends to pass out after the second or third orgasm, waking up dazed and sated and calm to find Derek curled up in his bed again.
Derek flushes. It’s a think Derek does kind of a lot. The stubble hides it but Stiles knows to watch his ears. ”Yes.”
"Have you been?"
"Yes." Derek’s head is down, shamed and waiting for punishment.
"Show me, puppy," Stiles requests.
Derek glances up, startled, but eventually nods and creeps over to his doggy bed. He curls up with his pants pushed low enough that Stiles can see his thick, uncut cock.
Rubbing up against the bed. Humping it.
Delighted (cruel), Stiles laughs. ”Do it right,” he orders, and laughs again as Derek pushes flatter on his stomach so he can rub his cock against his bed, coming with a low gasp and an exhaled breath of relief.
"How long have you been doing that?" Stiles asks, still grinning. He waves and Derek approaches, head down this time for the pets he’s so eager to receive.
"Since the first time."
"So basically, I get to come in your mouth or over those abs," which Stiles hasn’t licked yet, but only because Derek seems furtive whenever he does. Stiles is mean, sure, and a bastard, but he isn’t stupid and he’s getting regular sex whenever he wants it. He can roll with it. "Or do whatever it is I want to you, and you go and hump your bed like a puppy before he’s neutered. Then you sleep in it."
Another blush, hot as an oven coming to temperature under his palm. The back of Derek’s neck is so soft and Stiles can’t help but run his fingers over it, over and over. ”Yes.”
"And you like that? Does that make you feel like a good boy?"
Hotter now, probably a nice roasting temperature if Stiles is any judge. His cock is getting hard again and Derek keeps sneaking looks at it and licking his lips. ”Yes.”
"You like that, I know. Being a good boy for me."
Just here, though. The moment Derek leaves Stiles’ room, the moment Stiles’ leaves his room, it’s all different. The same, or normal, or whatever passes for it in a town that should probably be called Sunnydale and give awards for years with the lowest student death count. They haven’t had that yet, thank god, but Stiles can see the writing on the wall.
He can also feel the way Derek is pressing kisses into his naked hip, forehead hot against his ribs.
"I honestly have no idea what I’m doing," Stiles says. "How this works."
Derek stays silent, mouth better occupied by licking around the base of Stiles’ cock, encouraging it to stand up straighter. The tip is already pearled with want because understanding or not, Derek is there, and wanting it, and Stiles just turned seventeen years old.
He doesn’t have to have any idea of what he’s doing.
"I’m going to fuck you, probably," he says as he pushes Derek’s head down, watching cut shoulders, moon-pale and softer than Stiles ever imagined push down against the bed so Derek and haul himself further up. "I’m going to get you on all fours and listen to you mewl. I’m gonna lay here, just like this, and watch you slide up and down on my cock, your eyes half closed because you’re so into it you can’t concentrate on two things at once. You’re such a good boy for me, puppy. Such a good boy."
Derek shivers. He opens his mouth all the way to take Stiles in, sucking hard and tight. Desperate and- there has to be another word for eager, Stiles decides, watching as Derek sucks him off. He’ll have to research it, probably. Find the right way to describe how Derek loses everything but this, but making Stiles come in him and on him, as many times as Stiles wants. Hell, there are times when Derek will lip him through his jeans even though Stiles isn’t even hard.
Craving. Maybe that’s the word. Addicted.
"Oh, that’s it, good boy," Stiles gasps, when Derek does this one twist with his tongue that makes Stiles see stars. "Do that again."
Derek does, but then he slides off until his lips are brushing over the head, his breath a hot, unsteady gust that makes Stiles want to shove up into him.
"Are you going to do that?" Derek asks. "Really?"
Pushing Derek’s head down back where it belongs, Stiles groans out something satisfied and mean, so mean. He’s always mean to Derek. ”Course I am, puppy. I’m gonna have you every way y- I want. So long as you’re my good boy. And you will be. I know it. You want to be my good boy.”
Derek hums something that sounds more like a promise than mere assent.
* * *
When Stiles finally does fuck Derek, after a half an hour of Derek sliding thick, long fingers into himself, sloppy and leaking with lube, he bites the back of Derek’s neck, his shoulders, he calls him, “A good boy, such a god damned good boy, come in your bed. Come all over it, just because I’m fucking you, the way you’ve always wanted. Because you’re a good boy, Derek, and I want to see you come.”
It isn’t immediate but pretty soon Derek’s puppy bed is once again soaked with come. It makes Stiles fuck him harder, faster, mouthing all over Derek’s skin. He knows what this means to Derek, alpha but not, leader but so fucking bad at it.
Stiles knows, and it makes it him glad.
Because he’s an asshole.
But Derek is nearly sobbing with relief, gasping little choked out noises that sound almost like thank you or even please. His body is heaving backwards, tightslickhot around Stiles’ cock, but he never once throws Stiles off of him. He could.
When Stiles comes, someone howls. He’s never completely certain who.
* * *
If anyone knows about it-
and they have to because werewolves and also sometimes Derek will sit a little too close to Stiles, duck his head a little no matter how angry he is about whatever the problem is, and occasionally Stiles will cup the back of his neck and feel the way tension seeps out of too tight shoulders, a spine so rigid it’s going to snap -
nobody says anything.
Stiles has no idea why but hey, he can roll with it. He can smile and joke and flail around and mean all of it, every second. He’s good at that. Maybe even likes it.
But when he goes home to find Derek waiting he doesn’t smile or joke or flail around. He pulls his lips back into something too hard, too cruel for such simple labels as smiles or grins and holds up his hand.
Says, “Good boy,”’ when it’s immediately filled with hair that’s no longer coated, just bristly and thick, and “that’s it, I want to feel your mouth today, fuck I’ve needed this,” and listens to Derek make that low growl that he’s pretty sure means yesplease, all pushed together.
And Stiles thinks that if this is what happens when he’s mean, maybe he’ll let it out a little more.
Just to see.
On a whim.