It's three days to Stiles' eighteenth birthday and Derek hates his goddamn life.
“You're going to be the one doing the, you know, doing, right? Not Stiles, right?” Isaac asks hesitantly.
“That is literally none of your damn business,” Derek snarls, exactly 500% done.
It had started four days ago with Scott, who came up to Derek and asked, apropos of absolutely fucking nothing, “You know about Stiles' dick, right?”
After an extremely uncomfortable moment of appalled silence, Derek had answered, “Of course I do.” Because he did. Does. The Sheriff's no-nudity-no-orgasms rule doesn't ban them from fully-clothed frottage, it just bans them from fully-clothed frottage followed by orgasms. So yes, Derek does know about Stiles' dick. And that it is, well, big.
And no, Derek isn't intimidated by Stiles' heretofore unseen big dick. He's intimidated by Stiles' everything, since Stiles is the first guy that Derek has ever been with, has ever wanted to be with. It's just that Stiles' dick is marginally more intimidating than the rest of him. But contrary to popular belief, Derek actually does know what the internet is and how to use Google to look up all kinds of useful and relevant how-tos. So suck on that, Scott McCall.
It's just, first it was Scott, and then it was Erica. Erica who walked right up into Derek's personal space and said, “Think you can handle the Stilinski dick, Alpha mine?”
He threw her at a tree for that, then bawled her out for not staying alert to potential threats, all the while wondering what the hell everyone's deal was with Stiles' dick.
After Erica is Jackson, jesus fucking christ, who says, snidely, “Stilinski's a freak of nature. Make sure you put him in his place before he gets any ideas.”
Afterward, Peter makes less-than-subtle remarks about Derek's disproportionately violent response to Jackson's comment, but Derek maintains that the dicklouse had it coming.
Lydia doesn't actually approach him, but Derek has to sign for a package from UPS which contains four 20-ounce bottles of Maximus Personal Lubricant complete with convenient pump dispenser caps. Derek boggles at them for a while. He's pretty sure Maximus doesn't come in bottles this size, but when he thinks about it, that would hardly stop a girl like Lydia from making her (admittedly more crass than usual) point. Derek is tempted to send her a thank you card, but values his testicles where they are, so he tips her a respectful nod the next time they cross paths, instead.
Boyd approaches Derek next. Or, Derek thinks Boyd is approaching him next, so he glares preemptively at his least annoying beta. Boyd just grants him a level stare in return, then walks away without saying a word. It's kind of anticlimactic.
Peter, well. The less said about Peter's palpable and continuous glee, the better.
But the coup de grace comes from Sheriff Stilinski himself, the day before Stiles' birthday. After a very stilted roadside conversation during which the Sheriff heavily implies that Derek will be waiting at the Stilinski house when the Sheriff gets off shift, Derek dutifully hies himself hence to yon Stilinski home and hangs out with Stiles until the Sheriff gets home. There is a stilted dinner, which Stiles doesn't even seem to notice, he's vibrating so hard with excitement, and then the Sheriff pulls Derek away and sits him down for a chat.
Or he tries to. He opens his mouth, chokes delicately on whatever it is he meant to say, then gets up and goes outside. Derek stares after him, waiting for him to come back and impart more of his usual brand of fatherly advice couched in a bad-cop routine, but the cruiser's engine starts up and the Sheriff drives away, leaving Derek sitting there, wide-eyed.
That non-conversation, out of all the recent 'warnings' about Stiles' dick, is what manages to give Derek nightmares.
Thanks so goddamn much, Sheriff Stilinski.
The next evening Stiles is eighteen (finally), he and Derek are alone in Stiles' room (finally), and the Sheriff is working a night shift so they can have some privacy (finally).
They're necking on Stiles' bed, Derek propped over Stiles and sucking on the now legal teen's throat as Stiles undulates under him like the swells of the ocean. His chest arches up to press against Derek's, their heartbeats drumming as his hands clutch and knead the muscled planes of Derek's back. Then he sinks back onto the mattress to cant his hips up against Derek's groin in a sinuous grind.
Derek pants into Stiles' throat and wonders when Stiles got so goddamn graceful.
“Clothes,” Stiles gasps. “There needs to be 100% less clothes in this equation.”
“Yeah? And what equation is that,” Derek asks, grinding his crotch down on Stiles' thigh. He can feel the thick bulge of Stiles' cock against his hip.
“D+A=O, where D equals your dick, A equals my ass, and O equals mind-blowing orgasms.”
Derek snorts, amused. “If you can still talk about algebra then I'm doing something wrong.”
“You are doing so many things wrong right now, and wearing clothes is at least sixty percent of them.”
Smirking, Derek sits up and slowly peels off his henley, flexing the muscles of his abdomen and chest as he goes. Stiles' lightly defined abs do a little flexing of their own as Stiles curls up off the bed to nuzzle at Derek's pecs.
“Ohh,” he coos at a peaked nipple, “I missed you sooooo much, Derek's chest.”
“Shut up,” Derek snaps half-heartedly, rolling his eyes. He shoves Stiles back down, the teen cackling and folding his hands under his head, the very picture of smug leisure. The smug goes stilted when Derek starts tracing the frame of his belt buckle then slides slantways into enraptured as Derek so, so slowly unbuckles the leather and pulls the belt smoothly through the loops.
Derek palms his crotch and Stiles gulps, his eyes almost as wide open as his gaping mouth. Much better. He toys with the button for a moment before getting a bolt of inspiration.
“Take them off,” Derek orders.
Stiles blinks widely at him, looking drunk. Derek picks up his hands and puts them on the front of his crotch, rubbing the hard ridge of his dick against those sinfully long fingers. They fumble, scrabbling at denim, then zero in on the fly, popping the button and dragging down the zipper tab.
And then they get stuck, because there's no way for Stiles to get the jeans off Derek while Derek is still sitting on him. Derek watches, heating up with anticipation as the cogs turn in Stiles' head.
He's not disappointed. Stiles gets his arms under him and shoves up, his mouth lunging for Derek's throat like a homing missile. It's Derek's weak spot, he knows, an Only-Stiles-Allowed weak spot with a 100% success rate. They tumble back onto the mattress, Stiles' teeth set firmly in the exposed arch of Derek's throat even as his hands yank and claw at Derek's jeans and underwear.
And then hands. Hands everywhere, it feels like, sliding along the broad curve of Derek's ribs, tweaking dark nipples, kneading the pronounced ridges of Derek's hips. And all the while, Stiles' mouth on Derek's neck, sucking and licking. It's almost like something out of one of Derek's many, many Stiles-centric wet dreams, but so much better because it's actually real. Except now that Derek's had a taste, he wants the whole feast.
“Take your clothes off,” he growls. His voice is so low, so thick with want that it feels like his vocal chords are scraped raw.
Stiles pulls away, ostensibly to get naked, but when Derek fails to hear flailing limbs and flying fabric, he blinks his eyes open (when the hell had they closed?) and looks up at Stiles, who is suddenly shying away like a shrinking violet.
Suddenly it's penisgate all over again. Jackson's comment, especially, rings loud in his ears and Derek makes a mental note to beat the shit out of the goddamn pisswipe. Again. Possibly literally.
“You know, right?” Stiles asks. He tugs his shirt down in the front to hide the visible ridge distorting his jeans. “About-”
“Do not make me rip your clothes off,” Derek interrupts darkly. “I will if I have to. I may even use my teeth. Derogatory fairytale stereotypes are not beneath me if it means finally seeing you naked.”
“But you know, right? You know?” Stiles' eyes are intent, darting over Derek's face like he expects someone to have stamped 'In The Know' on it at some point.
Derek sighs and rubs his hands up and down Stiles' thighs in a way he hopes is soothing. “Yeah. If months of grinding hadn't clued me in, the pack's 'warnings' would have.”
The reassurance seems to both relax and solidify something in Stiles, because when his hands grab the hem of his tee, he's less cagey and a little more confident. And why shouldn't he be? Derek has gone to occasionally ridiculous lengths to prove both his physical and emotional attraction to Stiles. In fact, the only thing he hasn't done is put a ring on it. Not to say, of course, that he doesn't have a ring waiting for the day the Sheriff grants his permission... fuck, the day the Sheriff deigns to stick a fork in him, he's so done.
Stiles strips off his tee and plaid overshirt in one heave, only getting a little tangled in the sleeves, and then skin. Dear god, so much skin. Derek has never seen so much of Stiles' skin, not even during the summer when the pack basically lives in the Martins' and Whittemores' pools. But Stiles' habit of wearing t-shirts while swimming makes so much more sense, considering how pale Stiles is, how easy it would be for all that beautiful creamy skin to go lobster-red and all-over painful.
Derek leans up in a mirror of what Stiles did before, nuzzling into the small but dense patch of hair at the center of Stiles' chest. “Fuck, you're gorgeous,” he murmurs to one pink nipple.
Stiles' laugh is a little forced. “You're so good for my ego, boo.”
“Only 'so good'?” Derek leers, letting the 'boo' slide. “I'll have to try harder. Pants off.”
Stiles' hands fumble at his jeans until Derek takes over, unbuckling, unbuttoning, and unzipping without once looking away from Stiles' eyes. He can't, really, not when Stiles is making so many adorably arousing expressions. Stiles leans back and Derek eases him down, swapping their positions again so Stiles can kick his jeans and underwear off. On top of Stiles is Derek's favorite place to be, and not just because of the obvious sexual connotations; for all that he tends to wear layers upon layers of clothing, Stiles' ridiculous metabolism has him throwing off heat like a space heater gone haywire and Derek is the kind of guy who wears long sleeves year round. So when he lowers himself onto Stiles, naked at last, it's pure bliss.
Derek blinks and experimentally grinds his hips down and wow, wow, is that Stiles'-? He lifts up just enough to peer between them, curious, and hops up to hands and knees, yelping, “What the hell is that?”
Stiles freezes, and not in a good way. “You said – you said you knew!” he wails, miserably squirming out from under Derek. Derek stops Stiles by the simple expedient of dropping his full weight on top of him. Of course, that means he can feel Stiles' dick against his belly again, which, wow.
“I did know!” Derek gesticulates in a crotchward direction and briefly hates how shrieky his voice gets when he's freaked out. “I just didn't know – I mean, I thought it would be, y'know, smaller.”
“That makes no fucking sense dude,” Stiles snaps, shoving at Derek. “Get the hell off!”
“No!” Derek wraps himself around Stiles the way he learned to cling to his favorite seal plush when he caught his sister eyeing it. “We're going to have sex and we're going to like it. I did not wait seven months with the Sheriff breathing down my neck to let you get away now. It's just, it wasn't nearly that big when you got hard before. Or at least, it didn't look or feel that big, okay? It's not my fucking fault your jeans are spatial illusions!”
Stiles blinks up at him, eyes squinting as his brain works. He's seems calmer though, and maybe a little sheepish toward the end.
“Derek,” he says gingerly, “I literally cannot get fully hard wearing jeans because the denim is like an actual cock cage. So technically, I've never actually gotten hard-hard around you. Just, like,” he flaps his hands, “semi-hard. Demi-chub. Half-mast.”
Derek's eyes trail down, like he can see through where their chests are pressed together to where Stiles' softening dick is trapped between them. He rocks his hips down against Stiles', grinding his still fully-hard cock along the defined vee of his pelvis. “So, how big does it get?”
“You really wanna know?” Stiles asks, like Derek wanting to know is surprising.
Fuck to the yes, Derek thinks. I want to know everything there is to know about your dick, and then some.
Outwardly, he rolls his eyes because him getting visibly pissed off about Stiles' insecurities tends to make Stiles upset, too. “No, I absolutely don't want to know. I dated you for seven months and followed your dad's 'no-nudity-no-orgasm' rule to the letter and spirit and got naked with you in your bed because I absolutely don't want to know how big your dick gets.”
“Okay, jackass, I get the point.”
“Not yet you don't,” Derek snarks.
“Oooh, dick jokes. Color me impressed. What would Dad say if he knew you were such a crude young man?”
“Don't front. Dad loves me.”
“He does,” Stiles sighs happily. “He tries so hard to pretend he doesn't, but he totally does. Especially when you get all cute and call him 'Dad' to his face.”
“I don't 'get all cute'. And why the hell are we talking about your dad when we could be having sex?”
“Because the journey to losing our respective manginities has hit a bump in the road?”
They both take a moment to contemplate the aforementioned 'bump'.
“I think I'm ready?” Derek says.
“Wow, way to inspire confidence,” Stiles huffs as Derek sits up to straddle his thighs. He only looks a little apprehensive, though.
Aaand there it is. Stiles' infamous penis. Lying there on Stiles' flat belly, angled to the left, it doesn't look any bigger than Derek's quite respectable (and still hard) seven inches. Only that turns out to be an illusion, because when Derek touches it, it's completely limp. He curls a hand around it and pumps it a few times and it starts to stiffen, Stiles' hips shifting restlessly as he receives his very first, if tentative, handjob.
It becomes apparent, pretty early on, that giving Stiles a handjob is not a one-hand job. This does not, in any way, shape, or form, freak Derek out. It doesn't. He swears.
“Oh my god, Derek,” Stiles moans, hiding his face behind his hands. “Maybe we should just stop before you faint or something.”
“I'm not freaking out,” Derek replies, voice as flat as...something very, very flat.
“You're doing that weird blank face. You're freaking out.”
Derek's carefully controlled poker face crumbles. “I don't want to be freaking out,” he says sullenly, shifting his grip on Stiles' cock so he can work the head with one hand while the other steadily pumps the lengthening shaft. Stiles gasps and squirms in a way that is very relevant to Derek's interests.
“Do you- do you want to stop?” Stiles asks breathily.
“No,” Derek answers. Because now that he's got Stiles' dick in his hands, he really, really wants to keep going. He scoots forward so his dick is nestled against Stiles' balls. They are, uh, proportionate. “Do you?”
Stiles' breath hitches when Derek gently presses a blunt fingernail to the underside of the head. “Noooo,” he moans. “Don't stop.”
“Is it hard yet?” Derek asks, leaning down to lap at the small bud of Stiles' nipple. Stiles arches eagerly into his mouth, his huge hands cupping Derek's head and nape.
“Getting there,” he hisses. “Holy god, I'm so getting there.”
Derek seals his mouth around Stiles' nipple and sucks as he teases the tip of the nub with his tongue. Stiles shouts and fucks into Derek's hands, the head of his cock brushing against Derek's abs and leaving behind a smear of pre-come. It's so unexpectedly erotic that Derek's ass clenches hard and sends a shiver tripping up his spine. He scoots closer and cups his hands around Stiles' cock, holding it against his abs for Stiles to rub against.
“Oh, fuck, Derek, wait,” Stiles gasps. “Gonna come.”
Derek unsuctions his mouth from Stiles' nipple with a wet pop and trails a line of kisses across to its twin. “Yeah? Gonna come all over me?”
“Wait, wait,” Stiles pushes at Derek's shoulders and stops the erratic thrusting of his hips through sheer force of the Stilinski will. “I wanna- I wanna--”
“What,” Derek says huskily. His ass clenches again in anticipation. “What do you want?”
“Want you to fuck me!”
Derek blinks. Does that mean I have to let go of his cock? he thinks. Then he thinks, Did I really just think that?
“Oh, okay,” Derek says, and doesn't move.
Stiles squints at him, getting a little more clear-headed as he edges back from orgasm. “Lube,” he prompts.
“Right,” Derek says. He stares at the bottle of lube, oh-so-conveniently placed on the shelf right behind Stiles' pillow, and wills it closer.
“You can let go of my dick now,” Stiles says wryly.
“Of course,” Derek says, and peels his hands off of Stiles' cock one reluctant finger at a time. It's a Herculean effort, and by the time Stiles' cock has been fully and completely unhanded, Derek's palms tingle from the loss of it.
“You got really stupid all of a sudden,” Stiles observes, shoving the bottle of lube into Derek's hands.
“Did not,” Derek quips reflexively. Which, not exactly the pinnacle of wit, there.
“Yeah, and that pithy retort just schooled me good. You gonna let me turn over now?”
Why in God's name would Stiles do that? Derek won't be able to reach his cock if he turns over.
“Okay,” Stiles says warily. “This is getting weird. I am not used to the dumb puppy look on your face. And to be honest, Scott wears it much better than you do. Are you okay?”
Hearing the genuine concern in Stiles' voice, Derek shakes himself physically and mentally. “Yeah. Yeah, I'm good. Just got caught up, I guess.”
“No shit,” Stiles murmurs contemplatively, rolling onto his front.
Next to Stiles' bed there's a pile of miscellaneous bed linens and towels and whatever else they'd thought might be useful, and Derek reaches down to fish out a pillow, helping Stiles tuck it under his hips to raise his ass. And it's a nice ass, now that Derek can see it without layers of baggy clothing in the way. It's taut with muscle from years of running around on lacrosse fields and in town and through forests, but still round and full, naturally bubbly like a lot of girls wish they had. Derek traces the crack down from the small of his back with the tip of his nose, smelling sweat and detergent and soap and even hints of lube that cling to the short, stiff hairs around his hole. He laps his way down the long stretch of Stiles' perineum to his balls, which look even bigger without Stiles' cock dwarfing them. Sucking one gently into his mouth, he wonders how much come they'll make and how drenched he'll get when Stiles comes all over him.
“Oh for fuck's sake, Derek,” Stiles pants. “Get up here and fuck me already.”
Derek relinquishes his prize with one last mournful lick and sits up between Stiles' splayed legs.
“You ready?” Derek asks, trailing his fingers down the small of Stiles' back to dip between his cheeks.
“I've been ready. You're the one dragging his heels.”
Derek spreads Stiles cheeks wide with one hand and squirts a glob of cold lube right onto Stiles' hole with the other. Stiles flinches satisfactorily then moans when Derek pushes it in with his finger.
“Asshole,” Stiles breathes.
Derek smirks. “Bitch.”
“You have a strange fixation with the word 'ass',” Derek mentions, sliding a second finger in alongside the first.
The steady in-and-out rhythm of Derek's fingers stutters and he fumbles the lube. He centers himself and two re-slicked fingers glide in easy so he slicks up a third, which meets a little resistance. It makes him wonder if Stiles stretched himself beforehand or if his sphincter is just naturally more stretchy.
“Wanna go face-to-face?” Derek asks.
“Um,” Stiles' hips press back against Derek's fingers, taking them halfway. “Sure. Just, not right away? Wanna get used to it first.”
“Okay,” Derek says, absently pressing a kiss to Stiles' butt cheek as he watches his fingers go in and out, sliding a little deeper with each push. It seems like no time at all that he's all the way to the knuckles, Stiles moaning as he pushes against the faint resistance to get even those into Stiles' open, slippery hole.
“How are you this loose?” Derek asks incredulously. “If I didn't know for sure you were a virgin, I'd never have guessed.”
“Proper preparation prevents poor performance,” Stiles recites between breathy exhalations. “And Erica got me a toy a few weeks ago.”
Derek groans. “Out of all the things you told me you've been doing to yourself you never mentioned that.”
“Surprise,” Stiles snickers. “Besides, you were already so blue-balled--” he gasps when Derek presses down on his prostate, “so blue-balled from what I did tell you that you probably would've exploded from the UST.”
“Probably,” Derek agrees. “Ready?”
“So ready. You don't even know how ready. I want the D so bad it's not funny.”
“Oh my god, shut up,” Derek groans, wiping his slippery hand on a towel from the pile. He kneels between Stiles' thighs and guides the head of his slicked cock to Stiles' twitching hole. It purses against the tip, vividly reminding Derek of Stiles' obscene attempts at using straws. He's never going to be able to watch Stiles drink a soda ever again without springing inappropriate wood.
“Give it to me, baby,” Stiles says.
Uh huh, uh huh, Derek thinks, and gives it. Stiles is tight around him, for all that he'd opened for Derek's fingers like he'd said 'open sesame', and the heat of him is overwhelming, seeping into the head of Derek's cock and making him grip Stiles' hips for some semblance of control.
“Holy god,” Stiles moans. “Holy god, get in me.”
Derek can think of nothing he wants more, and pushes in with one slow, controlled thrust. Stiles opens with an ease that seems like it should be impossible for a virgin. What the hell kind of toy did Erica give him?
“A great toy, an amazing toy, show you later just fuck me,” Stiles babbles, rolling his ass up to receive Derek's thrusts.
Derek curls over Stiles' back, mouthing blindly at his shoulders and spine and whatever is in reach as he ruts into Stiles' ass with short, sharp jerks. “Fuck, you feel so hot. How do you feel so hot?”
Stiles doesn't answer, doesn't even seem to hear the question. He's moaning into his pillow, arms tucked under his chest to give him some leverage to push back against Derek.
And Derek wants this to last, he really does, but it's been forever since he last had anything on his dick that wasn't his own hand or his clothes, so when he feels himself getting close, he pulls out entirely, watching dazedly as Stiles' gaping ass twitches and clenches around nothing. Stiles keens, one hand flying back to grope for Derek, and Derek grabs it around the wrist, dropping a kiss on the palm before he uses it to tug Stiles over onto his back.
Oh, there's Stiles' cock again, flushed red with two balls tucked in tight at the base. It's gorgeous, and Derek rubs his palms up and down Stiles' sides as he watches it twitch. Narrow at the base and tapering almost to a point at the tip, the middle swells out to an intimidating width. Like, soda-can diameters, if not bigger. Length-wise, it's as long as the distance between the tip of Derek's thumb to the tip of his pinky finger, with his hand splayed out as far as it goes. Derek's mouth waters and he licks his lips. Lydia must be straight up insane for picking pencildick Bitchmore over this.
“Derek,” Stiles whines. “Oh my god, Derek, please.”
“Yeah. I got you.” He grabs Stiles by the hips and drags him down the bed so his ass is laying in Derek's lap and lifts his legs up onto his shoulders. They skid, slippery with sweat, until Derek hunches over slightly and Stiles' knees hook over comfortably. Bracing his calves against Derek's back, Stiles lifts his hips and Derek guides his dick back into the slick, hot passage that opens for him like he'd never left it. They groan in unison.
The new position doesn't give Derek much room to fuck into Stiles, but it does present him with an unprecedented view of Stiles' cock, which is leaking a steady stream of pre-come onto Stiles' abs, which flex and relax every time Stiles lifts himself up off Derek's lap. The shallow puddle flows a little further toward Stiles' chest with every lift and Derek watches, rapt, as an adventurous bead splits off and slides down the convex slope of Stiles' ribcage. Derek catches it with a finger before it can drip onto the bed and sucks it into his mouth, eyes fluttering shut and moaning at the taste and texture of it on his tongue. When his eyes open again, Stiles is watching him raptly, both hands roughly stripping his cock.
Derek slaps them away, unaccountably offended, and takes Stiles' cock in hand. Maybe, if he holds it upright and bends down a little further, he'll be able to get a taste right from the source when Stiles lifts--
Yes. Derek bends as far as his spine will go and Stiles lifts and Derek almost gets an eye socket full of dick. Stiles' cock is so long that it's actually easier to just hold it up near his face and chase the tip as it bobs past his mouth.
Every lick of pre-come bursts on Derek's tongue like some kind of ambrosia, making him greedy for more. Thankfully, Stiles' hands save him, pulling Derek's head down and guiding his cock into Derek's waiting mouth, and then it's just pure bliss, the top few inches of Stiles' cock fucking in and out of Derek's mouth, spilling pre-come right where he wants it most while Stiles' ass strangles Derek's cock.
When the rangy strength of Stiles' legs begins to give out, Derek picks up the slack, shamelessly abusing his strength to lift and drop Stiles. Stiles cries out every time he lands on Derek's thighs, spurting a gob of pre-come onto Derek's waiting tongue, and Derek is so caught up that he doesn't even register Stiles slapping at his arm, warning him. All Derek knows is that one second Stiles is shooting pre-come, and the next he's pouring thick, hot come into Derek's mouth.
Derek swallows the first load but chokes on the second, pulling off and letting Stiles stripe his face and neck and chest, coughing even as the rich smell of Stiles' come triggers his own orgasm. He shudders, lost in a sensory haze of Stiles, Stiles, and more Stiles, until a gentle tapping at his cheek brings him out of it.
“You back?” Stiles pants. His legs sag limply around Derek's elbows.
Derek nods blearily, a drop of come falling from his eyebrow and catching on the lashes below. A few tiny pearls of come cling there.
“Look at you,” Stiles breathes, pushing up onto his elbows and sliding himself off Derek's cock. The loss of his heat makes Derek whine. “Look at you all covered in my come.”
Derek shivers and moans deep in his chest. He runs a hand up from his belly to his throat, smearing long trails of cooling come. It makes Derek feel-- Derek doesn't know how it makes him feel, he just knows that right now, he feels damn good. He sucks come-covered fingers into his mouth and licks them clean while Stiles paws lazily through the pile of linens and drags out a dish towel.
“C'mere,” Stiles says, hoisting the towel. “You're a crazy mess right now.”
Derek grunts and leans away from it, laying next to Stiles opposite the hand brandishing the towel.
“Are you serious? You're just going to fall asleep like that? That's so gross. Is this a wolf thing?”
Maybe. It's not like Derek has been collecting the empirical evidence to know for sure. He shrugs.
“You're so out of it right now,” Stiles says fondly, “But you are not going to sleep like this. It's unhygienic and I don't want to wake up tomorrow morning with us glued together.”
Derek sighs in resignation and lets Stiles wipe him down, watching with keen eyes as Stiles cleans himself last, reaching behind and wiping his crack with a delicate shiver of pleasure. Stiles fusses some more, dragging his down comforter up onto bed and over them as he gets settled, his back pressed flush to Derek's front. He's out almost as soon as his head hits the pillow.
Derek lies awake for a little longer, not sure why he can't just sleep. The house is quiet, the neighborhood buzzing gently with its usual nocturnal sounds, and Stiles is curled up with him, kicking off heat and exhaustion and satiation. He strokes Stiles' chest and belly in long sweeps, appreciating the smooth skin and subtle definition of his boyfriend's body. On one particularly long stroke, his fingers bump against Stiles' flaccid cock, soft and body-warm. He wraps his hand around it and is asleep before he can take another breath.
It's still early when Derek wakes up, draped half over Stiles with his hand still curled around Stiles' now half-erect dick. He gives it a lazy stroke and it fattens up a little more. It's heavy in his hand, hot and getting hotter, and when he stretches his grip around the thickest portion, he can just touch his thumb and middle finger together. Stiles' cock gets thicker and soon he can't touch them together at all. Stiles' balls hang low and relaxed between his thighs and Derek pets them gently, remembering the genuinely impressive amount of come they'd spewed. Teasing the underside of the head earns Derek a bead of pre-come, which he pops into his mouth. His morning breath skews the taste, but not badly enough to deter him from sliding down under the covers and licking at the slit in search of more.
Early bird gets the worm. Or rather, early wolf gets the meat; Derek's teasing caresses earn him a few precious drops of pre-come even as Stiles' slow heartbeat holds steady. His ass clenches again and one of his hands is already reaching back and sliding between his own ass cheeks before he even really realizes what he's doing.
The thought of receiving has always been a little intimidating to Derek, even before he realized that Stiles was hung. He'd never experimented, never even been curious. In fact, the closest he's ever gotten to putting anything up his ass is when he washes himself in the shower. Now that he knows how big Stiles actually is, being on the receiving end of Stiles' cock is basically off the table. Erica's toy, though...
He presses a fingertip against the tight knot of muscle and shivers, imagining a repeat of the night before plus a toy stuck up his ass. Imagines himself penetrated and penetrating and then penetrated again. Derek trails butterfly kisses up the thick ridge on the underside of Stiles' cock and collects the discharge on his fingertips, reaching back to rub it onto the twitching pucker between his own cheeks. It makes him pant into Stiles' hip and want.
It takes him a while to remember what happened to the lube, longer than it would have taken if he'd taken his hands off his own ass while he thought, but whatever. He gropes around on the floor where he think it ended up, which nets him his belt and the towel he'd used to wipe his hands, but no lube, so he sticks his head out from under the covers and sniffs it out. Stiles' heartbeat picks up ominously while Derek is fishing the bottle out from under the bed, but slows down again when Derek rumbles a soothing growl at him.
The lube is goddamn freezing on his ass and he bites down on a surprised hiss. Derek breathes in deep and pushes a finger in on the exhale.
It's not bad. Weird, yeah, but it doesn't hurt or burn. It just feels... there. It feels like a body part he's always had but never before noticed has just been hooked into his nervous system so his brain is now receiving signals from it. He slicks up a second finger and--
Yeah, there's the burn. Well, more like the low heat of the flame of a cheap lighter. He eases his fingers in and out in small increments, adding lube all the time, and the burn eases as things get increasingly slippery. Jesus, how had Stiles not been screaming in pain with how little lube Derek used in comparison? Then again, Derek realizes, that's Stiles all over, throwing his fragile human self into situations without a care in the world for his own safety.
When he gets two fingers going smoothly, he tries a third, which freaking hurts. After a few deep breaths, he tries again. It still hurts. He gives his dick a few impatient tugs to distract himself from the unpleasant ache, thumbing the sensitive spots around head, and the pleasure must relax him because his fingertips sink a little further in. It reminds him of the way Stiles had opened up so sweet and easy when Derek had homed in on his prostate. Going back to two fingers, he hunts around for that magic button, but the angle is all off. He'd move, maybe turn over, but between the size of the bed and the fact that he's trying not to wake Stiles, it's not like he can spread out and experiment with positions.
Derek grunts irritably. Jesus fucking christ, he's had college finals requiring less problem solving skill than this. The orgasm had better be worth it.
He cautiously curls onto his side, holding one knee to his chest while the other one is up and bent, foot planted on the mattress. His butt is sticking out over the edge of the mattress, but at least he can reach his prostate, so ends and means or whatever. And when he finally rubs the elusive gland with his fingertips, holy god, what amazing ends. Heat and pleasure spark up his spine and flood his groin and he wonders why the hell he hasn't been doing this since forever.
As predicted, the magic sex button called his prostate distracts his ass muscles and they loosen up agreeably, letting him work three fingers in, until he triumphantly slides three fingers in to the root knuckle just to prove he can, enjoying the sweet stretch. He taps his prostate and the ripple of pleasure makes his toes curl.
The scent of Stiles' lingering arousal is thick under the comforter even though he's softened from Derek's distracted neglect. Which no, that just won't do. Leaning up onto his elbow, he suckles the head of Stiles' cock, tracing his tongue gently over the slit and listening closely to the rhythm of Stiles' heartbeat. With his other hand, he works a fourth finger in, mostly just to see if he can.
Which, fuck yes, he can. It's a little awkward with the way he's lying, but with a little contorting, he can reach both his ass and Stiles' cock without straining anything. Well, anything other than his own wrist if he keeps this up for too long.
It occurs to him as he laps up Stiles' pre-come that the head of Stiles' dick isn't particularly big. It's thinner than his own, actually, and could probably fit in his ass just fine. Just the tip, though. Derek's not holding holding out much hope for taking the rest of Stiles' cock. At least not without a great deal of pain and blood and trauma.
He works four fingers into himself almost mechanically as he considers logistics, then inches smoothly into action before his higher brain functions can convince him that this is a bad idea.
Lube is essential, so he slathers it everywhere he thinks it might be useful, taking care to warm it before he slicks Stiles' dick. His whole dick, just in case. Proper preparation prevents poor performance, as Stiles would say. The fact that he gets to grope Stiles' cock all over is just icing on the cake.
When he climbs up over Stiles' still sleeping body, he's careful to stay low, trapping their body heat and also letting him watch Stiles' face for signs of him waking up. By this point he doesn't actually care very much if Stiles wakes up, in fact this whole thing would probably go a lot easier with someone more experienced calling the shots, but it's a personal challenge now, a game of how deep can I take Stiles before he wakes up.
Lining himself up with out disturbing the mattress too much is a pain in the ass, and not of the fun variety, but the press of Stiles' cock against his hole and the expression he knows Stiles will undoubtedly make when he wakes up make it worth the effort.
As he'd predicted, the head slips in easy as anything. He keeps pushing back until the heat of the stretch becomes a full on burn. Deep breaths, bear down, relax, he thinks, and takes a moment to fondle the most sensitive areas of his own prick, focusing on the pleasure instead of the almost-pain. It's enough to get him a little further down until the burn picks up again. Derek rests there, the ache in his thighs building where they're holding his weight up. He reaches between his legs and feels around with his fingers, tracing his stretched rim and curling his hand around Stiles to find the thickest point. Amazingly, there's only about a finger-and-a-half width between the rim of Derek's ass and the mid point. If he was somehow able to get past the middle, down to where it tapers in toward Stiles' body, he could easily take Stiles' cock all the way.
It's tempting. Fuck, but it's tempting. Derek licks his lips, takes a slow breath, and decides to go for broke.
Focusing past the burn and the fullness of his ass is nothing like anchoring himself against the moon and his emotions. For one, he's not trying to wrangle some part of himself into submission, and for another, he can't exactly use his go-to anchor to center himself. This is all about the body, about relaxing and opening it past the limits of its design. Anger isn't going to get him through this.
Derek curls down onto Stiles' chest. His heartbeat is more erratic now, randomly speeding up and slowing down as he dreams. Not as good a choice of anchor now that it's not beating steadily anymore. He takes another measured breath and casts about for something else to focus on.
Stiles is murmuring intermittently, little 'mm's and 'yeah's and 'so tight, baby's scattered with repetitions of Derek's name. It's unexpectedly soothing, listening in on the verbal soundtrack of Stiles' wet dream, and the familiar cadence of it relaxes him enough that when Stiles bucks his hips up Derek doesn't scream outright.
The scent of blood follows hard on the heels of the first wave of pain as Stiles forces the thickest part of his cock into Derek, and then it's pulled back out when Stiles lets his hips drop back onto the bed. Derek grits his teeth and chases him down, shoving past the widest part while the pain is still fresh. And then he's on the far side, the pain in his sphincter easing as the torn tissue heals and contracts around last few inches as they narrow down toward Stiles' groin.
“Whuh-Derek?” Stiles asks blearily. He squints at Derek like he's not sure what he's seeing. “Wha's goin- are you okay?”
Derek is heaving gasping breaths like a drowning man, but his face is carefully blank.
“Oh my god, you didn't,” Stiles reaches down between them and feels around the base of his cock. When he pulls his hand back, there are traces of blood on his fingertips. “Oh my god, you did. Oh my god, what were you thinking? How-? Why-? What the hell made you think this would ever be a good idea?” Stiles shouts at Derek's non-expression.
“My mistake,” Derek says quietly. He gets his knees under him and starts pulling off, not quite able to hide the tension around his eyes as the pain returns.
“No, no, that is the exact opposite of what I wanted,” Stiles frets, patting frantically at Derek's anything-in-reach. “Come back, oh my god, please come back.”
Derek sits back, up straight rather than hunched over Stiles. The new angle must do something right, because it eases the discomfort he'd been feeling, letting him sink comfortably onto the platform of Stiles' pelvis. Or maybe it's the fact that Stiles is freaking out and it's making his cock soften a little. Whatever it is, Derek's grateful for the reprieve. He rubs a hand over his belly as he catches his breath, wondering if he could feel the bulge of Stiles' cock if he pressed in just the right place.
“Holy god,” Stiles is chanting to himself. “Holy god. Holy god.”
“Holy god, shut up,” Derek mutters. “This is not that big a deal. And if something goes wrong, I can just heal from it, remember?”
“Are you actually being serious right now?” Stiles waves his bloodied fingers in Derek's face. “This is a huge deal! I tore you open!”
“Werewolf,” Derek says blithely. He grabs Stiles' hand and wipes the blood off on the sheets, unimpressed by the pathetic little smudge it makes. Stiles makes a noise of frustrated outrage that Derek ignores in favor of investigating the new sensations in his ass.
He feels incredibly full. He rocks his body forward, getting a feel for the way Stiles' cock moves in him, but firm hands clamp down on his hips and hold him still. Derek irritably slaps them away, but they come right back, pushing him back down to sit on Stiles' pelvis.
“We're going to talk about this,” Stiles hisses from between clenched teeth. “You can't just do shit like this. And you call me cavalier about my own safety. You're such a hypocrite.”
Derek sighs. “Stiles, the second time we met I spent six hours in your Jeep slowly dying from a poisoned bullet wound. Then I asked you to cut off my arm. Yes, your dick is really fucking big and yes, it's more than I should have tried taking for my first time, but for fuck's sake, trust me to know my own limits when it comes to pain. Besides, I was doing fine until you woke up and practically shoved the whole thing up my ass.”
“Wh- I did?” Stiles yelps. “Why didn't you stop me?”
“Didn't see it coming.” Derek shrugs and braces his weight on Stiles' shoulders. “Now hold still.” And then he makes a circle with his hips which, ughhh, makes him feel like his guts are being stirred. Stiles helps guide him in a short up-and-down motion, which is a little less traumatizing to his internal organs while creating the most amazing friction at his opening. Bouncing a little higher brings back that hot stretch from before, more tease and less threat now that gravity is on his side. He sits up straight, sets his knees under him, and slides himself up and down the bottom few inches of Stiles' cock, working himself a little higher with each slow rise. Stiles' hands flit anxiously over Derek's body, never quite landing. Annoyed, he catches them and pins them to his abdomen, right over where he feels overwhelmingly full. His cock, which had gone limp, begins to fill again.
“Holy god,” Stiles says faintly. “You look like you're having a religious experience. On my dick. How does that even feel good?”
The thing is, Derek doesn't really know. The nerve endings around his opening are singing the hallelujah chorus and his prostate is a warm ember of pleasure with Stiles' thick cock constantly rubbing up against it, but he's stuffed so fully and so deeply that he should, by all rights, be cringing in agony, or at the very least discomfort. But all he feels is a breathtaking sense of fullness. It's heady like nothing else in his life has ever been, and when he reaches the apex of his bounce, he lingers to savor the anticipation, back arching and head tipping back with a sigh. Then he sinks back down, feeling the pressure building again on the inside of his body. It seems to push everything out before it, all the bad and the good and the in-between until there's nothing in him but Stiles. Stiles in his body, Stiles in the air, the touch of Stiles' hands and eyes on his skin, the sound of Stiles' voice in his ears, the taste of Stiles on his tongue, just Stiles, Stiles, Stiles filling all his senses.
Derek's in no state of mind to think, but if he were, he'd be thinking about how he'll never be able to get enough of this.
Stiles plucks experimentally at Derek's nipples and it sparks through him and like lightning striking a haystack. Suddenly the ambiguously pleasant sensation of Stiles' cock filling him is hot molten pleasure. The friction on his cock from a long-fingered hand lights a fire in his groin that burns in the most amazing ways, and Christ, if he'd known that the sex would be this intense, he would've jumped Stiles that first day in the forest, Scott be damned.
He fucks himself harder on Stiles' cock, panting and moaning. Stiles squirms under him, hands slipping in the sweat beading on the skin of Derek's hips as he bucks against Derek's unrelenting strength with little half-thrusts that make Derek's breath hitch and stutter. Stiles is babbling something between desperate whines and repetitions of 'oh my god', and it's probably a warning because suddenly Stiles' cock feels even bigger in Derek's body, harder and thicker and longer.
Derek can't actually feel Stiles' come, but he can feel the pulsing muscles in his cock, and just the thought of Stiles' thick come makes his eyes roll back in his head and his spine quiver in ecstasy. He clamps his muscles down as best he can and Stiles shouts as Derek's body forcibly milks his orgasm out of him. The motion of his hips never really stops, not even when Stiles pushes desperately at them, crying out at the clutch of Derek's body around his softening and hypersensitive cock. He shoves at Derek's chest, but Derek's hands catch his and he breaks out of his stupor long enough to look Stiles in the eye and beg, “More,please more.”
Stiles keens and says, “I'll try. I'll try.”
With Stiles' cock a little less unyieldingly thick, Derek can go to town, fucking himself sloppily on the entire length without fear of tearing again. Stiles cries out and claws at Derek like he's being tortured, (and maybe he is, it's hard to tell), but Stiles is young and this is technically only his second (third?) time, so Derek keeps going, milking his cock until it starts to stiffen again.
The bed's frame creaks in tandem to Derek's movements. He has to lunge his weight forward onto his hands to get himself to the end of Stiles' cock, then falls back onto his calves, only to pulls himself back up again. It's physically demanding enough that he literally drips sweat from the exercise, but the friction and the endless stretch set his nerve endings on fire, the insistent pressure against his prostate fanning him even higher until he feels like a star, burning from the inside out.
Stiles eventually finds his second wind and sets his feet into the mattress, pounding up into Derek's down strokes with a force that makes Derek's teeth clack. He's stretching easily around Stiles' widest point now, eager for the burn that makes his eyes roll back in his head and his heaving breaths catch on a high keen. The air is thick with the scent of them, so thick Derek can taste it on his tongue as he pants. The slap of skin on skin and their combined voices crying out almost deafen him.
It all ratchets Derek higher and higher, spinning him clear out of his mind, and then plateaus for a few breathless thrusts before spiking into the kind of orgasm that should only happen in erotic literature. His senses literally white out and he's blind and deaf and shaking all over as he spills ropes and ropes of thick come all over Stiles' chest and face. He howls, or at least Stiles later tells him that he howls, but Derek doesn't know it because he's coming so hard that he literally blacks out.
He comes to a few minutes later, still trembling with dozens of tiny aftershocks. Stiles is kissing his face and shoulders and making concerned-sounding words at him, but Derek's body won't move, so he tries to breathe reassuringly at Stiles instead. Maybe it works and maybe it doesn't, but Derek passes out for real, then.
When Derek wakes up again, he's alone in bed, curled on his side and clutching a pillow. The sheets reek of sweat and sex and Stiles and it's enough to get his dick hard, so he lazily jerks off, occasionally reaching back to touch the warm pucker of his hole. It's not sore precisely, werewolf healing being what it is, but there's an awareness in the muscle, a memory of hard use that Derek recognizes from rough work outs. He's also a little tacky with the come that's leaked out of him in his sleep. There's even more still inside, still wet and mixed with lube, held back by the natural dam of his sphincter which has, thankfully, returned to its normal state. Lube and come aren't the only things being held back in fact, but he strokes himself to a light, easy orgasm before getting up to deal with it.
He takes a shower while he's in the bathroom, soaping away the film of dried sweat and come. The water feels good, impossibly good on his skin, and it winds him back up again even though he's only just jerked off, so he rubs another one out to the smell of Stiles' body wash and the feel of hot water sheeting down his chest.
By the time he's out of the shower, the scent of hot food is curling in under the door. The thought of putting clothes on is distasteful, but he does it anyway, slipping into a pair of sweats and a tee. His dick twitches valiantly but stays down this time and he gives his nipples a teasing flick when they pebble from the friction of cotton sliding over him. It sends a zing of pleasure through him and he hums deep in his chest.
His whole body feels like an exposed nerve ending, reacting to the catch of cloth against his legs and even the flow of the house's AC as he pads down the stairs. The Sheriff is sitting at the table sipping a glass of orange juice, and Derek barely notices him enough to mumble a "'Morning" at him on his way to Stiles, who is manning the stove.
“Afternoon, actually,” the Sheriff corrects blandly. He watches Derek shuffle into the kitchen and shamelessly wrap himself around Stiles. “Did you sleep well?”
“Yeahhh,” Derek sighs into Stiles' hair. His hands, splayed on Stiles' torso, slip lower to trace the outline of his belt through his shirt.
“Stop that,” Stiles hisses, driving his elbow into Derek's ribs. Derek barely grunts. “Not in front of Dad.”
“Yeah, Derek,” the Sheriff says, “not in front of Dad.”
Derek pouts, actually pouts, but stills his fingers. He does not, however, move his hands from the vicinity of Stiles' slowly hardening cock. Stiles gives them a sharp smack with the spoon he'd been using to stir their lunch and Derek whines.
The Sheriff looks sharply up at him over his glasses. He takes in Derek's glazed, dilated eyes, his slack expression, and the flush that spreads from hairline to shirt collar and probably beyond, and comes to what he believes is a reasonable conclusion:
“Christ, Stiles, what did you give him? Werewolf weed?”
“What?” Stiles yelps at the same time Derek purrs, “The D.”
“'The D'? Dammit, Stiles, the laws regarding possession-”
“Oh my god, Derek! Dad, I swear on Mom's grave that I did not give Derek any mind-altering substances!” Stiles shouts over the Sheriff's rant.
“'The D' means his dick,” Derek contributes, reaching down to cup the anatomy in question, and the Sheriff cuts off mid-word, forehead vein bulging.
“That is not normal behavior!” the Sheriff bellows, leveling an accusatory finger at Derek. Stiles swears vehemently, clawing at Derek's wrists to get him to stop with the inappropriate fondling.
“You're not the one having his junk groped in front of his dad, okay? Fuck, Derek, let go!” He smacks Derek's hands with the stirring spoon until Derek unhands him, and keeps smacking until there's a respectable distance between them. Derek makes big, mournful eyes at him, and Stiles can maybe see where his dad is coming from. It immediately sparks his concern and curiosity. “Oh my god, are you high? Did you take something?”
“Your dick,” Derek says proudly. Stiles lunges forward and slaps his hands over Derek's mouth, like he can retroactively muffle the words. When he glances over his shoulder to make sure his dad isn't having a heart attack, the Sheriff is clutching his glass of orange juice to his chest with both hands and making a face like D:<
“That's it! You!” Stiles brandishes the spoon at Derek. “Time out! Put your clothes on and walk around the block until you stop being weird!” He waves it at the Sheriff, next. “And you! Forget everything you just heard!”
“I intend to,” the Sheriff mutters, hunching defensively over his glass. He wishes he'd just stayed at work and pulled another shift instead of coming home to be traumatized. Only a masochist would willingly subject themselves to this. “With prejudice.”
Derek, instead of being an obedient boyfriend and getting gone, leans into Stiles' personal space with his hands cupped around his mouth like he wants to whisper a secret. Stiles slaps him back with the spoon.
“No lovey-dovey whispery stuff! If you've got something to say, say it. And it better be PG-13, max!” Stiles rushes to add.
Derek nods agreeably and says, “Can I take a walk later? I'm leaking your come and I don't want to stain my jeans.”
The Sheriff's glass shatters on the floor.
“I'm sorry,” Derek says earnestly to the lump under the bedsheets. “I don't know what's wrong with me. I just feel really relaxed.”
The lump of covers is silent.
“I didn't mean to traumatize your dad. I'm sorry about that, too. It just came out. The words, I mean. Not the come. Though that's coming out, too. Sorry. I'll do your laundry.”
His werewolf hearing picks up on Stiles' resigned sigh.
“I'm making this worse, aren't I,” Derek says. “Can I lay down with you? Not to do anything—though if you want to have sex again, I won't say no—and we can just rest for a while?”
The lump squirms until a single finger emerges to crook at him. Derek slides gratefully in under the covers and curls around Stiles' fetal position, one hand tucked under the pillow and the other draped over Stiles' waist to fiddle absently with his belt buckle. Stiles firmly relocates it to his chest.
The tension in Stiles body gradually leeches out of him as he drifts off, and when Derek is sure that he's asleep, he gently manhandles Stiles until he's the one curled around Derek, the soft bulge of his dick warm against Derek's tailbone.
The buzz of Stiles' text alert wakes Derek. He peels away from Stiles just long enough to grab the phone, then changes the alert to silent, watching as a stream of texts rolls in, all from Scott.
Just got back from my date with Allison
I think she did something different with her hair. It looked so beautiful
Dude, why is your dad on my couch?
He and mom are eating ice cream and watching Die Hard
Why does he smell like he's been crying
Omg are you okay dude?
Youre not dead, right?
Did Derek kill you?
Oh my god, did you accidentally kill Derek with your dick and then your dad had to arrest you for murder and that's why youre not answering????? I knew this would happen!!!!
Ffs scott calm down, Derek replies.
ARE YOU HAVING SEX RIGHT NOW, Scott immediately texts back.
Stiles is sleeping hes fine everyone is fine. Except the sheriff.
WTF IS THE SHERIFF DYING WHO EVEN IS THIS
Derek. Nobodys dying the sheriff is just a little shocked.
WHAT DID U DO UR SUCH AN ASSHOLE IM GONNA TELL STILES
Stiles already knows. He also knows more about my asshole than youll ever know about allisons.
OMFG I H8 U DEREK UR A PRICK
Not as much of a prick as stiles if you know what i mean.
Deeply satisfied, Derek puts the phone back, face down so he doesn't have to see the screen light up with the slew of text notifications. Stiles cuddles closer, his dick hardening a little in his sleep and slotting into the cleft of Derek's ass. He rocks back against it and lets himself drift.
Sleep doesn't come, which is unsurprising since he's already spent most of the day unconscious, and Stiles shows no signs of waking up any time soon, so Derek is left with boredom and his own thoughts.
It occurs to him, looking back with hindsight, that Stiles and the Sheriff were probably justified in thinking that he was high when he came down for lunch. Derek himself doesn't know what got into him to make him act that way, all dick jokes aside. It's like he woke up a completely different person from the person that he knows he is, or maybe like some alternate personality hijacked his body, turning him into an affectionate phlegmatic with no sense of shame.
The thought rings false almost as soon as he thinks it. He hadn't actually felt like someone else, really, just woken up feeling like everything was rosy and warm and perfect. He'd felt...happy.
Derek blinks at the late-afternoon sunlight slanting across Stiles' room. That couldn't be right, could it? He'd already been happy, happy and in love, and that was just about as happy as a body could get. Wasn't it?
Stiles mumbles and shifts, a gap opening between their bodies. Derek automatically pushes his butt back into the cradle of Stiles' groin and freezes as he realizes what he's doing.
Speaking of things that didn't make sense, what the hell was up with his sudden obsession with Stiles' dick? He'd seen his fair share of big cocks while researching gay sex and hadn't been particularly affected, so he's pretty sure it isn't that he's a size queen or whatever, but still, what the hell. And why the hell is his mouth watering and his asshole twitching at just the thought of Stiles' dick?
Derek thinks back to that word Stiles used the night before. 'Cockslut'. It rings in his brain like the freaking bells of Notre Dame, echoing off the inside of his skull until it sounds like a thousand sneering Jacksons all condemning him, 'Cockslut! Cockslut! Cockslut!' It makes him want to run away or hide under a pillow or cry like a little boy lost in the mall because he thought he was big enough to track his mother's scent, but there's no getting away from it because it's true and he's a cockslut for Stiles' ridiculous penis and for some freaking unfathomable reason, Stiles' dick is the magical key that unlocks the chains binding Derek's long-captive happiness.
Derek shoves his head under a pillow and mentally wails, What is my life?
It probably wouldn't comfort him to know that somewhere out there, some all-seeing entity is watching and answering, 'Entertainment.'
He wallows in misery for a while, because it's what he's good at, then wonders how he's going to break the news to Stiles. Who will probably want to know. In fact, Derek foresees an arduous Discussion taking place as soon as Stiles is conscious enough to notice Derek's return to relative normality. Because Stiles always has to talk things out, especially when Derek doesn't want to.
Stiles' breathing and heartbeat pick up almost on cue and he curls into Derek's back with a mumbled, “Stop freaking out.” The hand draped over Derek's waist pats him on the belly.
“I think I'm a cockslut,” Derek blurts. The hand on his belly twitches.
“Wow, Derek, tell us what you really think,” Stiles says, peeling away from Derek to stretch expansively. He moans and grunts through it and Derek turns over to ogle him.
“Are you going to make me talk about it?”
Stiles pats him on the chest. “'S good practice. I'd already figured it out, though. As long as you don't go jumping on every dick you see, I'm cool with it.”
“Why the hell would I jump on someone else's dick?” Derek asks incredulously.
“Um,” Stiles says. He peers at Derek and rubs the crusts from his eyes. “Because?”
“Of?” Derek glowers.
“Uh. You're a slut for cock?”
“I'm a slut for a cock, dumbass,” Derek swats Stiles upside the head and rolls his eyes. “Your cock, specifically. In what world would I let my guard down around anyone else long enough to appreciate their junk?”
Stiles relaxes, like he'd actually been worrying about it, the moron. “Not this one, I guess. Feel better now that you've talked about it?”
Derek does, but hell if he's admitting to it. He drapes himself over Stiles, tucking his face into the side of Stiles' neck and hitching his thigh up onto Stiles' groin.
“Speaking of things we need to talk about,” Stiles continues, “what happened earlier can never be repeated. I'm trying to prolong my dad's life, not shorten it. I thought he was going to burst into tears.”
Derek flinches. He reaches for Stiles' phone and passes it over.
“Twenty-four missed texts from Scott?” Stiles scrolls through them, laughing at Derek's deliberate provocation and showing him some of the more inventive threats Scott texted after Derek stopped paying attention. After, he calls Scott's house.
“McCall residence, Melissa speaking,” Scott's mom answers.
“Hey, Mrs. McCall. Scott texted me and said my dad's at your house?”
“Stiles,” she says flatly. “Yes, he's here. He's a little shell shocked, so I called him in sick from work.”
“Oh. Is he coming home?”
“I'm pretty sure sending him home while he's still in shock would be a violation of the Nightingale Pledge, so no. He'll be staying with us until he can get within twenty feet of his own home without bursting into a cold sweat.”
“So, I'll set out a third plate for dinner tomorrow.”
Mrs. McCall sighs. “Probably.”
“Don't feed him too much junk food.”
“Ironically, he wouldn't touch the burger I got him. He raided my fridge and made a salad all by himself. Congratulate Derek on traumatizing your father enough to make him conscious of his own mortality.”
Stiles holds the phone away from his face. “Congratulations, baby. You did unintentionally what I've been trying to do for years.” Derek groans and flushes red in embarrassment.
“I'm going to hang up now,” Mrs. McCall says. “Don't call me again for at least a week.”
“Okay, Mrs. McCall. Bye, Mrs. McCall,” Stiles says to the dial tone. “Love you too, Mrs. McCall.”
“Sorry,” Derek says into Stiles' neck.
“S'okay,” Stiles says. He pats Derek on the head. “You were sort of out of it at the time, and I kinda brought it on myself by not letting you whisper it into my ear. But from now on, we have sex at your place, capisce?”
“Capisco,” Derek affirms. His hand, resting on Stiles' chest, slips downward. “So, do you wanna-?”
“Oh my god, you really are a slut for my cock.”
Derek hesitates. “Is that- Does that bother you?”
“What?” Stiles yelps. “No!”
“Then why are you still nervous?” Because Stiles is, his pulse thrumming unevenly against Derek's lips.
“It's just a little weird, okay? I mean, you being so obsessed with my cock all of a sudden when you never were before, so it's like, I dunno--”
“Like I want you for your dick?”
“Sort of?” Stiles cringes sheepishly.
Derek slides all the way onto Stiles' body, Stiles' thighs opening so Derek can press their groins together. “Do you know when I first started to become obsessed with your mouth?” he asks, tracing the bow of Stiles' upper lip with a fingertip. “It was when you got me arrested for murdering my own sister. You snuck into the cop car stinking of adrenaline and all I could focus on was your ridiculous mouth and how fucking pink your lips were from licking and biting at them.”
“I remember,” Stiles gasps, tongue flicking out to taste Derek's fingers. “You used to stare at my mouth like, all the time. I thought you were a pedophile or something, but then I noticed that you only did it to me. Which freaked me out until it didn't anymore.”
Derek drops his head onto Stiles' chest and snorts. “Oh joy. You thought I was a pedophile. Do I even want to know what Dad thought about me?”
“Ephebophile, technically, since I was sixteen at the time. And no, you absolutely do not want to know what Dad thought about you. I don't want to know what Dad thought about you. In fact, let's just stop thinking about what Dad thinks before I get depressed and guilty for being a bad son.”
“You're not a bad son,” Derek says, matter-of-fact. His tone smacks of prior experience, which piques Stiles' curiosity, and Derek distracts Stiles from his curiosity by mouthing at his nipple through the worn cotton of his shirt. Stiles arches into it, hissing at the friction. "I don't just want you for your dick. I'm pretty fond of the rest of you, too."
“Alright, twist my rubber arm, won't you. Round three. But I'm calling the shots, this time, okay?” Stiles says. He swats at Derek's head until Derek grunts in acknowledgment. “First things first, you take your clothes off and I take my shirt off.”
A newly-embraced but fundamental part of Derek objects to this. “I can't suck you if you leave your jeans on.”
“And I'm not putting my dick in your ass if I get hard before you're ready for it. I figure we stretch you, then I can take off my jeans and put my dick in before I get all the way hard.”
Derek grinds down against the hardening bulge in Stiles' pants just to hear him exhale through gritted teeth. It's a decent idea, but Derek's prepared with a better one straight from one of his favorite Stiles-centric fantasies.
“Or you could prep me while I blow you, we both get off, and then you stick it in me before you get all the way hard again.”
“Ugh,” Stiles moans. His head tips back on his pillow, exposing the pink flush staining his throat. “You're going to kill me with sex.”
“Can't handle it?” Derek goads, sitting up to yank his shirt off. He drags Stiles' off while he's at it.
“Fine. We'll do it your way. But this is in no way a concession of power!”
“Yes, dear,” Derek deadpans. He unbuckles Stiles' belt and scoots back to haul the whole mess of his jeans and boxers down his legs.
Stiles squirms unhelpfully, which makes his cock bounce around distractingly on his stomach. “I'm still in charge here!”
Derek barely remembers to strip off his borrowed sweats before diving into Stiles' lap. “Whatever you say, dear.” He fits his mouth around as much as he can, careful to keep his teeth covered as it swells on his tongue. Stiles is mostly soft, but even so, his cock is already as big as Derek's is when it's fully hard, so between that and his inexperience, Derek can get frustratingly few inches into his mouth. And as Stiles hardens, not even that much. Derek ducks down to lap and mouth along the shaft, tenderly bussing the underside of the head and dipping the point of his tongue into the slit. Then he curls his lips over his teeth and goes as far down on Stiles' cock as his gag reflex will let him, easing back into safer territory when his throat clenches ominously.
Annoyed by his lack of progress, he pulls off with a wet slurp and tongues the head, trying to sort the mechanics of teeth and tongue and reflexes and breathing, but apparently just knowing the theory isn't going to be enough for him to squeak by. Luckily, he's an old hand at training his body, and the thought of practicing going down on Stiles is not an unpleasant one. He shifts his focus to the shaft instead, tracing veins with the point of his tongue and licking circles around the crown, then latching his mouth onto random places to suck and lave with his tongue. When Stiles starts putting out pre-come, Derek takes the head into his mouth and laps it up eagerly, sucking at the slit for more.
“Hooooly god,” Stiles moans, staring down at Derek's obvious enthusiasm. “Holy god, your mouth.” His hands shake as they pet Derek's hair, smoothing it to the curve of his scalp.
Derek can feel Stiles' hips and legs trying to push up against where Derek is lying on them, and he's glad that his weight is enough to keep them pinned; face fucking plus Derek's First Blowjob equals bad ending. But by that same token, keeping Stiles immobile means Derek can basically do whatever he wants, give whatever he wants. Which, he's perfectly willing to give Stiles everything including the kitchen sink, but hell if he's going to let Stiles know.
His mouth pops free of Stiles' cock with an obscene noise and he laps his way down the pronounced ridge along the bottom to Stiles' balls. Derek mouths at them, using his lips and tongue to make Stiles tremble and writhe, then carefully sucks one testicle into his mouth, rolling it around on his tongue while sucking gently. Stiles' hands clap around the sides of Derek's head and ease him off with a pained sounding whine.
“Holy Mary, mother of Christ,” Stiles says shakily. He has to push Derek's face away when it keeps trying to reattach to his dick. “Are you trying to make me come? What happened to your brilliant plan? With the fingering and the sixty-nine? I liked that plan.”
Derek leans into Stiles' hands, wanting nothing more than to drink the pre-come pooling on Stiles' abs. “Fuck it,” he grunts. “Get back here.”
Unfortunately, Stiles is the pack's undisputed king of willpower for good reason. He pulls his legs up and pushes Derek away with his feet. “No. We're doing this. We're making this happen. So go get the lube, because there will be no penis-in-butt action without it.”
Derek scowls, but gives Stiles' dick one last longing look before rolling off the bed and sniffing around for the chemical scent of lube. Stiles shoves an extra pillow under his head and makes faces like he's thinking about Harris and Finstock's torrid love affair.
The lube has somehow ended up under the bed again, and Derek looks ready for murder once he's finally got it fished out. He clambers back onto the bed and Stiles guides him to straddle his chest facing Stiles' feet. With his weight rested on his elbows, he can only really reach Stiles' balls and the base of his cock, which he sucks at with enthusiasm, licking until his tongue goes dry and kissing until his mouth waters again. Stiles smacks Derek's rear end into a convenient position and starts giving his own tentative blow job as he fingers Derek open. The lube is as cold as ever, making Derek twitch when Stiles presses his first finger in, but he ignores it in favor of backing up to slurp up the pre-come that's been steadily leaking from Stiles' cock. Stiles' hand follows, pulling deliciously at the rim of his hole.
Derek holds Stiles' cock up so it's perpendicular to his body and just runs his slack lips up and down the length of it, tongue darting out occasionally to catch the beads of pre-come that drip down from the head. He wants to feel it against the rest of his face, against his cheeks and jaw and throat, but Stiles reaches down to reposition his cock every time Derek lets it get caught on his stubble, not liking the painful sandpaper scrape against the most sensitive part of his body. Derek makes a mental to shave more regularly.
It's a testament to how relaxed he still is from that morning that Stiles gets two fingers into Derek almost without him noticing. The real stretch begins at three fingers.
Derek moans and suckles the head of Stiles' cock as he bears down on Stiles' fingers. They slide deep, teasing over his prostate, until Derek feels folded fingers against his ass cheeks, then ease back out, scissoring and stretching and sliding against the slick walls like a teaser of the main event. Derek sucks harder, fondling Stiles' balls one-handed. Stiles slurps Derek's mostly neglected cock into his mouth in retaliation, imitating the way Derek's mouth moves over the head of his cock. He's even more inexperienced than Derek and a little clumsy with his teeth, scraping them over the head and the sensitive bridge of the frenulum, and Derek flinches and lifts his mouth off of Stiles' cock just enough to hiss a “Watch the teeth” in warning. Stiles pats Derek's rear in apology and curls his lips over his teeth, but they still press too hard.
His fingers make up for it though, fucking deep and steady into Derek's ass and pointedly brushing along his prostate with each pass. Every few strokes, he'll slip his pinky finger in alongside the other three, introducing that burning stretch that Derek is already fond of. Then he'll go back to three, spreading his fingers as they pull out to stretch Derek further.
Derek rocks into it, lips going slack around Stiles' cock as he loses his concentration. He's going to come soon; in spite of being mostly focused on stretching Derek's ass wide open, he's still working the head of Derek's cock, molesting it the way Derek has seen him molest innocent lolipops and popsicles. Back then he'd thought watching it was torture, but feeling that mouth doing the same indecent things to his cock is so much worse.
He sags as he gets closer, dropping his forehead to rest on Stiles' hip. Stiles' cock leans against his shoulder and he suppresses the urge to curl his chin over and cuddle it with his face, not wanting Stiles to get stubble burn on his amazing cock.
“Fuck. Gonna come,” he gasps, fisting his hands in the sheets. The hot tension in his groin curls tighter with every sweep of Stiles' devious tongue and fingers.
Stiles lets Derek's cock slip out of his mouth, the cool air shocking after the heat of Stiles' mouth.
“Would you come just on my fingers?” Stiles says, voice oddly rhythmic. “Would you? Could you? On my fingers?”
Derek groans, partly from where he's bucking back onto the welcome stretch of four fingers, and partly from where he's dying of shame from getting off to Stiles' creative adaptation of Dr. Seuss' Green Eggs and Ham. He tries to pretend he didn't hear, but Stiles keeps going.
“You could come upon my face,” Stiles suggests, forcing his fingers deeper and holding them there. Derek's rim stretches wide around his knuckles. “I think I'd like it, on my face.”
Derek keens as Stiles flexes his hand. The familiar burn edges closer to pain, riding the fine line between the two.
“Or would you rather on my cock? Would you like it on my cock?”
It really shouldn't be so surprising that the mention of being fucked on Stiles' cock is enough to unlock Derek's inner blaspheming poet, but both of them are a little shocked when Derek shouts, “Yes! I'd love it on your cock! Fuck me! Fuck me on your cock!”
Stiles laughs, breathy and delighted, and jams his fingers against Derek's prostate, grinding down as his other hand strips Derek's cock with rough, dry strokes. Derek shudders, jerking between the almost painful surge of sensation. He squirms and pants and clutches at the sheets as Stiles strokes him higher and hotter. The last plateau of mind-breaking pleasure feels like gliding, and then he's coming hard, shouting as Stiles keeps working him roughly through it. His orgasm drags out, come streaking Stiles' face and chest until he tips himself away and collapses onto his side. Stiles follows, not letting him get away. He slows his strokes to long, firm pulls and milks Derek's prostate for its last few drops of come. Derek shakes and whines through the overstimulation.
Once he's satisfied that he's wrung Derek dry, he rolls up onto his knees, jerking off with brutally fast strokes. Pre-come drips from his slit and Derek forces his body to move, curling toward it and opening his mouth wide. Stiles eases the head of his dick into Derek's mouth, jerking his swelling cock with one hand while he rolls his balls with the other. He's close, Derek can literally taste just how close, and he scrubs Stiles' sensitive frenulum with the pad of his tongue.
“Oh fuck, oh fuck!” Stiles cries. His abs flex and the first shot of his come fills Derek's mouth. He manages to swallow in time to catch the second, but falls behind on the third, letting Stiles' pulsing dick slip out of his mouth to paint his face as he savors his salt-and-bitter mouthful of fresh come.
Stiles strokes himself through his orgasm, angling his cock to lay stripes of come on Derek's throat. The last few weak pulses get sucked into Derek's mouth, his lips pursed around the slit like he's sucking on a straw.
He keeps sucking, just a gentle pull, even as Stiles comes down from his orgasm, and only relinquishes his cock when it softens and shrinks away from his mouth. Stiles obligingly scootches closer on his butt, letting Derek pillow his head on Stiles' sweaty thigh and nuzzle his softened cock. Derek presses his mouth against it, not licking or sucking, and very deliberately steers his mind away from comparisons with babies that fall asleep with their mouths still wrapped around their mother's nipple.
Stiles leans back on one hand, scrubbing come off his face with the other and wiping it onto the already filthy sheets. When he tries to clean off Derek's face, Derek grunts and Stiles lets it go, petting Derek's sweat-damp hair while streaks of Stiles' come cool on his face.
It's Derek who breaks the peaceful afterglow, the sweat still not quite cool on their skin. He forces his arm into action to reach behind himself and pushes three orgasm-clumsy fingers into the slick channel of his ass, scissoring them to make sure he stays loose.
Stiles moans a defeated, “Holy god, can we just call it a day?” but his cock manages to give an interested twitch.
Opening his eyes feels like it requires all the willpower in his body, but when Derek finally drags them open, he's sure that they're glowing bright red. Stiles promised him anal, and he'll be delivering on that promise or else.
“Oh my god, fine,” Stiles says, fondly exasperated. “So technically I'm still in charge, but I'm open to suggestions. Any ideas on how you want it?”
Derek knows exactly how he wants it, has the image of it all but carved onto the inside of his skull, but just the effort of moving his hand to his ass and opening his eyes seem to have sapped whatever energy he had remaining post-orgasm. He groans wordlessly, frustrated.
Stiles laughs and ruffles his hair, then swipes a finger through a line of come on Derek's cheek, nudging it into Derek's mouth where his tongue eagerly latches on.
“As much fun as it would be to sit around playing twenty questions, I'm pretty sure I'm going to get hard again sooner rather than later,” Stiles says. Orgasm has made him mellow and his voice resonates deeper and more warmly in his chest, making him sound older than his years. The rumble of it makes Derek shiver reflexively. “So how about we do this my way, and then when you can language again, we do it your way.”
Derek's thoughts turn over in his head sweet and slow like molasses. It sounds like a solid idea though, so he blinks lazily and grunts his assent.
“Cool,” Stiles says. Large hands gently cradle Derek's head as Stiles slides his thigh away, but he's a lot less gentle when he rolls Derek onto his back then hauls him bodily so he's lying in the middle of the bed, his head at the foot and his feet up near the headboard. A pillow gets placed under Derek's head, (and a towel run over his come-smeared face), and Stiles puts a second next to his hip, glaring pensively at Derek's lower body. His eyes rove over Derek's legs like he's sizing up a word problem and Derek shivers again to see that intensity turned upon him, parting his thighs invitingly with what little gross motor coordination has returned. Derek feels his leg hairs prickle under the weight of that stare and his cock stirs, heat curling low in his belly.
Stiles sits next to Derek's thigh. His sharp eyes bounce from Derek's face to his slowly reviving cock to the gap between his thighs, and he lifts Derek's leg up, curling down to get the bend of the knee settled on his shoulder. It pulls Derek's hip up awkwardly, even with Stiles hunched over, but only until Stiles gets his arm under the other leg, lifting it up to join its twin on Stiles' broad shoulder.
Derek's mouth waters as he watches Stiles manipulate his limp body; a lot of his weight is sheer muscle mass, and when Stiles lifts his leg to cross it over the knee already settled, the muscles in his arms, chest, and abdomen strain and flex with frequently underestimated strength.
Holding Derek's legs, crossed at the knee and hooked over his shoulder, Stiles straightens his back and leans toward Derek. The maneuver lifts Derek's entire lower body with such ease that Derek feels small and light in a way he hasn't felt since he was still skinny enough for the stronger members of his family to toss onto a couch or a pile of leaves or, on one memorable occasion, a slightly frozen-over over lake. It must show on his face, how in awe he feels, because Stiles grins, two parts smug and one part 'OMG I love youuuu colon-capital-d'.
Derek's rear and lower back clear the bed with more than enough space for Stiles to shove his second pillow under the small of Derek's back, but rather than lowering Derek to rest on it, he uncrosses Derek's legs and leans his head back to lift one muscular calf over so Derek has one leg hooked comfortably over each shoulder. Then he lowers Derek to rest on the pillow.
Jesus fuck, he needs to stop underestimating Stiles. He always forgets, when Stiles is being spastic and flaily and generally ridiculous, that he's so much stronger, both physically and mentally, than he lets on. And then Stiles goes and does something like this and leaves Derek short of breath and swallowing against a dry mouth, his instincts squirming happily at having discovered and pinned down such an amazing partner.
And then Stiles pushes the neck of the opened bottle of lube straight into Derek's loosened hole and squeezes cold lube straight into his guts and Derek just wants to kick him in the face until it caves in. Derek wolfs out, enraged, and reaches for Stiles' throat to wring it like a dirty rag, but Stiles presses the head of his dick against the spasming pucker of Derek's ass, which presents Derek with the unique conundrum: rage or dick? He falters, not sure what the right answer is, and Stiles takes the opening, guiding his semi-hard cock into Derek.
Derek doesn't know what kind of face he makes, but he's pretty sure it's one to be embarrassed by, when he's once more capable of embarrassment. Whatever it is, it makes Stiles bite his lips on a shit-eating grin and his eyes squint and crinkle. But Derek doesn't give a shit because Stiles is leaning into Derek's thighs, curling his hips up off the pillow as he bottoms out in one steady push. The position lets Stiles go deep, deep, deep, teasing Derek's prostate as he goes. When he pulls out, his whole body goes with it like an outbound tide, and as the thickest part of his cock passes through Derek's sphincter, it feels noticeably larger than it did going in.
It's not thick enough to hurt Derek's well-stretched ass, not even to burn a little, but it revs his engine like that. He squirms when the corona of Stiles' cock tugs against his loose hole, not wanting to lose it, too, then sighs as Stiles leans in again, flowing back into Derek's space and body.
“You like that?” Stiles asks, once he's balls deep.
Derek licks his lips and nods eagerly.
“Good,” Stiles says, curling Derek's torso in when he leans down to kiss Derek. “'Cause I always have way more stamina the second time around.” He punctuates it with a rolling grind that has Derek moaning like he's two seconds from coming, rather than two minutes into his promised fuck.
Stiles makes good on his promise, leaning back and sliding in and out of Derek in long strokes. His cock hardens steadily, but thankfully not too quickly, and he lingers at the thickest point, stretching Derek with his cock alone. Orgasm and Stiles' dedicated efforts to stretch Derek open have left Derek limp and pliant, and when Stiles gets fully hard again, dilating Derek's hole so wide that even Derek thinks it must look obscene, it only burns, not hurts.
Stiles keeps him there, stretched open, and fucks him with tiny little thrusts that tease at friction. The sensation makes Derek's toes curl tightly even as his ass burns with welcome heat and he fists the bedsheets with hands that can't find their usual strength. When Stiles shows no sign of moving on, Derek relaxes, closing his eyes and focusing on the way his body yields.
God, it feels... It just feels, like a feeling unto itself, as cheesy as that sounds. The burn gentles to a glow of heat that sort of seeps into him, radiating out from his groin to his belly, which feels practically feverish. It creeps up his chest to his face and Derek just knows he's flushed red all over. He doesn't mind, though. Can't, not when it feels so good to have Stiles in him.
Or, half in him.
It's like Stiles reads his mind because no sooner has Derek felt the first suggestion of discontent than Stiles is pushing in, filling Derek right up to the brim. It punches the breath out of him. He gasps, reaching blindly for Stiles, and hauls him into kissing range, even though it pushes Derek's knees up around his armpits and forces his ass up.
And that's just fucking magical. Derek cries out at how deep Stiles is, clawing at his back with blunt nails. He tries to pull Stiles, or push him, just get him fucking moving, but it's like trying to move a brick wall, like Stiles has anchored him so thoroughly to his humanity that it's stripped the werewolf strength right out of him, and to hell with genetics.
Stiles is right there with him, though, reading him like Derek is his mother tongue. He sets his hands and knees and starts pounding into Derek like it's going out of style, lifting himself up a few inches and letting gravity help slam him back down. Derek's got him by the nape with one hand, holding him down to properly appreciate those lips, and lets the other roam over and grip the flexing muscles of Stiles' back.
He feels full, so full of Stiles' cock, his slick rim opening wide to accommodate it and his inner muscles straining around it, gripping it like they want to keep it forever, want to keep Stiles forever. That's how Derek knows he's never going to get over Stiles.
Once upon a time, he'd thought he'd never get over Kate. She'd stuck herself in him like a barbed thorn, worming deeper with every movement until she was too deep to claw out. And Derek had carried her in him like some kind of poison, like a cancer or the nearest thing a werewolf could get to it, and he'd let it fester in him for six long years until Stiles. Stiles, who wouldn't shut up, but who also wouldn't leave, no matter how many times Derek stood up and walked away. Stiles, who threw himself into everything headfirst like he wanted to crack his skull on it, or maybe crack it open with his hardheadedness. Stiles, who had gotten into Derek where Kate had been, filling the space with Stilesness until all the Kate just sort of fell out, like a pen off a cluttered desk or a distant memory forgotten in order to make space for better ones. And now Stiles, who is filling the space of Derek's body with his own, physically molding Derek into a shape that pleases him just like he did with Derek's battered, stupid heart.
So no, Derek won't be getting over Stiles. Not when he's always going to have these Stiles-made spaces in him that only Stiles knows how to fill.
Derek sobs into Stiles' mouth as Stiles slows down, gliding into him with long strokes. They open him deliciously wide and he arches into them as best he can while still pinned to the mattress with his knees hooked over Stiles' shoulders. It doesn't occur to him to move his limbs to give himself more leverage; there's no need to take when Stiles will give him whatever he asks for and then some.
Sweat drips from Stiles' hairline and Derek laps it up, smiling when Stiles laughs breathily. His honey brown eyes are hooded and soft as he stares at Derek and Derek stares back, feeling his eyes squint and crinkle at how fucking happy Stiles makes him.
Holy god, is he happy. But not just happy, because he's always sort of happy around Stiles. Now he's more than happy, he's ecstatic and intoxicated and fucking bursting with joy, his heart a tight knot in his chest as it hemorrhages happiness and all its related emotions. Stiles is laughing, then Derek is laughing too, and Derek presses their foreheads together when Stiles drops down onto his elbows.
Derek's eyes can't focus on Stiles when he's this close so he doesn't try, just closes them and focuses on the gust of Stiles' breath over his spit-slicked mouth. Then Stiles is kissing him again, closed-mouth and sweetly affectionate as he grinds lazily against Derek's ass.
“I can feel your heartbeat,” he murmurs to Derek's stubbled cheek. He slides a hand down Derek's side and back and around, squeezing it between the small of Derek's back and the pillow beneath. “Here. I feel it here.”
Derek tentatively clenches his ass muscles and Stiles groans deep in his chest. He can feel Stiles' heartbeat down there too, now that they're still. It's sort of ridiculously intimate, even considering all the intimate moments that they've shared up until now.
He sort of wants to fall asleep like this: pinned under Stiles' weight with Stiles' heartbeat thrumming in his groin. He wants to wake up to it, too. He wants it all the time, actually, wants Stiles' heartbeat in his body no matter where Stiles himself has wandered off to. He wonders if Stiles wants that, too. He wonders if Stiles would make it happen if he asked. He thinks Stiles would, even if just for the challenge of it.
Stiles licks the seam of Derek's lips and they open obediently to lush, open-mouthed kisses that make Derek sigh and pant. Their rhythm starts again, Stiles thrusting into Derek with short rolls of his hips. Derek grips and tugs at Stiles' back, wanting more, and Stiles braces himself on his hands and gives it to him with fast strokes.
Derek may or may not mewl like a kitten at the constant pressure of Stiles' huge cock against his prostate and the friction as it plunges in and out of Derek's anus, but he certainly does cry out as he feels himself getting closer to coming with each thrust. Stiles isn't close yet, apparently having not been kidding when he bragged about his stamina for their second round, but he's slippery with sweat and breathing like a racehorse.
“You gonna come on my cock?” he pants. “Just on my cock? 'Cause that would be crazy hot.”
Derek whines and tries to meet Stiles' thrusts, but he still has no leverage in this position and isn't willing to let go of Stiles to brace himself against the bed.
Stiles sets his knees and leans back a little so he can work the length of his cock. Derek moans and writhes, arching his back and tossing his head on the pillow while his blunt fingernails score pink lines on Stiles' back and shoulders. He's so close now, the tension in his groin curling tighter and tighter and tighter until Derek feels like he's losing his mind. Lost in the sensation of his impending orgasm, he whines and whimpers and claws at Stiles' back like he's drowning, but still can't come, no matter how hard Stiles drives his dick into Derek or how much stimulation his prostate and sphincter get. If he could only get a hand on his cock--
Stiles smacks Derek's hand away and slams his palm down on Derek's, pinning it to the mattress with his weight. Startled by the sudden violence, Derek's orgasm sneaks up on him, the tension exploding through his groin and ricocheting up his spine. Stiles keeps fucking him through it with brutal thrusts, forcing the come out of him, and Derek thrashes under him, back arched up off the mattress and throat bared as he shoves his head back into the pillow. His free hand, the one not pinned by Stiles, scratches long lines up Stiles' spine and Stiles hisses and leans into the sting. He keeps going, keeps thrusting frantically into the orgasm-tight clutch of Derek's body and Derek shakes with the aftershocks that bleed into overstimulation as Stiles goes after his own orgasm. All Derek can do is cling and whimper as Stiles takes his pleasure.
The thought of Stiles taking him like that, just pinning Derek down and spearing him on his cock as he uses Derek's body for his own pleasure inspires Derek's cock to give a valiant twitch of renewed interest, but Derek really isn't up for a third orgasm and Stiles is getting close, his cock swelling in Derek's ass. He thrusts a few more times then comes with a shout, grinding and rutting against Derek's ass as he empties his balls and prostate. Derek relaxes into it, focusing on the flex of Stiles' cock in his ass even as he's finally allowed to come down from his own orgasm.
It's nice to not have passed out from his orgasm this time, and though he's weak as an unconscious kitten, he tips his head up and purses his lips against Stiles' nose, which is the only thing he can reach. Stiles chuffs and guides Derek's legs down from his shoulders, letting them splay comfortably. Derek moans in relief, and then in contentment when Stiles leans in to kiss him properly. Neither is up for much, already exhausted in spite of their afternoon nap, so Stiles exerts himself to pull out and grab a blanket from the floor before slotting himself in against Derek's side, where they share drowsy kisses until they fall asleep.
Derek wakes up curled around a pillow again, but this time not alone. There's pajama-clad body spooning him from behind, a familiar hand stroking through his hair, and the smell of breakfast in the air, though the latter is mostly drowned out by the smell of sex, sweat, and lube emanating from the bed. A thumb traces the line of his eyebrow and he chases it, leaning up to nip playfully at it.
Stiles traces his fingers over the swell of Derek's lower lip and Derek eagerly sucks them into his mouth, tasting eggs and bread and butter on them.
“Morning,” Stiles whispers against the shell of Derek's ear. “Sleep good?”
Derek hums around Stiles' fingers and nods.
“I made us breakfast. C'mere.” Stiles peels away from Derek's back and leans against amound of pillows piled up against the shelves of the headboard. He spreads his legs and pats the space between them and Derek eagerly crawls up the bed to cuddle against his chest, giving his soft cock a friendly grope that Stiles rolls his eyes at. A tray piled high with food is set out on Stiles' computer chair, which has been wheeled to Stiles' bedside. He passes a bowl of what must be six scrambled eggs and a fork to Derek and plucks a piece of buttered toast from a towering stack, munching on it as Derek inhales his eggs.
Stiles wraps an arm around Derek and rubs his belly as he scrapes the last few lumps of egg into his mouth. “Still hungry?”
Derek grunts and reaches for the stack of toast and the jar of jam. Stiles immediately starts making faces, because apparently jam and butter on toast simultaneously is anathema to the Stilinskis. But apparently Stiles loves him more than he loves the purity of jam on untainted toast, because he brought up Derek's favorite flavor of jam along with the pre-buttered toast. Derek gives him a sloppy apricot-and-butter-toast flavored kiss in thanks. And then fondles his dick again just because.
Stiles sips at a mug of milk as he watches Derek alternate between bites of toast and gulps of orange juice, and when Derek gets near the bottom of the stack, reaches for the fruit salad, hand feeding him pieces as he slows down and letting Derek lick his fingers clean after each.
The tray is completely devoid of food when Derek settles contentedly into the circle of Stiles' arms.
“Feeling better?” Stiles asks.
“Almost,” Derek sighs. He places his hand over Stiles' where it's rubbing the slight pout of Derek's full stomach. Then he slides it lower.
Stiles blinks down at Derek's lap, where Derek is fully hard. Incredulous, he asks, “Are you serious?”
Derek tucks his face into Stiles' neck and licks playfully at his throat. “Yesterday I jerked off two times before coming down for lunch.”
“You are serious,” Stiles croaks. “You're actually going to kill me with sex. Because you've been lying all this time about being a werewolf because your actually a freaking incubus. Christ.”
Derek pouts and guides Stiles' hand around his cock. “I wouldn't. I like your dick too much to kill you.”
Stiles rolls his eyes again and gives Derek's cock a few firm tugs, swiping his thumb over the head to gather up the pre-come.
“I'm surprised you don't want to save this,” he says, sticking his thumb in his mouth to lick it clean. Derek dives in for a sloppy kiss the moment his thumb gets clear of his lips.
“I owe you, remember?”
Derek thinks about thinking about it, but decides that Stiles' lips are more interesting. “Nope.” He pops the 'p' against Stiles' lower lip and catches it gently between his teeth. Stiles licks Derek's two front teeth. The conversation gets derailed for a while as they make out but picks up again when Derek slides down to suck Stiles' nipples.
“I promised you I'd fuck you how you wanted. Do you remember now?” Stiles says blandly.
Derek suckles a nipple and fondles Stiles' hardening dick while he thinks. “Sure,” he eventually lies, because trying to remember takes effort that could be better put toward worshiping Stiles' body.
Stiles circles his hands in an 'out with it' gesture. Derek ignores it as he gets down on his belly to kiss Stiles' pajama covered dick.
“I want you to use me as your fucktoy,” Derek says plainly, rubbing Stiles' balls through his pants. “Choke me with your cock and then turn me over and make me take it up my ass.” Stiles gasps at the same time as his cock twitches under Derek's mouth and hands.
“Something tells me you're not joking,” Stiles says.
Derek bites down on the waistband of Stiles' pants and pulls it away so he can lift Stiles' dick out and get some proper skin time with his favorite part of Stiles' body. It smells mostly like soap with hints of musk. He leans up and takes just the head into his mouth, sucking on it like a lolipop.
“Fuck,” Stiles hisses. “Are you sure? Because I don't want to hurt you again. In fact, if you get hurt, we're stopping.”
“Werewolf,” Derek mumbles around his mouthful of dick. Stiles smacks him lightly on the top of his head, then grips his hair to tilt his face up.
“Didn't anyone ever teach you not to talk with your mouth full?” he chides. He lifts Derek's face away from his cock and his eyes narrow thoughtfully at Derek's stubble. “I'd rather not damage my fucktoy when it's still practically fresh out of the box, thanks.”
Derek swallows hard, heat flaring in his gut like a struck match. “Okay,” he agrees. “I'll be careful.”
“Of course you will,” Stiles says. He scootches off the bed, brushing Derek's hands away when they reach for him. “Go clean yourself up. I'm not going to play with a dirty toy. And shave your ridiculous face while you're at it, mountain man. I want it baby-butt smooth when I smack it with my cock.”
Stiles collects the breakfast tray and glides out of the room with barely a glance at Derek, outwardly cool and collected while his heartbeat and scent go crazy.
Derek tumbles out of bed and darts across the hall into the bathroom, relishing the not-ache in his ass. It's even more pronounced than it was the last time he woke up after being reamed by Stiles' cock, but it makes his erection twitch in anticipation for more of the same.
He's not usually the type to take quick showers if there's hot water, preferring to linger and enjoy the experience. This time, he rushes through, shaving as he relieves himself, then scrubbing himself clean as fast as possible, inside and out. When he scissors two fingers in his ass, he finds he's still loose from the night before. It distracts him and he loses a minute or two fantasizing about Stiles' cock as he fingers himself, so he has to hurry when he hears Stiles moving around in his room.
Stiles walks into the bathroom fully dressed just as Derek is getting out and grabs his towel off the bar—his, not Derek's—rubbing Derek down from head to toe and in every nook and cranny in between. Derek shivers when he roughly swipes the towel down Derek's crack, the dense pile chafing deliciously over his hole. Then he hangs up the towel and walks back into his room, Derek trailing in his wake. He putters around his room, rearranging pillows and opening a fresh bottle of lube and kicking the heap of linens still piled next to the bed into some semblance of neatness. His face and hands are calm, but his heart is thrumming nervously, even when he sits coolly on the edge of the bed and snaps in Derek's direction, pointing down to the space between his legs.
Derek kneels where he's been directed and presses his face into Stiles' groin. Without the usual barrier of his stubble he can feel the rasp of worn denim and the soft bulge of Stiles' balls and flaccid cock directly against his face. The thick material blocks most of the scent of Stiles' arousal, but a hot burst seeps through when Derek looks coyly up from under his eyebrows and rubs his cheekbone against the fly.
Stiles scratches Derek's scalp through his wet hair, guiding it up into a sloppy imitation of its usual gelled style, then guides Derek's face so that his slack mouth frames the bulge of his cock. Derek seals his lips to it and sucks at the cotton as Stiles' cock steadily hardens.
Stiles doesn't stop him when Derek reaches for his fly, but he also doesn't lift up when Derek tugs at the waistband, thinking to get Stiles out of his jeans altogether. He just shoves the plackets of his fly down and tucks the waistband of his boxers under his balls.
The implication feeds the heat in Derek's gut. Apparently, the only person getting naked in this scenario is Derek, which, oh, unexpected kink much? Though considering the past few days and all the things he's learned about himself, discovering new kinks is kind of par for the course, so he rolls with it. He leans in to lap at Stiles' balls and grips the shaft of Stiles' cock, rubbing it against the baby-butt smoothness of his clean shaven cheek. Stiles murmurs appreciatively and grips him by the hair to tilt his head back. Derek's eyes slip to half mast as he follows the pull, and when Stiles hesitantly tightens his grip, he moans.
“Like that?” Stiles asks, voice husky.
“Yeah,” Derek sighs.
Stiles forces Derek's head back, exposing the long line of his throat. Derek tenses instinctively but forces himself to relax and focus on the curl of Stiles' fingers around the base of his massive cock as he lifts it to-
Stiles' cock is too long and heavy to smack quickly against Derek's face like they do in porn, so Stiles settles for rubbing it against Derek's face and ears and hair and throat in between heavy slaps of his dick. Derek shivers as he feels the head trace over his Adam's apple, and when Stiles smacks the side of his throat with it, has to reach down and squeeze his own leaking dick to keep from coming. It's the first thing that he and Stiles have done that makes him feel like an actual pervert, it's so bizarrely arousing.
“Hey,” Stiles snaps, shaking Derek's head by the hair. “Do fucktoys touch themselves?”
Derek uncurls his hand from around his cock and puts it on his thigh. “I was about to come.”
Stiles' pupils dilate as he glances down at Derek's cock. He swallows harshly, then wrangles himself back into character. “If you come, you come. If you don't, you don't. I don't care as long as you don't bite.” He guides the head of his cock to rest on Derek's chin, just out of reach of his lips.
“Gonna make me take it, whether I like it or not, right?” Derek breathes, going cross-eyed as he tries to look at Stiles' cock.
“Oh, you're gonna like it,” Stiles assures him, rubbing his frenulum over the point of Derek's chin. “'Cause you're a slut for it, aren't you. A slut for my dick. You love it any way you can get it.”
“Yeah, I'm a slut for your cock. Want it so bad,” Derek moans, a touch theatrically. He's finding that the 'play' part of their role-play is getting to be fun beyond the sexual pleasure it gives him, and he darts his tongue out to lick the tip of Stiles' cock, giving Stiles his best bedroom eyes. He knows from prior experience that they're '10 out of 10, would recommend, but only to myself because I'm so dumping your ass if you show that look to anyone else, even Scott, I swear to god'.
Stiles drags the head of his cock along the line of Derek's jaw, painting a sticky trail of pre-come on the smooth skin. Derek's nostrils flare.
Then he disengages, letting go of his cock and his handful of Derek's hair to lean back on his palms.
Derek blinks up at him.
“Well?” Stiles nods toward his engorged cock. “Get to it, fucktoy.”
Derek lifts Stiles' heavy cock to his mouth, working the shaft with both hands as he sucks the top few inches into his mouth, determined to give him a proper blow job this time. He can taste Stiles' arousal like a light patina on the skin of his cock, though it's overpowered by the taste of the pre-come Derek is wringing out of him, and it's like sensory reverb between the Stiles-scent flooding his nose and the Stiles-taste flooding his mouth. Working Stiles' cock deeper triggers Derek's gag reflex even though he's breathing through his nose, and he backs off, working what he can as he tries to remember the things he'd read on the internet. There had been a lot of stuff about relaxing and lubrication, position and breathing, among others, so he tries a few out.
It's marginally easier, now that he generally knows what to expect, but it's still really freaking hard. He tries to relax, only to forget to breathe, then breathes, except his lips uncurl from under his teeth, and then Stiles flinches and Derek tenses up and forgets to breathe again, and...
Stiles eventually takes pity on him. He grips the sides of Derek's head and slowly guides him down until he feels Derek's gag reflex, then backs off incrementally until Derek is more or less comfortable. Derek's hand gets wrapped around Stiles' cock like a place marker, the circle of his fingers pressed against his lips, then Stiles ruffles his hair and leans back on his hands as Derek learns to work what he can manage with his mouth and work what he can't with his hands.
It doesn't stop him from trying for more, though. Every few bobs of his head, he tries to go a little deeper, manages to go a little deeper until, on one careful inhale, Derek realizes that the head of Stiles' cock is resting comfortably against his soft palate where it's protecting the entrance to his throat. Which brings Derek to the next problem: his mouth can't open wide enough around Stiles' fat dick to take it much deeper.
Derek sits there, glaring at the rest of Stiles' cock, which is most of it, and whines to himself, why is everything in my life so unfair. He nurses sulkily at what he has and consoles himself with Stiles' pre-come instead.
Stiles is making noises above him, little sighs and moans and yeahs as Derek slurps his way up and down his cock. Unlike Derek, he really likes having his balls played with, and Derek takes breaks from trying to deep throat his cock to do just that, lapping and sucking at them, opening wide to take them into his mouth. But only one at a time because they're, well, proportionate, and only one will fit at a time. They taste so good though, taste like Stiles' musky arousal, and he rolls them on his tongue, savoring the flavor as it mixes with the lingering taste of Stiles' cock and pre-come.
Speaking of pre-come, Derek's face and throat are sticky with thin trails of it. Stiles is content to let Derek do as he pleases, and it pleases Derek to rub the head of Stiles' cock all over his clean shaven face, occasionally smacking himself with it. He especially likes when it slaps against his pulse points, the erotic sound and throb of impact against those vulnerable places making his cock twitch with the perverse urge to come.
At some point, Derek realizes, he's going to have to sit down and write out the list of kinks he's discovered in the past... thirty-six hours. He moans around Stiles' cock as he takes it deep. Has it really only been that long? Derek draws back to suck hard on the head and wonders how many more he can uncover before the forty-eight hour mark.
Fucking his face on Stiles' cock is surprisingly hot, once he's got a rhythm down, but Stiles reaches down to grab him by the hair again, pulling him off with a lewd pop.
“On the bed,” Stiles orders. His voice is raspy and deep, like he's the one who's been giving head instead of Derek. “On your back, head hanging off the foot. Gonna make you choke on my dick, now.”
Derek's legs tingle with pins and needles as he stumbles to his feet and circles around to climb onto the bed. He's read about this position and his mouth waters in anticipation.
Stiles barely waits for Derek to get comfortable before slapping his dick against Derek's cheeks and pressing the tip between his slack lips. He slides in, widens his stance a little, and it's like someone's whispered 'open sesame', because it keeps sliding in, deeper than Derek managed before, so deep that Derek can't breathe. Derek reaches up, alarmed, but Stiles catches his hands, twining their fingers together as he pulls out so Derek can catch a quick breath.
Stiles' cock is still to thick for Derek to take all the way, but Stiles presses deep in spite of that, to the point that Derek's teeth bite into the insides of his lips where they form a barrier between teeth and cock. Derek squeezes Stiles' hands and Stiles backs off, and when he thrusts in again, he doesn't go quite so deep.
Stiles settles into a slow, even rhythm, easing his dick in and out of Derek's open throat, interspersed with little breaks where he pulls out to let Derek suck and tongue the head as he catches up on air. Derek loves it, his hips and legs squirming on the bed as Stiles uses his mouth. He wants it faster and harder, tugs at Stiles' hands to urge him on, but Stiles ignores him outright, even punishes him when he gets too insistent by lingering until Derek gets a little desperate for air.
“Take it,” Stiles growls then. “Take it like a good fucktoy.”
Derek always subsides. That is, until he wants Stiles to suffocate him on his dick again.
“Fuck, you're stubborn,” Stiles laughs, holding himself still until Derek's air runs out again. “Gotta have my dick, huh, cockslut?”
Derek moans, lightheaded.
“Too bad for you I'm not gonna come down your throat, though,” he says fake-vindictively, pulling back to slap Derek's cheeks with his dick before feeding it back in.
Derek moans again, mouth too stretched to form words of outrage. He untangles his fingers from Stiles' and reaches up to grip his forearms.
“Nope,” Stiles says, “I'm not gonna come down your throat until you prove that you can swallow every last drop without choking.”
Derek whines unhappily around Stiles' cock and gives it a hard, fierce suck. Stiles grunts and his hips buck forward into Derek's mouth. He plants his hands on Derek's pecs, now that they're not tangled with Derek's, and toys with Derek's dark nipples. The zing of pleasure shoots straight to Derek's groin and he arches up off the bed, looking for friction against his leaking cock. He gets a little lost, between Stiles' cock in his throat and the fingers plucking at his nipples and the insistent throb of his hard-on, but it's like the trifecta of everything Derek wanted out of the role-play: anticipation and a whole lot of Stiles using Derek's body for his own pleasure while ignoring Derek's.
Derek moans and writhes and grips Stiles' forearms tight, and Stiles is babbling again, but his cock is getting harder as it thrusts in and out of Derek's throat, dribbling pre-come straight into his esophagus. He wants Stiles' come so bad, wants Stiles to shoot down his throat and fill his belly from the top instead of the bottom, but Stiles pulls out at the last second, dragging his hands away from Derek's stinging nipples to choke the base of his cock and pull down on his balls.
“Fuck,” Stiles hisses. Derek blearily watches Stiles' hands tremble as they manually hold back his orgasm. “Fuck, that was close.”
Stiles' cock hangs down from between the plackets of his fly despite being painfully hard, so flushed with blood that it's too heavy for whatever tissues are responsible for lifting it. It's also a really pretty red, with the head darkened almost to fuchsia. Derek reaches for it, wanting to feel the heat of it in his hands, but Stiles intercepts him, catching him by the wrists and holding his grabby hands away.
“No way, dude,” Stiles pants. “A humid breeze could end this, and I've still got plans for your pretty ass. Up and over, cockslut. Hands and knees.”
Derek hauls himself up, rubbing at his sore, slack jaw and the spit that had leaked out of Derek's mouth to trail up his face. There's sort of a lot of it, and he rubs it off against the sheets as Stiles guides him into position.
His knees are planted right at the end of the bed, his calves and feet hanging off. His upper body is propped up on his elbows, and Stiles smooths a hand down the slide of Derek's spine, from the ridge of his tailbone to the inked spirals of the triskelion. Stiles' other hand grips Derek's ass cheek and spreads him open, exposing the twitching furl of muscle.
A thrill of apprehension shivers up Derek's spine. He knows, objectively, that he's too high up for Stiles to just stick his dick in, but if Stiles wanted to, Derek would take it, prepped or not. It'd hurt like a bitch, but he'd take it and be happy for it.
But when Stiles leans in, it's not the head of his cock that brushes against Derek's hole, but something warm and wet... Derek gasps down at the mattress as the broad, flat shape gathers into a point and presses in. That's Stiles' tongue. Oh, holy fuck. Stiles is rimming him.
Derek drops his chest onto the mattress and whines around a mouthful of cotton sheets, pushing his ass back against Stiles' face. Stiles spreads him open with both hands and goes to town. His tongue feels, holy god, his tongue feels like God's gift to assholes or something, lapping and stabbing at Derek's ass. And then there's fingers, long, nimble fingers that dive in to prod at Derek's prostate as a tongue traces the loosening ring of muscle. Stiles nibbles briefly at Derek's ass cheeks, dragging his teeth over the swells of muscle as his fingers slip in and scissor Derek open. He spirals little nipping bites around where he's holding Derek open and even ducks down to lap at Derek's tightly drawn balls and scrape his teeth over the soft skin of his perineum. Then there's a hint of teeth on the delicate rim of Derek's anus.
Derek claws at the sheets, almost hyperventilating as Stiles tenderly catches a tiny fold of wrinkled skin between his teeth. His lower body holds stock-still and he keens as Stiles pulls, stretching the little fold until it slips free.
Stiles gives him a moment to recover, dedicating himself to sucking a hickey into Derek's left ass cheek while Derek wheezes and comes back from the edge of orgasm. Then he goes back and in and does it again, pulling his fingers out of Derek so he can get right in and pinch his teeth around a little fold of loose skin at the very inner edge of Derek's rim. He pulls and...
Derek comes, untouched on a noise that might be a scream if it weren't muffled by the mattress, his cock spurting jizz so hard that it splashes up onto his belly and chest, gravity be damned. Stiles doesn't give him a second to relax, fingering him through it as his cock jerks and pulses and sprays come everywhere, milking his prostate with four fingertips until Derek is moaning incessantly, his cock dribbling weakly between his shaking, sweaty thighs.
And then Stiles drapes himself over Derek's back and says, “I'm gonna fuck you now.”
Stiles is brusque about it, shoving Derek up the bed and slathering his hole with lube. He doesn't use as much as he has been using, which tells Derek that this is going to be a rough ride, but Derek wants it still, misses the almost painful way he'd stretched himself open on Stiles' cock while he'd been asleep. So even though he's not as prepped as he knows he should be, he's already gagging for it.
Stiles' cock goes in easy at first. No surprise, what with how relaxed Derek is after his explosive orgasm, but when Derek's hole pulls taut around the middle, Stiles just smears more lube on his dick and forces his way through it, ignoring Derek's hiss of pain. Derek breathes steadily through it and the sharp spike of pain eases as Stiles bottoms out. It hurts a little less when Stiles pulls out, but he pushes back in again before Derek is ready, and this time it's actually painful.
“Too much, cockslut?” Stiles taunts darkly, settling into a militantly brutal rhythm. He's breathing hard already, still a little wound up from Derek's blowjob and a lot wound up from rimming Derek. “Thought this was what you wanted, for me to use you like a fucktoy.”
Improbably, Derek's cock twitches. “Yeah,” he croaks, swallowing against an abruptly dry throat. “Yeah, fuck your little toy.”
“Touch your nipples,” Stiles orders. And when Derek props himself up on one elbow, Stiles yanks it out from under him, dropping Derek face-first onto the mattress. “Both hands, cockslut.”
The weight of Derek's body puts strain on his neck and shoulders, but he obeys, arching up just enough to give his fingers some wiggle room as he tweaks and pinches them. It feels good, distracting him from the sharp little bursts of pain as Stiles fucks in and out of him. His cock twitches again but he knows that he won't be coming a second time, not so soon after such an incredible orgasm.
Less lube means more friction, and the drag of Stiles' cock inside him, punching in and out of him, fills him with a literal heat that warms his belly like a hot drink on a cold day. It's soothing, and as the pain of his abused rim fades entirely, pleasurable. Derek's whole body feels like it's glowing with heat, like an ember fueled by sexual sensation instead of combustion.
“You're such a hot little fucktoy,” Stiles pants. He slaps Derek's ass cheek and the sting of impact makes Derek groan. “My hot little fucktoy. Making me crazy with his hot little hole and his hot little body.”
“Yeah,” Derek breathes. He clenches down on Stiles' cock and listens to Stiles' thundering heartbeat stutter in his chest. It's weird how much more he can sense now that he's not distracted by his own body. Like this, he can just focus on Stiles's body and reactions and making him feel good. “You gonna come in your cockslut's hot little ass?”
Stiles laughs. “Fuck yeah. I'm so close. You ready for it?”
“Born ready,” Derek says, sliding a hand down his abdomen to give his flaccid cock a squeeze. It fans the heat in Derek's groin, and if he curls a little, reaches down and then up between his legs, he can feel where he and Stiles are joined, the hot bulge of his cock brushing Derek's fingertips as Stiles picks up his pace.
Stiles' fingers dig into Derek's hips, dragging him back to meet his thrusts. Derek can feel the now familiar swelling of Stiles' cock against his fingers and rim, and then Stiles lunges in, burying himself deep and coming. Fingers sandwiched between Stiles' balls and his own perineum, Derek can feel Stiles' testicles twitch as they unload their sperm into his body.
Derek sighs and relaxes, getting an arm under him to relieve the strain on his neck as Stiles' hips grind against his ass, pushing the last few pumps of come deep inside. He lowers himself to the bed, dipping his hand into Stiles' boxers to grip the sweaty skin of Stiles' hip so his cock doesn't slide out as Stiles follows him down, sprawling sweaty and sated over Derek's back as he comes down from his orgasm.
“So good,” Stiles mumbles, patting limply at Derek's arm. He shifts his knees, preparing to pull out, but Derek holds him still with werewolf strength.
“Stay,” he says, stretching with his free hand to snag a blanket.
“I gotta get naked, buddy. Kinda hard to do that without getting up.”
Derek digs his fingers into the meat of Stiles' butt. “Stay.”
Stiles rubs a hand up Derek's nape, pushing his sweat-soaked hair up to drop a kiss on his hairline. “Yeah, okay. Don't say I didn't warn you.”
“Whatever,” Derek says, drowsy and warmed from the inside out. “I've got you now, and you're not getting away.”
Stiles chuckles into Derek's hair. “Nope. You're stuck with me now.”
Derek hums contentedly as Stiles shimmies and kicks off his clothes and pulls the blanket over them, unintentionally kicking and elbowing Derek the whole time. He dozes off with Stiles still squirming around on top of him, his softening dick pulling at the rim of Derek's sensitive hole, and wonders if he'll wake up with Stiles already fucking him.