Derek doesn’t get why he likes it so much.
It’s just not -- he hadn’t expected to need this. Not from Stiles. Not from anyone, ever. He doesn’t do this.
Except he does, now. Because it’s for Stiles, and Derek -- fuck, he likes it too.
Derek’s cell phone rings just after ten at night, the silence in his small, still sparse apartment fracturing around that stupid jingle Stiles has somehow programmed in and Derek just hasn’t changed because… because he hasn’t.
“Yeah,” he says, trying for short-tempered and missing by a hundred miles, landing somewhere between rough and questioning. Fuck.
Stiles’ breath is loud on the other end for a second; a snick like his mouth’s working with no sound.
“Did you wear it?” Is the first thing Stiles says, because he’s unerringly good at knowing where to press to make Derek’s whole body twitch and grind to a stop, words like fog that look solid until he reaches for them as his stomach drops ten feet.
He has to know Derek wore it. He has to, Derek told him he would; he said yes, and then said it again because Stiles asked him to be sure.
The breathing from Stiles’ side of the connection feels like it’s pouring right into Derek’s head, like he should be able to feel it in heat and stirring air instead of just the plastic edge of the phone against his skin.
“Well?” Stiles says when what must be a full minute ticks over in total useless unresponsiveness from Derek. “Did you?”
He sounds calm, maybe a little amused, like if Derek could see him his lips would be wavering as he tried to push the smirk back down, his eyes showing the laugh anyway, newly grown-out hair stuck up where he can’t keep his fingers out of it.
Derek’s mental polaroid of Stiles is much too detailed.
“Yes,” he comes out with, a lumbering and graceless syllable. “Yeah I... I did. I wore it.” He grits his teeth to stop himself from rambling, is glad Stiles can’t see how red his face must be given how hot his cheeks feel. The hand he’s not using to hold the phone is twisting the fabric of his pant leg.
Stiles chuckles a little. “All day, like I said?”
Derek shuts his eyes through a long breath, makes himself swallow the dry lump building in his throat. His heart’s beating too loud, too hard in the cage of his ribs, a weird non-pain. He’s trying not to move from where he’s sitting on the edge of his bed, willing his hips to stay still.
“All day,” he answers, scraping from the back of his throat.
Stiles makes a cut-off noise, a moan or just a hum or something else Derek hasn’t heard yet. He can’t tell if it was approval.
“Tell me,” Stiles says, casually to a shuffling in the background. Maybe he’s laying down; it’s late, he could be getting into bed, could be stripped to the thin t-shirt and sleep pants Derek wishes he couldn’t picture so easily.
He swallows again, and it goes down his chest like sandpaper toward the thumping of his heart.
“I went into town, to get furniture,” Derek says, so much effort going into keeping his voice level he’s almost expecting a headache. “And then groceries.”
Stiles hums again. “How’d it feel? Wearing it around for me?” His voice is raspier, fizzing down the connection just a little, a crackle Derek wants to rub into his skin.
Derek presses the phone tighter into the shell of his ear. He’s hard, just noticing it now, the subtle echo of his pulse between his legs. He knows he can’t do anything about it. That’s one of the rules.
“Good,” he says, pushing the word out, hushed and gutted. “It feels good.”
Stiles does moan this time, a tumbling mash of sound and breath. “You’re still wearing it?”
Derek’s heart jams up tight, like a fist squeezing around it.
“You didn’t--” he starts and stops, trying not to grip the phone so hard it’ll crack apart in his hand.
You didn’t tell me to take it out yet.
Stiles shushes him, quick and reassuring like Derek’s a restless child.
“Nono, it’s good,” Stiles tells him. “I wanted you to. Fuck, Derek I wish I could see it.”
Derek clenches his eyes tight again when a helpless noise cracks loose from somewhere around his diaphragm, can imagine it ricocheting down the airwaves right into Stiles’ ear, loud and needy; desperate.
It shouldn’t surprise him. They’ve been doing this for weeks already, longer if Derek lets himself count the charged staring over maps while the Alpha pack was running around, the relentless fall into each other’s orbits after they finally cleared out, taking Peter with them, and the others helped Derek move out of the old house. The first time Stiles got right into his face and said maybe Derek needed a push to get where they both wanted to go, and Derek was so grateful he’d made a noise he didn’t know he was capable of making.
So it shouldn’t surprise him that Stiles wants to see him like this, wound tighter than a coiled spring and balanced on a knife-edge between what Stiles has told - asked - him to do and whatever Stiles is about to ask for.
It does though, just the same.
“I’d get you to show me,” Stiles says, raw and cutting right to the hot-twisted part of Derek’s gut that wants him to beg, to bear his throat to a fucking disembodied voice on a crappy cell phone. “You’d show me, wouldn’t you, Derek? Bend over so I could see it in there? That square of rubber showing me how full you are.”
Derek makes a pained sound, finally letting himself lean back and press down enough to shift the plug in his ass, slippery with lube and stroking over his insides, nudging that spot inside him until he feels the blurt of precome from the slit of his dick.
“Yeah,” he says, the word thick as he pushes into that aching pressure again. “I’d show you.”
Another groaned noise of approval carries into Derek’s head, then a rustle like Stiles is moving his phone around. Derek wants to ask if he’s touching himself, if he’s got his cock in his hand. If he’s as wet as Derek is right now.
“I know you would,” Stiles breathes. “I know you’d do what I told you. You’re so good, Derek.”
Derek’s throat catches on another desperate noise, forcing himself to stop moving. He could come like this, shoving his plug as deep as it’ll go with Stiles murmuring in his ear. But he’s not allowed to come unless Stiles says he can, unless he’s here to see Derek do it. So he won’t. He’ll be good.
“You’re always good,” Stiles says, intent like it’s some piece of vital, lifesaving information he’s trying to make Derek understand. “Always, because you’re mine.”
Derek shudders, can’t stop it, a rolling tremor from his shoulders to his hips that jars the toy inside him hard enough he almost bites through his tongue. His dick strains up into the fabric of his pants, throbbing heavy and probably soaked with precome by now.
He’s never -- Stiles has never said that before. Made it sound like that, as if Derek belongs to him, or like Stiles belongs to Derek. Stiles belongs obviously to Scott, and to his father, and Derek belongs -- outside of that. To the pack, the ones he turned and feels crushingly responsible for.
Derek’s heart feels like it’s about to explode, blood rushing everywhere and heating his skin, nearly as much as the lubed up weight of the plug in his ass.
“Yeah,” he finally says, stupidly proud at the lack of a stutter. It fits though, and there's not even surprise when he realises it; just comfort, bone-deep and richly warm, achoring him but not like his anger does.
Stiles laughs a little, huffing into fuzzy white noise through the speaker. Derek wants to hear it right there with him so badly that for a second it’s genuinely painful.
“Okay. So tell me about this furniture,” Stiles says, jumping tracks and just expecting Derek to keep up, like he isn’t cracking apart right now. “Just please, please tell me it’s not all chrome and black leather? You can do better than minimalist, midlife crisis chic.”
And just like that, Derek catches himself actually smiling, reciting the laundry list of things he’d picked up for the apartment, words bubbling out of him from some dented wellspring Stiles somehow has a map to. The blatant normality is foreign in itself, or like a place Derek had been to once and now only remembers in fits of déjà vu.
The world around him gets bigger again, expanding like it fills with Derek’s steadier breathing; the glow of the lamp next to the bed, the bookshelves with all of ten books on them right now, the closet that’s still mostly grey and black, but with some dark notes of red and green that’ve been slowly sneaking in. The reflected light from the mirror through the open bathroom door streaks over a picture frame with Boyd, Isaac, Erica and Stiles all smushed into it, smiling together in a tangle of limbs on a lumpy couch they’d ended up donating after the last trip from the house.
Stiles leads Derek through his own day, practically handholding but not suffocating, vaguely comforting if Derek could make himself admit to that.
“Training on Wednesday,” Derek reminds Stiles when there’s a pause, as if Stiles has ever missed a session. He’s been better about attending them than Isaac has lately. Derek thinks it’s because of Isaac’s ‘thing’ with Scott, but Stiles isn’t talking and Derek doesn’t want to force an issue that doesn’t need forcing. He’s had to make his peace with Scott skirting the fringes of the pack until he decides otherwise for himself. Stiles has been helpful with that too. Derek needs to stop being surprised.
There’s a chuckle on the other end. “I know,” Stiles says. “I already forged a note to get me out of lacrosse that day. You’d be impressed how good I am at my dad’s signature now.”
Derek feels a pang of guilt about that, but it flares out quickly, like an ember thrown up into the air. He knows Stiles will be wherever he wants to be; where he feels he should be. For now, that’s with Derek and the pack as they spar and learn to work together more cohesively as a unit. He’s not thinking too hard about how integrated Stiles is to that unit these days.
“You’re glowering right now, aren’t you?” Stiles’ voice tugs him back out of his head. “I can almost feel it, your forehead all creased and that dent right between your eyebrows.”
“No,” Derek answers immediately. Then, with a sigh, “I might be, a little.” At least he caught the denial himself that time, before Stiles had to call him on the lack of honesty. Honesty’s one of their rules. There was a time lies were anathema to Derek when talking to people he… cared about; no point even trying when so much of your family were werewolves, whether they were born or turned later by choice. Derek hadn’t expected it to be such a hard habit to get back into.
“It’s okay,” Stiles murmurs quietly into Derek’s ear. “I get it. I promise to tell you if I don’t wanna be there. Just like you promised to tell me if you don’t want me there.”
The air leaves Derek’s lungs on a sigh. “I want you there,” he says, just as quiet and undeniably soft. I always want you here.
“See? No problemo,” Stiles says, back to lighthearted, making Derek puff a short laugh between his lips. How does he do that?
“Don’t forget tomorrow,” Stiles tells him. “I know you’re doing pack stuff with Erica and Boyd. I want you to wear your plug for me again.”
Like a shock into the flayed ends of his nerves, Derek’s body twitches at that. The ‘pack stuff’ is mostly sitting around and watching whatever movies Erica and Boyd insist on, trying not to talk about anything too serious and ending up awkwardly piling onto Derek’s one too-small sofa. Derek doesn’t know how Stiles knows about it, Erica probably told him; they’ve got a weird semi-antagonistic friendship going on lately that Boyd occasionally raises an eyebrow at.
The idea of wearing the plug during all that, one arm hooked over the edge of the sofa while Erica hoards the popcorn and Boyd side-eyes their taste in movies, makes Derek’s neck flush hot and his gut twist around on itself.
“T-they might know,” Derek says, wincing at how he sounds like a kid with an embarrassing secret.
A shuffling noise comes across the line, like Stiles is shrugging even though Derek can’t actually see him. “So?” Stiles says. “It’s not like we kept this a secret for more than half a day anyway. Unless your pups all think we’re braiding each other’s hair and singing campfire songs when I stay over.”
Derek rolls his eyes. “It’s not the same.”
Stiles sighs. “I know. But they don’t care; they just want you to be happy, okay? And trust me, knowing what I know about Erica and Boyd - which is way more than I’d like to, by the way - they’re not exactly gonna be scandalised.”
“Thanks for that,” Derek mutters, untangling his other hand from his pant leg so he can press his forefinger and thumb into his eyes. Stiles’ laughter rings out carefree over the connection, and Derek huffs again.
“So wear it for me tomorrow, and Wednesday, and I’ll want to see it when I come over before the other show up for training.”
Again Derek’s breath stutters to a halt. Stiles is gonna check?
“I said I’d wear it,” Derek points out.
“I know, but I want to see,” Stiles says, something hoarse working into the words. “God, Derek, I really want to see it in you.”
Blood floods back into Derek’s cock so quick he almost gets dizzy, near-involuntary squeeze of his insides around the plug that gets him gasping like a kick to the chest.
“D’you want me to see, Derek?” Stiles asks, coaxing. “See how good you’ve been, how stretched open and pink you are?”
Derek’s nearly panting; control cut off at the knees by how Stiles’ voice wriggles into his head and takes him over.
“If you -- yeah,” he makes himself say, swallowing loudly. “I want that.”
“Want what?” Stiles is quick to follow with. “You need to say it, Derek. I need you to say it.”
“I want you to see it,” Derek almost whispers. “See that I did it for you.”
Stiles groans, and Derek’s hips twitch up to press his dick into the material of his pants and then down until the plug moves a little.
“I’m gonna look,” Stiles tells him, the gruff note his voice takes getting to Derek the way it always does. “Right where you’re so hot and tight and… fuck, wet. You’ve been so good, Derek.”
Derek presses one hand into his crotch, the burning blood-filled stretch of his cock pounding with his heartbeat, desperately trying to take the pressure off, wrest himself back from the sharp edge of need just a little.
“You’re not allowed to come,” Stiles reminds him. “You can touch yourself, so long as you don’t come. Do you think you can do that?”
Derek groans, pressing down harder, the phone almost slipping loose from his grip. His fingers fumble and shove their way into his pants, wrapping tight around his dick that’s still tacky and getting slick again now.
“That’s it,” Stiles whispers, the line crackling. “Fuck your fist for me.”
Derek’s whole body goes taut, hips working up into the slightly awkward grip, barbs of white-hot pleasure ripping through him, the mantra of not allowed to come playing on repeat inside his skull.
“How much do you need it?” Stiles asks, words low and stripped raw. Derek thinks he can hear the sound of skin-on-skin in the background. “You’re so on edge aren’t you? Stuffed with that plug and waiting for me. Fuck, Derek, so hot.”
His fingers press under the head, up and against the slit, the heat of it like a brand on his palm as he leaks all over himself, dark spots showing through the crotch of his pants.
“Close,” he bites out, can feel that final edge building from the backs of his thighs, pressing behind his balls and filling his head with cotton, cock swelling more and twitching hard.
“Stop,” Stiles says. “Let go of your dick.”
Derek doesn’t beg, doesn’t whine, just does as he’s told. His fingers catch the yellow-orange lamplight, wet and cooling in the air, pushing his heels against the floor, trying to ignore the pressure in his ass that’d be enough to get him off if he worked himself onto it hard enough.
“That’s it,” Stiles says again to the sound of Derek’s hard breathing, bringing him around. “Feel good?”
Derek should say no, should demand to come or just finish it himself right then, the spike of need jabbing between his ribs. But as it fades a little he feels… better. Settled; the brief wave of endorphins pushing a weird sense of accomplishment through his body.
He mumbles what he hopes was a yes, valiantly ignoring the hard-on between his legs, and Stiles faint laugh trickles into his ear.
“Wednesday,” Stiles says. “I promise.”
When Stiles finally hangs up, sighing about a test at school, Derek stares down at the phone in his hand and tries to ignore the warped reflection of his own mouth in the screen, smiling up at him.
He drops the phone to the bed, looks around his too-quiet apartment, and tries to focus on breathing until he feels like his legs will support him when he stands to head into the bathroom. He can’t sleep with the plug in, which is the only reason Stiles said he’s allowed to take it out on his own.
Gripping the door frame as he steps onto the cool tile floor, Derek kicks his pants in the vague direction of the laundry hamper, peels his briefs down to just above his knees, trying his best to avoid his dick.
Leaning forward until his cheek’s all but resting on the counter, he reaches back and carefully works the plug free of his body on a hot-wet slide of lube that trails down his thigh and makes him shiver. He lets it drop into the sink, shiny-black and slick, glinting in the unforgiving light.
Derek splashes cold water over his face, determinedly not looking in the mirror or down at the plug as the flow from the faucet streams over it.
He collapses down onto his mattress as if he’s run for miles on sand, limbs heavy and eyes already drooping.
His hand lands on the far side of the bed as he turns, flopping onto the cold sheet, and he sighs his way into sleep.
He gets through his time with Boyd and Erica by sheer force of will.
Waking up to a text from a Stiles that reads ‘Just don’t watch a movie that’ll make you jump’ and smiling to himself, he showers while trying to squash down any thoughts of how he still hasn’t gotten off, his dick half-hard under the spray and twitching as he towels himself off.
Putting the plug in by himself is always a little weird, no hand on his upper back or voice in his ears to focus on as he slicks the thing up and presses it against his hole, the muscle tight and ‘healed’ by now.
He grunts as it slips inside, working past the resistance at the widest point, until the square end of rubber is between his cheeks and he’s breathing so hard it fogs over part of the mirror in front of him.
Gritting his teeth he slowly stands, the plug spreading him open and feeling deep enough it’s like it’s pressing at his guts. His cock’s fully hard by now, but he pulls underwear and pants on without paying attention to it, idly thinks about texting Stiles just to tell him.
He knows Stiles’ll be in class by now, wonders if he’d get hard in his jeans knowing Derek just worked a plug into himself in his bathroom, if he’d spend his Chem test leaking precome into his boxers, chewing on his pen or his lips.
He doesn’t do it, but the thought of it makes it a hundred times more difficult to will his erection down.
Erica and Boyd give him a few sideways glances as the three of them work their way through a box-set of some supernatural-themed ‘drama’ movies that’re more like comedies than anything else. Derek spends a painful amount of time being so sure that they know their Alpha gives it up on a word from a flaily teenage boy, waiting for an aside that never comes and trying not to move in his seat for everything he’s worth.
When they leave, Boyd claps him on the shoulder, and Erica gives him a stare before she breaks out into a genuine smile, and nods like he’s done something good.
Derek’s smiling when the door shuts behind them.
He finds another text blinking on his phone when he thinks to check, Stiles’ name on the screen above the unopened mail symbol.
‘My spies tell me you smiled. Like a real boy. I’m so proud! :)’
Derek rolls his eyes, but there’s some unlikely undercurrent to the words, like he actually means the last part.
He’s probably reading too much into it.
Wednesday’s morning goes much the same.
He wakes up hard this time, tenting out the topsheet and smearing slick into his briefs. At least he didn’t shoot off in his sleep; he’s not sure if that counts as breaking the rule. He stares up at his blank ceiling, listening to the jump of his heart and the faint trill of birdsong beyond the window, forcing his breathing into a steady rhythm.
Sunlight pools in a greyish patch through the curtains, and Derek has to fight off one of those pointless moments when he wonders how he ended up in such a… normal routine. Or as close as he’s ever likely to get.
He thinks about going for a run, he’s got a few hours before Stiles shows up ahead of the rest of the pack for training. The rest of the pack. He’s just throwing Stiles in with that label now. But like a flashbulb going off he remembers the plug left sitting in the sink from the night before, twinge of muscle memory and a bloom of heat rolling down his chest and outward from his hips.
Running can wait.
Spreading himself across the cold counter in front of the mirror again, he feeds the slippery length of the plug up along his taint, pressing tighter until it breaches him, the familiar, low hum of fullness spreading through him. However much his erection flagged after he got out of bed, he’s back to blood-hot and aching now, dick tight to his navel and leaving spots of wet in the trail of wiry hair above his crotch.
He doesn’t touch himself to get off. Every time he puts his plug back in now, he hears Stiles’ voice reverberating inside his skull.
Because you’re mine.
It’s sounding less like a question every time.
Gripping the edge of the counter for a minute, he gets himself back under control, the vague shape of his jaw and the shape of his chest in the mirror even though he’s determined not to look, isn’t even sure what he’d see if he could stare into his own eyes and catch the beads of sweat on his forehead, the veins standing out in his arms with his pulse.
He keeps falling back into the memory of Stiles telling him he was going to look, to… to inspect him, the idea of Stiles seeing him with this thing inside him for the first time since he bought it, scattering sparks through Derek’s whole body.
He doesn’t know how to cope with the fact that he enjoys it so much, that he can’t tell if it’s the feeling of the plug or just the way it wrecks Stiles to hear Derek talk about using it.
Or even if it’s the basic thought of Stiles doing this to him, like he’s fucking Derek even when he hasn’t - when he won’t for some reason Derek’s been too cowardly to ask about, fear of the answer or just of having to hear himself ask the question, he doesn’t know.
God, he wants Stiles to fuck him. Wants it like the need’s living with him inside his skin, shoving all his iron-clad control aside and stepping into his body, stretching and pulling at him even deeper than the plug in his ass.
His fist comes down hard onto the counter, not quite cracking the surface but sending a splintering bolt of pain up Derek’s arm all the same, digging in and distracting him from the runaway train of thought.
Breathing is a bunch of loud hisses through the gaps of his teeth, clenching his eyes to avoid the temptation of squeezing around the toy.
Finally less shaky, he pulls on clothes and shoes and grabs the ring-bound set of keys he still feels awkward walking around with, like they’re some neon sign that hangs above him and says Real Person, come and take it all away from me.
Forcing his hand onto the handle of his front door, he decides he didn’t pick up everything he needed from the grocery store.
It takes five minutes of sitting in his car with his head propped against the wheel before he feels ready to start the engine.
When the sound of an eerily familiar set of footfalls traipses up the corridor and stops outside Derek’s door, Derek’s caught between scrambling to get it open and actually waiting to let Stiles knock. As it is, the door opens with his fingers on the handle just as Stiles’ fist connects with the outside in a double tap.
He trails off when Stiles offers up a shrug and the kind of conspiratorial smile Derek’s only ever seen him aim at Scott.
“I might’ve skipped last period too,” Stiles says, emphasising the might like he’s not standing outside Derek’s apartment a full hour before Derek had been expecting him.
“Really?” he says, dry as bleached bones, and Stiles’ grin takes over his face as Derek steps back enough to let him in.
He stands silent as Stiles does an obvious survey of the apartment, nowhere near as bare as it was the last time he was here.
“It’s coming along,” Stiles says as he turns back to Derek, faint curve still sitting along his wide mouth.
“Glad you approve,” Derek says, not sure how much of it is actually sarcasm.
Stiles is chuckling as he reaches out, tugs on the back of Derek’s neck, presses his lips to Derek’s until they open and Stiles’ tongue strokes into his mouth.
Derek groans, pulling in the smell of shampoo and deodorant and warm, homey scent of Stiles’ body, letting his hands trail up Stiles’ neck and his fingers work into the messy shock of hair he’s still not completely used to.
Stiles hums a little under his breath when they move apart, licks his lips and looks at Derek with slightly hooded eyes.
“Missed that,” Stiles says, one corner of his mouth turning upward, hands on Derek’s hips.
“Yeah,” Derek nods. He’s not used to that either.
Stiles’ smile widens as he steps in again, lips parting Derek’s and tongue pressing deeper, earthy taste and the smell of him turning closer to the sex-muddied one Derek thinks he’s addicted to. Stiles always smells like sex to him now, raw need and temptation like something dialled specifically towards Derek.
He lets out a sound when Stiles’ hands move to his ass and fit to the curves of muscle there, pulling their hips together. Stiles is hard, Derek can feel it pressing into his thigh, his own erection already catching up.
The wet sounds of them kissing fill the room, Derek’s ears, seem to fill all the space around them until they pull apart again with a wet click.
Derek’s lips tingle, hot as the pressure swelling fades from them, the deeper flush on Stiles’ left behind in reminder.
“Wearing it for me?” Stiles asks, like he can’t help himself.
Derek gives a nod, about all he can manage with the focused look in Stiles eyes aimed at him, so close to him Derek can feel Stiles’ breath on his lips. He ignores the burn in his cheeks in favour of the way Stiles’ pupils expand like he’s just taken a hit of something, Derek watching the deep brown of iris dissolve in a perfect circle of black.
“What-” he tries, has to swallow when speaking grates his throat. His voice isn’t his, doesn’t sound like it to his ears or feel like it when it falls out of his chest, too quiet and passive. “What do you want me to do?”
Stiles gets right against Derek’s chest, warm waft of his scent wrapping around Derek’s senses, something stuffed deep down in the back of his head going quiet and loose at having him so close. Derek looks at him, even though it’s painful, Stiles uncompromisingly present and so many things Derek knows he can’t really have, not ever.
“Anything,” he mutters, eyes locked somewhere on Stiles’ chest. He shivers with the word. He’s never said that before, never made the admission of how far he’d go if Stiles just told him please tell me.
“Yeah? Anything huh?” Stiles presses.
“Whatever you want,” Derek says again shakily, the words denser on his tongue and his eyes finally twitching up to meet Stiles’.
Stiles doesn’t look surprised. He smiles, faint twitch of that pink mouth. His eyes are warm, maybe overly bright with whatever he’s feeling.
The moment stretches until it’s nearly unbearable, Derek spends the whole thing feeling like he’s two seconds from dropping to his knees right there, taking in the hot-bittersweet smell of Sties’ body.
“Take these off,” Stiles finally says, the fingers on Derek’s arm plucking at his shirt and his eyes dipping to Derek’s waist.
Derek steps back and peels his shirt up over his head, pitifully glad for the brief few seconds when Stiles can’t see his face, flushed and damp at his temples.
His pants fall to the floor, toes snagging in the tops of his socks to pull them off.
He stands naked and bare with a silicone plug in the clutch of his ass, Stiles’ eyes raking over his skin.
“The wall,” Stiles says with a nod aimed over Derek’s shoulder. “I want you to put your hands on the wall and show me your plug.”
Derek’s bottom lip finds its way between his teeth, a jerky nod that rattles his neck until he’s doing what his-what Stiles told him to.
He hears Stiles’ groan just before he steps up behind Derek, the sound of clothes hitting the floor as he undresses, and Derek wishes he could’ve seen him do that. Stiles has grown over the past six months, and he’s broader across his shoulders, thicker with tightly-packed muscle. It makes some primal instinct in Derek feel proud on Stiles’ behalf, along with an impulse he doesn’t understand to show Stiles off to the pack - to anyone he can - at the same time that he wants to kill anyone for looking.
Derek’s cock swells in a perverted press against the wall he’s leaning on, and he’s trying to picture what Stiles can see, the square end of the plug between his ass cheeks, warring against the vulnerable skin that doesn’t see sunlight, pale except for the darker hair there.
Stiles’ body heat mingles into Derek’s, the smell of him and what Derek can pick up of his own arousal mixing in the air.
“Drives me so fucking crazy,” Stiles grinds out, hips stuttering against Derek’s ass and his hand reaching down, pressing the plug deeper, nudging Derek’s prostate and rubbing wetly against his insides. “Sitting in class, thinking about you driving or walking around, talking to people with this inside you. Keep imagining it like it’s me; like it’s my cock in you instead.”
Derek’s throat makes some mangled noise that turns to shrapnel against his teeth, forehead knocking hard into the wall and whole body locking up, even while he tries to push back into all the places Stiles is touching him, addicted and strung-out.
“You’re so open,” Stiles whispers, ringing like a bellow in the almost non-existent space. “So ready for me to fuck you.”
The noise Derek hears then makes no sense until he realises it’s coming from him, buzzing in his throat as he whines and the back of his neck burns under the weight of Stiles’ eyes on him. He knows Stiles can see every bit of how much Derek’s getting off on this in the tight lines of his back and the pleading twitch of his hips. He wants to howl his throat raw over how much he likes the fact that Stiles can see it.
This is what you do to me, he thinks, somehow savage and trembling at the same time.
Stiles’ fingers press heavily into the base of the plug, Derek’s grunt turning to a whimper as the length of it reaches even further into him. “I bet you like thinking about it,” Stiles says, almost a taunt except for how flint-sharp he sounds, liable to snap. His front presses tighter to Derek’s back, skin cooler in places and scalding in others. Stiles’ lips meet the back of Derek’s ear, hot-wet breath scattering everywhere. His voice is fire, eating away at everything. “I think you want me to fuck you, Derek.”
Derek’s hands ball into fists against the wall, a brief hint of claws that score his palms.
“Please,” he chokes out like a curl of smoke.
“Please what?” Stiles chases him with, echoing, the way he always does. His hand fits to the jut of Derek’s hipbone, and Derek tastes blood as his teeth nick his tongue, because that’s Stiles’ cock hot and heavy and pressing against his ass. “You know you need to say it.”
Derek sucks in air that feels ice cold right the way into his lungs, burns his dry throat as he tries to swallow, copper tang on his tongue.
“Fuck me,” he grates, desperate and past caring. “Put it in me. Use me. I want it. God, please.”
Stiles makes a thump of a noise like he’s been kicked, and Derek can feel the jerk-slap of his dick as it twitches and dribbles precome onto Derek’s skin.
The plug shifts again under Stiles’ grip, tugging smooth and slow until Derek’s hole works around the widest part of it and he’s empty, so fucking empty as lube cools between his cheeks.
Then Stiles’ cock is pushing at him, Derek’s body locking up except for the welcoming, slutty tug of his insides when Stiles works his hips in and in and in.
Derek losses his breath like water between his fingers, Stiles’ dick feels impossibly huge, and no matter how many times he’s had his fingers around it or his mouth on it, it’s never fucked him open like this, strong, measures thrusts into his body like he’ll be swallowing around the head by the time Stiles is fully seated.
“Jesus, Derek, you’re still so tight,” Stiles says, punched out and breathless. He works himself deeper, Derek panting and moaning while his ass stretches around the girth of him, the ring of muscle burning and slick, probably shining wet in the light while Stiles watches.
Derek’s nearly out of his mind when Stiles is all the way inside, pressing lips and tongue and the scrape of teeth to Derek’s shoulder, sucking hot marks into his skin around the spirals of his tattoo.
Stiles grunts, rubs the curved wings of his hipbones against Derek’s ass, shifts the weight of his cock inside him, rubbing and slipping and driving the thoughts from Derek’s head.
“They never stay,” Stiles says, teeth pressing into the meat of Derek’s upper arm, a couple of hard slams of his hips that have Derek’s eyes rolling into his head. “Gets under my skin, Derek,” Stiles grunts on another rolling thrust. “Makes me wanna -- God, makes me want to get you a fucking collar or something.”
Derek makes a garbled, shaky sound, dick leaking onto the carpet between his feet, slapping up hot against his belly. Stiles still makes the werewolf-dog jokes sometimes, but that’s not… he meant that. It sounded like it rubbed his voice raw and got spat out like blood, and now Derek’s getting the phantom memory of every time Stiles put his hand on Derek’s neck, around his throat, the gleam in his eyes as he did.
The rocking of his hips into the pressure of Stiles fucking deeper into him is all the answer he can manage. Stiles breathes curses and praise and filth along the marks he leaves in Derek’s skin, pounding harder and faster into Derek’s ass, the obscene slick noise of skin-on-skin resounding in the apartment.
Just when Derek thinks Stiles is about to come, is about to beg to come himself in case he can’t stop from shooting over the wall and all over himself before Stiles says he can, Stiles’ hips go still and his hands move over to Derek’s sides, low down on his waist.
“Come on,” Stiles says, leading Derek awkwardly backwards with his dick still snugged tight in the grip of Derek’s body.
The backs of Stiles’ legs reach the edge of the bed, and his hands pull Derek down onto him, impaling him as his hips shift upward.
Derek makes a wounded noise in his throat when the weight of his body pulls him right down onto Stiles’ cock, his head lolling forwards enough to see his slit spreading around another load of precome.
“There you go,” Stiles breathes, one hand on Derek’s ass, spreading him wider, and the other gripping in the sheets. “Ride it.”
Derek lifts himself up on unsteady thighs, drops back down hard and feels Stiles’ moan like a touch all along his spine, the pure heat of the noise working between every notch and bone.
His dick jerks, angry-red with every downward drop into Stiles’ lap, the blunt pressure of Stiles’ cock in him going so deep every time he swears he does feel it in his throat.
“You can come,” Stiles croaks out, hand running up the valley of Derek’s back, smoothing through sweat and resting against the tattoo between his shoulders. “When you’re ready, you can come.”
Derek doesn’t pause to consider it, pushes his hips down hard and strips his dick, fingers slip-sliding in precome as his balls tighten against his body.
It’s like a white-hot poker at his temples, the burn spreading through his skull and up from his spasming toes, trembling in his calves and aching in his thighs as he empties days worth of come over his fist and in searing ropes up to his bellybutton, one painful jerk after another as he squeezes around Stiles’ cock.
He milks Stiles’ orgasm out of him almost accidentally, the uncoordinated shifting of his body and the roiling clench of inner muscle until Stiles arches back onto the mattress with a thump and cries out as another, vague kind of heat spread around where the head’s holding Derek open on the inside, pushed around as he twitches.
Derek feels soaked from the inside out, sweat droplets falling to the carpet from his hair and every muscle shuddering, Stiles’ hands on him the only solid thing he can feel that isn’t the rub of carpet against the soles of his feet.
Brain turned to mush and body barely moving when he tells it to, Derek gets turned and shifted up the bed by the urging of Stiles’ pulling at him, until they’re a tangle of legs and arms and sweaty hair pressed between their foreheads.
Stiles strokes up and down his back over and over, their breathing loud between them and their lips nudging sloppily. There’s come and lube working out of Derek’s body, tingling between his thighs that he’s barely aware of.
Tugging on his wrist, Stiles draws Derek’s hand to his mouth and cleans the come from his fingers, tongue lapping at the space between and lips pulling around the length of every digit. Derek’s dick gives a half-minded, overoptimistic twitch against the rounded curve of Stiles’ thigh.
Derek’s hand falls to the sheet, into the tiny space between them, still wet but less sticky, a fleck of thick-white on the corner of Stiles’ mouth that Derek licks away.
“What now?” he almost whispers, tentative like stepping onto sheet ice.
Stiles presses a weirdly innocent kiss to the tip of Derek’s nose, so gentle Derek wants it to hurt because the pain always lasts a little longer than the softness anyway.
“Now we shower,” Stiles says, a low mumble almost right against Derek’s skin, so close the image of him blurs in Derek’s vision. “Then your betas’ll show up, and you teach them like only you can. Meanwhile I watch you run around and yell orders and try not to get hard again.”
“You’re staying?” Derek asks, pointless but slipping out before he can quash it.
Another kiss, then another, leading up to the space between Derek’s eyebrows. “No place I’d rather be,” Stiles says, and Derek doesn’t even try to pick out the sound of his heartbeat, takes the words for what they are in a way he struggles to do even with the pack.
Honesty’s one of their rules.
The training sessions have moved on since those early days and weeks when everything was new, clouded with power and the threat of the incoming Alpha pack was so pressing that Derek used his authority as a club instead of a guiding hand.
He’s still learning, they all are, but things are definitely better now.
They start with what’s basically a more competitive game of tag. Derek moves in Alpha form through the Preserve, and each of the betas have to track him and make physical contact while someone else - usually Stiles - times them.
It’s a good all-rounder to improve their tracking skill and give them practice at silently approaching a target. It’d been Boyd’s idea after the Alpha pack had left, and it’s worked out a lot better than Derek was expecting.
Isaac’s typically the fastest, but what advantage he has in speed he tends to lose in stealth, most of the time Derek will hear him coming and double back, approaching from the side and knocking him down. Boyd’s quick, but he favours a straight-on attack that leaves him vulnerable from other angles, especially from above if Derek hauls himself into the trees. Erica’s found a good balance between the two, she’s fast and good at staying hidden, and sneaky when it comes to striking from unexpected lines of cover.
After almost an hour, they race back to the scent and sound of Stiles, nearer the edge of the tree line.
Derek arrives first, shifts back mid-leap so he leaves the ground on four legs and lands next to Stiles on two.
“Showoff,” Stiles mutters, throwing a pair of grey sweatpants at Derek. Derek grins as his teeth go back to blunt and human, leans in and presses his mouth to Stiles’ just as Erica and Boyd catch up, Isaac right behind if a little more winded.
“Well?” Boyd asks Stiles. “How’d we do?”
“Better,” Stiles answers, looking down at the phone in his hand. “All of you were at least half a second quicker. Or maybe your Alpha’s getting slow. He’s kinda old y’know.”
“Funny,” Derek says, deadpan, snagging the bottles of water from the bag on the ground and passing them around. “Maybe you can take a turn, see how long you manage to evade them.”
Stiles’ mouth works silently for a second. “I don’t trust your kids not to play rough,” he finally says, and Erica laughs.
“Aw we promise there’ll be no permanent damage,” she drawls, aiming a smirk at Stiles. “The humiliation might last a lifetime, but the bones will mend.”
Stiles flips her off, and she laughs again, a smile taking over Boyd’s mouth as he watches the exchange, Isaac shaking his head in the background.
“Okay, okay,” Derek says. “Fighting practice, all of you. Including you, Stiles,” he adds. “Pair up with Isaac.”
“What about you?” Stiles asks.
“Wouldn’t be a fair fight,” Derek answers with another grin. “Unless you think you can take me?”
Stiles’ eyes flash so blatantly he almost looks like a wolf. “Oh I’m pretty sure I could,” he says, making Erica laugh again.
Derek hides the skip-thud of his heart behind the cool, raised-eyebrow expression, and Stiles mouths an apology when the others all shove past, heading for the clearing where they do the more dangerous drills.
“Hey,” Stiles says quietly, snagging Derek’s forearm in one hand as he goes to follow the others. “I didn’t mean-” He waves his other hand in the air and Derek sighs.
“I know,” he says, turning so he’s between Stiles and the betas in the clearing. “It’s okay, and you’re right, it’s not like we’re really hiding anything.”
“I embarrassed you,” Stiles says.
Derek goes to shake his head and deny, but catches himself. “Just barely,” he says, putting on a smile knowing only Stiles can see it. “I know you wouldn’t -- it wasn’t what you meant to do.”
Stiles smiles back, shoulders sagging a little in relief. Derek wants to kiss him again.
“Besides,” he says over the urge to step right against Stiles’ body. “I don’t like keeping secrets from them; it’s not good for the pack.”
Stiles’ smile widens. “Look at you,” he says, pride filling the words. “Definitely working towards that real boy goal now.”
Derek snorts and rolls his eyes. “Just don’t get beaten up too badly,” he teases, pushing the tone level even though he’s sure the others are listening. “I want you back in the same condition you were in when I loaned you out.”
Stiles gapes. “Loan-” He scoffs, steps close enough the tips of his sneakers nudge Derek’s bare toes. “You’re getting it later,” he promises, low and intense.
“Looking forward to it,” Derek says, dry, and turns to jog into the clearing, Stiles scrambling to catch him up.
Stiles drops a cock ring onto his bed one evening like it’s nothing, holding his hands out, palms-up like a card dealer.
Derek goes from zero to a hundred and twenty so fast he has to force the air into his lungs, eyes looking up into Stiles’ from where Derek’s seated in Stiles’ computer chair.
“Got you something,” Stiles drawls.
Derek doesn’t know where Stiles gets this stuff. It started with the plug, and then it was a vibrator, and now this. All he’d said the one time Derek asked was Danny has a friend who’s even less into asking questions than he is.
Stiles slides smoothly into Derek’s lap, his hands fitting around Derek’s wrists and keeping them held between them. It’s not like Derek couldn’t break away, they both know that, and while Derek doesn’t want to be tied down he does feel the thrill of it when Stiles’ long fingers wrap around his pulse-points and direct his movements.
Leaning up so he’s looking on an incline down into Derek’s eyes, Stiles presses their hips together and kisses Derek slow and deep. Derek gets lost in this so easy now, eyes staying open because he wants to see, even if it’s blurred, the way Stiles’ lashes fan wide across his cheeks as he groans into Derek’s mouth.
Derek turns pliant between the back of the chair and the weight of Stiles’ body, tilts his head up into the slew of kisses Stiles’ laves across his mouth and spreads his legs a little when Stiles grinds down into him.
With a wet, clinging pop, Stiles pulls back enough to look Derek in the eye, a blush already sitting hot and low on his cheeks, the smell of it making Derek’s toes curl.
“I’m gonna put that on you,” he tells Derek, nodding over at the bed and the cock ring sitting on the sheet. “Make it so you can’t come until I say. Then I’m gonna suck your brains out through your dick.”
He follows it with a toothy grin as he slides off Derek’s lap and stands up, coaxing Derek up and silently onto his feet.
“Strip,” Stiles says, pink tongue flicking over his lips as he watches with dark eyes.
Derek pulls his shirt over his head, pants and underwear going right after. He’s not wearing the plug today, and he’d been wondering why until now.
“Go lay down,” Stiles says when Derek’s naked, Stiles pulling his own shirt and jeans off while Derek lies with his head on Stiles’ pillows, the smell of him everywhere.
He’s half-hard, getting to all the way stiff as Stiles climbs halfway up the length of his body and rubs a hand over the top of his thigh, the black circle of the cock ring hanging from the fingers of his other hand.
Stiles is still wearing his boxers, the thick curve of his dick obvious and pressing the waistband away from his hip, but Derek gets that this is about him for now and not Stiles. It’s the same thing if Derek is Stiles’ anyway, right?
Leaning over him, Stiles looks up into Derek’s face as he presses his mouth to the underside of Derek’s cock, a wet slip of tongue under the head until Derek groans and his nipples tighten, watching Stiles’ mouth working away at him.
Fully hard and curving against his thigh, Stiles jacks Derek’s dick slowly in his hand until Derek can’t stop his back from arching. Stiles unsnaps the cock ring and clips it shut around the base of Derek’s balls, his pulse picking up a bass-heavy pound in the length of him.
“There,” Stiles says, smiling almost to himself, Derek’s chest rising and falling shallowly, hands firmly twisting in Stiles’ sheets.
When Stiles’ mouth parts around the head of his dick, Derek grits his teeth and locks his spine, keeps his hips flat to the mattress.
Stiles screws his lips down tight, the head of Derek’s cock just barely pressing into the flutter of his throat before he pulls up with a slurping suck that Derek feels in his toes.
He hums, wanton and outright greedy as he twists on the down stroke and sucks harder, tongue tracing over the swell of veins and smudging drabs of precome along the velvet-smooth insides of his cheeks.
One of Stiles’ hands fumbles onto Derek’s, puts it to the side of his head by his ear as he looks up with blown eyes and sinks down again.
Derek’s fingers stroke over the unruly spikes of Stiles’ hair like they’ve got a mind all their own, Derek trying to focus on the feel of it so he doesn’t move too much under the attention of Stiles’ mouth.
It feels like it lasts for years, the pressure of Stiles’ tongue, the vacuum suction of his mouth when his cheeks hollow and he sinks deeper, drool and precome running down his chin, looking up through his lashes and swallowing loudly.
Derek’s sweating, he can feel it itching as it runs down his sides and between the lines of his muscles. He’s chewing on his own lips watching Stiles’ turn to a filthy O, swollen and vivid pink as he bobs quicker and quicker.
He doesn’t know what to do with himself like this, no real orders to follow or ways he’s allowed to move, one hand trying not to shred the cotton between his fingers and the other fitted to the shape of Stiles’ skull.
Stiles’ fingers play with Derek’s hole, a dry tip of one pressing in to make him feel the pressure that jimmies between his vertebrae and makes his thighs tremble, his toes curled on themselves so tightly they’ve gone numb.
He’s out of his mind, caught between the fierce need to fuck up into that wet, slippery heat and the iron-hard voice in his head that tells him he can’t, because Stiles hasn’t said he can.
Another pull of suction and Derek draws blood across his lower lip, pure animal noises leaking from his chest when Stiles draws up enough to spread wet across his mouth, heave in a ragged breath and swallow him back down.
There’s a subtle click that Derek doesn’t realise is the cock ring until he’s whiting out, totally gone as his balls are allowed to tighten up and pump empty into the heaven of Stiles’ waiting mouth, almost-painful suction and throat closing vice-tight around him as Stiles’ finger twists just barely deeper, the edge of pain shoving Derek even further past the hazy cliff of his orgasm.
He bows up, a sharp curve that cracks in his spine and aches his shoulders, thick pulses he can feel Stiles swallowing down in a rolling motion of his neck, humming around Derek’s dick until the vibration shatters through every nerve in his body.
Derek practically mewls when Stiles pulls off of him, blinking hazily and his limbs weighted to the bed as if they’d been tied to the frame.
Stiles knee-walks up the sheets, legs splayed on either side of Derek’s ribs until he’s straddling Derek’s chest.
He tugs his dick out through the open slit of buttons at the front, long and thickly veined and damp at the head, smelling so strongly of sex it sends more aftershocks through Derek’s core.
With a few rough, shaking pulls full of blurted breathing, Stiles cries out and comes across Derek’s face, streaks of sticky-wet landing over his nose and diagonally up his forehead, fingers wringing it out of him as Derek keeps his eyes locked upward on Stiles’ face, contorted in pleasure and so red, almost as much as the head of his cock as a few more weakly-shot gobs of come land on Derek’s neck and pool in the hollow his throat.
“Oh my God,” Stiles murmurs, sounding raw from the abuse his throat just took, rubbing more sharp edges of sensation down Derek’s twisted senses. “Fucking -- so hot, Derek. Look at you; all messed up. Found a mark that’ll stick huh?”
His fingers stroke over the bridge of Derek’s nose, the edge of his cheekbones and the corners of his lips, smearing come all over his skin and through the hair along his jaw while Derek tries not to whimper at the overpowering and blindly male smell of it.
Stiles kisses him, practically fucks Derek’s mouth with his tongue, tasting thick and bitter, Derek chasing it to the backs of his teeth and along the edges of Stiles’ tongue. Stiles’ hands caress over his cheeks, the slippery push of come turning the gentle touch into something beyond obscene.
Finally collapsing down next to Derek’s prone body, Stiles aligns them from shoulders to toes, leaning over until his hand presses to the middle of Derek’s chest, almost like he’s checking Derek’s still alive.
Derek lets his eyes drift closed, Stiles’ head butting into the arch of his shoulder, one leg thrown over Derek’s, soaking up the body heat Derek’s radiating.
“Thanks,” Derek mutters on a sigh. He’s not sure if Stiles hears it. He’s not even really sure what he means when he says it.
Stiles hand finds his again, strong knuckles bumping together and fingers tangling.
A slight clinch of their interlaced hands, and Derek gets the message.
Derek’s never sure how much Scott knows.
He’s had to accept he’s never going to get a total grasp on Scott’s motives at all. He’s stopped trying to get him to join the pack at least, and now whenever they see each other something Stiles said always floats to the surface of whatever he’s thinking.
Scott didn’t wanna be a wolf. I don’t think he even would’ve asked for it if he’d had the choice. Now it’s stuck in his head like the worst thing that’s ever happened to him, or the start of it anyway. He’s just… you’re too different. He’s never going to think of it the way you do.
Derek had seen him the day the Argents left town, regret and resignation all over his face, one last wave between him and Allison before her and her father drove off.
There would’ve been a day, not too long ago, that Derek would’ve been relieved. He would’ve thought of it like proof that whatever Allison had left him with, it wasn’t love, no matter how broken. But seeing it, he’d just felt sympathy, and helplessness that Scott wouldn’t want his advice or his comfort even if Derek knew where or how to start offering them.
And now there’s the issue of Derek’s -- connection, with Stiles, and he doesn’t know how to look at Scott through the lens of that relationship either. Scott is Stiles best friend, he was long before Derek came back to Beacon Hills, and he probably always will be, judging be from the way they are with each other.
Derek’s almost glad he’s used to not understanding where he fits with whatever grand scheme is around him.
Scott mentions Stiles’ interest in Derek only once, and that’s to tell him with a completely straight face:
“If Stiles gets hurt, either because he wanted to help you or because you didn’t have the guts to stop him from trying, then you’ll be the one who gets hurt next.”
He’d wanted to tell himself he was surprised, either that Scott knew about him and Stiles at all - had Stiles mentioned it? Was it something Scott even wanted to know? - or that Scott considered Derek worthy enough of laying hands on his best friend to issue the warning, and not an outright demand that Derek leave Stiles alone. Maybe he just knew better than to try and make Stiles’ choices for him by then, Derek still isn’t sure.
Derek remembers the cousins he’d had as a kid, the ones everyone else in the family singled out at some point, muttering ‘There’s Alpha there, you mark my words’.
His grandmother had said that about Laura once, even though she’d scoffed and said why would she want to be the Alpha when it was so much work.
He can see that potential in Scott, now that he knows to look for it. Whether he gets there or not is a different issue, but the strength of will and instinct is all there, and Scott’s heart is in the right place so often it’s practically cemented there. He’s more prepared for the role than Derek ever was. Or Laura.
Derek never tells Stiles about that conversation, and he doesn’t ask if Scott mentioned it. He’d tell Stiles if he ever asked, and part of Derek feels guilty for lying by omission. But he reminds himself again that Stiles will be where he wants to be, and where he feels he’s needed.
And if that makes Derek selfish, then it’s nothing he didn’t already know.
At least he’s owning that now. That has to be better, doesn’t it?
The day Stiles declares that Derek has a hand kink is a Saturday they spend mostly confined to Derek’s bed, with Stiles’ single-minded focus on fucking Derek blind with his fingers.
Derek’s teeth catch in his pillowcase, breath heating the cotton between his lips as Stiles’ works two fingers wider apart and deeper inside him.
He’s come once already, Stiles’ fingers massaging relentlessly over his prostate until he shuddered and shot off rutting into his mattress, the tug and ache of his hole around the length of Stiles’ digits making starburst patterns behind his tight-shut lids.
Derek knows Stiles is hard, the smell of him blood-filled and leaking so strong that Derek can nearly taste it, but he’s insisting on ignoring it, no matter how brokenly Derek begs to get fucked, to suck Stiles off, anything.
Stiles works a third finger into him, Derek’s hips shoving back until the knot of them slides up to the third knuckle and spreads him filthy-wide to the cool air, lube trickling over his skin and Stiles swearing under his breath as he stuffs Derek more and more full.
“Fuck, just fuck me,” Derek pleads again, trying to roll fully onto his stomach, Stiles’ other hand holding his one leg by the ankle like a manacle, pushing him up and open.
Stiles pauses, a quick halt of his fingers buried deep in Derek’s ass that make Derek feel like a butterfly pinned to cardboard.
Then, like it never happened, Stiles unfreezes and gently slides his fingers out of Derek, sitting up on the mattress while Derek turns enough to look at him.
Stiles non-slick hand grabs one of Derek’s, pulls him up and away from the bed. “C’mere,” he says, one quick glance to make sure Derek’s following before he carries on toward… the bathroom.
“What?” Derek forces himself to ask, trampling hard on the rising voice that says he’s done something wrong, that he's fucked it up and Stiles is gonna leave, that he should shove all his walls and barriers up now before the real blows start to land.
Stiles huffs when Derek’s greater mass pulls them to a halt. “Just… come with me. It’s nothing bad, I promise,” he tacks on, probably noticing the shitty job Derek’s doing of keeping his face blank. Or maybe he’s doing it too well and Stiles has actually gotten used to seeing Derek respond to every little thing. He’s not sure which is the bigger failing.
But Stiles can’t be lying, because no matter what lies Stiles chooses to tell and why, he’s never lied to Derek when it’s about this. It’s one of the rules, Stiles can’t break them either, he wouldn’t, Derek keeps telling himself.
Derek almost knocks right into Stiles when they walk into the bathroom, the small space not really any good for two people standing around at the same time.
“Okay,” Stiles breathes out, like he’s psyching himself up. “Here’s what’s gonna happen. We’re still gonna fuck, ‘cause, well.” He gestures at where Derek’s standing, and then down at his own dick, still hard and stained plum-dark, pulled taut to his body. “But we’re doing it in here.”
“What? Why?” Derek punches out before he can think to stop himself.
Stiles smiles at him, and in the small, squarish room the fact that he’s reached Derek’s height lately is weirdly overwhelming. Stiles has always taken up more space than his body, filled the gaps around him with emphatic limbs and quick words, but now he looks almost too big, like he’s blotting out the space instead of struggling to fill it.
“Because I need you to see,” Stiles says, soft and knowing, his head twitching in the direction of the mirror. “I need to show you, because telling you isn’t ever going to be enough.”
“No, it’s -- Telling’s enough,” Derek insists, clumsy and unsure how to make Stiles understand. Stiles has to know that whatever he does is enough, even when it’s too much and Derek doesn’t think he can bear it, it’s always enough.
Stiles shakes his head. “It’s not your fault, okay? Words, they’re-” Another headshake. “I need you to see, so you’ll believe it.”
He reaches out, snags Derek’s hand again, and pulls him closer. It’s like gravity, or some other force that draws Derek in and in front, until Stiles is pressed naked to his back and Derek’s in front of the sink.
Stiles’ hands go to Derek’s hips, fingers fitting into the curved lines of muscle, and squeezing until Derek’s breath isn’t as choppy. His chin rests on the slope of Derek’s shoulder in a way it never could have if he hadn’t caught up to Derek’s height.
“Look,” Stiles breathes next to his ear, damningly gentle. “Look at us, Derek.”
Derek tries, he does, but there’s a painful scrape in his chest and he shakes his head, eyes darting down again.
“I can’t,” he says, hating the way it sounds. He’s never said that, not and meant it anyway, outside of pleasured gasps when it always turned out Stiles knew his limits better than he did.
“You know what to say,” Stiles answers him. “If you really want to stop this, you know what you need to say.”
The word sits on Derek’s tongue, never used or even wanted. He could do it, say it and Stiles would back off without a hint of disapproval or disappointment, the control he has over Derek like this would fall to loose ribbons around his feet and get kicked aside. He could…
One of Stiles’ hands runs up and across his chest, palm flattening over his heart before it strokes up to the edge of his jaw, the slightest touch of pressure.
“I know you,” Stiles says, hushed and maybe a little thick, and Derek doesn’t understand the tremor that quakes along his body. “Please trust me to know you can do this?”
Please trust me.
It rebounds and scatters against every cold, rigid thought Derek has, works into every undeserving cell and protesting muscle.
It’s not -- he knew he trusted Stiles, of course he did. But this is more, somehow, potent and indescribably true, the truest thing Derek can remember feeling since his life and everything in it burned to the ground.
His eyes twitch up, just a little, stubble on his jaw scraping over the outside of Stiles’ forefinger and the inside of his thumb, the stretch of skin between them.
What he sees in the mirror isn’t him. Can’t be him.
Derek might avoid catching full-on looks at his own reflection a lot of the time, but what he’s looking at now is… something else.
“That’s it,” Stiles says, and Derek can see his mouth moving, sees the shift of his chin along Derek’s shoulder as well as feeling it.
Now he’s started looking, he can’t seem to stop. Whatever creature that stares back at him with pupils blown wide into blackness pulls at him, red staining so much of his skin and the heave of his chest against Stiles’ behind him.
Stiles turns enough to press a kiss to the curve of Derek’s neck, below his ear. “You see it now, huh?” he says, and the sensory input from watching the smile form and feeling it against his skin is almost overloading. “You see what I see, all the time.”
Derek watches his own throat roll as he swallows, the bob of his Adam’s apple, but it’s his face, so totally unguarded and gutting in how open it is, every foolish want and selfish need spread over the bones of his cheeks and the skin of his brow as well as if he’d gotten them tattooed there. He’s branded with it and he didn’t even realise.
“W-what?” Derek asks, all breath and not even sure what he means.
Stiles smiles again, wider, kiss-sore lips tugging wide. “You,” he says, simply. “I see you. The real you. The you that’s mine.”
Another tremble takes Derek over, and Stiles' hands rest in the middle of his chest and low on his belly, hold him back into the leaner heat of Stiles’ body.
“I know,” Stiles tells him, like he could see the path of Derek’s denial even though Derek couldn’t. He presses his lips to Derek’s neck again. “And I get that it’s a lot, but I needed you to see yourself like this. Because you deserve to know.”
He steps around Derek just enough to tug him back into a kiss, their mouths meeting awkwardly but hot and wet and tugging a pleading noise from Derek’s gut.
Stiles hums into the slick heat of Derek’s mouth. “I’m gonna fuck you now,” he says, Derek’s jaw going slightly loose as Stiles licks over his tongue and flicks his against Derek’s teeth. “And we’re both gonna watch you take it this time.”
He’s moving back behind Derek again almost before Derek knows what’s happening, wet marks sucked into the back of Derek’s neck that heal just as quickly. Might be something to that collar idea of Stiles’.
Stiles’ fingers run up the hot space between Derek’s cheeks, find his hole and press, making them both gasp.
Derek’s tightened up even in the few minutes since Stiles prepped him, but he’s slick with lube and when the burning-blunt pressure of Stiles’ dick works past that ring of muscle Derek shudders and leans his hips back away from the narrow edge of the countertop, his own cock filling up again as Stiles pushes in.
Stiles lets his forehead drop the back of Derek’s neck, breath pluming over his nape and down between his shoulders, the thick weight of his dick spreading Derek open and going deeper, deeper, so fucking deep.
“God,” Stiles bites out, loud to Derek’s ears. “So hot, so good for me. That feel good?”
Derek’s answer gets lost amid a devastated whimper as Stiles feeds him another inch, sliding through lube and the precome Stiles drools inside of him, the heat going all the way to Derek’s core.
When Stiles’ hips meet Derek’s ass they’re both panting, the rise and fall of Stiles’ chest against Derek’s back bizarrely comforting.
Derek’s head wants to drop back, rest on Stiles’ shoulder like Stiles’ was on his, but he knows he’s supposed to look, that they’re both supposed to watch. He can see his own mouth gone slack, the flush-swell from kissing Stiles not quite faded yet, sweat pooling and trailing between his abs. The top half of his dick’s visible in the mirror, and Derek watches a glob of slick work slowly down his length, tugged by gravity toward his balls.
Stiles presses close, too close to do anything but grind deep against Derek’s ass before pulling back, cock slipping and shifting against Derek’s insides and rubbing his prostate until he nearly goes cross-eyed.
“Good boy,” Stiles says, and Derek watches his mouth shape the words in the mirror, the amber of his eyes mostly turned to black as he pulls his hips back and shoves quickly forward, again both of them cursing and groaning.
There’s no hiding from it, no hiding anything in the near-harsh light of the bathroom’s uncovered bulb, Stiles fucking in and out of him the small amount he needs to slap their skin together and bump over Derek’s prostate with every inward push.
Derek’s working himself back onto Stiles’ dick as much as he can, shadow falling and vanishing as his upper body moves into the shove of Stiles’ from behind. His hands are skating, sweat-slick over the countertop near the edges of the sink; fingers catching at the porcelain rim before the perfect slide of Stiles inside him makes them spasm and loose their hold.
“Gonna come in you,” Stiles hisses out, head far back enough for his eyes to switch between watching his cock spearing into Derek’s body and then up to watch Derek’s face as he does it. Derek’s never felt this exposed, didn’t expect to like it, much less get off on it as hard as he is.
One of Stiles’ hands works around his body to take hold of Derek’s dick, squeeze and tug and making Derek flutter around him.
“Wanna see you shoot first,” Stiles says mouth nearly mashed against Derek’s ear, hips working faster, movements going sloppy while his fingers slip over the head. “Feel all that come all over my fingers, wet and hot, fuck c’mon Derek, mark me.”
Derek spits a noise out from the back of his throat, shudders and tightens, screwing himself almost wildly back against Stiles’ cock, the head stretching his hole tight and then slamming into his prostate as his eyes jam shut and he spurts up his own stomach, onto Stiles’ hand, feels like it’s everywhere.
Stiles grinds into him for three, four gloriously hard strokes, stretching Derek wider and pushing the hot-slick around inside him, the load of come trapped up against the tip of his dick, Derek grunting a little with every twitching pulse he feels as his body tries to make room for it even while it starts leaking down behind his balls and over his thigh.
Stiles stays pressed right to Derek’s back as he catches his breath, one hand tangling with Derek’s in front of them both on the counter.
“So good,” Stiles pants, presses an open-mouthed kiss to Derek’s nape. “Perfect, Derek.”
Derek’s tired-sated smile looks off-centre in the mirror, feels wider than it is and like it’s barely his own face staring back.
Stiles wipes away what he can with a cloth he can just hardly reach, pulling free of Derek with a slight wince and a warm slip of lube and come down the back of Derek’s thighs and between his cheeks.
Derek stumbles when he tries to move away from the sink, ends up with most of his weight on Stiles as they stagger back to the bed, falling into a mess of limbs and musky-hot skin.
“Sleep now, shower later,” Stiles says, jaw working like he’s fighting off a yawn, another kiss to the side of Derek’s neck.
Derek doesn’t argue.
“Mine,” he hears Stiles mutter, snuffling a little as if he’s already half-asleep.
It’s not a question at all.