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Stiles really might have to teach Derek about appropriate anger management, because it was only a matter of time before his dad, or someone on the lacrosse team, or someone else in the pack, noticed the bruising on his hips.
And that really wasn't a conversation he wanted to be having anytime soon. Really. He could see it now, fists clenching in his sleeves as he tried not to die of embarrassment.
Stiles really didn't want to lie to his dad more than he had to, so if he asked, or well one of the other wolves, he'd be pretty screwed. But no, he wouldn't lie to his dad about it.
"Hey son," the conversation would go. "I've noticed some bruising around your waist when you were walking around in that towel earlier. You're not getting into any trouble with anyone at school are you? You know you can tell me. If someone is kicking you or something..."
Stiles would reply with an exaggerated "Oh my God, Dad." Then dive back into his breakfast and pretend like his father had never said anything. It can't see you if you don't move, right? Unforntunately, his father was not a T-Rex from a fantastic bio-science fiction movie originally written by an author the likes of which the world may never see again even if some facts were off, but can you blame the guy, he was a medical doctor not a paleontologist.
Right, anyway.
His father would totally keep pestering, and he'd refuse to answer because that would be infinitely better than either telling the truth or lying.
In the end, something would be painfully squeaked out about "Don't worry, we use protection." And the Sheriff would use his amazing police officer superhero powers of deduction to conclude from the angle and strength needed, there certainly wasn't any sort of heterosexual activity going on to cause those bruises. Which really, that would make his dad eat his words about his clothing choices relating in any way to his sexual preferences, and hey that wouldn't be so bad. It might be the only thing to come of that conversation, making it something he still very much was not willing to have at all.
"So when can I meet the man deflowering my son," his dad would ask and that would be the very moment that Stiles would die. Not necessarily because of the deflowering, but more so about the man part because of course his dad learned to hone that intuition that at least one parent needs to possess.
Stiles would spit out his cereal. He sees in his head that that would be the natural course of action in that situation.
So the moment would then come to discuss older men, statutory rape, paperwork for discharging weapons, and maybe his dad could believe that he was totally mature enough to make this decision for himself. On a cold day in Hell he might be able to convince him of that last point.
What would follow would be awkward glares in the grocery store, the gas station, or where ever they happened to cross paths. Even if his father didn't press charges, he'd probably have his guys pull over every black Camaro doing even 1mph over the limit.
It would be ugly.
And Derek would just get more frustrated and angry. So the bruises would probably just get worse because there was no way Stiles would give up the sexytimes with one Mr. Hale, even if they had to go about it with even more secrecy than they were now.
And lo and behold, the bruising fingers have found their way onto his hips to jerk him out of that little reverie.
Stiles looks down at Derek and smiles stupidly.
"Glad you're back with us. Ready to keep going," comes the growl of annoyance for Stiles drifting off with a dick up his ass.
Derek slams his hips upward, pulling Stiles down in the same motion. Yep, bruises. But at least he can give back something as he digs his blunt nails into the older man's pecs.
"Anger management," Stiles grunts. "That's what we need."
"I think," growling, "This is some good management here."
Derek punctuates his words by pulling Stiles down into his lap again and again.
Stiles laughs and throws his head back, which totally is the best response to have when having sex with Derek McFrowny Hale. So very best, in fact, because the hips beneath him speed up and get harder and leave the laughter in his throat as breathy gasps instead.
He digs his nails in harder, because hey with all that sweat he needs to have some way to hold on to enjoy this ride, and takes back a little control by bouncing himself, adjusting the angle just right.
And oh. Yeah. Yeah. There.
Stiles' cock slaps against his stomach as he rides Derek. He can feel trickles of sweat drip down his bared neck tracing a path lower to his chest as a light tickle, stark in contrast to the heavy hands on his hips pulling him ever closer.
And closer is a thing he really is now.
So close.
Stiles whimpers, strangled in his throat. Holding back his noises in a way only a teenage boy with a very active imagination, internet access, and hormones who is sleeping in the room next to his father has learned to do.
Derek is grunting below him as Stiles desperation has his squeezing tighter, digging his nails in harder, riding him faster.
Then Stiles is coming in spurts and slowing and drawing out his own orgasm until he collapses forward, the last of his energy drained with his release.
They flip over as Derek growls at yet another interruption in his pleasure.
Languidly, hands are latched behind the man's neck and Stiles feels like he's gone numb from all of it. When Derek continues thrusting into him in the new position, he can only give less than half of a thrust back. Which is really okay, because he feels awesome, and he knows that Derek will manage without him. A for Effort, Stiles, he tells himself.
And as much as he was worried about the damn bruises, he really can't bring himself to care. The damage is done, and Derek's face is above him lost in the pleasure of his body, which is awesome on so many levels.
And, Oh. Oh, is that what he thinks it is?
Stiles focuses his eyes, and ignores the smile, but right there just below that mouth in the stubble of his chin... Yeah, it so is.
He uses the last of his strength to lock his ankles behind Derek's back and pull himself up with his arms. Stiles latches his mouth to that spot and confirms his suspicions by mentally giving himself the gold medal in the jizz javelin throw.
Which apparently Derek finds exception to, in that it was probably something exceptionally hot that Stiles didn't really mean to do but set Derek off on a frenzy any way because now he's going to have to worry about bruises on his mouth from this kiss.
And with that, Derek's hips slam into him, clawed hands pulling him as flush as bodily possible.
"Fuck," he mutters in relation to his ass' answer to the rough sex as Derek pulls out.
The werewolf does something with the condom, and Stiles couldn't give a fuck less because Derek's weight is on top of him and he is so warm and comfy and Stiles is just so tired so sleep is a thing that is happening now.
He doesn't even remember his thoughts of anger management until the next day after practice when he's in the locker room changing and he's cornered by three silent and glaring teenagers all sniffing at him like he's been properly tenderized for their gastronomical pleasure.
It's isn't until Danny walks by and, ironically, wolf whistles over the shoulders of Scott, Jackson, and Isaac as he walks past, making direct eye contact with him.
"Stilinski, I didn't think it was anything more than morbid curiosity," he smirks.
Stiles manages a "Huh?" and the three werewolves look equally confused.
"When you asked me if you were attractive to gay men... It seems you got your answer there. Repeatedly, judging by the amount of bruising and how some of it is starting to yellow."
The three wolves stare at Stiles, glancing down at the bruises, and back up at him with awe and disbelief.
"Let me guess. Your "cousin", Miguel, was it? The dark and broody older guy you were hiding away in your bedroom. The one with the hot back and that swirly tattoo?"
And as much as he can't really hate Danny, Stiles is pretty sure he's about to kill him. Especially with the pained expression the three werewolves get as his heart flutters in that way that screams "YOU FUCKING LIAR!!" as he gulps out a "No."
Danny just smiles knowingly and walks away.
And Stiles wants to die. Preferably a lot quicker and with a lot less pain than his current death from mortification. He had at least been prepared for what to do with his dad. Oh god.
So he does the only thing he can do. He turns around and bangs his forehead against his locker. And if there are claw marks down his back that somehow offend the others, then it's their own damn fault for looking.