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Reversible Warriors

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Stiles slipped his mother’s old rainbow-colored polka-dot apron on over his dress and put his phone on speaker as he got out the ingredients for Laura’s thank you for fixing my car cookies. It was a good thing he’d gone to the store earlier that week because he was going through peanut butter at an alarming rate.

“Son?” his dad said, sounding pretty much normal, if a bit concerned. Nothing like the passed out shade of a man Stiles had last seen connected to wires and tubes in a hospital room identical to the one where Stiles’ mother had died.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, pushing the memories away. There wasn’t any use dwelling on the instinctive terror he’d felt, not when they were both finally physically safe, if currently neck-deep in a different kind of trouble. Werewolf pack trouble. Also, his dad was very clearly fine.

“Yo, Pops, how’s it going?” he answered with false joviality and a tightness in his throat.

Stiles made his body focus on the task at hand as he dumped the dry ingredients together and tried to distract himself by thinking about what to make for lunch, assuming Derek would be up and awake by then. There wasn’t any red meat in the fridge or freezer, but Stiles felt pretty good despite his recent magic usage, so he figured he didn’t need it to help him out or however it was that all worked. The day and a half spent unconsciously cuddling with his werewolf anchor-mate slash magical expenditure buffer undoubtedly had something to do with his sudden abundance of energy.

The sheriff let out a harsh breath that whistled through the phone. “Hell, Stiles you scared me half to death. I tried to wake you up when I stopped by yesterday, but you were passed out cold.”

“Well, the last time I saw you it was the same,” Stiles said without thinking, then bit his lip because yeah, he probably should have waited to bring up the thing he wasn’t sure he was prepared to talk about. The werewolf and magic and kidnapping thing. The fact that it was Stiles’ fault his father had gotten involved in the first place.

The fact that Stiles was actually a murderer.

“Hey, kid, I thought Melissa told you not to come see me in the hospital, you know she had it under con-”

“Derek’s uncle was dying,” Stiles butted in, unable to stop himself. Talking about it without Derek there to help anchor or pacify him or whatever was probably a stupid idea, but Stiles was generally known for those, so he persisted as he mixed in the wet ingredients on autopilot. “His Uncle Peter was dying and Derek’s family went to the hospital to be there for him and I couldn’t just let it happen,” even though it was Stiles who was partially responsible for having put him in that position in the first place. Though in his defense, Peter had tried to kill him first.

“I uh, I healed him.”

There was a beat of tense silence before the sheriff swore under his breath. “Goddammit Stiles-”

“I know, I just. He has two young kids, Dad, and I had to at least give him a chance-”

“And so you healed him and then what? Came to see me while I was still out of it before you basically fell into a coma for the better part of two days?"

Stiles chewed on his bottom lip and shrugged as he finished mixing. "Something like that."

“We are going to have a very long discussion about this, Stiles. A very long, very honest discussion. But first I should tell you that I already had a talk with Talia and Rollin Hale.”

“You, uh, you did?” Stiles asked, forcing himself not to pause in his cookie making or else risk the rolled up peanut butter dough melting in his hands before he could plop the lumpy balls onto the cookie sheet.

His dad made a noise of agreement. “I can’t believe you were keeping werewolves from me.”

Stiles choked out a noise that was somewhere between a laugh and a cry. He sounded a bit hysterical.

“I mean, it wasn’t my secret to tell-”

“I know, I know, but seriously, Stiles? Werewolves?”

He couldn’t keep back a grin. “I know, right! How crazy is that?”

"Well,” his dad said, sounding good-naturedly resigned, “if there's anything your mother taught me, it's that the world is far more mysterious and magical place than I'd ever dreamed of. This also explains a lot about the Hale family. I mean, I can't tell you the number of times I was been called in to investigate the preserve because of barking and howling out in the woods. That never added up, since there aren’t any wolves in California and Deaton never admitted to there being a stray dog problem, but the reports mysteriously stopped around the same time the Hales left. I guess them being werewolves explains that away."

Stiles grinned down at his baking sheet and slipped it into the oven. "They certainly are something else, aren't they?"

"You're telling me," his dad grumbled, but not without some humor.

That was one of the great things about the sheriff. Once he got over the shock of something he generally stopped fussing about it. And thinking of that made Stiles close his eyes for a second, imagining his courage as a liquid thing bubbling up inside of him. When he was filled to the brim with it he opened his eyes and squared his shoulders, hyper-aware of how the cotton and satin of the dress moved with him, of the patches of skin left bare.

"Hey Dad, remember when mom used to make me skirts?" he asked quietly, unable to keep the tentativeness from his voice.

"Of course I remember, you were the cutest darn thing twirling around the house all the time. It was a miracle if we could get you into pants to go to the store. I'm pretty sure we didn’t manage it and few times and just went out with you dressed like that, anyway."

Stiles grinned at the memories. Mrs. Hinkley from up the street had been scandalized by his family’s acceptance of the whole skirt situation, but his mom hadn’t ever let her embarrass Stiles because of it. "Yeah, I was a bit precocious," he allowed.

"Precocious? You were a hellion, but that never stopped us from loving you."

He wiped his suddenly watery eyes with the back of his hand because he wasn’t going to start crying. "I love you, too, Dad."

"So what does the skirt thing have to do with werewolves?"

Stiles rolled his eyes. “It doesn't, or at least it doesn't directly relate."

"They're not harassing you about it are they-"

"No, no,” Stiles butted in. “No, uh, kind of the opposite, actually. Laura bought me a dress, not as a joke,” he was hasty to add, “I don't think. And I was just, I wanted to make sure-"

"Stiles," his dad interrupted, "I would still love you even if you decided to forsake clothing altogether. If you want to wear a dress around the house then that's up to you. Derek’s not upset about it is he? You know I'll talk to him if he's out of line."

"I know, Dad, I know you would. And no, Derek's not uncomfortable with the dress thing. He's, uh, he's taking a nap right now, actually."

His dad made a considering noise. "Well he should, he was awake every time I called to check on you."

Stiles grinned and shook his head. "So when are you coming home? I can have dinner ready whenever you want it." He was pretty sure he had the ingredients for vegetable lasagne, which his dad would grumble about, but would ultimately eat and enjoy.

"I'd love to, kid, but it's my turn for the weekend shift, so I'm working tonight, but dinner tomorrow sound good."

Stiles nodded. While he knew things weren't completely fine between them, the Stilinskis weren't the type to remain upset, at least not with each other. They said their farewells and Stiles managed to bake three dozen cookies and whip up a relatively healthy version of chicken salad before he heard Derek thudding around upstairs. Stiles paused and set the glass serving bowl down on the table beside the tortilla shells, lettuce, and platter of warm cookies.

"Der? I'm in the dining room," he said unnecessarily. Stiles was pretty sure Derek would have been able to locate him in a blizzard, so the sheriff's house couldn't have posed that much of a challenge for him, not with his apparent ability to hear Stiles’ heartbeat always.

Which was just a touch creepy, but whatever, it also had the potential to be pretty useful in case Stiles ever got lost or kidnapped again or yeah, that wasn’t a train of thought he wanted to pursue.

Stiles slipped off the apron as he tracked the quiet sound of Derek making his way down the stairs and through the kitchen. He stopped abruptly at the doorway, hair mussed and eyes blinking owlishly at Stiles, who had actually forgotten what he was wearing underneath the apron.

The heated look that took over Derek's sleepy expression reminded him, though, and he felt his cheeks and chest blush a bright red. Probably the same red as the satin ribbons and cherries accenting his dress.

But still, there was no way Derek had slept for long enough.

"Why'd you get up?” Stiles asked as he turned fully to face him, taking in Derek’s vulnerable appearance, his bare feet and chest, the scant covering of his boxer briefs. He was otherwise naked and despite his astonishing musculature he looked soft like that, soft and almost delicate.

Well, as delicate as a two hundred pound werewolf could be.

Derek didn’t answer immediately, instead he shuffled forward and wrapped his warm arms around Stiles’ shoulders, one hand sliding down his exposed back to thumb across the satin around his waist as Derek’s scratchy beard brushed against his neck where the hickey he'd left there was undoubtedly on display.

“Hey,” Stiles said, sliding his own hands across the soft skin just above Derek’s waistband, “what’s up?”

Instead of answering, Derek grunted and pulled Stiles closer until their fronts were pressed flush and he could feel the soft rumbling coming from the werewolf’s chest like wolfish kind of pur. Through it all he exuded a strangely grumpy kind of contentment.

It suddenly occurred to Stiles that although Derek was decidedly a morning person, to an almost ridiculous degree, he was not a very good napper. It was something of a hilarious revelation, really, since Stiles was entirely the opposite.

“You wanna eat something before you talk?” he asked, trying and failing to hold back his grin.

Derek grunted an affirmative and Stiles slowly pulled away so they could look each other in the eye.

"Come on, food and then talking,” Stiles said, linking their fingers and pulling Derek toward the long end of the table where they could sit beside each other. He was incredibly conscious of the swishing sound his skirt made with every movement, but Stiles refused to let that get in the way of the meal he’d prepared. Besides, if left to his own devices Stiles had no doubt that Derek would just dig into the cookies and call it a day.

And yeah, he was very much like the sheriff in that regard.

Once settled, each prepared their wraps, Derek’s movements still post-sleep fumbly, but Stiles didn’t comment as he poured them glasses of water from the pitcher he’d found in one of the cabinets. He’d even put some slices of orange in it for an added burst of flavor.

It all felt terribly domestic.

“You’re happy,” Derek said. They were the first words out of his mouth since he’d woken up and Stiles smiled broadly in response.

“I talked to my dad,” he admitted with a soft smile.

Derek raised both thick eyebrows, clearly expecting Stiles to elaborate, but he took a big bite of his wrap, instead. That earned him a soft snort as Derek followed his example. Stiles wasn’t about to get into that conversation until they’d both eaten and Derek had woken up all the way.

They were leaning back in their chairs, cookies in hand, when Derek finally sighed deeply and finally seemed to be fully alert and functioning properly.

“You look amazing,” he said with a quiet kind of sincerity, studying the table like he wasn't sure he was allowed to comment on Stiles’ outfit.

It took Stiles a moment to process that. It was getting easier to feel and parse out Derek’s emotions, especially with the way their skin was touching, ankles lazily hooked together under the table. He found it kind of amazing that he could tell Derek wasn’t lying. Not that Stiles thought he would, given his previous enthusiasm when faced with the possibility of Stiles dressing like that, but it was still nice to know for sure.

He also felt some other emotions through their bond and smiled a bit wickedly in response.

“My dad won’t be back until tomorrow afternoon,” he said, dragging his foot slowly up Derek’s shin.

And for once Stiles wasn’t the only one blushing.

“Would you rather talk now, or later?” Stiles asked, pausing with his foot tucked in the warmth under Derek’s knee, giving him a chance to parse through the situation and make a decision with only minimal interference. Well, besides the arousal Stiles was exuding. He knew what he wanted to do, but tried his best not to project.

Derek’s broad fingers wrapped around the delicate bones of his ankle and he swiped his thumb across the skin there, his mood conveying contemplation and an echo of Stiles’ interest.

“I can tell mother not to expect to hear from us until tomorrow,” he offered a bit unexpectedly. Stiles hadn’t forgotten their missed breakfast plans that were supposed to have taken place the morning after he’d healed Peter, but since he'd been out of it for a while he silently agreed to the postponement of their inevitably awkward meeting.

“What would you like to do until then?” Stiles asked, already sensing the answer as Derek’s palm slid up his calf.

In response Derek shrugged, his expression carefully blank, but as his fingers found the edge of the skirt his arousal spiked.

Stiles bit back a moan of his own, but he wasn't done playing with his mate, so he very carefully stood up, causing Derek's hand to slide back into more neutral territory, them stacked their plates and calmly brought them to the sink.

Well, he acted calm, but his heart was pounding with anticipation and he probably reeked of arousal by that point.

"Can you put the leftovers in the fridge?" he asked, glancing over his shoulder and didn't miss the blue flash of Derek's wolf eyes. Stiles could only imagine what he looked like, his back mostly exposed, white and red skirt fluffed out to cover his otherwise bare thighs.

Edible, judging by Derek’s expression, but he did what Stiles had asked and quickly put the rest of the chicken salad away, even taking the time to wrap it up properly so it wouldn’t dry out.

Stiles made a mental note to take some to his dad for lunch the next day as he turned back to the task at hand.

He was wrist-deep in suds when he felt the familiar heat of Derek’s body press up against his spine, his hands hot against the thin cotton covering Stiles’ stomach as his bristly beard brushed the back of his neck.

“Are you really going to do the dishes right now?” Derek asked with an amused kind of exasperation, his lips ghosting warmth against Stiles’ ear.

Stiles shrugged his bare shoulders to cover up his shiver. “I mean, yeah,” he said throatily, “unless you have a different proposal in mind.”

Derek shorted and nipped at the mark he’d put on Stiles’ neck.

“I can think of a few things I'd rather do,” he said, hands sliding back to grip Stiles’ waist and yeah, he could get behind that. Well, technically Derek was the one behind him, but-

“Oh?” he said, his hips suddenly pressed firmly against the counter.

“Now what I’m really curious about,” Derek said, dragging his lips over the satin strap of the halter top and across Stiles’ shoulder, his touch achingly gentle, “is what you’re wearing underneath this.”

Stiles shuddered and tried to remember how to talk, but most of his concentration was absorbed by the feelings Derek was exuding and evoking in him. Lust, mostly, but also a heady dose of affection and anticipation.

Broad palms smoothed down the fabric of the skirt, then carefully began to draw it up from the bottom, the tulling tickling Stiles’ legs as it rose, exposing more and more of his bare  skin.

He managed to rinse his hands and turn off the water before Derek found out exactly what Stiles wasn’t wearing underneath.

Jesus, Stiles,” he whispered roughly. The almost overwhelming burst of arousal made him moan and clutch the edge of the sink. And if they kept that up, later he’d have to scrub precome out of the silky slip that made up the underlayer of the skirt because his already hardening cock was sliding against the material in a very tantalizing manner. But really, that was a sacrifice he was willing to make, so long as Derek didn’t stop touching him.

“Didn’t have anything that matched,” he reasoned and Derek’s punched out little whine helped him gain a bit of his snark back. “Besides, now we’re even, we each have on only one article of clothing.”

“But yours is much more enticing than mine,” Derek replied, moving his hand to to slide against the silky fabric beneath the tule, his touch feeling even hotter than before.

“Don’ know about that,” Stiles said, tilting his head forward as he arched his spine, pressing his barely covered ass more firmly against Derek’s palm.

He was definitely going to have to look up how to get precome out of whatever type of fabic that was.

“I could bend you over and take you just like this," Derek confessed, and yeah, hearing him talk dirty was a major turn-on for Stiles.

Hearing him, seeing him, smelling him.

Pretty much everything Derek did turned him on. But the talking? Yeah, that was extra nice.

"Promise?" Stiles asked as he tilted his head to the side to let the wolf scent his neck again.

Derek growled against his skin. "You're already beginning to smell like me, like you're mine."

Judging by his tone that was a very good thing.

"Care to take this party up to my old room?" Stiles asked. While kitchen sex was still on his list of things to do, he wasn't quite sure he wanted it to happen in his childhood home, even if he knew his dad would be out of the house until the next evening.



Because there was no way he was using anything in the cabinets as a substitute for the real thing.

That was just.


Derek's thumb traced the curve of his ass and dipped into the crease, sliding the silky fabric across his puckered hole in a move that sent another shiver up Stiles’ spine.

"Holy yes," Stiles breathed shakily. "Yes, we are going upstairs right now and you're going to continue doing that and many many other delightful things. Yes? Yes. Okay good, let's go."

Stiles practically dragged him up to his room, but Derek was chuckling the whole time so he was clearly just as willing of a participant in the upcoming events. Also, he was most definitely rocking a pretty obvious hardon, so that just served to encourage Stiles' less than subtle approach to getting them where they needed to be for things to happen.

“Wait,” Derek said as Stiles shut and locked the door behind them and he froze, hand still on the knob because there didn’t seem to be anything to wait for. They were both aching for it, they didn’t have any immediate obligations to deal with, and Stiles pretty much just wanted to climb Derek like a tree.

But he clearly wanted to say something so Stiles did as requested and waited for Derek to find the words he was clearly struggling with.

“I don’t,” he started, then gave an angry sigh and pulled back so their skin wasn’t touching and so he could run both hands through his hair. It showcased his insane musculature and made him look even more bangable, but Stiles knew he was probably trying to say something important, so he refrained from adding his own commentary.

“I don’t want you to feel anything other than pleasure when we’re together,” Derek finally ground out. It sounded like it took a lot of effort for him to articulate his feelings, which was something they were going to have to address at some point, but since Stiles recognized the fact that Derek was trying, he arranged his face into what he hoped was a supportive look. Talking about feelings really sucked, sometimes, as he was well aware. He didn’t want to come across as a dick if Derek was willing to discuss his own.

“I want you to feel comfortable around me, which I know might be hard, after what you’ve gone through and what my family and I have put you through. You mentioned before that we needed to renegotiate limits and I’m always willing to do that with you. I’ll do anything you want me to do,” he trailed off at Stiles’ unimpressed look, “as long as I’m comfortable with it as well,” he finished quietly.

Derek’s face was flushed, his muscles tensed as his shoulders drew forward a bit and Stiles didn’t need to be touching him to know his mate was uncomfortable and embarrassed by his confession.

But what a confession it was.

“Derek,” he said gently, holding out his hand and waiting until the other man took it before he continued, “I don’t even have words to express how grateful I am for you and your support. I completely agree that we need to do some major renegotiations, but for now can we just be,” he didn’t even know a word for what he was looking for, “attentive? Considerate?”

While he wasn’t nearly as fatigued as he had been, Stiles didn’t think he was up for any kind of crazy marathon sex. He just wanted the proximity, the intimacy, and then they could have a more in-depth discussion. It might not have been the preferred order of things, but they both felt the bone-deep yearning for closeness and even he could tell that their bond was still somewhat fragile.

“Okay,” Derek said, closing the distance between them and cupping Stiles’ face in his hands so gently it sent a rush through him. “Okay, we can do that, but if you feel uncomfortable at all-”

“I’ll say our safeword and you’ll stop,” Stiles said, gazing into Derek’s hazel eyes. He knew Derek would stop, too, which was such a relief he could hardly believe it. “But that’s a two-way street,” he pointed out, “the same goes for you.”

“If anything happens that I’m not okay with I’ll say knife,” Derek agreed because he’d been listening and paying attention, which was more than Stiles could say for pretty much any of his previous lovers.

Not that any of his former relationships were in any way comparable to what he had going on with his werewolf anchor-mate.

Stiles smiled, cheeks pressing against Derek’s palms and he let himself be pulled forward until their bodies were flush, fitting so easily together. Their kissing was less frantic than it had been. Smoother. Lingering and heated all at once.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” Derek whispered against his lips, but the depth of the emotion behind the statement told Stiles so much more than his words could express.

He wanted to reply with something like I always feel safe when I’m with you, but that wasn’t quite true, no matter how much Stiles wanted it to be. At least it wasn’t true yet.

Instead, he grazed his cheek against Derek’s beard and kissed his way down the man’s neck, nipping and licking at the tendons, resting his lips on the steady thumping of his pulse.

“We’re going to be okay,” he said. Because they would be, eventually.

Probably not for a while. A month, a year even, down the line, but at some point the psychological wounds would heal along with the physical ones. Stiles would stop flinching when he saw rope in the hardware store, he’d be able to look at the scars on his chest without feeling a flicker of imagined pain and a burst of adrenaline. He’d stop expecting the worst to come from his relationship with Derek.

That last one would likely take the most time, probably, but he was willing to try for it.

“Tell me what you want,” Derek whispered against his temple, his hands were pressed against Stiles’ bare spine, gently stroking up and down, ghosting just at the edge of the satin ribbon around his waist.

It was a familiar enough conversation that Stiles had to grin as he licked at the soft skin under his mouth, then bit with enough force to make Derek’s arousal jolt and his hands to tighten against him.

Stiles kept on, sucking until the skin grew hot against his tongue, then released his hold with a wet pop. Derek’s pecs quivered under his palms as Stiles pulled back to survey his newest mark with a smirk of satisfaction.

“How do you feel about sitting back and letting me do all the work this time?” he asked, waggling his eyebrows.

Predictably, Derek snorted and captured Stiles’ lips in a filthy kiss.

“That sounds promising,” he admitted several long minutes later, “Are you going to keep the dress?” Derek stepped back far enough to give Stiles a lingering once-over.

He totally wanted Stiles to wear the dress.

“That depends,” Stiles said, one hand flat on Derek’s chest as he pressed just hard enough to make him step back toward the bed.

“On?” Derek prompted, pupils blown wide as his heart began to race faster with arousal.

Stiles smirked. “That depends on how good you are,” he decided and it was worth the warm chuckle Derek gave in return.

“Oh, really? And just what constitutes goodness in this situation? Am I allowed to touch you?” he punctuated his question by grazing his fingertips down the length of Stiles’ torso, hesitating at the ribbon like a promise.

But Stiles wasn’t quite done playing.

“Hm, I think that’s a good rule. For now, you have to keep your hands to yourself,” he said and Derek immediately withdrew his hand, placing both of them behind his head like he was in a hold up or a catalogue photo shoot. It did unbelievable things to his torso and arms.

Delicious things.

“Cheeky,” Stiles commented, then kept pressing against Derek’s chest until his calves bumped against the bed and he sat heavily on the mattress, hands shooting back to brace himself.

“You’re in control,” Derek said, though the flippant announcement had so much more meaning it made Stiles pause in contemplation.

He did have control. Perhaps for the first time in his life Stiles was in charge, in control of the situation. Derek gave that to him so readily, so completely that Stiles couldn’t help but want to give it back, to share the burden of power with him.

Which was relationships were supposed to be about. Later they could discuss the more kinky aspects of power play, but that wasn’t something he was willing to delve into at that particular moment.

“Or,” Stiles said, biting his lip as he withdrew his hand and gripped onto the fluffed out skirt of his dress, probably wrinkling it, but whatever. “Or you could help me decide.”

Because compromise was important. Because he wasn’t sure he was ready to take charge quite yet. Because he wasn’t even sure how to be in control like that. Not really.

Stiles was still reeling from the amount of world-changing revelations he’d experienced over the previous days, months, of his acquaintanceship and then relationship with Derek. He didn’t want to do anything to risk compromising the fragility of their growing bond. Plus, despite their drama, he did trust Derek enough to know that he was invested in looking out for Stiles’ best interests. That despite some momentary demonstrations of stupidity, he was a good person, and wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize their future anymore than Stiles would.

Derek smiled at him, his expression honest and open as he leaned his weight back on his palms, his firm chest on display, legs spread, easy and inviting.

“I want you to want me,” he sang softly, arching one eyebrow in what could only be interpreted as an invitation.

Stiles grinned and yeah, that wasn’t an issue at all. The dress may have hid it, but he was unequivocally feeling some want for his mate.

“I need you to need me,” Derek continued. He looked amazing like that, arms supporting his stretched torso, feet planted firmly on the floor, boxer briefs tight against his hard cock.

Stiles stepped close enough for the tulle peeking out from under the skirt to tickle against Derek’s knees.

“I’d love you to love me,” Derek continued easily, without any of the pressure Stiles thought would be behind the words.

“I’m begging you to beg me,” Stiles sang back with a smirk because he could be a bit of an ass, but also because the sudden thought of Derek begging was an extremely arousing one.

In answer, Derek grinned, cocking one eyebrow as he lifted his chin to expose the red marks, Stiles’ marks, on his bare throat. “I want you to ride me,” he said, and while it wasn’t begging, it certainly did the trick for Stiles.

“Lube?” he asked, aware that his blush likely matched the red ribbon around the back of his neck.

Derek nodded toward the headboard where Stiles had always stashed his lotion and tissues. He hadn’t been all that subtle about his teenage jerk-off sessions, at least not until his dad had found his kind of pathetic toy collection.

But that was then, and it really wasn’t the time to dwell on the past when Stiles had a very hot, very sexy man in his bed, waiting to be ridden by him.

“Get it and prep me,” Stiles said, wishing he could do the cocky eyebrow thing, but settling instead on smoothing his hands down the fluffed out skirt of his dress and biting his lip in an attempt at coyness.

He wasn’t sure how well he pulled it off, but Derek practically threw himself back across the bed to fetch the lube, so that was something.

When he turned around, the powerful play of his muscles making Stiles’ mouth go dry, his eyes were electric blue and Stiles wasted no time closing the distance, climbing onto the bed and moving to kneel so he was straddling Derek’s lap.

“Come on, Der,” he said, fingers tangling in Derek’s hair, tilting his head back so Stiles could kiss him deeply.

Derek, ever adept at multitasking, kissed him back with fervor as he snapped the lube open and slicked his fingers. Stiles lost track after that, lost in the delicious slide of their tongues and the little subvocal moans Derek was making, but then he felt a hot hand against his thigh and had to restrain himself from bucking at the sensation because he was letting Derek do that, letting him control how quickly he prepped Stiles.

Stiles didn’t even care if they got lube on the dress, or come or anything else because suddenly Derek’s finger was there, circling and thick, pressing into him and they both groaned at the sensation like it had been weeks and not days since the last time they’d touched so intimately. There wasn’t even a burn as Derek breached him, sliding easily in and out, igniting Stiles’ like no one ever had before. After a few more easy undulations he slipped another finger beside the first and Stiles muffled his shout against Derek’s lips, kissing more frantically as his hips began to rock.

“So beautiful,” Derek whispered, twisting his wrist until the pads of his fingers grazed against Stiles’ prostate and he shuddered at the sensation.

“More, more Derek, I need more,” he said, words tripping over each other as he nipped and kissed his way down Derek’s neck, gasping against his skin as he tried to quicken the pace.

“Whatever you want, Stiles,” he replied, easing out just enough to fold a third finger in with the first two, pressing against the tight opening, waiting for it to give before pressing in and Stiles couldn’t stop the throaty noise that erupted from his chest, more of a grunt than anything else, but he felt Derek’s satisfaction at having made him produce whatever the hell kind of noise that was.

“Der, Der, come on, come on,” he begged, vaguely aware that it was Derek who was supposed to be begging, not him, but he was too lost in the sensation of fullness, of being plundered, to bother with semantics.

“Want me to take off your dress so it won’t get ruined? Stiles?” Derek asked, his free hand moving from where he’d been clutching Stiles’ waist to the back of his neck, gripping there and pulling Stiles’ back so they could see each other.

Stiles was barely holding on to cohesion by that point, his mouth wide open as he panted, his cheeks undoubtedly splotchy red, pupils blown like Derek’s, though he didn’t have glowy werewolf eyes to show off.

“Stiles,” Derek repeated, slowing the thrusting of his fingers enough that Stiles whined at the loss of contact with his prostate. “Stiles, I’m going to unzip your dress and take it off of you. Is that okay?”

His hand was already slipping down Stiles’ spine to where the zipper was pressing against his skin and he leaned forward, tucking his head back against Derek’s neck, mouthing the warm skin, his own hands tracing up and down the defined muscles of Derek’s back, over the tattoo between his shoulderblades, trying to keep still enough for the other man to undress him, but wanting nothing more than to ride his thick fingers until he came from it.

“Hurry,” Stiles pleaded, licking and nipping at an unmarked patch of Derek’s skin, smirking when he felt the fingers twitch. “Come on, I want you inside of me.”

“I am inside of you,” Derek said, but his voice was a bit strained his hand shaking as he jerked the zipper down. Cool air swept against Stiles’ newly exposed skin, making him moan.

“Stiles, I need you to lean back so we can get this off of you,” Derek said, his breath ghosting against Stiles’ temple where his hair was already growing damp from sweat.

He did what Derek said, leaning enough so he could grip the puffed out bottom of the dress and awkwardly tug it up and over his head, only slightly strangling himself with the yards of fabric before he managed to free himself and toss it aside. But then his body was bare and he felt terribly exposed, straddling Derek’s lap, the man’s fingers pressed inside of him as they stared at each other.

“Do you want to ride me, or do you want to get off like this?” Derek asked quietly, probably sensing or smelling Stiles’ sudden bout of uncertainty.

“I uh,” he said, swallowing and glancing down at where Derek’s cock was straining against his boxer briefs, the head peeking out from underneath the band, both already wet with precome. “I want,” he tried again, then bit his lip and slipped a hand between them so he could wrap his fingers around Derek’s length, knuckles grazing against the lone stretch of fabric remaining between them. “I want you,” he said, squeezing his hand just enough to make Derek’s breath hitch, “to come inside of me.”

Derek’s fangs dropped for a second before he snapped his mouth closed and he swallowed.

They’d done it before, before Peter had taken a turn for the worse, but Stiles wanted to know what it was like when he wasn’t hopped up on so much adrenaline, when he wasn’t feeling the afterglow of having just escaped certain death.

Stiles wanted it all to be real.

As if hearing the inner workings of Stiles’ brain, Derek nodded silently and kissed him, sliding his fingers free and lifting up to tug off his underwear in a move that probably wouldn’t have been possible if he’d been human. Not that Stiles’ minded because he enjoyed feeling the powerful play of Derek’s muscles beneath him.

He didn’t waste any time. As soon as Derek’s skin was as bare as his own he pressed forward, his own cock sliding against Derek’s abdomen as he circled his hips teasingly, the tip of Derek’s dick just catching on his rim.

“Stiles,” Derek grunted, one hand clamping onto Stiles’ hip to still him as the other, slick with lube, guided them so he could push inside.

They both moaned at the feeling, the hot clutch and slight burn, the overwhelming sensation of completion.

Stiles wasn’t even aware he was gasping against Derek’s shoulder until the other man wrapped his arms around Stiles’ back and shushed him, holding his fast until he caught his breath.

It was dizzying, being joined like that, Derek’s cock buried within him, hot and hard and perfect. Stiles gave an experimental roll of his hips, just about the only movement he could make with Derek hugging him like that, and it drew another set of moans from the two of them.

“Ease up, big guy,” Stiles said with a smile, feeling a flash of amusement come from his mate as his arms loosened their tight hold.

He cautiously rose up a few inches, muscles shuddering with the sensation, then back down, groaning at the feeling of Derek and heat, their sweaty skin making the air seem thicker, somehow, even more intimate.

After a few more cautious thrusts he gained more confidence and speed, until he was thrusting down, Derek’s hands on his hips, helping maintain the momentum.

“Fuck, Der,” he mumbled, damp forehead pressed against his shoulder so he could look down between them to see the almost frantic movements, the muscles of his thighs twitching with the strain, their chests heaving, Derek’s thumbs digging into the skin over hips.

It felt so right, so perfect.

There was a kind of heat inside of him and with every piston of his hips, with every tensing of Derek’s unbelievably muscular forearms, the tension inside of him ratcheted up, winding tighter and tighter, igniting until Stiles was sure he would shatter from it, his throat burning from his sharp gasps until he fell over that edge and his muscles locked in a long, hard orgasm that whited out his vision and made his fingers claw against Derek’s back.

Beneath him Derek stilled, letting him ride it out, holding him steady as he fell apart, kissing his parted lips, not seeming to care about the come slicking both their chests.

When Stiles finally finished, the aftershocks no longer shuddering through him, Derek flipped them easily, not even needing to pull out as he pressed Stiles’ back against the mattress and rolled his hips in an easy glide. Every time he grazed Stiles’ prostate it still gave him a jolt, but he just wrapped his legs around Derek’s waist and his arms around his neck and reeled him in, encouraging him into a searing kiss that managed to finally push him over the edge as well.

Stiles held him through it, amazed at how silent Derek was when he came, already thinking of ways to cause him to scream out his orgasm, but that was for later, after they’d talked and negotiated and found a place of their own where they wouldn’t have to worry about nosy neighbors and noise complaints. As it was Stiles’ couldn’t quite be sure his dad wouldn’t hear about their probably pretty loud sexcapades from Mr. and Mr. Eliot next door, but it had definitely been worth it.

“Whatever you’re thinking about, stop it,” Derek mumbled against his chest and Stiles grinned, tucking his chin so he could look down at him. It was an awkward angle, but Derek looked completely blissed out, so it was worth making himself look like he had twenty chins.

“What if I was thinking about your dick?” Stiles asked because his brain was starting to come back online even after the amazing orgasm, and yeah, he’d come untouched.

That was a thing.

A very glorious, amazing thing that he wanted to have happen again.

And again.

And just, a lot.

“Okay, you can keep thinking about what you’re thinking about now, but I’m not going to be up for another round right this second,” Derek said, still sounding blissed out and not entirely coherent, “just give me a few minutes to recover.”

“You mean recover from an awesome orgasm because that was pretty awesome,” Stiles said with a smile.

Derek groaned and rolled them again so Stiles was on top and suddenly empty, Derek’s come and the lube leaking out of him and that was never not a weird sensation. Not that he’d ever felt it before he’d been with Derek because while Stiles was often stupid when it came to relationships, he had always used protection before.

Which reminded him that STI testing was at the top of his list of things to get done. Well, they’d need to probably get dressed first, and then there was figuring out whether or not werewolfiness would show up on that kind of medical test-

“Stiles,” Derek whined and Stiles couldn’t contain his giggle because hearing a grown man use that particular tone of voice was kind of a privilege. A hilarious privilege.

Also, Derek was adorable when he pouted.

“Alright, alright,” Stiles finally conceded when he felt Derek’s mood start to get grumpy again. He nuzzled his cheek against Derek’s pec and slipped his hands around the man’s surprisingly trim waist so his hands were tucked in the warmth between his spine and the bed.

That contented the both of them and they settled in to enjoy the afterglow for a few more moments, Derek’s chest soft under his cheek as Stiles listened to the even thudding of his heart and the quiet in and out of his breathing. It was a bit hypnotic, actually, hearing the way Derek’s body worked.

It felt right.

Because even when he’d been in relationships before, Stiles couldn’t ever remember feeling so blissfully content with another person, wrapped up in each other’s arms, sharing the same space and feelings and dreams.

“Me, too,” Derek said, his voice reverberating a bit under Stiles’ cheek.

That was another thing, he’d never had a magical connection with any of his previous lovers. Not that he would have wanted to, they had all been pretty terrible people. Not that Derek hadn’t had his moments, though Stiles wasn’t without guilt, either.

Derek’s rumbling took on a different tone as he slid his broad hand from Stiles’ shoulder and slid it between them onto his chest, rubbing at the scar tissue there like he could read Stiles’ mind. “It’s okay,” he whispered.

“It is now,” Stiles agreed, wrapping his arms more firmly across Derek’s sweaty stomach and closing his eyes.