Written for the prompt 'Sterek... Jealousy, I'd love to see Derek staking his claim'.
A hand slides down Stiles’ side. “I warned you,” Derek voice is a thunder in Stiles’ ear, a loud, bright rumble shaking him from the inside. “I fucking- I fucking told you.” His hands are sliding over Stiles’ abdomen now, fingers splayed wide and fingertips digging into skin as Derek touches him, uses his full body weight to press Stiles against the wall, keep him pinned right where he wants.
Stiles’ eyes are huge when Derek’ hands find the waist of his jeans, and he tries to push himself off the wall, tries to turn around to face Derek- “I didn’t- He wasn’t doing anything,” he hisses. Because it’s true, because that’s how it is when you are in a team, you let your teammates touch you, pat your shoulder and poke you in random places, you let them tackle you to the ground and tickle you until you can’t breath anymore. You don’t fight it, you just go along with the easy companionship and have fun.
“Derek,” Stiles calls, trying to stop him, flattening his palms against the rough surface of the wall and push, but- “He was straddling you,” Derek spits, voice dark and sharp like glasses as he lets Stiles’ jeans and underwear drop on the floor, lets the cloth pool around his ankles as he presses his hard cock against the cleft of Stiles’ ass. “You were letting him dominate you,” it’s a snarl, coming from the deepest place inside Derek’s chest and it makes Stiles shiver. He almost can’t breathe and he feels so exposed, pressed against one of the exterior wall of the gym, half-naked and his dick is almost killing him. And Stiles knows that Derek is avoiding to touch it on purpose, fingers roaming everywhere as the head of his cock drenches Stiles’ skin with pre-come.
“Derek. Derek.” It’s a whine now, high and desperate, and Stiles’ legs are almost trembling, becausehe isn’t ready, it will burn, it will hurt- “I won’t fuck you, stop it,” Derek growls, low and steady as he angles his cock to sink between the heat of Stiles’ thighs, starts moving against him, just skin on skin, sweat and come mixing together.
“Yes,” Stiles says, starts murmuring a disjointed string of please and Derek and touch me, pushing himself up on his heels when Derek’s hand finally closes around him, starts pumping with the same broken, steady rhythm he is fucking Stiles’ thighs.
“Mine,” Derek growls when he comes, spilling all over Stiles’ legs, splotching the wall as he arches and his hold on Stiles’ cock tightens.
And Stiles nods, too breathless to speak as he shivers and feels his balls throbbing, come spurting from his dick and shooting on the wall, dirtying Derek’s hand as he comes and comes and comes, concentrating on the wet, warm feeling of the liquid trickling down his legs, how it’ll drench his clothes, will cling to his skin like the best of the marks-
Written for the prompt 'Derek/Stiles: fingerpaint'.
“This is ridiculous,” Derek groans, slightly shifting his hips as Stiles’ fingers slide down over the flat, tanned line of his abdomen.
“Edible,” Stiles corrects him absentmindedly, eyes focused on the work he is doing, as he presses his fingertips over the juncture of Derek’s hips, tracing the solid curve of his hipbone and leaving behind an intricate game of colored lines.
“Not this,” Derek says, picking up the small tube of body paint that is laying on the sheets and frowning in its general direction. “I meant this,” he specifies, nodding towards the sensitive portion of skin where Stiles’ hand is resting, warm and slick with blue paint.
From where he is lying, sprawled on his belly between Derek’s open legs, Stiles blinks. Sarcastically. How he manages to do such a thing, remains a mystery for Derek. “You know, I probably own a spare dictionary. You should borrow it. Just for, you know, future references and- Things. Like actually explaining yourself with more than three words at time,” he giggles, tongue darting out to lick a long, wet stripe along the upper of Derek’s thigh.
Derek’s eyes go dark, light blue slowly washed away by waves of deep, velvety red. “I’ll think of it,” he says, words curling around Stiles’ chest like poisonous snakes.
One of his hands finds the curve of Stiles’ nape, pushes him down as Derek cants his painted hips in a meaningful motion, pressing the hard curve of his dick against Stiles’ neck, leaving a wet, sticky trail over soft skin. “Now- You said edible, right?”
Written for the prompt 'Sterek - Kitten'.
When Stiles awakens, it takes him a few seconds to realize that he isn’t laying on his own bed. “Hmwhat time ish it?” he ask, drowsily, sitting up on Derek’s couch.
“Still early,” Derek replies. He is sitting on the nearby armchair and has a cup in his hands, Stiles eyes it, suddenly interested.
“Here,” Derek says, placing the cup full of hot coffee into Stiles’ hands. He stands up then, going to sit next to Stiles. “You looked really tired, it isn’t like you to fall asleep in the middle of a pack meeting,” he says, his hand slowly working his way up and down Stiles’ back, fingertips moving in small circles.
“Hm, I just-” he takes a sip of coffee, enjoys the soothing warmth of Derek’s hand against the cotton of his shirt. “I didn’t sleep well last night. A owl kept me up. Mhh- This thing, you need to do it more often,” he says, closing his eyes.
Beside him, Derek makes a huffing sound. “If I knew you’d start purring, I would have done it way sooner,” he laughs, a happy, guttural sound that reaches all the right places inside Stiles.
“Quit making insensitive animal jokes. You are the dog here,” Stiles mutters in reply, too distracted by the movements of Derek’s hand to elaborate a smarter reply.
Derek’s lips find his neck, his tongue wetly sliding over pale, smooth skin. “Shush, you kitten,” he murmurs right before kissing Stiles.
Written for the prompt 'Sterek- Stiles getting jealous, and becoming overly wanton of Derek'.
Everything started during a lacrosse practice. Stiles still isn’t sure of the details, but he remembers distinctly Jackson sliding his shirt off, his smooth, pale skin stretching and shifting over firm muscles, remember the way Scott’s chatter had become just a white noise crackling in the background as Stiles’ glance had caressed the curve right under Jackson’s rib cage, there where tiny, pale-pink bite marks rested, almost invisible to an unwary observer.
It’d been then that the fire in his head had started growing, that the idea of Derek’s mouth, his teeth, on Jackson’s skin had rendered him blind with white, uncontrollable rage.
Isaac, Erica, Boyd. Stiles had wanted to strip each one of them, tie them so he could study the way their skin had healed and yet still bore Derek’s mark, slide his fingers over the small, round scars decorating their bodies and place his teeth right over them, see if they would fit, if he would be able tomatch Derek.
It’s insane, he knows it, and he shouldn’t find the thought so intensely arousing, and yet he can’t help himself. He can’t do anything but slide his hand in his pants and palm his hard dick, think about biting Derek the same way he bit his pups, sinking the blunt edge of his teeth into Derek’s tanned skin and watch, avidly, as his irises turn into red, endless mirrors.
“I fucking hate you,” he tells Derek one day. Tries to punch him when Derek, in reply, grabs Stiles’ neck and kisses him. “Let go,” he spits, but his hands are already sliding under Derek’s shirt, fingertips finding warm skin as his mouth opens under Derek’s assault.
“You little possessive shit.” It’s a growl and Stiles feels it vibrating right into his groin, moans when Derek’s hands finds the round curve of his ass, pushing himself against the older man.
They don’t undress each other, don’t even bother to find somewhere more comfortable than the wooden floor of Derek’s living room, and Stiles can feel the rough surface scratching his back when he arches and pushes his ass against Derek’s face, clenches his teeth as Derek spits over his hole, buries his fingers deep into Stiles’ body.
“Don’t you dare- I won’t- Not to you,” Stiles’ hisses, trying to keep his voice steady as Derek’s eyes fly on him, dark and liquid and feral. “Will never submit.” And Derek fucking roars, fingers quickly sliding out of Stiles’ body and hands grabbing his hips.
Stiles makes a startled sound, struggles and tries to fight back but Derek makes him roll on his belly anyway, pushing Stiles’ face against the floor and pinning his hips to the ground. “That’s the only way you’ll ever mark me,” he growls against the shell of Stiles’ ear, and then the head of his cock finds Stiles’ opening and Derek pushes into him.
It’s fast and brutal, the way Derek’s hips move against his, how Stiles can feel Derek’s balls slapping against his skin each time he thrusts just a little bit deeper, owns him just a little bit more.
And when Derek finally comes, claws digging holes into the floor and teeth snapping right against the naked curve of Stiles’ neck, when everything finally falls into place and Stiles lets go, only then he understands that Derek has already bit him. Deep and hidden where no one else can see, there where it’ll hurt with every thump of Stiles’ heart.
Written for the prompt 'Sterek: post sex Derek touching Stiles'.
“Sometimes I want to skin you,” Derek murmurs one day against the flushed expanse of Stiles’ back. They are lying on Derek’s bed, tangled together in an intricacy of warm limbs and slow breaths, and Derek is nosing at the crack of Stiles’ ass, lazily licking away the copious dribbles of come trickling out from Stiles’ red, relaxed hole.
Stiles blinks. “Okay,” he says, pulling himself up on his elbows and turning towards Derek. “Just so you know, that’s a pretty murderous thing to say.” Not to mention creepy as hell, but Stiles is the one who suggested Allison put an arrow in Derek’s head not less than a few weeks ago, so who is him to judge?
In reply, Derek’s fingers slide over the sweaty curve of his lower back, short nails lightly scraping over Stiles’ tailbone, sending little waves of pleasure running up his spine. He gives a last, long lick to Stiles’ hole, loud and wet and shameless- “You are like an enigma,” he murmurs, head tilted to one side as he studies the sweet, perfect way his fingertips sink into the soft flesh covering Stiles’ hips.
Stiles swallows, not sure of where the conversation is going anymore. “I don’t understand,” he breaths out, shuddering when Derek’s hot lips skid against the hollow at the base of his spine, pressing a kiss there before moving up.
The afternoon light is filtering between the curtains, making the sheets look impossibly white, and Stiles picks a rebellious feather pocking out from the pillow, closes his eyes as Derek ascends his body, slowly, one inch at a time.
“Neither do I,” Derek says against his cheek, broad, solid chest pressed against Stiles’ back. His hands lightly caress Stiles’ arms, palms running from shoulders to wrists, fingers interlacing with his. “Neither do I,” he repeats, but his kiss tastes like a promise.
“Derek! Derek! I know that you are in here so come out!” Stiles steps inside the Hale’s old house, now renewed after Derek had finally decided to move in again. “How many times did I tell you that is not nice to throw dead things at your beta’s windows? Scott wasn’t much pleased when he called me to ask how the hell he could scrape off mouse liver from his curtains. And I sure am not the housewife of the year. I mean, I don’t even own one of those frilly aprons- Holy fuck. What the hell are you doing?” he freezes right in the middle of his perfectly sound rant, one foot over the kitchen’s threshold, and gapes. Hard.
And then he curses Jackson and his insane obsession for fish tacos, because that’s what it happens when you let the most recent member of your pack, and ex lizard(ish) serial murderer - well, technically he is still deadly lethal and a Kanima, but just less, uh, randomly out of control. Kind of - persuade you to try these tasty, deliciously crunchy things. You get poisoned, and then you start hallucinating and your brain convinces you that there is a naked Derek Hale standing in front of you. Scrap that, there is a naked Derek Hale holding a tray full of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. “Weed would have been such a wiser choice,” Stiles groans.
In front of him, Derek blinks. “Why would someone use weed to bake cookies?” he asks, frowning, and then proceeds to literally faceplant the tray on the table. Stiles is sure that, if the poor thing had the gift of speech, it would be either cursing Derek or weeping in despair right now. “Besides,” Derek continues, turning his very naked, very marmoreal-looking butt in Stiles direction, “it isn’t like I wasbullying Scott or anything. I’m the alpha, sometimes my wolf feels the need to provide for the pack. He knows that.”
Three phrases. It’s like Derek has some kind of internal counter that warns him when he’s using too many words, probably attached to one of those metaphorical bells that goes off after the second phrase that makes actual sense. Mysterious, broody werewolf mode about to crush. Reset. Reset. Oh, yeah, Stiles can easily picture that. “My dad would so confiscate your were-scout badge if you’d only think too hard about weed. It’s scary, he has some sort of magical alien glance that can- Oh, my God, why are you making that face? You are not allowed to make that face while I’m talking about my dad and you are naked. I can see your everything from here, man and- Just- Don’t ever try that, ok?”
From beside the kitchen table, Derek smirks, and then leans against the wooden surface, flour-covered skin stretching and following the movements of his muscles as he watches Stiles.
It’s not like Stiles hand’t noticed the fact that Derek’s dick is kind of hanging there, eyeing Stiles from below and happily waving in his direction every time Derek moves. Of course he’d noticed that, his brain as well as his own dick, which had started to mentally poke Stiles - yeah, because he’s able to hold inner conversations with some of his major body parts. He’s cool like that - and press against the fastidious cloth of his briefs, suddenly interested. “I’m not the one doing the fucking here. Not even when you are feeling like stealing the mother hen of the day title from my hands. Just so we are clear,” he blurts, and tries to avoid self-combustion in the three seconds immediately following. He fails miserably.
“Wasn’t thinking about that,” Derek laughs, cants his hips so his half-hard cock is now shamelessly ogling Stiles.
Stiles swallows. “Uhm,” he replies. Loquacity, such a precious and traitorous gift.
Somehow, Derek’s relaxed smile turns into this if I’d be a cat, you’d be the cream smirk that doesn’t do anything to reassure Stiles. In fact, Stiles could easily state that he’s more worried now than he was a few hours before, when Scott had called him squeaking and babbling about how his mom would so have his ass if she’d found the slaughtered mouse laying over the windowsill. It’s not even Halloween! he’d cried. Stiles had been happy that face-palms couldn’t be seen over the phone.
“Come here,” Derek says, setting a glass full of milk - is it really milk? Is it? - over the table and gesturing at the chair beside him. And since that seems like a sane program, Stiles goes along with it, finally stepping inside the kitchen and wincing when his cock shrieks under the torturing pressure of his jeans.
Yet, he bites his teeth and sits, eyes roaming all over Derek’s body. “Is this some new kind of torture?” he asks, just to be certain that they are on the same line here, and that the poor mice didn’t die just for the sake of one of Derek’s complicated mind-games. And also because he wants to make sure that Derek isn’t going to, like, tie him to the chair and leave him there, unable to move, while he jerks off on his face or something equally, purely, cruel.
Derek’s smile softens slightly. “Nothing that you have to worry about,” he murmurs, and his flour-covered hand lands on Stiles head, fingertips caressing his scalp as Stiles licks his lips. ”Eat your cookies,” Derek says, shifting his posture so he isn’t towering anymore over Stiles but gently leaning over him. “And then, I’ll find you an apron.”
“Come on. Let me-” Stiles groans, tries to pin Derek’s hands on the mattress as he frantically rocks his hips, enjoys the way Derek’s cock stretches impossibly his hole, how Derek’s body is hot and solid under his.
“Yes,” Derek mutters, tongue darting out to lick away a bead of sweat from his upper lip. He lets Stiles’ fingers slide over his forearms to circle his wrists, lets the boy pin him to the bed as Stiles fucks himself on Derek’s dick.
Stiles is a smooth, fire-hot pressure around Derek, so perfect and eager that Derek can’t do anything but watch him, enthralled. And Stiles’ caramel-gold eyes are huge and shining when he breaks into a sudden laugh, a mad, soft sound that runs down Derek’s spine, pools into his chest like the sweetest of the honey. ”Good boy,” Stiles mutters, giggling and moaning and tilting his head back when Derek pushes his hips upwards, sinks himself even more inside Stiles’ body.
A low, hungry moan escapes Derek’s lips. “Take me. Take everything of me,” he chants, a big bad wolf pinned on the bed by a tiny butterfly. And yet-
“Love you,” Stiles says. And, somehow, it feels like he’s kissing Derek’s soul.
Scents are always been a huge part of Derek’s life. He can’t help it, it’s his nature, as it is to trust his own instinct, to bare his fangs and face any danger instead of turning tail and leave, it’s what he is. And yet he can’t seem to stop himself, whenever Stiles is around, his scent is never enough, becomes nothing compared to the taste of the boy’s skin.
Oh, it’s so silky and bright, it tastes like salt and something unnameable that makes Derek’s chest hurt in the best of the ways, makes him want to lap and lap at Stiles’ skin until he’ll consume him, until Stiles will melt under the roughness of Derek’s tongue and drip inside him.
Derek adores the way Stiles’ tendons shift under his skin, how he can feel the blood rushing in his veins, a delicate, lively net made of steady sounds and velvety red sparks. He spends hours running his lips over the pale expanse of skin covering Stiles’ collarbones, enjoying the way Stiles’ breath becomes erratic, chest raising under the pressure of his lungs when Derek finds the tender, defenseless spot in the middle of his chest, there where his heart beats like the most perfect of the drums.
Sometimes he would bare his fangs, press them against sensitive skin, watch it become red in the beat of an eye as Stiles arches and laughs, happy and free and completely Derek’s. There is no fear depicted over the lines of his face, no space for hesitance or any doubt, only pure openness and acceptance, blind trust when Stiles moans and lets Derek cover him with his body, comes undone under Derek’s hands.
It’s the most precious of the gifts.
“Fucking intoxicating,” Derek rumbles against the hollow of Stiles’ neck, licks a long, wet stripe there where he can feel blood rushing and veins thumping at the same, mad rhythm of Stiles’ heart, descends until he’s nibbling at the thin, vulnerable skin covering Stiles’ collarbones.
Stiles laughs, quiet and pleased, plants a loud kiss on Derek’s shoulder. “Shut up,” he chuckles, but his eyes tell another whole story when he pulls himself up to look at Derek, as he licks his lips and arches against the touch of Derek’s hands.
He’s beautiful, all hazy huge eyes and young, hot skin molding under the touch of Derek’s palms, and Derek loves it like anything he’s ever had, loves him with a force that, sometimes, scares him.
There are a million reasons why they shouldn’t be doing this, why Stiles’ hard cock, nestled against the flat of Derek’s stomach, shouldn’t feel so good, shouldn’t make Derek want to flip the boy over his belly and fuck him until his hole will be gaping open and red, soaking wet with Derek’s come, until Stiles will be breathless and grinning like Derek is the best thing that’s ever happened to him. And yet Derek can’t help himself, can’t do anything but go along with the powerful hunger that growls lowly inside his chest every time he has Stiles like this, eager and inviting, pressing himself against Derek as if Derek is the only water able to soothe the burning desire inside him.
“Pants. Off.” It’s something between a plea and an order, and the words caress something inside Derek’s head that purrs and licks at its own claws, already tasting the sweet, beloved smell of Stiles’ sweat, how it’ll pool copiously along the long curve of his spine once Stiles will lay spread open under Derek’s body, hips moving in unison with Derek’s and lips slightly parted.
“Come here,” Derek mumbles, and his fingers are already searching Stiles’ opening, smoothly sliding inside as Stiles presses their hips together and groans, tilts his head back, baring his neck to the blunt pressure of Derek’s teeth.
It doesn’t take much until Stiles finds himself kneeling, bent over the back of the couch as Derek pounds into him. “Will keep you always like this,” Derek murmurs, watches the effect that his words have on Stiles, the way he closes his eyes and swallows, trying to focus, and how his hole relaxes just enough for Derek’s cock to slide in deeper. “Yes.”
Stiles comes not much later, muscles in his thighs clenching as he arches and shouts Derek’s name over and over and over, reaches behind himself to claw at the round curve of Derek’s ass, keep him inside him as copious splashes of come land on the upholstery of the couch. His heart is beating so fast, almost as if it’s on the verge of exploding, and it drives Derek right over the edge, makes the sensation of Stiles’ body clenched around him almost unbearable as he pushes inside him one, two more times, and then gives up and lets the wave submerge him, sparks of red pleasure originating in his balls and shooting right up his spine, filling his lungs as he empties himself inside Stiles.
“Hi,” Stiles mutters against Derek’s lips a few minutes later, a hint of a sleepy smile dancing at the corners of his swollen lips. His hand is resting against Derek’s hipbone, a comforting and beloved presence, and he’s tracing invisible patterns over the thin skin. It tickles a bit, but Derek doesn’t mind.
“Hey,” he replies, smiling, and thinks that he’s never been so stupidly happy in his life as he’s in this moment.
“I’m trying to shave here,” Stiles’ voice reminds Derek. But, despite his words, his hold on the razor slackens and he lowers his wrist, rests it against the porcelain edge of the sink.
“Hmm,” Derek articulates back, sinking his nose in the crook of Stiles’ neck and pushing his hips forward to meet the round, inviting curve of the boy’s ass. Not so much of a boy anymore, since Stiles is already twenty-three, but old habits are hard to break, especially when Derek feels so old - like he’s lived too many lives, over and over and over - in front of Stiles’ genuineness.
“I’m not gonna use your jizz to comb my hair or anything, so if this is some of your possessive wolf things you better knock it off now-” Yet, his breath catches when Derek’s hand slides over his chest, down to caress the soft trail of dark hair that decorates Stiles’ abdomen, until his fingertips are lingering over the edge of Stiles’ cotton boxers. “Derek,” Stiles tries again, pleads, but the smell of his arousal hits Derek’ nostrils like the best of the prizes.
“Sex now, wedding later,” Derek murmurs, almost chuckles, against that small, hot portion of skin between Stiles’ neck and shoulder, where his pulse is so strong. He plants a kiss there, lips lingering a moment longer, as his fingers slide inside Stiles’ boxers, taking his already leaking erection in his palm.
“Fuck,” Stiles’ exhales, panting as he leans his full weight on the sink, the razor kissing the floor with a loud, clacking sound. “I was trying to be the responsible one here. You can’t just-” But the funny thing is that, really, Derek can. And he’s just doing so, pushing Stiles’ underwear off his hips, baring pale, smooth skin that will soon be red and used.
They both groan when Derek frees his own cock, both palms on Stiles’ chest so he can press him against his chest, close, closer. “Derek,” Stiles says again, but this time his tone is hot, urgent, as he arches his back, his spine shifting under skin, offering his ass so Derek can take- Anything you want.
“Yes,” Derek hisses, takes the lubricant from the mirror shelf in front of him and smears it all over his cock with hurried gestures. He needs Stiles so much, needs to feel him, hot and sweaty against him, trembling because Derek is the one doing this to him.
The cleft of Stiles’ ass welcomes Derek in the most delicious of the ways when his dick presses against it. And Derek can almost feel Stiles’ hole clench and then loosen when the head of his cock catches against it, smearing slick wetness all over the smooth, darkest skin. “Want you all the damn time,” he blurts out, heat rushing in his veins in response to Stiles’ pliant abandon.
The length of Stiles’ cock is thick and heavy against Derek’ palm and Stiles squirms when Derek tightens his hold on it, pumps faster in unison with the frantic pushes of his own hips. “You possessive fucker,” Stiles’ laughs, laughs and moans and it’s so beautiful- “Allison will slaughter us if we are late. So hurry up and make me fucking com-” His words die on his tongue when one of Derek’s hands cups his balls and Derek bites his shoulder, blunt teeth sinking in just enough to make Stiles mewl, white, sharp waves of pleasure blossoming right inside his abdomen.
Everything is reduced to parted lips and short intakes of breath as Derek presses himself against Stiles’ body, craving his heat, his gorgeous, bright light. And when white spurts all over his hand, the smell of Stiles’ come fills Derek’s head, like every fucking time, pushes Derek over the edge, falling and falling until he leans, finally satisfied, against his lover’s back.
“Well,” Stiles grins, from the mirror, at Derek’s direction. “Now. Allison will surely behead us with the butter knife. And Lydia will help her, because there is no way she wouldn’t take part to such a joyful massacre.” Copious rivulets of Derek’s come are slowly dripping from his ass to his thighs, but Stiles doesn’t seem to mind, or maybe he hasn’t ever noticed, seen the amount of freaking out that seems to be going out in his head.
Face buried in the back of his neck, Derek snorts, and then circles Stiles’ waist with his arms, keeping him close.
Fucking a boy.
Derek had never really thought about it, never imagined anything more than the wetness between a woman’s legs, round hips moving over his as he fisted his cock, rubbing his palm over the red, swollen head and smearing pre-come all over his sensitive skin.
And then, when he’d thought that nothing could change him, no one, because he’d already been through too much, tempered by fire and tears and loss- Then Stiles had crossed his path, and every certainty had melt into Derek’s chest, slowly dripping in his abdomen and catching fire like dark, liquid sugar.
It’s not like Derek hasn’t tried to fight it, tried to push his thoughts in the darkest corner of his mind, where they would be safe and available for the nights he spent alone in his bed, heat crackling right under his skin and pure, deep hunger biting at his guts.
But it hadn’t been enough. Not when Stiles’ skin looked so pale and new to Derek’s eyes, like just a small touch could have him quivering, eyes huge and dark, red lips parted, just asking for more. The boy’s smell was a challenge to Derek’s will, so sweet, so fresh, so deliciously tempting- He wanted to bathe in it, sink his teeth into Stiles’ skin and bury his cock in the boy’s ass, so deep they wouldn’t know where one begun and the other ended, wouldn’t remember how their life was beforethis.
Derek had never considered that the things he craved could be his, had never hoped for the boy, Stiles, to desire Derek the same way he did. And that’s why he’d watched, speechless, at Stiles dropping on his knees in front of him. “For fuck’s sake, Derek,” he’d muttered between clenched teeth, trembling hands finding hard muscles when his palms had landed on Derek’s thighs.
Stiles had looked up at him, intelligent eyes searching Derek’s in the same way he did in Derek’s dreams, and when he’d rubbed his face against Derek’s crotch, feeling the roughness of his jeans, the hardness of Derek’s erection under it, closing his eyes and moaning like he loved it- “Come here,” Derek had whispered, and his hand had found Stiles jaw, guided him to stand up so Derek could kiss him, his lips and his chin and his neck, cover every inch of him with kisses and smiles, slowly explore him as Stiles’ clothes landed on the floor one piece after the other.
Hot and so soft, Stiles’ body had felt so good, so right, when Derek’s cock had pushed against his opening, muscles slowly giving in, opening around Derek and enveloping him. “Yes. Take me, take everything,” Stiles had cried.
And Derek had taken everything and even more, thrusting and burying himself deep inside Stiles, driving into his body with an eagerness and amazement that had surprised even him. He’d watched as Stiles had fallen apart between his arms, thighs splayed wide open and back arched, beautiful beyond imagination.
The orgasm that had hit Derek had been like the lash of a whip hitting him straight in his abdomen, he’d felt his balls tighten, his fingers clenching around Stiles’ hips, keeping him in place as he’d shot inside him, come splashing Stiles’ insides and, finally, fucking finally, marking him as Derek’.
“My boy,” he’d whispered, watching Stiles between half-closed eyelids. “My delicious boy.” And when Stiles had come, warm, copious spurts landing all over Derek’s chest, Derek’s hands had found his, and Derek had promised himself that he’d never let them go.
“I told you that that Greenberg kid was a problem,” Derek barks at Stiles’ direction.
From the speakers, an officer’s voice tells them to stay put. Beside Derek, Stiles grins; his eyes are fixed over the two-way mirror in front of them but his left shoulder brushes against Derek’s. “No worries, Deaton’s got it covered,” he murmurs, low enough that Lydia is the only one shooting them a pitiful look.
Morons, she’s clearly thinking. And she would probably be shouting at them both if the whole pack wasn’t too occupied getting a lovely family mug-shot at the moment.
Derek frowns, grip tightening around his biceps as the sudden urge of stomping all over Stiles’ bare feet hits him. “He better have,” he grits between clenched teeth.
Derek stares at Stiles. Hard. “We are having dinner,” he says. Then, when Stiles blinks back at him, apparently unaffected, he adds, “When I asked you what you wanted, I meant between mashed potatoes and peas.”
From the other side of the table, Stiles smiles back at him. “I just thought it was on the table,” he says.
Derek frowns, confused. “Was on the table- What?” Because, Pindaric flights? Stiles Stilinski rules them.
“The handjob,” Stiles says, again, lips moving around the word in a way Derek really doesn’t want to think about. “I thought it was on the table as an option.”
Oh. Well, that might make sense. Still- “Peas. Mashed potatoes. Only two options here. No handjobs, no blowjobs, no kinky, deliciously hot sex that might involve you and me rolling on the bed or fucking against every flat surface in my house. Understand?” he asks, dreading the fact that he isn’t sure of what his point should be anymore.
Of course- “Kinky, deliciously hot sex,” Stiles repeats, because he is an evil little thing sent on earth to annoy the ever living shit out of Derek. And maybe he might have just shot himself in the ass there but, hell, Stiles smells like young and untouched and who’s Derek to go and refuse that?
So, when Derek gets up from his chair, wood screeching over wood as he does so, Stiles grins knowingly back at him, dropping his fork on the table and just watching him through long, dark eyelashes. “Now that I think about it, there might be something else on the table,” Derek murmurs.
And if Stiles ends up bent on the table with Derek’s face buried against his neck and Derek’s cock buried in his ass- Well, they are just exploring their options. Thoroughly.
“Derek. Derek.” It’s both a moan and a plead, pleasure flaring up into Stiles’ groin and making him shiver. He closes his eyes, seeking refuge behind the darkness of his eyelids, tries to hide inside the liquid, hazy heat in his mind so Derek won’t see how close he is to lose control.
Fingertips pressing into tender flesh and thumbs caressing the thin, smooth portion of skin covering Stiles’ tailbone, Derek rocks his hips against Stiles’, their cocks wetly sliding together, filling the quietness of the room with obscene noises. “Here,” he whispers against Stiles’ ear, “I’m right here.” The bed is creaking under them, headboard hitting the wall with every push of Stiles’ toes against the white sheets.
It isn’t like Derek wouldn’t like to take the lead, grab Stiles’ wrists into a firm grip and pin him to the mattress, keep him pressed there, under him, and take everything he wants, everything he needs, from this boy that’s all long limbs and blossoming, inviting roundness. He would do it for hours, biting his way down Stiles’ chest, lapping at every curve and every hollow, drawing a new story in red marks all over Stiles’ pale skin, making him writhe and beg before take him the way Derek wants.
No restraints, no limits, that’s how he’d do it, with claws slicing the thin covers under them and fangs pressing against the hollow of Stiles’ throat, there where his pulse gets stronger and his breath catches. Delicious.
Yet there is something in Stiles’ eyes, in the way the boy is moving over him, all frantic pushes of hips and low moans, that rends Derek’s most deep instincts silent, makes him want to give instead of taking, surrender to the freshness of Stiles’ passion.
“Open your eyes, Stiles,” Derek murmurs, one finger sliding over the crack of Stiles’ ass, pressing just enough-
“Derek,” Stiles cries back, too far gone to even understand what Derek is asking him. He is leaking precome all over Derek’s belly, a sticky, glinting thread that keeps them connected even when Stiles’ spine arches and he stills, Derek’s finger finally sliding inside him and making his plump, wine red lips part in surprise.
“Yes,” Derek hisses, pushes further into Stiles’ heat. “You’ll feel so good, so good. Wrapped around my cock, your virgin hole begging for more- Can you feel it?” he asks, his voice a dark, velvety promise. “Can you feel how tight you are? So ready for me.”
Small, glinting beads of sweat are pooled over Stiles’ upper lip and he licks them away, shoots a wide-eyed look at Derek. “Oh, shit.” A long, useless intake of breath and he is coming, muscles throbbing around the firm presence of Derek’s finger pressed deep inside him, his abdomen flexing under the force of his own orgasm, he comes in long, thick spurts, all over Derek’s chest and neck, his smell filling Derek’s nostrils in a way that makes his wolf howl in his chest and his dick twitch in anticipation.
Finally, Derek thinks. Outside, the moon starts rising over the woods.
Derek’s hand is moving fast on his own cock, wrist slightly rotating when his fingers tighten around the head, thumb pressing against the sensitive crown before sliding away again.
In front of him, Stiles is kneeling on the mattress, thighs splayed wide and cock leaking pre-come all over his skin, drenching him in that distinct smell of sex, of willingness, that makes Derek’s head spin, makes his hips jerk forward as he breathes, air burning everything in its way to his lungs.
One of his hands moves to hold Stiles’ chin, and he looks right into the boy’s eyes, lets their almost golden brown lead him to places where everything is warm and strong and his- “Open your mouth,” he says, orders, as his thumb skids barely against Stiles’ plump, spit-slick lips.
Stiles’ hands tighten their hold on the sheets, Derek can see the tendons shift under Stiles’ skin with the corner of his eyes, and he swallows right before eagerly part his lips, a low, grateful moan escaping them.
Derek huffs a short laugh, one of these chest-deep, rumbling sounds that Stiles pulls from him so easily- “You love it, don’t you?” A rhetorical question that needs no answer as he lets the head of his cock slide against the soft curve of Stiles’ lips, flesh touching teeth as he works his way inside Stiles’ mouth. So slowly. “My come splashing on your tongue, on your face, marking you. You fucking-” and now he is touching the back of Stiles’ throat, the kid’s nostrils flaring as he tries to not choke on it. “You fucking love it.”
It’s true in a way nothing will ever be, the roughness in Derek’s words, the gentleness of his touch as he cups the back of Stiles’ head, guides him so he can easily slide in and out, drive into Stiles’ mouth the same way he does when he has Stiles’ body pinned on the bed, his hole stretched and twitching and so perfectly slick- And Stiles is humping the bed now, movements almost feline as he arches and curves his spine, rubs his cock against the rough cotton of the sheets.
His eyes are so dark, so hazy and liquid that Derek can’t help himself but growl in anticipation, one of his hands going to rest against Stiles’ collarbones, fingertips pressing just enough to make the skin go red. Under Derek, around him, Stiles shudders, a long, trembling wave that originates in his groin like the prelude of a thunder, makes him shake as he finally comes, untouched, whining like the little bitch that he is.
Some splashes of come land on Derek’s thigh, and he watches it, watches as it slowly drips away and Stiles pants below him, eyes huge and defenseless. “Beautiful.”
The mere sight makes a wire snap into Derek’s abdomen, their scents finally mixing together as - Pliant. Undone. Mine. - he explodes inside Stiles’ mouth, balls throbbing and knees almost giving in under the power of his own orgasm. He watches as Stiles makes it pool over his tongue, keeps Derek’s come there just enough to make Derek want to lick it away, smear it everywhere over Stiles’ face, his body, his insides- Stiles’ swallows, and Derek’s heart thumps loudly in his own chest.
“You know what’s really amusing about this, wolfy?” Stiles - the creature inside him - snickers, tightens his hold on Derek’s hair. “That this kid wants it as much as you do. Craves it. He’d have begged to spread his legs for you, let you open him up and fuck him slow and deep and all that teenage crap- Boooring,” he finishes, accompanying his words with a shallow thrust of his hips.
Lips wrapped around Stiles’ cock, Derek growls, the vibrations spreading from his throat like circular waves over the water surface.
“Aww, but you already knew that, didn’t you?” The demon coos, onyx-black eyes mocking Derek as he pushes himself deeper inside his mouth, a mix of spit and pre-come escaping Derek’s lips and trickling down his chin. “Funny little human and his righteous pet, what a curious pair.” His fingertips skid against Derek’s hollowed cheek, nails maliciously scratching skin in the process.
Derek closes his eyes, choosing to tune the thing’s voice out and concentrate instead on the intensity of Stiles’ smell, his taste, pooling over his tongue, dripping inside his throat as he sucks and swallows, lets Stiles’ cock slide in and out his mouth with a slow, steady rhythm.
“Good boy,” the demon almost purrs, and Derek can see how a golden shade of brown is slowly painting the edges of his irises, Stiles’ conscience this close to resurfacing as his orgasm approaches-
“See ya soon, wolfy,” the demon grins. And then Stiles’ breath catches and he’s coming inside Derek’s mouth, gentle hands placing over his shoulder and seeking balance.
Stiles has never wanted the bite.
Derek has never offered it.
He knows about Peter, of course, Stiles has told him eventually, about how Peter’s fingers had closed around his thin wrist, about the chill of fear that had run down Stiles’ spine at the sight of fangs lingering over his fragile skin, his heart skipping a beat as something inside his head had started screaming in rebellion-
Stiles has never wanted the bite. And yet he’s never tried to stand back and let Derek, the pack, take care of every problem that might have crossed their path. On the contrary, the first line has always been Stiles’ favorite place, his cleverness a weapon almost as lethal as werewolf’s claws.
“What are you doing?” Stiles asks Derek from the couch.
Sometimes, Derek can’t almost believe that the awkward, distrustful kid that Stiles once was has become the amazing man that’s lying a few feet from him.
There are muscles now where once Stiles was tender and tattoos covering large portions of skin, like the branches curling around an old scar over his side, not a failed attempt of hiding it, but more a proud intention of enhancing it, to show the world that Stiles Stilinski is his own man. Maybe broken, but not even nearly defeated.
It’s beautiful, the way Stiles has blossomed under Derek’s eyes, has chosen him over anyone else, making sure that Derek wouldn’t be alone, that they wouldn’t be alone. Not again.
And now he is waiting for Derek on their couch, thighs splayed wide in what is clearly meant to be an invitation, his eyes shining with a shameless, absolutely magnetizing light. “Derek?” he calls when Derek doesn’t reply.
It’s no wonder the way Derek’s body reacts to his voice, the pull that he feels inside his chest as Stiles’ skin shines under the morning light, sings promises of eternity to Derek’s soul. ”Just watching you,” he smiles at last, finally walking over to the couch so he can place a kiss over Stiles’ lips.
Stiles has never wanted the bite.
Derek knows he doesn’t need it.
Written for the prompt 'Sterek - Derek being jealous'.
“Der-” Stiles tried to say. In reply, Derek hushes him with a gesture of his hand.
“Out,” he growls instead, as if Stiles hasn’t spoken, fangs elongated and a dangerous tone rolling deep in his troath, which, in Stiles’ experience, is only a prelude to awful, awful things.
From his spot under Stiles’ covers, Isaac whines, fingers clutching the sheets as if they are a safeline and huge, puppy eyes blinking in Derek’s direction.
“What,” Stiles blurts. And then, since, seriously, Derek’s jealousy is reaching too high peaks for his own liking, especially at this time of the night- “Who are you, the cuddle Grinch? Gargamel the snuggling censor? Enlighten me, please.”
In front of him, Derek stares right back at him with a blank expression. Stiles sighs. “He was touching you,” Derek snarls at last, as if that alone gives him the perfect right to go all Werebocop on them, his green irises suddenly edged by a thin, red line .
Too bad that Stiles refuses to let himself be intimidated into guilt. “Basic human interaction, that’s how us mortals like to call it. But by now I’ve reached the conclusion that they must’ve forgotten to upload it on your hardware, you know, the day you were assembled.”
“Stiles,” Derek starts again, lips curling in what is probably meant to be the last warning before he goes on a killing spree. But then Isaac shifts under the covers, shoulder brushing Stiles’ as he does so and Derek’s eyes go completely red. “I’ll tear your arms away and slap you with them if you don’t get out of that bed right. The. Fuck. Now.”
It’s an Alpha growl, Stiles can understand it from the way it sends chills running down his spine and from how Isaac goes suddenly stiff against him, tries to flee hiding in a very manly way under Stiles’ covers and whining even louder. “Hey!” Stiles complains. “Listen up, You don’t get to storm in here and scare people. Pack-” Holy fuck, Derek growl has just reached some scary decibels. “Pack. Pack members. Christ don’t ever look at me like that again. You don’t get to throw them out of my bed just because- What are you doing now?”
Stiles frowns as he watches Derek take off his shirt. “Seems like it can’t be helped,” the werewolf is murmuring, voice still dark but eyes back to their usual color.
Stiles watches Derek as he - his sculpted abdomen, his marble-like skin, his perfect, perfect biceps,oh God - walks to the bed, gives Isaac a last the-ass-kicking-is-only-postponed look and then actually sneaks under the covers. “Wait. What- What are you doing?” Stiles has barely the time to stutter before Derek’s hands are caging his hips and he’s forced to roll away from Isaac and move to the opposite side of the bed.
Derek doesn’t reply, though, shifts until his arm is settled around Stiles’ waist and his nose pressing against the back of Stiles’ head. “Sleep,” he rumbles. Against his back, Isaac yawns.
Stiles blinks, totally defeated by the absolute weirdness that lately seems to reign in his life, and scoots back against the heat of Derek’s chest. “Weirdwolf,” he mutters. The steadiness of Derek’s breath a calming sound against his hear.
“Would you please stop that?” Scott hisses, crossing his arms against his chest in a dissociative fashion. The Hospital’s smell, a mix of disinfectant and sweat and sickness, is working its way inside his nostrils, making his stomach twist in a very unpleasant way, and he doesn’t need Derek’s low, worried whines to add to his very personal, very long list of things that make today a very fucked up day, thank you very much.
Beside him, Derek growls defensively, almost as if Scott is being the irrational one here. Which, just for the record, he is not. There isn’t much they can do beside waiting, and it’s not like crying like a scolded dog will make Stiles’ bruises fade or his cracked rib magically repair. Hell, Scott would be perfectly happy with dancing the Hula Dance with nothing on but a straw skirt if that would make Stiles heal faster. “Get a hold of yourself,” he whispers back, not nearly touched by Derek’s false display of anger.
“Mhng,” Stiles mutters against Derek’s shoulder, giving his very helpful contribute to the situation. He frowns, probably in pain, and then noses at the tender spot of skin covering Derek’s jugular, silently looking for comfort.
“Shh,” Derek whispers back soothingly, his hand caressing Stiles’ arm as he does so, cradling him even more against his chest, careful of not hurting him more than the kid already is. So stupid. So careless. Beside him, Scott’s heartbeat is fast, impatient, despite his calm demeanor. Derek sighs. “I’m just-” Worried. He doesn’t say it, doesn’t need to.
Scott doesn’t turn to look at him, doesn’t acknowledge the implications in Derek’s half-phrase. Instead- “It’s gonna be okay,” he murmurs, his right knee hitting Derek’s in what is obviously not a comforting gesture.
Down the hall, a big, round clock marks the passing of another minute. They keep waiting.
Sometimes, when the sheriff is on his night shift, Derek stays over at Stiles’.
Most of these times, they don’t get to sleep much. But it doesn’t really matter, because when they are alone in his room Stiles smiles the largest of his smiles and laughs so loudly it makes something inside Derek’s chest vibrate in contentment.
Loud, hyperactive, so affectionate it hurts, Stiles is all of this and much, much more. And, slowly, he’s letting Derek peel off the outer layers of his character, letting him brush his fingertips against long silences and dark thoughts, letting Derek’s solitude play hide and seek with his grief and maybe watching as they shyly try to heal each other.
It’s a slow discovery, made of long nights spent talking and fucking, Derek’s body pushing Stiles’ against the bed, his fingers working their way inside the kid’s tight, slippery hole. Derek loves watching him, contemplating Stiles’ every reaction as he arches against Derek, his emotions shifting inside his irises like Tetris pieces, readjusting around the heat of Derek’s body.
It should feel wrong, being together like this, trying to avoid the reality of their own lives for only a few hours, and yet- Once, Stiles has bitten Derek. Just a shallow, faint mark of teeth that had faded almost as soon as Stiles’ lips had left Derek’s skin. But the meaning behind the gesture has sunk way deeper inside Derek, dripping all over his insides and warming him in a way nothing had been able to since a long time.
Derek loves the way Stiles’ sheets don’t smell like laundry detergent anymore, loves the fact that his and Stiles’ smell are tangled together in there, trapped into the cotton fibers as if this is how it’s meant to be.
And there are times when for Derek it’s hard to remember that he has to wake up early, be sure he is out of Stiles’ house before the sheriff’s car pulls into the driveway. He’d spend hours like this, watching Stiles sleep and following the smooth, compacted lines of his body with his eyes, discovering every hollow and each imperfection, working out the beautiful mystery that this kid is.
But then, when timid, powdery pink rays of sun start brushing against the edges of the skyline, he tells himself that it’s okay. After all, they have all the time in the world.
Stiles’ skin bears many marks. Sometimes it feels like the history of what he’s become, of the years he - the pack - has gone through it’s written all over his body in pale, intricate lines.
Sometimes, Derek spends hours tracing them with his fingertips, lightly skidding over the line of Stiles’ left hipbone, where once a witch’s dagger has ripped skin and drawn blood to the surface, and then following the faint trail of dark hair that lead to Stiles’ chest, to where his heart is still beating despite everything they’ve gone through.
There is also a scar that resembles a rose, it decorates Stiles’ shoulder and Derek always presses his lips against it, tries to cover it in its entirety, suck away the lasting pain even if it’s healed by years, and another one, longer, thinner, running along Stiles’ left forearm, the only visible trace that a hunter managed to leave behind himself before Derek sliced his throat open.
The thing is that Stiles’ treasures his own scars, loves them because of what they represent, what they say to the world when words wouldn’t be enough, wouldn’t count. But there is only one that Stiles loves, only one mark that he’s taken willingly, has begged for- “Touch yourself,” Derek growls in his ear, his hand guiding Stiles’ to his own cock.
A long, guttural moan, pure electricity runs up Stiles’ spine as he closes his fingers around himself, follows Derek’s will without even have to think about it. He has wanted this, has worked hard to get Derek for himself, get to have, to own, his body and his mind, to sprawl himself all over every aspect of Derek’s life in a permanent way- “You fucker,” he laughs when Derek’s hands circle his waist, his thrusts growing faster and deeper, taking them quickly to the apex along with the wet, shameless sounds of their bodies colliding.
“Shut up and take it like a man,” Derek moans back, slides his right hand up to Stiles’ shoulder, to the gentle curve where it melts into Stiles’ neck, settling it there like the warmest of the promises.
It’s always been Derek’s fingers, it’s always been Derek. The last, strongest link of the chain, the one keeping Stiles right where he needs to be. That’s what Stiles’ tattoo means, that’s why there is a clawed footprint on his skin, the black ink rocking along with Stiles’ body with every push of Derek’s hips.
It isn’t much longer until Stiles is soaking the sheets with come, his cock twitching as his knees give in at last, and Derek’s voice is right inside his ear, whispers things like Glorious and Let me keep you in an endless litany of tangled breaths.
There is no need for Stiles to reply, they both know that he already does, that they both share the same wild, uncontrollable fire and nothing could change that. Instead- “You’ve destroyed me,” he complains lamely when Derek lands beside him, beads of sweat shining on his skin like dew over honey-dark marble. “I hate you.”
“Keep telling yourself that,” Derek chuckles breathlessly, patting Stiles’ thigh affectionately before resting his palm there, just skin against skin.
There are marks that go way deeper than the skin.
Derek loves the way Stiles rides him, shameless and eager, how his narrow hips fit perfectly in Derek’s palms when he presses the boy against him, pushes him on his cock, keeping him still and just making him take it deeper.
It’s such a perfect sight, Stiles’ body opening around Derek’s thick cock, his wet hole stretching and turning blood-red, enclosing every inch of Derek that pushes into it. “So fucking hot,” Derek sometimes grits between clenched teeth, swallows back the urge to come inside Stiles, the desire to watch as his come drips out Stiles’ body, dribbling down his thighs in white, copious rivulets.
There is something special in the way Stiles tilts his head back, baring his neck and opening his lips in a soundless scream, the way he enjoys this, them, moving together as if the world outside doesn’t matter, as if is their bed is the only reality that Stiles wants to live.
“Love you,” Derek sometimes hears Stiles chant between broken moans. “Love you, love you, love you.” A burning chain that coils around Derek’s heart, squishes it in the best of the holds as Stiles spits over the palm of his hand, closes it around his dick, moving frantically, moaning and breaking in front of Derek’s eyes.
“It smells funny in here,” Derek says, turning his head from side to side and staring at his own stubble into Stiles’ bathroom mirror.
Stiles sighs. “It’s the Waterfall Mist,” he explains, rubbing the side of his face in exasperation.
This is so bad. So very, very bad and Isaac is gonna beat his ass. And then Erica and Boyd will beat his ass a little bit more before handing Stiles’ bloody remains over to Deaton and let the veterinary inflict the last blow. He can already hear the words, ‘One place. I told you to stay away from One. Place.’ and blah, blah, blah in an endless sequence of reproaches that won’t change the fact that an Alpha just took Derek’s fucking memories away from him.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Stiles defends himself from Derek’s curious look. “My dad’s taste in air fresheners might be questionable, but they are so not what we need to debate about right now.” The porcelain of the bathtub is uncomfortable and Stiles’ ass is starting to hurt but he can’t bring himself to stand. His head is spinning and there are dark spots doing some kind of weird dance in front of his eyes and- Nope, he doesn’t think he would be able to walk anywhere right now. “So fucked,” he mutters abandoning his head in his hands.
From his spot in front of the sink Derek hums in reply. “My mom uses citrus. It always makes me sneeze.” He gives a last, long look to the black leather jacket hanging off his definitely impressively broad shoulders and then, finally, turns to face Stiles. “Why would we be fucked, uhm, Sti- Steelios?” he frowns.
And this, this is the perfect time for Stiles to start howling in desperation. “It’s Stiles,” he hisses back, finally snapping because hell, of course pre-fire Derek would be the kind of asshole who forgets other people’s name, and of course he would be the kind of careless person who drops personal informations in the middle of a conversations just because it’s mundane.
Stiles really needs to call Scott right the fuck now.
“Also,” he continues as Derek leans back against the sink, crossing his arms and staring at him as if Stiles has just cracked an invisible, verbal whip- Jesus. “We are fucked for a long list of reasons, ‘I’m about to have a stroke’ being at the very top of it, shortly followed by ‘our Alpha has just been robbed of some of his most important memories by some kind of asshole who is also supposedly planning to kill us all’. How does that sound?”
“You are not about to have a stroke,” Derek states, face blank as if Stiles spilling the not-so-secret beans and basically announcing the were-apocalypse didn’t just happen.
“Well, excuse me if you stating the obvious doesn’t exactly brighten up my day!” Stiles exclaims, exasperated, tapping nervously on his phone to finally text Scott and shifting his eyes from the cellphone’s screen to Derek’s far too calm face and back. “What?” he sputters defensively after a while.
Derek shrugs. “It’s not the Waterfall Mist,” he says. Stiles blinks. “It’s you. And pack. Together.” A low, deep sound rises inside Derek’s throat as his eyes turn red.
Only his memories, not his status, something in Stiles’ head purrs. He swallows. “Of course it would- You fucking freak,” he chuckles in relief.
“Stiles,” Derek murmurs, stepping away from the sink and kneeling in front of Stiles, burying his nose against the base of Stiles’ neck, where the skin is thin and the blood rushes so powerfully- Stiles lets him.
“Don’t worry. I’ve got you.”
For now, it’s enough.
“You sure this is the right angle?” Stiles says, the muscles covering his shoulder blade shifting under his skin as he tries to turn and look into Derek’s eyes. “I mean, not that I’m not enjoying it on anything, but-” He makes a gesture with his hand, fingers moving in a you-know way against the striped carpet. “Shouldn’t there be a magic button or, I don’t know, something in there?” And, seriously, this is the most awkward sex they will ever have and Stiles is about to melt into a puddle of come and sweat because Derek’s dick feels amazing but there is still something missing and he can’t-
“Stiles,” Derek groans, lowering his head and closing his eyes, trying to focus on the smooth, perfect pressure around his own dick. “I’m trying really hard to- Damn. To find it,” he adds between clenched teeth. He moves one hand to the small of Stiles’ back, fingertips pressing against his tailbone. “Just, lower your hips a bit. Yeah- Right there.” And then he is sliding deeper, pushing and finding tightness and perfection.
This time, Stiles finds himself holding on the carpet for dear life as he shrieks and tries to crawl away from Derek, from his cock that’s sliding so deep inside him, touching Stiles in all the right ways and making his breath catch in his chest.
But Derek doesn’t miss a beat, fingers closing against Stiles’ hipbones and keeping the boy right where Derek wants, on his four, spread open and finally, finally silent. Almost. “Holy shit I’m gonna cry.” Stiles can feel red creeping up his neck as he hides his face in his arms, his hips rocking on their own volition, meeting Derek’s in a symphony of wet, desperate noises.
Maybe Derek comes right after Stiles clenches around him and, yes, maybe Stiles really does cry a little, tries to hide his face from Derek as the other collapses over him, heat radiating from his skin as if from a bonfire. As well as, maybe, it doesn’t take much to Derek to push Stiles towards his orgasm, holding the boy in his arms and murmuring dirty, lovely words in his ear until come is spilling all over his fingers, dripping over the abused carpet.
Maybe, this is just a moment they will never forget.
“So fucking tired,” Stiles whines, briefly drying his short hair and then dropping the wet towel on the floor, on top of a pile of dirty clothes.
Derek’s body is the perfect kind of warm and welcoming when Stiles lets gravity get the best of him and just launches himself on top of Derek, longs limbs ending everywhere at once. He nuzzles at the base of Derek’s neck, his tongue darting out to taste Derek’s skin as he adjusts himself so he’s lying between Derek’s open thighs, a sigh of contentment quietly bubbling in his throat.
“Long day?” Derek murmurs against his ear, hands finding the small of Stiles’ back and settling there, pressing Stiles’ even more against his own naked body.
Stiles hums in agreement, shifts slightly so he can look Derek in the face. “Wouldn’t even know where to begin,” he says, his eyes suddenly much larger than moments before, pupils wide and dark as he not-so-sneakily pushes his hips down.
Against Derek’s chest, his heartbeat speeds up like a rock falling from the side of a mountain. It makes Derek smirk in amusement. “Need some help relaxing?” he suggests, both playful and seductive, lets his hands slide down the round curve of Stiles’ ass, not grabbing, just lingering there, waiting for Stiles’ consent. Because Derek knows that he will get it. It’s just a matter of time, of minutes and breaths intertwining together as Stiles’ skin becomes suddenly hotter.
“Please,” Stiles exhales, licks his lips, “don’t let me stop you.”
Slowly, like a Moon Flower willing to open only under Derek’s pale, comforting light, Stiles starts humming and moaning, lets Derek take care of him as the werewolf’s hands travel up and down his body, lets the delicate, intent touches play him like a violin string. “Best massage ever,” he pants after a while against Derek’s neck, beautifully expressive eyes shut and lips parted.
In reply, Derek chuckles quietly, rocks his half-hard cock against Stiles’ as one of his hands travels up the other man’s back, nails barely scratching the skin covering his spine as he slowly works his way towards Stiles’ lips. “Love you,” he says as his fingertips breach Stiles’ mouth, sensitive skin skidding against the roughness of his tongue. It makes Derek groan and his cock jump against Stiles’ hip.
Stiles smirks around Derek’s fingers, his eyes opening so he can watch as Derek’s controlled facade silently breaks, crumbles down under the power of the lust burning in his abdomen. He works with his tongue until Derek’s fingers are dripping with saliva, until Derek’s half-moaned words stop him, their cocks leaking precome all over their bellies, filling the room with such an intimate scent that it makes Stiles’ head spin with urgency. “Come on,” he mutters, arching slightly when he feels Derek’s hands part his cheeks.
Slow, wet and deep, that’s how Derek’s fingers fuck him, as he takes his time to take Stiles apart one desperate heartbeat after the other, pushes his hips up and off the bed so he can meet each one of Stiles’ eager thrusts, can give him everything and- “More, come on, give me more,” Stiles whines, begs for Derek to add a second finger, make him feel full and open and his.
And Derek does, growls possessively, fingers curling just so inside Stiles’ ass, making his breath catch and his body still for a long, perfect second, until Stiles’ starts moaning a string of heated, filthy words inside Derek’ ear, tries to drive him just crazy with desire as he feels so Derek will finally let him come- “You know I love when you come inside me, don’t you? The way you- Damn! The way you spread my legs after so you can watch it leak out of my hole, lick it and push it back inside and mark me-“
And then suddenly talking seems too difficult, words becoming blurry in his mind as he moves and moves against Derek’s smooth, sweat-drenched skin, spilling all over it with a satisfied groan, come coating their bellies and Derek’s hard cock.
“Your. Fucking. Mouth,” Derek grits out in reply, lets his wet fingers lazily slide out of Stiles’ relaxed hole and curls them around the thinness of Stiles’ hips as his other hand closes around his cock, stroking it in fast, rough movements. “Such a shameless little-” But Stiles won’t probably ever get to know how much of a shameless slut he is, because Derek is coming copiously against his belly, long, thick ropes of come splattering against Stiles’ skin and making something flare up in his chest.
“Tired,” he whines again, a soft smile curving his lips as he presses himself even more against Derek’ body, tucks his head under Derek’s stubble-covered chin.
Definitely. Derek thinks, sleep finally curling around them both like the most welcomed of the blankets.
“Why do we have to do this?” Erica complains, elbowing Isaac in the head when the other werewolf rolls half on top of her.
Isaac's offended yelp comes almost in time with Stiles’ loud sigh. “Pack. Touching. Extremely important. To say it Derek’s style,” Stiles says, pats Isaac’s hand when it slides sneakily under the hem of his shirt, fingertips seeking body heat.
“Yes, but why?” she whines in response, tugging annoyingly at Isaac’s curly hair, the only thing she can reach since he’s shifted away from her abusing elbows.
But Isaac is kind of purring now, blunt nails pressing lightly against the thin skin covering Stiles’ hipbone, and not even Erica’s attempts to harass him seem to be enough to bring him out of his state of Nirvana. Bless him.
From where he is lying, head resting over Derek’s unfairly muscled abdomen, Stiles shares a resigned, one-eyed glance with Boyd. Please, give her a valid reason before I go impale myself on a toothbrush, Boyd faxes with his eyebrows to Stiles, slapping Erica’s perfectly manicured hand away when she shift her attention on him and tries to poke his left cheek.
And maybe Stiles should be impressed at least a little here, because it seems that Derek’s not only being the Yoda to Boyd’s wolf but also to his eyebrows and, just, how perfect is this? But instead he just rolls his eyes in response, before tilting his head on his side. “You are a horrible Alpha,” he tells to Derek’s closed eyes.
The corners of Derek’s lips tilt upwards in an almost invisible response. The asshole.
“Scott is bad touching me,” Isaac announces sleepily after a moment, his nose buried against the side of Stiles’ thigh.
Scott’s hands shoot both in the air in the span of a nanosecond. “I invoke the fifth amendment!” he cries out, red creeping up his neck as he darts a look from Stiles’ eyes to Isaac’s ass and back. Stiles’ think he must have done something really, really awful in one of his previous lives.
“Dude,” Boyd says, a note of amazement in his words, “how aren’t you already dead?”
“Scientists are at work to try and understand that,” Erica replies. Good to know that Scott’s public humiliation is an interesting enough topic for her to finally quit whining. “Besides, I don’t think Isaac minds to be groped,” she adds, a knowing smirk dancing on her plump lips.
“Uh,” Stiles gives his useful contribute to the conversation. At least he’d doing better than Scott, who can’t seem to bring himself to stop gaping or blinking like a deer caught in the headlights, either.
“I think it’s cute,” Isaac replies from his spot against Stiles’ thigh, his lips curling in a soft smile before he shoots a long, careful look to Scott.
“Cute,” Boyd repeats, as if that explains everything and nothing at once. Against him, Erica snorts and then kicks Scott on his ribs, sending him tumbling right on top of Isaac. Seriously, someone should teach that girl some manners, Derek is totally ruining her.
The gesture seems to be effective, though, because Isaac just uses his free arm to circle Scott’s waist and keep him pressed against his chest, which means, of course, that Scott’s nose is now drilling a hole into Stiles’ knee. How marvelous.
“I swear to God, one day I’m gonna murder you all in your sleep,” Stiles groans. There is no point into keeping his suffering inside since it would only, on his best luck, get him an ulcer, and Stiles is too young for that shit.
“We love you too,” Isaac mumbles in reply. From where he is Stiles can see his hand moving up and down what seems to be Scott’s belly, but he can’t be sure from his point of view and, thinking about that, he doesn’t even want to know.
A low, totally unthreatening grumble follows Isaac’s words, making Stiles’ head vibrate along with Derek’s body. And of course Mr. Alpha would choose this moment to stop pretending to be napping, couldn’t miss the occasion to let the Drama Queen living inside his very broad, very manly chest having some fun.
“In a total platonic way,” Isaac adds, mostly bored.
“Speak for yourself.”
“Erica,” Derek says, eyes still closed. One of his hands finds Stiles’ head, fingertips caressing Stiles’ scalp for a moment before sliding lower to cup his face.
It’s natural for Stiles to lean into the touch, relax as Derek’s heat seeps from his body to Stiles’, contentment and something much smoother filling him like an empty cup.
“A girl can still dream.”
But Erica’s muttered words are only white noise now for Stiles, Derek his only focus as the edges of Stiles’ universe shift and readjust, widening just enough to let Derek become the keynote of its complicated melody.
“As always, you’re late to the party,” Stiles chuckles, covers Derek’s hand with his as he shifts to land a kiss on Derek’s palm. But, when Derek opens his eyes, there is a moment when it feels like the air into Stiles’ lungs is too much, like he is gonna implode.
“Was busy chasing an old song,” Derek says, his green eyes shining with a light that only Stiles can fully comprehend.
“Here we go again,” Scott mutters.
Erica sighs in reply. “I just hope he won’t start dressing like fucking Gandalf.”
That earns her a snort from all of them, and a huffed laugh from Derek. “My precious,” he growls playfully with a strident undertone, his fingers caressing Stiles’ jaw.
“That’s Gollum,” Stiles corrects him, but doesn’t complain of the treatment he’s receiving, tilts instead his head back so Derek’s fingertips can slowly slide down his neck, lazily exploring small portions of pale skin. “It’s not even three in the afternoon,” he says after a while, noticing that everyone is being silent and that Derek’s bedroom is now filled with a calm, peaceful feel.
He shifts the tiniest bit, glances at the foot of the bed, where Erica is still curled against Boyd and Scott’s sockless feet are tucked in between her legs. Stiles knows that such thing would probably lead to instant murder if only Erica wasn’t asleep and kind of drooling all over Derek’s sheets by now but, after all, Scott has always been a shamelessly lucky guy.
From what concerns Boyd, he seems to be pretty happy with watching her drool and petting her hair into a terribly tangled mess. Pack’s affection manifests itself in the weirdest of ways, at times.
“Can’t really sleep,” Stiles tries to say, but the words don’t come out as clear as it should. Damn Derek and his perfectly refined ways to make Stiles’ defenses crumble, Stiles was perfectly happy with Erica whining like a four year old and Scott opening his metaphorical raincoat in front of Isaac in the faint hope of scaring- Uhm, impressing? Maybe both? After all, Scott’s dick is quite impressive. And scary too. More or less. Depends upon what one wants to do with it.
Not that Stiles wouldn’t want to do something with it, of course.
Still, the fact that Derek is using his abilities as a stealth-cuddler to lure Stiles into napping is absolutely unfair. Also, Stiles thinks he should tell him so. “Love your bed,” he instead says, because his brain is a traitor and the entire universe is conspiring against him.
Against him, under him, Derek’s voice is like a loving, quiet tide. “I know,” he says, his thumb gently pressing against Stiles’ temple. “Let go now, I wanna show you something.”
Eventually, lulled by Derek’s steady breathing, Stiles does let go and, when sleep finally comes, he dreams of greens and happiness, of discovery and bright days. And a big, white wolf that takes care of him like only a father would do.
Mark me, Stiles had said.
I wanna be yours.
And again, I want to feel you deep inside.
Derek had shivered with fear, darkness and blood and spirals of fire screaming inside him when the boy had touched his chest, one trembling palm finding the solid expanse of skin covering Derek’s heart and resting there, where bones and flesh vibrated under every powerful thump, tried to protect the only weak spot Derek had left inside himself.
But Stiles’ hands didn’t carry a fictitious knife like Kate’s used to, he hadn’t tried to split Derek’s chest open, drain every single laugh, every hope and brightness and sense of stability out of him. No, Stiles hadn’t tried to leave Derek lost and broken, on the contrary- You can destroy me, Stiles had murmured, lips wet against Derek’s, his eyes the warmest shade of brown Derek had ever seen.
Maybe it’d been because of that feeling, how fragility and steadiness seemed to have found their balance inside Stiles, how the boy looked so complete and ready, perfectly conscious of what he was offering, those and a million other reasons had been why Derek had felt allowed to take, to kiss Stiles’ lips and his neck, let his own hands wander all over Stiles’ body, pulling soundless moans out of him.
Yes, Stiles had cried, an endless chain made of More and Derek and Forever dragging Derek’s soul straight to the bottom of an ocean made of nothing but warm colors and a quiet, yet steady, heartbeat. And Derek’s voice had soon echoed him, calling the boy’s name and panting reverent, foreign words against Stiles’ trembling skin.
You’re everything I’ve ever needed, Derek had confessed, his fingertips sinking into the soft curve of Stiles’ hips and his cock driving inside the boy’s ass, spreading him open in more ways than one.
Stay, a plead, a trembling hope as Derek had felt his orgasm growing like an ocean wave after an earthquake, powerful and sudden, his balls throbbing with need as Stiles’ spine had arched under his hands, his body going pliant as the smell of the boy’s come shooting all over the sheets had filled Derek’s nostrils, pushing him over the edge, making him fall and fall and fall-
I’ve finally found you.
The stretch of Derek’s cock pushing into him, spreading his hole open and filling him just so- Stiles loves it, has learned to beg and plead until Derek will finally snap and give it to him the way Stilescraves.
Because finally, after so many times in which Stiles has felt like the weakest link of the chain, powerless and utterly fragile, finally he’s found what he was looking for in Derek, in this man who drives into Stiles' body with a rare sort of desperate passion, hands covering every inch of Stiles’ body and lighting a thousands fires under Stiles’ skin.
“Stiles,” Derek moans, slides his hand over Stiles’ shoulder so he can pin the boy on the mattress and get more leverage. A golden, addictive light is surfacing all around his irises, making the black look like sharpened onyx under the low lights of the room.
Stiles closes his eyes. “Shut. Up.”
He bites on his lower lip, closes outside any other word that might escape Derek’s lips. Because right now he doesn’t want to feel cared for, doesn’t want Derek to keep him safe, the only thing that Stiles wants is the sharp, delicious burning of Derek’s cock sliding inside his wet, swollen hole, Derek’s nails scraping along long muscles and making Stiles’ skin go crimson-red and alive.
“Look at me,” Derek mutters, places his hand right over Stiles’ neck, fingers lingering against the place where blood’s pumping into veins to a crazy rhythm. “Look at me.” It’s a low growl as his hold over Stiles’ neck tightens and suddenly Derek is cutting the boy’s breath, holding onto him with the same force Stiles is holding onto their pillows, both trying to maintain a sanity that’s long gone.
Stiles’ eyes fly open, surprise painted all over them - but not fear, never fear -, and he gapes for a few seconds, struggles to get some air into his lungs. It feels like he’s been burned from the inside, burned and loved and it’s too much to bear, and nonetheless he can’t get enough, can’t do anything but cant his hips and offer himself to Derek, mouth a hungry yes as Derek’s fingers relent their pressure over his throat.
Suddenly, air is filling Stiles’ chest once again and, with it, something else rushes down Stiles’ spine, makes liquid pleasure boil in his groin and his balls tighten with anticipation. “Fucking- Fucking crazy,” Derek spits, drives into Stiles with a desperation that doesn’t usually belong to him. “Stiles.”
This time it’s a quiet moan, as Derek’s come drenches Stiles’ insides, fills him with Derek’s smell and heat, makes Stiles’ cock jump against his abdomen. “Derek. Derek,” Stiles cries, breathless and taken aback as his heart stutters and he arches, every nerve in his body shooting alive, pushing Stiles’ desire, his need to feel, right out of him and making him writhe endlessly under Derek’s caring, gentle hands.
“Right here,” Derek murmurs quietly against Stiles’ shoulder, licks a long, wet path following the sharp edge of his collarbone. “You were so good. My perfect boy. So, so good.” He cradles Stiles shivering body against his naked chest, lets the heat and contentment seep from himself to Stiles and back, in an endless loop made of delicate touches and lazy kisses.
Finally, Stiles breathes.
Three million and six hundred thousand dollars, that’s how much they have transferred to a Swiss bank account. The bank’s security system hasn’t been too much of a challenge for Stiles and Derek has taken care of the practical part, taking down the two armed guards at the entry and making sure the bank staff wouldn’t try anything funny. It’s a proven routine by now and not even the police sirens approaching had them worried, they would be out and gone way before they got there anyway.
In short, everything has gone as planned, even the getting away fastest than wind part, with which Stiles has had a couple problems during the planning process and is still sure could have been managed differently - and in a more safer way - if only Derek wasn’t such an impatient show off who prefers using fast, pricey cars instead of flying under the radar like any other normal outlaw would.
Seriously, aside from the fact that Derek is kind of the love of his life, Stiles doesn’t really know why he still puts up with him.
Anyway, Chris Argent’s face on a TV screen is something neither Derek nor Stiles wished to include into their plan. “The FBI is breathing down their necks, it’s just a matter of time before we catch them,” the man is saying, a pair of sunglasses darkening the sharp blue of his eyes. Eyes that both Derek and Stiles know even too well since, in the last five years, Chris has been a constant in their life almost as much as building plans and expensive hotels booked under fake names have.
“Fucker,” Derek spits from where he is sitting onto their (but only temporarily) king-sized bed, his grey wife-beater peeping from between the open collar of his black shirt and creating an almost antithetic contrast. “If I had a quarter of dollar for every time he’s said that, I’d be rich.”
Behind him, Stiles crawls onto the bed until he’s sitting right against Derek’s warm, broad back. “But you are rich,” he says, a shit eating grin widening his lips as he pecks the base of Derek’s neck with small, tempting kisses.
“So not the point,” Derek mumbles, tilts his head to the side so Stiles can suck a red, wet mark on the inviting portion of skin where his neck meets his shoulder. “He just wishes for us to make-” but his words die in his mouth as the camera shift over a large, white building with a sumptuous, marble fountain lazily sitting on its front.
“We have many witnesses confirming that this hotel is the last place they were seen before the robbery,” Chris’ voice is saying as the Hotel’s images run on the screen.
The lobby decorated in gold and dark wood, the bar where Stiles had prompted a last toast the evening before they got the job done, even the room where they had slept, where Derek had pressed Stiles on the mattress with his body, fingers gently clutching his wrists has he’s sunk into Stiles, everything is there on the screen, not so much for people’s entertainment but more to let Stiles and Derek know that the FBI knows how to get the job done, that this hide and seek game ain’t gonna last long.
The images have them up and packing in the span of a second, there isn’t much to grab, seen the fact that they never unpack to begin with, but it still makes Stiles feel a little nauseous, the earlier lazy playfulness gone in favor of steady coldness. He makes a mental list of the nearest airports, doesn’t even need to check to know when they can catch the next flight, which road they have to choose and how much it’ll take before they are boarding. Safely, he hopes.
Derek is on the other side of the room, bent over one of their suitcases, and Stiles watches him with focused eyes as Derek folds a jumper with way too much care, his shoulders stiff in a way they weren’t just a minute before. Stiles hates to see him like this.
They move silently into the room for a few minutes, don’t even bother cleaning their fingerprints since they are sure the FBI must have them anyway by now. Chris’ voice becomes the weirdest soundtrack ever.
By the time they are done, the interviewer seems to have given up asking question and to be happy just staring at Chris’ perfectly white teeth as his lips move around words. Stiles wishes he could bang her head against a wall of concrete. Instead- “What do we do, now?” he asks, grabbing his leather jacket from the desk.
Argent has the face of a dog who’s just found the juiciest of the bones and has no intention of letting it go, even if this means chasing it all across the State. It makes Stiles’ fingers itch with the need of reaching for his gun, close around its grip and let the steadiness of the steel comfort him. Instead he imposes himself to breathe, and waits for Derek’s answer.
Derek doesn’t even advert his eyes from the screen, the heat of his hand closing around Stiles’ making Stiles shiver. They haven’t many options and, when Derek’s mouth opens, Stiles already knows what he’s going to say. Nonetheless, Derek’s words still send a shiver of excitement running down Stiles’ spine.
“We run,” he murmurs. It’s what they always do.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Breath in. Breath out.
“Stiles,” Derek’s voice comes from behind him, round and rough and soothing. “Relax.”
It feels like the crack of a whip against pale skin, like liquid, fire-hot metal brightly dripping inside Stiles’ head and filling every space until he is bursting with thoughts of Derek. Derek’s long fingers tying the leather laces around Stiles’ wrists, his lips sinfully resting against the lively point of Stiles’ neck that smells like adrenaline and abandon, sharp teeth barely concealed by tender, wet flesh, the heat of Derek’s body seeping into Stiles’ skin-
Stiles closes his eyes, lets the tide submerge him.
Still not entirely sure he wasn’t having an hallucination, Derek turned the picture in his hand.
Pretty sure this isn’t what my father had in mind when I told him I wanted to study Photography, Stiles had written with his spiky calligraphy. Also, just so you won’t come here with the intent to skin/maul/evirate someone, the study was empty when I took this one. As in, you know, void of any living being.
Except me and my dick, of course.
Wish I could show you how hard I got after I was done. Couldn’t think of anything else but your hands on me. Seriously, I can’t wait of getting back home.
“Fucking tease,” Derek grinned, turning the photo once again to stare at Stiles’ half-naked body, his eyes captured by Stiles’ deliciously pale skin, by his lovely thighs, spread open almost like an invite.
One week. Only seven days and then Stiles would be back in Beacon Hills for Christmas. Now, Derek definitely couldn’t wait.
The metallic weight of the handcuffs feels almost comforting around the solidity of Derek’s wrists, a minimal yet powerful restraint that keeps him tied to the wood headboard, reminding Derek that sometimes giving up control doesn’t necessarily mean a jump into darkness.
He’s been lying on the bed like this for a while now and sweat is starting to pool over the hollows of his naked body, but Derek can’t focus on anything else right now beside the delicious pressure of Stiles’ hand around his cock, long, skilled fingers wrapped around him in a perfect grip.
“God, Derek,” Stiles murmurs, tongue darting out of his mouth to lick his plump lower lip. Derek wishes he could sink his fangs in it, feel the vulnerable skin give in under the unrelenting sharpness- “So fucking beautiful. Do you even know how perfect you look right now? How hard you are making me? Can’t wait to ride you,” - a shudder, his heart skipping a beat - “can’t wait to own you.”
At those words, something inside Derek trembles and then crumbles, claws pawing at the inside of his rib cage in the vain attempt of working Derek open from the inside, crack his body just as much as Stiles has cracked his soul. “Words, words,” he rumbles, his voice a distant memory of humanity, “I need you to stop talking, kid.”
Stiles’ hand stills, but doesn’t actually let go of Derek’ erection. “So impatient, daddy.” A cheeky smirk stretches his lips, just a lightning of white, blunt teeth, and then his head is between Derek’s widened thighs, Stiles’ tongue licking a wet, hot stripe up Derek’s balls and making Derek arch with want and now and need.
“Stiles.” It’s a growl now and it makes Stiles’ pupils dilate in a way that’s prey and wild and equal all enclosed in the same round, amber case. Derek’s cock twitches and his claw dig impatient paths all over the headboard. Daddy. How fucking crazy is Stiles to even think- And, yet, the word did send a spark of pleasure up Derek’s spine.
“So impatient,” Stiles giggles, and yet he is the one hurriedly spreading lube all over the thick length of Derek’s cock, fingers skidding around the sensible crown, spreading the pre come at the tip and mixing it with the lube and making Derek crazy with desire. But then, finally, he’s crawling on the bed and over Derek and he is all white skin and warmness. “Nice and tight, that’s how you like me, hm?” he smiles.
Yes. Derek wants to say. Just like that first time. Just like when you were untouched and new, all mine to claim. But instead he just stares with eyes that must be ruby red and hungry, barely breaths as one of Stiles’ hands vanishes behind him, and Derek can hear the slick, filthy sound Stiles’ fingers make when he circles his own hole, probing and caressing right before pushing inside.
One minute, two years, Derek wouldn’t be able to say how long it takes before Stiles’ hand closes again around his cock, this time to guide it to rest against Stiles’ hot, tender hole. And then he’s slipping inside, slowly, the head pushing Stiles’ body open, slippery flesh against slippery flesh, no friction but only burning hot wetness as Derek cants his hips, pushes to meet Stiles’ careful thrusts.
“So full, so fucking full.” But Stiles doesn’t close his eyes, doesn’t let the wave submerge him as he rides Derek, palms resting on the mattress as he moves and moves and moves.
I don’t deserve you, Derek wants to say. “I love you,” is what comes out. It startles him and Stiles both, breaks the rhythm they had reached like a gunshot on a quiet night.
“My thighs hurt,” Stiles says back, because he is absolutely out of his mind. And then he is smiling and bending down to kiss Derek and his lips are soft and his body is hot and perfect and welcoming around Derek- When the headboard breaks, it doesn’t come as a surprise.
“Damn,” is everything that Derek mutters before his fingers are closing around Stiles’ hips and he’s inverting their positions so Stiles is under him, legs spread open and hole throbbing around Derek’s aching cock. “Damn,” he says again, but this time it comes out softer, gentler.
“You know,” Stiles grins from under him, cheeks flushed and lips red. Gorgeous. “I think I might need some wooing,” he teases, heels pressing on the mattress as he pushes his ass up to meet Derek’s body, a whine lost inside his throat.
“You seem wooed enough to me,” Derek grins back, his palms a firm presence against Stiles’ smooth thighs as he pushes and takes and fucks.
After all, that’s who they are.
“You really can’t stay away from trouble, do you?” Derek snarls in Stiles’ face. And, wow, Stiles is so baffled to see him standing there, in front of his room’s door, which means that, uh, Derek has actually used the stairs to get here, that he just opens and closes his lips, speechless.
Derek pushes him away, long, warm fingers gently pressing over Stiles’ solar plexus, and steps into the room. “Look at you,” he spits, eyes so dark that the green is almost invisible, pushed at the edges of his irises as if fury leaves no room for colors.
“What are you doing here?” Stiles spits back. If there is something that he’s learned in the last few months, is that you always have to fight back, no matter how many probabilities you have of being successful. After all, it’s a matter of survival. It’s instinct.
But, no matter what Stiles’ mind is telling him, his body is still slightly trembling, skin painfully stretching over his cheekbone and making him want to scratch at it, remove every small, damned scab and let the wound bleed, let this unnatural tension flow out of him.
“So irresponsible,” Derek mutters. Stiles’ fingers, still tightened around the doorknob, tremble.
This conversation should make no sense at all but, strangely, it makes something prickle at the corner of Stiles’ eyes. He hates it. “Closed door. Phone turned off. I thought they were obvious enough signals, even for someone who’s pretty deficient in the social skills department like, I don’t know, you.”
It’s not shame that has pushed him into not telling anyone. It’s not. And he doesn’t know why Derek, of all people, is the one knocking on his door, looking at him like Stiles is the one in need, like Stiles is about to break and Derek wants to be the tape that won’t let that happen. “Close the door, come on,” Derek tells him, stands there, waiting, as if they have all the time in the world.
We don’t! Stiles wants to scream. We are gonna die young and in a painful way. We are too small for this world! But his throat is closed, his lower lip throbbing at the memory of the punch that has landed on it and following Derek’s directions seems much easier than putting his foot down, erect a barrier that is ineluctably destined to crumble down. Stiles closes the door.
Derek is not a gentle man, it’s been too long since family for him to know how to be, but he’s willing to learn, and that’s something. “Come here,” he mutters, gentler now, as if Stiles and him standing in an enclosed space is something that neither of them should fear, as if touching Stiles is a possibility that Derek has long thought about. And, again- “Let me see.”
It’s not like Stiles has never seen it happen, after all Scott has a heart made of actual marshmallows and doesn’t know how to resist to a puppy in pain, so he technically knows how the whole werewolf pranotherapist here thing works. Still, when the wave of warmth hits him, it finds him unprepared.
Derek’s palms are large, his hold gentle over Stiles’ pale neck as he guides Stiles to sit on his bed, joins him with an easiness that should be disturbing but it’s not. “You should take your jacket off,” Stiles suggests, dazed. It seems like a good idea, because the pressure of Derek’s fingertips over his skin is so nice, so comforting- Beside him Derek swallows and Stiles’ eyes drop on the solid column of his neck, where tendons and muscles are clearly visible under tanned skin that looks so breakable but it’s not.
“You should have called me,” Derek murmurs. It’s not the reply that Stiles was waiting for and yet it sounds like a promise. Only, Stiles isn’t sure he wants to believe it yet.
So he chooses to not say anything, chooses to let his trembling fingers slip under the thin fabric of Derek’s t-shirt, where tender yet solid skin and heat are hiding, their bodies close in a way they never were and that could easily become dangerous.
Nothing of this makes sense and, nonetheless, Stiles chooses to postpone.
Fucking hell, Stiles, Derek had muttered, bloodstained hands frantically searching Stiles’ body, looking for wounds. And it’s almost funny that such a memory would hit Stiles while he is like this, thighs open and leaking cock in his hand, short, unsteady breaths rolling out his chest as he touches himself.
They’d been hunting the two Vetalas for days, nobody would have imagined that the two creatures would’ve fought back just as nobody could have predicted that Stiles would’ve been chosen as a target.
The room is hot, thin air filling it as one of Stiles’ hands slides between his legs to cover his balls. He takes his time, slowly stroking himself as he explores the roundness between his thighs, caressing and tentatively pinching the skin, looking for a pleasure that goes beyond the physical pain.
Stupid, greedy creatures, too blinded by arrogance to see what was right under their nose, too hungry for blood to sense the danger. Agony, death, that’s what they were expecting to inflict. But instead Stiles had turned the tables, his silver dagger a loyal companion even in the darkest of the moments.
They could have killed you, Derek had said when the he’d found Stiles. It sends a spark of pleasure running down Stiles’ spine, his cock twitching with a new eagerness. “So fucked,” he laughs to the empty room, arches his back when he tightens the grip around his cock, stroking it faster. Derek’s voice, his jaw, his lips moving and finding Stiles’ neck, Derek inhaling his scent, touching, taking,claiming-
Yes. I. Want. You. Stiles’ come paints it all over his body, Stiles’ mind whispers it to his heart.
“I’m pretty sure he’s gonna kill us once the spell will wear off,” Scott mumbles. Still, he doesn’t hesitate even for a second before snapping a photo.
Stiles snorts for the tenth time in the last minute. “I swear to God it’ll be worth it,” he says, a huge grin curling his lips as he holds Derek’s small body in the air. “Just look at him. This is the closest thing to perfection I’ve ever seen.”
Scott cackles and takes another picture, because fuck him if Stiles isn’t right.
From where Stiles is holding him, Derek mewls as if he regrets all of his life choices. Which he kind of should, since they’ve brought him in front of a witch who thought it’d be funny to turn him into a cat. Derek’s karma is such a bitch.
“Aww, don’t worry, buddy,” Stiles coos, pulling Derek’s small, totally soft body against his chest and slipping the small Santa hat off of him, “you’ll be like new tomorrow.” He scratches Derek’s head, right between his ears, and smiles widely when is rewarded by a not-so-stealthy purr.
When, after another hour, Scott leaves Stiles’ house, Derek curls over Stiles’ stomach, kneading it for a while - and totally clawing at it because, well, small revenges - before settling down and resting his head right over Stiles’ navel. ”Sure, go ahead, make a pillow out of me,” Stiles complains, thought his hand won’t stop petting Derek’s soft fur.
Derek’s left ear twitches in reply and the purring sound rising from his chest gets louder. The little shit.
Stiles spends a few more minutes staring at Derek’s long whiskers, at how his fur just gets darker around his eyes in a way that absolutely resembles Derek’ human eyebrows. After all, napping doesn’t seem such a bad idea anymore.
Probably tomorrow Derek will bite Stiles’ head off and hide his mangled body somewhere deep in the forest but, at least for today, Stiles will let himself believe that this weird closeness, this contentment, could maybe lead somewhere safe. “Just don’t poop into my shoes,” he murmurs as his eyes fall shut.
Bless witches and their freaky spells.
Burning, consuming red running in his veins. "Who are you?" Derek asked, snarled. "Why is his smell all over you?"
His smell. Stiles'. Derek hadn't forgotten it, would always carry it with himself, no matter what. "Oh, now, that's cute," the man in front of him chuckled, the leather between Derek's fingers vibrating along with his chest. "Thought you'd recognize me, even if it's been a while since last time."
Derek’s thought stuttered for a second. There was no chance in hell- “He’s dead,” he spit with a sense of finality that he’d worked so hard on in the past years.
The man in front of him chuckled as if Derek had just told a funny joke. “And yet you can smell it on me, don’t you?” He reclined his head against the wall where Derek had him pinned, baring his throat. But his eyes won’t leave Derek’s. “Come on, get a good whiff.”
The words sounded like a playful dare to Derek’s ears, and that alone made him even angrier, his hold on the man’s jacket tightening as he bared his fangs. “Don’t even fucking try-” he said, ready to tear the man to pieces, rip away from him Stiles’ scent and with it all the lies and the uncertainties that he carried in his pockets.
There wasn’t a damn to be continued engraved on Stiles’ tombstone, no happy end waiting for them around the corner. It was just how things were, and this man was not allowed to pile up all these facts and set them on fire as if they were nothing but origami cranes, as if Stiles’ death hadn’t left an ugly, perpetually open wound inside Derek’s chest, there where his heart kept beating only by sheer inertia-
“Come on, sourwolf,” the man grinned. And Derek’s reality tipped over once again.
“Christ.” A low, nervous outtake of breath. “You should see your face.”
But Derek didn’t want to see anything else but the eyes in front of him. Hell, he didn’t even think he would be able to, right now. Not with the way the world had started spinning around him, a high, so young, voice resonating in his ears along this stranger’s words, intertwining with the sound of a heartbeat that was new and yet so familiar to Derek’s blood. Alive.
“We buried you,” he whispered at last, rage filling his thoughts as the memory of Stiles’ funeral came back to him. There had been so many people, tears and whispered word and, above all, the silence of the Sheriff’s grief had been the loudest of the sounds- “Your father left flowers over your fucking grave!”
It hit Derek almost as much as the resentment in his growl surprised him, the change in Stiles’ eyes, how they went dark and cold and so far away from the isolated alley where they were standing. “It had to be done!” Stiles bit back, finally showing some kind of emotion apart from cold amusement. A shiver ran down Derek’s spine as Stiles’ fingers wrapped around his forearms, as he started fighting back. “They were gonna take you down one after the other like animals. You, Scott, the pack-” the blink of an eye, “My father. No one could have stopped them.”
There was a cold glint in Stiles’ eyes, something that was telling Derek what years beside the kid- the man, hadn’t. “But you did.” There was no point asking, Stiles’ posture, the way his gun was nonchalantly resting against his ribs as if it was meant to be there, the steadiness of his breath- They were already telling Derek everything he needed to know.
“I did not.” And here it was, hidden behind a crooked smile and yet not nearly dead, the false insecurity that always resulted in an enemy’s corpse to bury. And suddenly Derek knew where this was leading. “They did it themselves the day they decided to come after you all.”
Derek released him, fingertips already missing the heat of Stiles’ body as he lowered his hand. He didn’t step away, though, staying right into Stiles’ personal space. “You broke the rules.” Again, it’s not a question. They all knew it, Deaton had been very clear about the council, how they dealt with people like Stiles’, people who refused to acknowledge the boundaries that had been set.
Stiles’ grin became almost feral. “And several times too. But, you know, rules were made to be broken, baby,” he winked. But there was no malice in it. “Besides, it wasn’t like I was helping the dark side or anything. We were just kids, and runes were just as good weapons to me as claws and fangs were for you guys. They were meant to keep me- Us. Alive.”
And yet they almost killed us all. Neither of them would say it, but they both knew that it was true. Because everything had went to hell the day the council’s men had set foot in Beacon Hills, the day Isaac had lost his left ear to protect Stiles from a poisoned bullet and Chris Argent had been warned to stay out of the matter because oh, isn’t your young and only daughter just an absolute cutie?
“We weren’t ready to face the consequences,” Derek muttered darkly. They had been so young, so inexperienced. And then a bomb had blown up Stiles’ jeep and an empty coffin had been buried on a rainy day and everything has stopped spinning, making everyone fight to keep standing. A carousel made of craziness.
“Neither were they,” Stiles replied, his fingers finding the solid presence of Derek’s neck and resting there, where heat and electricity would seep under skin and recreate an old connection.
Somehow, to Derek, it felt like the turn of a page.
When Derek first notices it Stiles is sitting on the ground in the Hale’s living room, an old, dusty book open in his lap and his right hand petting Isaac’s head as the other flips through the pages. It’s an afternoon like many others they’ve spent together, with Isaac lazily napping on the carpet and noises of Erica and Boyd wrestling for the last slice of apple pie coming from the kitchen. And, yet- “You got a tattoo,” Derek says, voice gentle like warm velvet.
Stiles takes his time to finish reading the page before shifting his eyes on Derek. Though Derek can anyway hear his heart skipping a beat, pausing to take a long, silent breath before starting to beat again. Faster. “Yeah,” Stiles then blinks, his eyelashes looking too dark against his rosy, smooth skin. “Why, you don’t like it?”
Uncertainty, Derek can hear it vibrate underneath the frail sound of Stiles’ words, like a candle light that’s been kept too long under a crystal case. And maybe he should reassure Stiles, offer him a soothing smile that would chase away the kid’s fear of being rejected, but- “Where does the chain lead to?” he instead asks, fingers barely brushing the tender, sensitive spot of skin between Stiles’ thumb and index, where the anchor and the chain attached to it become one, two shades of ink mixing together and sinking into Stiles.
Beside them, Isaac turns in his sleep, long legs shifting over the deep green carpet. Stiles’ hand slides down to cup the side of his face, fingertips resting over Isaac’s pulse in a way that would be considered threatening coming from anyone else but that instead makes Isaac settle again, chest heaving with every calm, short intake of breath.
“What would you do if I told you that it’s endless?” Stiles shoots back to Derek, dark eyes too serious for someone his age. Sometimes, it feels like there is a wild animal sleeping in there.
Derek stares back at him, fingertips still touching Stiles’ skin because he’s allowed to, because he knows they both want - need - it. “Everything needs to end, sooner or later,” he reasons. It’s an undeniable truth that he’s learnt in the most painful of the way.
Something in Stiles’ eyes softens. “Of course,” he nods, turning his hand so it’s palm to palm with Derek’s. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t have an endless end.”
There is a smirk tugging at the corner of Stiles’ mouth now and an amused puff of breath escapes Derek’s lips. “You aren’t making sense. As always.”
“Maybe,” Stiles quietly smiles. And there is something so private in it that it makes Derek want to palm Stiles’ face and hide it from the rest of the world. “Or maybe not.”
And Derek feels like he can’t almost breathe now, as Stiles takes Derek’s hand to his chest and holds it there, palm flat against the solid place under where Stiles’ heart beats, flesh and bones caging it and keeping it secure. “Do you feel it?” Stiles asks, heart thumping so steadily under Derek’s hand. “That’s where the chain is wrapped around.”
Oh. “Endless,” Derek murmurs.
This time, he gets it.
Prompted by this tumblr pic. Because Peter is a bored man who likes to fuck with his nephew's mental sanity. Yay.
Stiles stared at the greeting card in his hands. Hard. “Well,” he swallowed, unsure of what his lineaments were doing. “Thanks, I suppose?” Now, that surely was something he hadn’t been expecting, especially coming from Derek.
Beside him, from where he had been leaning against the back of the couch, Jackson emitted a strangled noise. “Bleach,” he whined, pawing at Lydia’s arm. “I need bleach and so much rum.”
Lydia patted his arm in a loving gesture, though she giggled anyway becauseseriously, Peter, you brighten my days. “Come on, honey,” she chirped, eyeing their Alpha in what unmistakably was a devilish and utterly amused look. “I’m sure Derek didn’t mean for us to see it. He probably just mixed the cards up while packing Stiles’ new dild-“
“Aaaand I’m out!” Scott interrupted her right before quickly fleeing from the room. Boyd, Erica and Isaac followed him a second later, because Derek was literally bristling now, a dark, growling sound raising from his chest as he snatched the black and white card from Stiles’ hands.
Three. Two. One. Kaboom.
Stiles was able to pinpoint with frightening accuracy the moment when Derek’s teeth started elongating, deep lines twisting his face as his voice grew darker, wilder. “Peter!” he roared, paper crumpling in his fist as the house trembled around them.
“You should thank me I didn’t choose the one about knotting!” Peter’s voice called from the kitchen. And then the back exit door slammed behind him because Peter of course was smart enough to know when it was time to beat a hasty retreat.
It didn’t take much before Derek was out of the room and chasing after his uncle and Jackson and Lydia were sneaking up the stairs, probably to hide from whatever sort of carnage was just about to go down in the Hale’s property.
“Uh,” Stiles muttered, licking his lips and trying to ignore the totally inappropriate boner tenting his pants. “Merry Christmas to you too, guys.”
Coughing, Stiles crumbles against the wall of the house. The rough wooden boards scratch his naked back as he slides down until he’s sitting on the ground, his already shredded to pieces jeans dirtying even more when blood starts dribbling down his nose and dripping on the light-blue fabric. “You satisfied now?” he asks, breathless, licks his split lip and loves the way it stings.
Derek shoots him the look of a wounded animal, clear, wide eyes fixed on the kid in front of him, on where his skin has parted so easily under his claws, the way Derek has painted him in red and sweat. “Don’t,” he growls, instincts burning under his human skin.
I hate you, he wants to tell the kid. I hate you and your smell drives me crazy and I want to keep you safe.
As if he can almost read his mind, Stiles chuckles. A clear bell in a foggy morning. “You have to ask for what you want, Derek.”
It sounds like he’s both taunting and challenging, his words firm and open like the hand that reaches towards Derek. Stiles bares his pale, fragile wrist to the Alpha and dares him to come closer.
It’s been a few hours since it has stopped raining, a brief and violent summer storm that has left the ground spotted with large pools of water, but the prepotent smell of rain falling on the woods still lingers at the back of Derek’s throat, makes it impossible for him to forget Stiles’ expression when he had first hit Derek, the way his heartbeat had spiked up when his fist had landed against skin-covered bone.
Derek falls on his knees. “Fucking human.” Because he’s never had to ask, because he feels crazy and lost as he crawls towards Stiles, keeps his eyes focused on the sharp angle of the kid’s collarbones, where blood is beautifully pooling before dribbling down, over his chest and right beside Stiles’ pink nipple. And Derek wants.
Smirking, Stiles greets him with a whisper of fingertips against Derek’s nose, thumb catching on the wet curve of Derek’s lower lip. “That’s my boy,” he whispers. So fucking smug.
The beast has been finally tamed, that’s what the light in Stiles’ eyes is screaming.
It makes Derek want to hurt him even more.
Nonetheless, he still lowers his head, inhales the deep, coppery scent covering Stiles, lets the heady smell of arousal and willingness mix with it and sink inside his chest. Derek wants and he will take.
An eager moan, Stiles’ wordless consent, that’s all it takes before the wolf is surging forward, before the fight turns into something sharper, something that could hurt them in hidden, almost forgotten places. And yet they crave it.
The whole thing is so fucking crazy that it would scare anyone else. But Stiles is too damaged himself, too raw to keep away from Derek, from the creature that could both kill and heal him. So he lays there, head abandoned against the wall and eyes almost black from where they are hiding behind half-closed eyelids, and offers himself to Derek.
“Should’ve fucking killed you,” he mutters.
But his hand finds the side of Derek’s neck anyway, fingers gently pressing against his pulse as Derek licks the rivulets of blood painting Stiles’ abdomen, tongue greedily lapping at skin as his hands quickly work open Stiles’ destroyed pants. He needs to get inside, he needs to touch Stiles more, more, more.
A soundless, breathy moan, that’s all Stiles gives him when Derek finally mouths him, lips closing around the crown of his delicious cock, tongue running against the underside of the head, following a smooth, round path up to the slit. Stiles’ fingers find the back of his nape, threading his hair, blunt nails barely pressing against the scalp as Stiles tilts his head back against the wooden wall. “Damn,” he exhales.
Lips tightened around the kid’s cock, Derek whines. A high, new sound that runs between them both, leaves them almost shivering as Stiles’ hips thrust up to meet Derek’s movements, his cock growing harder and wetter.
God, Derek finds himself fighting the urge to bite, sink his teeth in Stiles’ flesh and let blood pool over his tongue, let it mix with the taste of Stiles’ pre-come and drench Derek in young and shameless and prey. A willing one, though, because Stiles has handed himself over to Derek, he’s provoked the wolf, baring his teeth in a daring smile and running his nails along Derek’s solid neck, marking skin and asking for it.
Because Derek would have never dared-
And yet here they are, lying on the humid, dark ground as Stiles fuck Derek’s mouth, sinks himself deep inside his throat with jerky, inexperienced movements. “You’ll never have me,” he laughs, cruel and beautiful as he palms Derek’s cheek, feels the way it adjusts around his cock when Derek sucks- “I’ll fucking destroy you.”
And maybe he will. Maybe he’ll squeeze Derek’s heart in his hands and will watch as it slowly stops beating. Maybe he’ll sink a silver knife in Derek’s chest and open him like an old book, nails scratching at soft, defenseless places and making Derek crumble from the inside- Maybe he will. But for now, as he comes inside Derek’s mouth, hot spurts landing against the back of his throat and marking him with Stiles’ scent, for now he is just a scared kid handing himself over to Derek.
I will rebuild you.
And then there is a day when Derek wraps his fingers around Stiles’ neck and squeezes. Stiles’ heart stutters in his chest, happy and eager, thumping along with the waves of warmth radiating from Derek’s fingertips and seeping under Stiles’ skin.
“Will you keep me?” Trembling, wild sounds in sharp contrast with the fact that Derek is the one holding Stiles in place, making the boy’s spine arch just so as Derek presses his naked body flush against Stiles’.
It’s a feeling that, sometimes, still makes Stiles’ cheek turn a warm shade of red, makes his head spin when Derek pushes him against the bed and covers Stiles’ body with his. “You must be crazy.” He laughs. Trembles and laughs and swallows back tears, air burning in his lungs when Derek’s thumb travels up to his pulse, possessively pressing against it.
Maybe them both are, crazy and reckless and absolutely lost, living on borrowed time, watching the sun rise and set countless times, too many to keep count and yet- “Will you?” It’s almost a growl now, a harsh sound that claws its way out of Derek’s throat. “Stiles.”
When Derek’s teeth close around the tender spot at the base of his throat Stiles does nothing to stop him, melts instead under the slightly painful pressure as if that’s where he belongs. Pale and fragile and caged by Derek’s never ending power. “Yes,” he breathes out, heart beating steadily. “Yes.”
He jumps, and knows that Derek will catch him as he falls.
The climbing rose has grown around the marble during the last month, dark green branches hugging the smooth surface and buds spotting the white with drops of a rich, silky shade of purple.
Derek is pretty sure that Laura would love them, can picture her sincere, contagious smile, the way her eyes would brighten and her fingers would run against the rim of a petal. “You got me flowers,” she would probably tell Derek, smug and lovely and as sweet as the roses’ scent. “Did you get me chocolate too?”
Because Laura always expected more from life, more joy, more pain, more affection, more, more,more. Born to be an Alpha, born to lead.
The thought alone makes Derek smile fondly. And he doesn’t care how odd that is as he stands in front of his sister’s grave and a placid summer breeze washes over the cemetery. “I got you flowers,” he tells the wind just as Stiles’ scent reaches him.
They are not together. Yet? Derek isn’t quite sure. But they’ve come together to visit their loved ones and that feels like it should count, like taking a step that maybe won’t burn as much as Derek feared it would.
Hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans and a strangely familiar, quiet smile curving his lips, that’s how Stiles had greeted Derek that morning, leaning easily against the hood of the Camaro. “I made sandwiches,” he’d said, slipping into the passenger seat.
Derek hadn’t replied and, when Stiles’ hand had worked its way under his thigh, he’d kept driving, eyes on the road and heart thumping loud in his ears.
“You should come meet my mom,” Stiles tells him as he approaches Laura’s grave, grinning like the crazy kid that he is. His azure shirt is probably highly inappropriate for the place but, nonetheless, Derek thinks he’s never looked as beautiful as he does now.
It makes him want to never let go.
The roses tremble when the wind tickles them once again and, suddenly, it’s like Laura’s joyful laugh is reverberating inside Derek once again. “He’s good, little brother,” she’d probably say about Stiles, pride shining in her words because she had always wanted the best for Derek.
And the fact is that Stiles is the best, he is even more than Derek merits, the kid’s softness and never ending light something that comes too close to a reward rather than the punishment Derek so much deserves.
“Are you wandering away again?” The pressure of a fingertip against his temple. Derek blinks as Stiles steps into his personal space, pushing at invisible boundaries until Derek is forced to readjust them. “They are beautiful,” he says then, eyes focused on Derek even though he’s talking about the roses.
Stiles’ heart barely stutters when Derek palms the side of his neck and it feels like a small, sweet victory. “Yeah,” Derek says, even if it feels he isn’t agreeing at all, his thumb brushing Stiles’ jaw in a gentle caress.
Somewhere inside his chest, a wall crumbles down.
“Eloquent as always,” Stiles chuckles, eyes soft as his hand covers Derek’s. And then, gentler, “are you two done?”
Because Stiles is the only one who really gets this, the burning need to spend time alone in front of a grave, pretending to be able to bring her back for a few minutes, pretending to feel complete again while the hole inside his chest throbs and bleeds, cries the tears Derek won’t let himself shed.
“I think we are,” he murmurs, grins because he’s pretty sure Laura would be cooing by now, cellphone in her hand because look at you. So fucking in love, Derek. “You said I should meet your mom?” he then asks, lets Stiles tug him away from where he’s been standing for the past minutes, years, lives. He’ll always be grieving, he’ll always remember.
But now it's time to move on, at least for a little while.
“Of course I did,” Stiles chatters, right hand slashing the air in wide, excited movements as his left one remains connected to Derek, fingers intertwined with his. “Gotta show you off.”
A laugh bubbles up into Derek’s throat and he lets it break free, stupidly inappropriate in the early, sunny morning of the cemetery and yet so right- “Moms love me.”
The glare that Stiles shoots him screams playful and affectionate from a mile, Derek thinks that maybe Laura has been right all along. “I’ll show you plural,” he threatens, eyes on a small grave sheltered from the sun by a tall cherry tree. “Now behave.”
Prompted by this utterly cute gif. Because we all need some fluff from time to time.
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
“Tsuki! Tsuki, come back here!”
A playful, gentle bark is all Stiles gets as a reply and then Tsuki is off again, running on the sidewalk, her cute, little tail happily dangling from left to right and ears raised up in excitation.
“Oh, come on,” Stiles moans, shaking his head. Though there is already a smile making its way on his face as he dashes after the grey wolf cub, feet light on the concrete and sunglasses bouncing over his nose. “Not fair!” he half-shouts, laughing.
Tsuki only barks louder.
And then she’s landing straight into Derek’s open arms, her small head working its way under Derek’s chin, poking at him until Derek surrenders and starts petting her, scratching her ears and running his fingers down her neck. “Hey, pretty lady,” Stiles hears him chuckle as he reaches them. “Nice to see you too.”
“Told you it wouldn’t be a good idea to bring her to the bus station.” Stiles takes off his glasses. “She gets way too excited when it comes to you.” Though there is no heat in his words, more like a happy teasing, that kind of fondness that Stiles reserves for very few people.
From where he is crouched in front of their little baby, Derek grins up at him. “Jealous?” he teases just as Tsuki yaps and wetly licks his nose.
Thing is, Stiles is fucked. Hell, he has been fucked since that very first time more than eight years before, when Derek had been nothing more that a pretty face to look at. But now- Oh, now Derek is a man. They both are. And he looks more than handsome under the early afternoon light, his three-day old stubble the only thing signaling that he’s been away from home, from Stiles.
“I’m pretty sure she missed you more than I did,” Stiles chuckles, fingers sliding their way between Derek’s dark hair and resting there.
Finally home, their house doesn’t feel right when Derek isn’t there.
Derek’s fingers close around Stiles’ wrist. “Liar,” he murmurs, tugging Stiles down for a kiss.
Between them, Tsuki yaps loudly, looking for attention. Stiles covers the back of her neck with his palm and thinks - briefly, crazily, immensely - that he’s never felt so happy, so alive as he is in this moment.
Curiousity: Tsuki (月) is a Kanji that, in Japanese, means 'moon'. :)
Maybe it’s the blindfold that makes the difference. The fact that Stiles can’t see a damn thing but still hear the sound of cars and people and life coming from outside.
It makes Stiles wonder if they can see him, can see his naked body pressed against the cool surface of the window, dick hard and throbbing and fucking oozing pre-come all over the glass as Derek fucks him. “You’re taking me so sweetly,” Derek praises him, must have caught the change in Stiles’ heartbeat, how his mind has wandered away for a brief second. “It’s like you were made for this, to take my cock and drive me crazy. Fucking perfect, Stiles.”
There were long, sharp claws pressing against the toned expanse of Stiles’ belly only a few minutes ago. But they are gone now, replaced by Derek’s fingertips around his hips, and Stiles misses them. He fucking wishes he could feel them cut marks into his skin every time Derek draws him back onto his cock, possessive and demanding.
So maybe Stiles won’t forget this, won’t forget the thrill of Derek blinding him, his strong, gentle fingers resting over Stiles’ thighs as Derek had taken him in his mouth, slowly, one inch at time, savoring the moment because Stiles is something precious to him.
Even now, as Derek’s balls slap against his, again and again and again, quickly, almost brutally, Stiles can feel the gentleness of Derek’s lips linger on his chest, where Derek had kissed and bitten, reddened Stiles’ skin with blood and lust. Like an immaculate canvas only waiting to be corrupted.
“Miss you,” he finds himself panting, bottom lip sliding against the glass and leaving behind a wet stripe. And it’s true. He wants Derek close, closer, wants to feel him deep inside and never forget this joy and pain and desperate hunger- “Deeper, Derek. Deeper. Please”
Behind him, Derek shivers, Stiles can feel it reverberating through him, a wave so powerful that, for a moment, almost pushes him on the verge of tears. “I’ll break you,” the Alpha mutters, his breath fever-hot against Stiles’ skin. He nibbles at Stiles’ earlobe, one of his hands sliding between Stiles’ legs. “Do you want me to break you, Stiles?”
Probably, there is a far more deep meaning under the question, but Stiles isn’t able to catch it, not when Derek’s palm is cradling his balls, thumb deliciously running along the vein at the base of Stiles’ cock in a slow torture. “Anything,” he cries, feels the head of Derek’s cock catch against the rim of his hole, threatening to pull put, before Derek dives in again. A maddening pleasure. “I’ll take anything.”
It makes him feel oddly powerful, knowing that he has the world at his feet, as his nails scrape the glass and Derek’s cock fills him up so perfectly- Stiles has never wanted anything else.
“Stiles.” A groan, Derek’s teeth finding the tendon at the base of Stiles’ neck and sinking into flesh, a bolt of blinding pleasure- And then Derek is coming, emptying himself inside Stiles’ body as Stiles laughs and laughs and laughs.
And he doesn’t stop grinning, not even when Derek pulls at his shoulder to make him turn, his knees landing on the floor with a dull thud. “You’re mine,” Stiles chuckles, maybe a bit darkly but definitely in love.
But that’s the last thing he manages to say, because after that Derek’s perfect lips are back on Stiles and Derek’s fingers are spreading him open once again, smearing lube and come everywhere and easily sinking into wet warmness. And even if Stiles can’t see him, he can hear the yours that Derek doesn’t say.
The wooden floor creaks, almost in surprise, when Derek’s palms push against it. “Come on, baby,” Stiles chuckles, waving his hand in a playful yet dangerous gesture. “We aren’t even nearly done yet.”
But Derek is tired. So tired. To fight back, to feel his skin mend itself together over wounds that he can’t even feel anymore. Everything is pain, everything is hell and he isn’t sure he can take it anymore. He doesn’t want to.
“I can’t,” he hisses between clenched teeth, shoulders hunched under the heavy weight of his own defeat. He’s asked for this, hard words flowing out of him and subtly begging Stiles for punishment and yet he is the one giving up.
On the other side of the room, Stiles shudders. He blinks. “Of course you do.” And it’s like he’s saying you can move mountains, I know you can.
But the thing is that Derek really can’t. Not anymore. Not when he’s feeling so broken and utterly tired. “Stiles.” Another crack in the mirror of his soul. “I can’t.”
There isn’t any rage in his words, only a resignation that Derek feels like he should have found years ago. He’s almost surprised by how simple it is, letting go, it doesn’t hurt like he feared it could.
Stiles’ magical energy floods out of him in a whoosh of warm air. “You bastard,” he then mutters, violent anger burning in his eyes as he takes a few steps towards Derek, hands raised like he wants to hit him.
The most hilarious thing is that he probably could. He could fucking wreck Derek, poison him and cut him open, palm Derek’s heart to feel it faintly thumping between his long, skilled fingers. Derek would let him. Only him.
Only he knows there is no way that Stiles would want this. Him. Too much blood on his hands, too much venomous dust over his heart. Useless. “You should just kill me.”
Really, it’s the only way.
Stiles punches him. “Fucking insane.” His words like fire licking at Derek’s insides, melting him. Derek spits blood on the dirty floor. Stiles’ hands are trembling. “You don’t get to do that, do you understand me? You don’t get to give up like that.” It’s like he’s breathing spikes, bleeding and breaking only for Derek. “I won’t let you. You’ll have to kill me to make me kill you.”
Derek’s lip aches where Stiles hit him, bony knuckles briefly marking skin, and Derek runs his tongue over it. There are cuts where Stiles’ words have settled, somewhere deep inside his chest and the ache is almost comforting. Finally. Finally something that won’t heal.
“Stupid animal,” Stiles mutters, and yet drops on his knees at Derek’s side, his wide, familiar palm resting over Derek’s chest.
Maybe, Derek thinks, he still has something to fight for.
“I thought we agreed we would never cross that line,” Derek greets him, fingers closed around the doorknob as if trying to keep himself from touching Stiles, run his fingertips along the silky edge of his vest.
Even so, his eyes are focused and impossibly bright under the soft hotel lights. It makes Stiles chuckle, fingers clutching the door frame as he leans forward, invading Derek’s space in a way he never dared before. “Room service, sir,” he shoots back, baring his teeth in a cheeky grin.
Derek’s nostrils flare in a too familiar way. “You are drunk.” A pause that looks dangerously like an hesitation. “You shouldn’t be here,” he murmurs, but it doesn’t sound like a dismissal at all.
Maybe, a few years back, Stiles would’ve gladly taken Derek’s words as his cue to flee back to his room and spend the rest of the night nursing the last half of his champagne bottle.
Maybe, a few years back, he would’ve been too blinded by Derek’s unwavering stare to notice the bobbing oh his throat, the way the Alpha seems to swallow around air as he tries not to lean toward Stiles, meet him halfway. To dive his nose between the open collar of Stiles’ shirt, where thin, sensible skin covers slim collarbones, or perhaps to intimidate him, bare his teeth as he did so many times-
“A waiter slipped his number in my pocket tonight,” Stiles blurts out instead, blinking at the deep lines suddenly forming between Derek’s eyebrows. “There is a fifty percent chance that he’d be glad to rim me until I’m begging him to, please, please, fuck me.” And it’s like pulling the tail of a huge, feral beast, but he won’t stop, not now. “But, you know what, I like the second option way more.”
Derek’s lips twitch in a way that probably means he’s trying not to crush the knob between his fingers. Stiles blinks at him, eyelashes slowly kissing skin as something claws at his insides.
“Second option,” Derek spits, his ability to form proper phrases suddenly abandoning him.
Taking a step forward isn’t so hard as Stiles thought it would, neither is closing his fingertips around the unfastened tie dangling from the sides of Derek’s neck. “Yes,” he breaths out, heart thumping crazily in his chest, “that’s where I drop on my knees, unzip this fabulous pair of haute couture trousers, and suck on your cock until you will the one begging.”
“There is no way-“
“Oh, you will.” Stiles doesn’t budge, not even when Derek steps away from him, fresh air replacing familiar warmth as the Alpha tries to put space between them. Anything to stop this madness. “And then maybe I’ll beg too. Plead you to use your fucking belt to tie my wrists, cover my body in marks while spreading me open for you. I don’t need champagne when I can have all of that.”
“Jesus.” Eyes closing under the force of Derek’s desires. “Stiles.”
Derek’s hands are trembling now, and Stiles promises to himself that he’ll be the one steadying them. “Yes,” he breathes out, kicking the door closed.
"An octopug," Derek deadpans for the fourth time in the last minute.
From the desk, the weirdly adorable puppy blinks back at him, tongue lolling out its mouth as it raises two of its eight legs, almost as if- “See?” Stiles beams, ass pressed against the edge of Derek’s desk because he knows no mercy. “He’s waving at you. He likes you.”
As if that is an alien concept to Derek, he shift uncomfortably on his chair. “I don’t like him,” he mutters. “And I don’t like you,” he accusingly points his finger at Stiles, only to retract it hurriedly when the creature - the octopug, what the fuck - tries to bite it off.
Blatantly ignoring Derek’s belligerent words, Stiles coos, clapping his hands in excitement. “Look at how adorable he is, trying to kiss you.”
For a moment, Derek ponders if he could blame Stiles’ murder on the freaky dog. “Take this thing out of my office. Now,” he says instead, struggling to convey some sort of authority in his tone. “And try to not let him bite your hands off in the process.”
Because Derek doesn’t want anything to do with this. Oh, hell no. No way he’ll get himself involved again in one of Stilinski’s messy plans- Wait. Why is Stiles making puppy eyes now? Who even gave him authorization to make such face? There is no such thing as teary eyes in Derek’s office. Same goes for sniffing. And lip-biting.
"No," Derek says, crossing his arms. Fuck body language, he’s not showing vulnerability, he’s only trying to protect himself. From a mutant puppy. And a teenager.
Oh, Derek is so screwed.
"But I didn’t even say anything yet!"
Stiles’ palms are flat against Derek’s desk now, the rest of his body leaning forward almost as if he’s reading himself to climb over the wooden surface and pounce right onto Derek’s lap.
Derek watches him frown, probably in the attempt to find a way to coerce his teacher into giving in to help him. “Don’t let the door hit you on your way out,” he says, glaring at the octopug who’s now pawing at Stiles’ thigh with its four hind legs. What the actual fuck.
"It’s okay, big guy," Stiles pats it lovingly on the head, dark eyes impossibly big under his long lashes. "We don’t need his help to keep you safe and alive. It’s not like we’re in Roswell here and one cruel, heartless person doesn’t really make the whole population of Beacon Hills-"
"I’m still here, you know."
"-Which is kind of awesome, let me tell you. My dad will surely love you. Because, come on, let’s face it, only a deeply disturbed human being wouldn’t love a little bundle of cuteness like you-"
"-Look at you, all smiling and wiggling your tail. Aren’t you the most adorable thing ever? Sure you are. There is no chance I’ll let you end up in one of those labs where they’ll dissect you, bounding your sweet, little eight paws and doing only God knows what to you-"
"You’re giving me a headache. Stiles."
"-Because we both know what they do in there. So we’ll keep you safe at all costs. Don’t worry about it. Doesn’t matter how hard will it be, or how many people will reject us, making us feel alone and unwanted-"
"For the love of God, okay.”
"-I will make sure that you live a long and happy life, my pretty, unique octopug. Because we don’t need anyone else when we have each other-"
"I said okay!"
That seems to make it, because Stiles finally pauses. “Okay to what?” he asks, one hand wrapped protectively behind the creature’s neck as they both stare expectantly back at Derek.
"Alright," Derek surrenders, pinching the bridge of his nose. He already knows he’ll regret this. "Alright, I will help you. If only to make you shut up."
Stiles beams at him. The little shit.
Of course Derek didn’t stand a chance since the start. Because that’s just how much he fails at life.