The first time Stiles ever entertained the notion, he had Derek's cock down his throat, hot and pulsing, while Stiles' hand drifted south, stroking at the thin skin under Derek's balls. It was hard to catch, what with his own pulse thundering in his ears and the insistent throb of his cock, leaking all over Derek's sheets, but the broken little sound Derek made pricked at something in Stiles' brain, turning his touch firmer, making the sweeps broader.
Before Stiles could explore any further, Derek was coming in long spurts down Stiles' throat, salt-bitter and perfect. As he jerked Derek off with his other hand, Stiles filed away his half-formed idea for later.
Because there is always a later.
: : :
This thing with Derek, Stiles knows, is all about trust. And though it took a while, they are almost at a place where things might be classified as good. Even so, as much as he wants to, Stiles can't just blurt out, "I want to fuck you," and expect Derek to fall to the bed and spread his legs.
No matter how many times Stiles might jack off to that very image.
: : :
Patience is key, though. Not that Stiles has ever had much, but he seems to summon it, somehow, where Derek is concerned. Probably leftover from not having to use it on Scott, now that he and Allison are on-again.
But yes, patience. A steady hand. All that mumbo jumbo zen crap.
Stiles intends to take it slow, really, but a few weeks later, while he's straddling Derek's thighs, their bare chests sticking together as Derek works on giving Stiles a truly epic case of beard burn, it's Stiles' mouth that betrays him. More specifically, his lack of a brain-to-mouth filter.
"I want to fuck you," Stiles says in between Derek nipping kisses into his neck. Then promptly follows it with, "Shit."
Derek huffs a laugh, warm breath gusting cool over damp skin. Before Derek can even think of a response, Stiles pushes on.
"That wasn't how-- I didn't mean-- I was going to work up to it," he explains, deflating a little. Derek's hands are tight on his hips, fingertips digging into the bone to hold Stiles upright, preventing him from hiding his heated face in the curve of Derek's neck.
"Breathe," Derek says, one corner of his mouth hooked up in a grin. His lips are an obscene red, slick and perfect, and Stiles licks his own lips with the need to kiss, to be kissed. "Say it again."
Stiles ducks his head, hiding his gaze from red-rimmed eyes. Instead of repeating anything he's already said, he elaborates. "A few weeks ago. I was blowing you, right? And you made this sound, this fucking amazing sound that, really Derek, no self-respecting Alpha should make. And I-- I want to see if I can make you do it again. I want to know what it's like being the top. Because, let's face it, I'm the bottomiest bottom that ever bottomed, but I, too, like some variety."
"I did suggest switching lube that one time," Derek says, his tone dead steady.
Stiles pinches his nipple in retaliation. "You know what I mean."
Derek nods. "Yes."
"Right," Stiles drawls, thumb sweeping back and forth where it rests at Derek's waist. "So," he says, eyes darting between Derek's gaze and the waistband of his jeans. The weight of Derek's stare is one of the few things that can render Stiles speechless, and it's doing a good job now, making him feel more than a little foolish for asking the question in the first place. But then Derek's fingers dip into Stiles' boxer briefs, pushing them down to reveal the grooves of his hips, and suddenly Stiles gets it.
"It's a good thing I'm fluent in Derek-speak," says Stiles, attacking Derek's jeans with renewed fervor. "Or my self-esteem would be for shit."
Derek's admonishing look gets lost behind the furious flailing of Stiles yanking off Derek's jeans and boxer briefs as quickly as possible, the better to prevent Derek from changing his mind. Once naked, Stiles' hands fall to Derek's ankles and tug, pulling him down with the help of surprise more than anything. Derek goes with it, sliding further still until only his head and shoulders are propped up on the pillows behind him, one hand loosely stroking his leaking cock.
Stiles allows himself a moment to appreciate the easy back-and-forth slide before he leans forward to suckle at the tip, circling the edge of the foreskin with the tip of his tongue. With one palm flat on the bed to support him, Stiles reaches out toward the nightstand with the other, searching for the lube. It's a move Derek can do with one hand tied behind his back, blindfolded, in a room he's never been in before, but Stiles is just not that lucky. He faceplants into Derek's hip instead, barely managing to prevent himself from pitching off the bed, and knocks the lamp off of the nightstand to boot. You're nineteen now, Stiles thinks to himself. You really should have more coordination than this.
"Smooth," Derek rumbles, and Stiles doesn't have to look at him to know Derek's grinning. His wide, 'look how big my razor-sharp teeth are' grin. He's stifling a laugh, too, if the shaking bed is anything to go by.
"Laugh it up, Fuzzball," Stiles grumps, peering over the spur of Derek's hip to locate the lube. "You've been to my lacrosse games. You know I am not the master of hand-eye coordination. Besides," he says, popping up on his knees when the nightstand doesn't produce the bottle he's looking for, "I seem to remember a certain alpha who went all Bambi legs on a patch of ice up in the mount-- Mmph!"
Derek hauls him up in an instant, shutting Stiles up with the most effective distraction he knows of: his mouth. Stiles resists at first, out of instinct, but Derek's tongue is slick and wicked, and his palm is warm at the base of Stiles' spine. It's easy to let Derek take control like this, and it's not like there's any kiss that could ever make Siles forget that particular day at the ranger's station, so what if he lets Derek think he's won this round.
"Relax," Derek murmurs against Stiles' lips, pushing him away at the hips. There is something being shoved into Stiles' hand; he looks down to find the lube there, his fingers curled loose around the bottle, and he drags his eyes back to Derek's, dark and deep with just the slightest sliver of green around the pupil.
To anybody else, Derek would seem confident, almost cocky in the way he's sprawled out on Stiles' bed, naked and gorgeous, with Stiles straddling his hips. But Stiles sees the flutter of Derek's lashes, the minute uptilt of his eyebrows that speaks volumes about Derek's vulnerability.
"Holy shit, you've never done this before," Stiles blurts out on an exhale, feeling light and heavy all at once. Behind him, Stiles feels Derek's foot slide over the bed, his knee coming up to nudge Stiles in the back.
"No," Derek says, easy like he's not in Stiles' bed without a stitch of clothing on, waiting for Stiles to do something he's never done before, to do something that Derek's never had done to him. Trusting Stiles in a way that Derek's never trusted anybody else.
Stiles wants to give this moment the proper respect it deserves, but he feels electricity sparking under his skin, pulling him tight, and all he can do is lean forward and kiss Derek until he can't breathe. Which is a near impossible feat, but if Derek can do this for Stiles, Stiles sure as hell can give something back to Derek.
Lube in hand, Stiles shuffles backward, cock bobbing against his belly, to settle between Derek's thighs. He takes in the lazy sprawl of Derek's legs, the one still bent up, knee slowly ticcing back and forth like Derek has all the time in the world for Stiles to get his shit together. Derek's dick would disagree, though, precome smeared through the trail of hair on his stomach.
Derek's other leg twitches at the pop of the bottle cap, opening wider, drawing Stiles' gaze down to the dark space between. He reaches out with slick fingers, dragging the pad of one finger along the underside of Derek's cock, crown to root, then the seam of his balls and further still.
Derek jerks at the first touch, a full body thing that makes Stiles gasp, and he darts a look up, expecting...what, he doesn't know. Angry eyebrows? Red eyes? Maybe even a little fear. But all he finds is concentration and discomfort.
"Cold," Derek says eventually, shifting lower to make his legs open wider. He chances a glance at Stiles, shooting him a tight smile, and looks back down to Stiles' slick hand resting on Derek's thigh. "It's just cold," he says again, more sure this time, and Stiles nods.
"I know how you are about control," Stiles says in what he hopes is a conversational tone, fingers stroking against the grain of the hair on his thigh. He wants to be careful here, choosing just the right words to show Derek how much Stiles recognizes the significance of what he's about to do, and that he will not ever take it lightly, or use it against Derek. Not ever.
"I know you feel like you have to be in control all the time." His hand moves closer and closer to Derek's groin, smearing the lube all over his thigh. But Stiles doesn't care; they have plenty. "I understand that it's a wolf thing -- an Alpha thing -- but you need to know." Stiles takes a deep breath, watching Derek's face for anything other than the standard indifference or anger it usually telegraphs whenever Stiles wants to talk about feelings. "That doesn't apply here. I will never break that trust. Ever."
He punctuates the last word with a stroke of his finger over Derek's hole, soft and wet. Derek's hips hitch into the movement, bucking against the hold Stiles has on his thigh, and his eyes slip closed. Behind his lips, the tips of his fangs glint white, and he uses his heel to nudge Stiles in the ass, urging him closer.
Stiles keeps his fingers light as he works them between Derek's cheeks; delicate teasing touches that eventually make Derek shift his hips, searching for more. And Stiles gives it to him, pressing his thumb against Derek's rim, massaging tiny circles into the stubborn muscle there. The skin is warm and damp, dark when Stiles looks at it, but little by little, he feels Derek start to give, to clutch at the tip of his thumb instead of fighting to resist.
He squirts more lube onto his fingers, warm now from the bottle being tucked between his knees, and draws tiny circles again, this time with his finger, using more pressure. Above him, Derek is making broken little sounds, gasping sighs more than anything, but his eyes are still shut, hands fisting in the sheets. The fangs are still out, too, but the claws are not.
Stiles, taking that as a good sign, pushes on, easing the tip of his finger in and out of Derek in short, steady strokes. Derek's feet slide along the bed until they're flat on the mattress, one on either side of Stiles' hips, and that tilts his pelvis up, letting Stiles see where his fingertip disappears inside of Derek. It's a heady sight, the tight pink clutch of Derek gripping Stiles so greedily.
Then, with a loud, shaky exhale, Derek opens up further still, until Stiles' finger sinks into the next knuckle. And now, now he can start to feel the heat that had only been a tease at first. The slick hot inside of Derek, stubborn and tight and gorgeous, exactly the way Derek always is. Stiles' cock throbs, precome pearling from the slit, and he has to give it a painful squeeze if he hopes to last.
It takes awhile to work Derek open enough to add a second finger, but it's worth it to watch the shift of his muscles under sweat-sheened skin, the way his fangs dig into his lip, drawing a bead of blood. His breathing speeds up, too, and he's trembling beneath Stiles' palm, but he's so accepting it kind of sticks in Stiles' chest, making it tough to breathe.
"You ready for another?" Stiles asks, drawing on the memory of his first time, of how patient Derek was with him, and wanting to be at least that gentle, if not more. Because Derek may not be human, may not be able to be physically hurt like Stiles can, but rushing is not an option.
Besides, it's not like Stiles isn't getting anything out of this, either. It's not every day a smoking hot guy will spread his legs and put himself at Stiles' mercy.
Stiles is careful with two, fingertips setting a short, slow in-and-out rhythm. He pays attention to Derek's breathless grunts, too, the grind of his teeth. Beads of sweat glisten along his hairline, in the hollows of his throat and collar bones, and one of his hands drifts from the sheets to Stiles' wrist, gripping him tight, with his thumb pressed against Stiles' pulse.
"Do you want me to stop?" Stiles asks in a husky-low voice he's never heard come out of himself before. He doesn't want to, not even close, but if Derek's not enjoying it, there's no point in continuing.
"No," Derek grits out, eyes snapping open so Stiles can see the red burning in them. "Just let me--" He adjusts his hips, using his feet for leverage, and suddenly Stiles is knuckle deep again, and Derek gives a sharp gasp of, "Fuck, Stiles."
And that? That is a tone Stiles knows well. Has heard that tone coming from his own mouth. He grins, slow, and starts sliding into Derek with focus, fingertips skating over Derek's prostate often enough to make his fingers squeeze Stiles' wrist brutally tight.
With Derek as loose and pliant as he'll probably ever be, Stiles starts working in a third finger, and now Derek is panting his name, hips tilting up for more. Derek's cock, when Stiles can tear his eyes away from the red, stretched-out skin around his fingers, is leaking continuously now, making a mess on his stomach that Stiles leans forward to drag his tongue through. Glancing up at Derek through the fan of his lashes, he does it again, then uses the flat of his tongue to lick Derek's dick, root to tip.
Derek shudders, growls deep in his chest, and manages to get out, "You'd better-- Stiles. I can't," through gritted teeth.
Stiles takes a breath, then another, before he reaches for a pillow and tucks it under Derek's hips. It helped Stiles through his first time, so he's hoping it'll help Derek, too. He grabs the lube next, making a mess of slicking himself up; getting it on his thighs, Derek's knees, the sheets. Stiles lacks basic coordination skills at the best of times. With Derek spread out in front of him, chest red and heaving, restless legs bumping against Stiles, there is no coordination left to be had. And anyway, sheets are totally washable, so whatever.
He tucks one hand under Derek's knee, pushing it up and out so Stiles can see what he's doing. The other hand wraps tight around his cock, keeping himself steady as he leans in and presses close, the tip of his dick easily sinking into Derek.
"Oh jesus, Derek," Stiles gasps, his grip slipping through lube and sweat to drop Derek's leg. It changes the angle of Derek's hips and helps him take Stiles in a little bit more, and Derek grunts at the surprise of it. "Sorry, sorry," Stiles says, wiping his hand off on the sheet. He grasps Derek's knee again, to make room for his hips, but Derek knows enough where legs need to go, and he throws his foot over Stiles' shoulder, heel banging into Stiles' shoulder blade, and suddenly things seem easier, if not also heavier.
And if Stiles bites Derek on the calf just to remind him who's boss? Well.
With one hand flat on the bed, Stiles leans forward, pressing in slow and steady. Sure, he doesn't have to worry about permanently hurting Derek, but there's no reason to temporarily hurt him, either. And Stiles is rather enjoying the slick-tight drag. It's nothing like Derek's mouth or his hand or Stiles' own hand. Which are all amazing in their own ways, but this is...more. This is Stiles being consumed by Derek. The strong hot clutch of him, clinging to Stiles' wrist, his shoulder. His cock.
Once his hips are pressed against Derek's, Stiles stills. It's weird looking down at Derek, watching his own sweat drop from his nose to Derek's cheek, seeing soft sheets behind Derek's head instead of a halo of dim light. Usually, it's the other way around. And when it's not? In those rare times that Stiles is riding Derek's dick, hands clutching to Derek's sweat-slick shoulders for leverage to grind down, it's still not like this, with Stiles pushing Derek as far as he can go. It's a heady feeling, one Stiles cannot take lightly. Not ever.
Derek's eyes are closed, brows drawn close together as he wiggles his hips a little, fingertips vise-tight on Stiles' waist to keep him still. Stiles dips his head down, nipping softly at Derek's soft open mouth. "Hey, look at me," he says, quiet and close.
Derek grunts, eyebrows flickering even lower, but he opens his eyes.
"I'm--" he exhales, cants his hips up, and -- Oh, that makes Stiles' breath catch and his eyes flutter shut. "I'm great," Derek says.
Stiles' eyes may be closed, but he can still hear the smirk in Derek's tone. He gives an experimental circle of his hips right back, a quick in-and-out slide that does nothing more than remind Derek that Stiles is there, still inside him, and says, "Nobody likes a show off."
Derek replies by snapping his teeth at Stiles' nose, nudges a heel into Stiles' back.
"Yeah, yeah," Stiles says, moving his hips slow and steady, nose bumping against Derek's when his head drops. He closes his eyes to be able to focus on everything: Derek gripping tight to his dick; the rough rasp of hair against Stiles' palm where it's gripping Derek's thigh; Derek's slick heavy weight underneath him; Derek's scent filling his nose.
He's so focused on all that, he almost misses Derek's palms skidding up his back, his thick fingers burrowing in Stiles' hair to pull his head back, angling him just right for Derek to lean up and bite a kiss into Stiles' collar bone. Stiles swears he can feel the blood rising to the surface, hot and painful, and he whimpers once, head falling back further as his neck goes slack, and then Derek's leg is slipping off his shoulder to wrap around Stiles' hip.
Between one breath and the next, Stiles tumbles to the side, following the force of Derek's grip both in his hair and around his torso, and then he looks up -- up? -- to find Derek looming over him, a knee on either side of Stiles' hips.
"You move too slow," Derek says with a grin, hands gripping tight to Stiles' wrists, which are pinned to the bed just above his head.
Derek looks unreal like this, with his hips shifting and his hair in his face and his stomach working. Jesus fuck. Stiles' hands curl into fists, fighting against Derek's hold, and he feels the bones grinding. Whimpers at it for how much it makes his dick throb, pulsing out precome to add to the lube slicking his way inside Derek.
Stiles gathers himself enough to plant his feet flat on the bed, meeting Derek's hips with his own. There's the slap of skin-on-skin he loves so much, his cock sliding in and out of Derek with ease, now.
Derek's release of Stiles' wrists is sudden, the weight of his grip missed. But he leans forward more, changing the angle, and he gasps, tilts forward a little bit more to reach for the headboard. For leverage. And there.
Derek drives his hips down viciously, white even teeth digging into his lower lip. Stiles reaches up before Derek can draw blood and finds his thumb sucked into tight-sharp heat.
"Oh shit," Stiles gasps, ruining their rhythm with a stuttered thrust of his hips. Derek snarls around his thumb.
"Stiles," Derek rasps, hips working so hard it feels like their bones are grinding together. "Stiles," he says again, "look at me, Stiles."
"I am," Stiles says, confused, but then his eyes open and Derek is close and oh fuck, he wasn't. He so wasn't looking. He was missing the wild shadows in Derek's eyes, the glorious stretch and twist of his torso, the bunch and flex of his thighs, hot and slick and smooth.
Stiles feels the knot in his gut winding tighter and tighter, toes curling into the mattress, and he takes one hand from Derek's thigh to wrap it tight around his dick, working the foreskin back and forth. He circles the glistening crown with his thumb, smearing the pooling precome all along Derek's length. The skin is hot and soft, moving easily in Stiles' grip, as he works to get Derek off first, listening for the low tell-tale growl, watching for the red glint in Derek's eyes.
It doesn't take long; Derek's rhythm starts to break down the moment Stiles gets a hand on him, and he grits out Stiles' name through lengthening canines. His come spatters over Stiles' stomach and chest, thick and sticky and perfect, and his aftershocks feel amazing around Stiles' dick, pulling Stiles over the edge not long after. Derek even manages to stay upright long enough to work Stiles through it, making sure Stiles is done before he falls forward onto his forearms, making a total mess of the come and sweat and precome between them.
Not that Stiles really gives a fuck at this point.
Derek is panting, still, his breath hot and damp against Stiles' neck, fingers knotting together in Stiles' hair to tilt his head to the side, giving Derek room to suck a mark into Stiles' skin, right above his pulse.
Stiles' cock is still inside Derek, softening now, but there's heat there, and sticky with his come, Stiles drifts a little, blissed out on post-orgasm endorphins and the pleasant heavy weight of Derek pinning him down. Eventually, the wet slide of Derek's tongue drags Stiles back, hands clutching feebly to Derek's hips as he rolls to the side.
"No," Stiles groans, rolling along with Derek to burrow into the heat of him. He shivers, rubs his nose against Derek's chest, and sighs, leg slipping between Derek's to bring them closer together. "You okay?" Stiles says, voice low and rough. Suddenly nervous, he keeps his head tucked under Derek's chin to avoid his gaze.
"I'm fine Stiles. You know you can't hurt me."
Stiles' hand drifts lower, anyway, brushing lightly at Derek's hole. It's sticky-slick from lube and cooling precome, but Derek doesn't hiss or curse or even flinch, really. Which are all good things. But there are non-physical ways that people can hurt each other and Stiles has to make sure.
"Not physically," Stiles replies, letting the 'but' go unsaid.
"Not in any way." Derek is resolute on this, voice as firm as the arm he has wrapped around Stiles' shoulders. "I could've stopped you at any time Stiles, you know this."
"And you know how much I like it when you use your words," Stiles says, leaning up quick to kiss Derek before he can reply. He keeps it soft and and slow, kissing until he can't breathe. Of course, Derek isn't so easily deterred, so Stiles keeps leaning it, alternating quick little sucks and sharper nips until Derek finally gives in on a huff of Stiles' name.
Satisfied, Stiles slips out of Derek's grasp and heads for the bathroom and a washcloth because ew. "Don't think I didn't notice how you still managed to stay in control," he snarks on his way back, his feet stuttering as Derek rolls to the side in a long, slow stretch of his limbs. "Jesus," he mutters under his breath. And because Derek's a werewolf, and an asshole, and can hear a mouse from five floors down, he shoots Stiles a predatory grin and shifts again.
"What did I say about show offs?" Stiles says, throwing the washcloth at Derek's face. Derek at least has the grace not to catch it before it lands, and uses quick, efficient strokes to clean himself off.
"Hey, I used muscles I didn't know I had tonight," Derek says, muffling out an 'oomph' when Stiles knee-walks onto the bed and straddles himself over Derek's thighs.
Stiles hums a reply, knuckles dragging through the strip of hair below Derek's belly button. He can feel the soft heat of Derek's cock against his thigh, trying to make a valiant effort to make another go of it. Stiles brushes his knuckles along the length once, then again, smiling at the flushing skin. "Maybe you should use them more often, then," he says, his attention focused on the hair on Derek's thigh, thumb scrubbing at it against the grain.
"Maybe I should," Derek says, soft, pulling Stiles closer by his wrists.
"And maybe next time there won't be any ninja werewolf flips?" He means to sound more snarky than hopeful, but even he detects the weak rasp in his tone.
"Maybe," Derek says again, threading his fingers through Stiles' thick hair, tugging him closer still.
"And mayb-- Mmph!" Stiles flails forward, words swallowed up by Derek's hot mouth as Stiles' fingernails dig into Derek's shoulders. Behind him, Derek's cock is half hard and nudging against Stiles' ass.
Stiles chuckles, breaking the kiss, only to find Derek staring at him with one raised eyebrow. "All you have to do is ask," Derek says.
Stiles flushes, but holds Derek's gaze. "Yeah, okay," he says, leaning in for another kiss so they can bypass all the soppy, schmoopy feelings crap and get to the good stuff.
"Hey, wait," Stiles says before their lips meet, stopping Derek's searching mouth with a finger to his lips. "Are you still firmly against handcuffs?"