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I Wanna Take Down The Walls With You

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Stiles takes his clothes off pretty much as soon as he comes in through the front door, hangs his satchel on the hook, leaves his shoes in the middle of the hall. He’s only wearing his boxers when he gets into the living room. Derek’s sitting at the rickety kitchen table he fondly calls a desk, papers spread out around him and Stiles feels like he’s about to come out of his skin with waiting; he’s wanted him all day, hasn’t stopped thinking about it. He crosses the room, drops to his knees and unfastens Derek’s jeans with eager, clumsy fingers, gets Derek’s dick out and hooks his boxers under his balls as Derek shifts his hips obligingly to accommodate him.

Derek is soft still but Stiles knows he’ll catch up quickly, mouths at his balls. He can’t get enough of the warmth, the salt of Derek’s sweat and the way it smells slightly musky, like sleep and bed and sex. All the good things in life.

He buries his nose in Derek’s crotch, his hands gripping Derek’s knees to keep them spread and it feels like he’s winning a battle when Derek starts to harden; it makes him smile against Derek’s inner thigh. He nuzzles Derek’s balls, takes them into his mouth one by one, sucking them a little as he pulls back.

Derek groans at that, grips his hair. Tugs, just a little. Enough for him to feel it. It’s not a command, not really, but Stiles wraps his hand around Derek’s dick, takes the head into his mouth and closes his eyes as everything goes quiet and starts to make a little more sense. He keeps his hand around Derek’s dick, bobs his head down to kiss his fingers because he needs to work up to deep throating him, takes things slowly.

Derek breathes softly above him, sighing out these little breaths as Stiles sucks messily, drooling on Derek’s jeans, precome and spit painting his lips, his fingers. Derek doesn’t move his hips or the hand on his head, just keeps petting Stiles’s hair and making those quiet noises of appreciation. Stiles takes his left hand off Derek’s knee and presses the heel of his palm to his dick, rutting just to get a bit of relief. He doesn’t want to come yet. Doesn’t want either of them to come yet, just wants a bit of space inside his head, under his skin. Wants to get lost.

He takes a little more of Derek’s dick in the next time, moves his hand down closer to the base and goes down until the head’s just nudging his throat, until he could choke on it, make those messy gagging noises that Derek secretly loves although he’s never said anything about it.

He’s just about to try and take more in when Derek says, “How was your day?” in this completely normal tone of voice, so Stiles gives him the thumbs up sign with the hand that isn’t pressed against his own dick. “I made soup for later,” he adds, and Stiles hums absently. He would nod but, well. He forces himself down further, chokes a little as he goes too fast. Derek’s gone back to gasping, to petting his hair with a shaking hand so he counts that as a moral victory, even if tears are leaking from the sides of his eyes.

He comes up for a gasping breath, mouth open wide so the air catches at his throat, makes him cough again but he’s desperate by now, feels like a gross, needy mess. “Slow down,” Derek says softly, puts his fingers under Stiles’s chin, tilts his head up so they’re looking at each other. “This isn’t-- what’s wrong? What do you need?”

It’s times like this he regrets Derek getting in touch with his feelings. “I was pretty happy with your dick in my mouth, big guy,” he says. He swallows some of the built up spit and precome, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Derek’s not letting up on the eye contact.

“It’s Thursday, and you’re teaching tomorrow,” he says and he sounds so cautious, so gentle and it’s at times like these that Stiles usually tries to start stupid fucking fights, gets scared and lashes out. He doesn’t know how else to deal with it; Derek only lets Stiles deepthroat him on Fridays and Saturdays because otherwise he’s too croaky to speak, he makes them dinner and asks Stiles about his day and always listens to his answer, gives Stiles footrubs without being prompted. It’s terrifying “We could go upstairs. Would my knot calm you down, baby?”

“It’s not a fucking pacifier, Derek. You’re so weird sometimes,” he says, feeling a flush build up from his neck, heating his cheeks. Derek ducks his head and smiles, eyes crinkling at the edges. “But--yeah. I--that sounds good. Your knot.”

He scrambles to his feet, tugs at Derek’s hand until he stands up then lets Derek kiss him on the mouth, just a chaste kiss. “Hey,” Derek says softly. “There you are,” and he kisses Stiles again before he can respond, deeper this time, chasing his taste on Stiles’s lips, his tongue. Stiles clutches at his shoulders, grips the soft fabric of his sweater as Derek makes small, pleased noises, brushes their noses together, moves his lips to the side of Stiles’s mouth and smiles.

They stand together like that for a while, until the buzzing under Stiles’s skin’s too much for him to ignore. Stiles breaks away, then, goes out into the hallway, starts climbing the stairs as Derek picks up his shoes and lines them up against the wall with the others, makes it into the bedroom before Derek’s even halfway up. He’s naked, with lube spread on three of his fingers by the time Derek’s caught up with him, is on the point of working his ass open, face down on the bed, dick smearing precome on the comforter.

“Can I-- I’d like to do that,” Derek says. “Get you all ready for me.”

Stiles turns his head to face him, spreads his legs to get himself better balanced. Folds his arms in front of him, hand slick and cool with lube as it rests on his forearm. He lets his head fall back onto them, closes his eyes. “Yeah. Okay. Just--hurry,” he says. Derek doesn’t say anything. Stiles can tell he’s listening, or scenting--working something out. He’s gone quiet and still, just for a few seconds, with a predatory kind of awareness.

Sometimes, Stiles is tempted to ask Derek what he can smell, what he’s listening for. Wants Derek to tell him how he’s feeling, to identify these impulses, tugs under his skin that pull him this way and that. The thought sends this hot, sick thrill through him. He never asks.

Instead of opening the lube again, Derek takes his sticky hand, links their fingers together so the slick smears between them, thumb gently pressing against his knuckles, digging into the tendons. Presses hard between the two bones on the underside of his wrist as Stiles splays his hand out, bites down on his forearm to keep too much noise from escaping because it hurts, it hurts, but it’s just what he needs.

“Okay?” Derek asks quietly when he’s released Stiles’s hand. Stiles just nods, lets his hand fall onto the comforter in front of him. Derek grips the back of his neck, once, then kneels on the bed behind him. Derek strokes down his thighs, little reassuring touches, soothing that reflexive itch Stiles gets between his shoulder blades, that prey instinct that’ll never really leave him. He’s still stroking Stiles’s ankle when he slides his finger slowly into Stiles’s hole. There’s nothing tentative about it, just this warm, slick glide in, pressing in as Stiles sighs, nudges his foot upwards into Derek’s grip.

“It’s okay, I’ve got you,” he says, sounds amused, a little, fucking Stiles gently with his finger with a slow, easy pace. “There’s no rush,” but there is, he’s hard, aching with it, dick up against his belly leaving trails of precome on his skin as he moves. He needs this, needs Derek’s fingers, mouth, dick, needs to hurl himself into orgasm and take Derek down with him. He shifts, moves his ass back to get Derek’s finger in deeper, the comforter rough on his overheated skin, scraping against his nipples as he tries to make Derek go faster, to do something.

“You’re such-- you’re such an asshole,” he grits out as Derek hushes him again. “Just fucking-- fuck me.”

Derek doesn’t change pace at all, slides his finger in and out as Stiles opens and closes with the soft drag of it, keeps him still with one hand, warm and steady on his back. Derek holds him in place with effortless strength. “It’s okay,” he says again, sounds a little amused, more affectionate than Stiles is comfortable with. “You’re opening up so pretty for me,” and he presses a second finger to Stiles’s hole, waits for Stiles to relax again, slides it in, gentle as anything. “Gonna get you ready for my knot, baby. You’re doing so well.”

Stiles wants to tell him he isn’t doing anything, but something about that soft note to Derek’s voice keeps him quiet. It’s unsettling. All that praise. Derek hums quietly to himself as he fucks Stiles with two fingers, sometimes keeping them straight, sometimes twisting, crooked up against his rim. Stiles can’t keep from making these soft, begging noises as his toes curl up. Derek’s not even aiming for his prostate, hasn’t touched his dick but it’s still almost too much.

“There you are,” Derek murmurs.

Stiles tries to tell him he’s weird but he’s biting down on the comforter so it comes out all garbled, and Derek laughs softly, strokes his ass with his free hand. “Better?” he asks, and it kind of is, so he nods, settles back into Derek’s pace, breathes steadily. He loves this. Loves--

He loves that he can let himself fall, because it’s Derek. They know each other, trust each other. They’ve got a good thing going. “Wanna marry your fingers,” he mumbles as Derek spreads them again, slips in a third? Fourth? Derek doesn’t make a sound, but Stiles knows he’s smiling. “I’d treat them right. Give ‘em manicures.” Derek does that soundless laugh thing, shakes the bed a little. “Love your fingers--just--Derek,” and he breaks off, bites down on the comforter again at the stretch of it, the faint hurt that Derek’s soothing away with little hushing noises. “Please,” he says. “Please.”

“I’ve got you,” Derek says, slipping out his fingers. Stiles can feel his ass gaping a little, lube trickling down his taint. “You looks so good like that, all ready for me,” and he sounds reverent, almost. Stiles hides his face again, curls inwards on himself as Derek strokes his ass, runs his finger around his rim, makes him open and close at his touch. He can’t hold in his soft, shocked grunt as Derek kisses him, first on his asscheek then his hole, an oddly chaste press of lips. “So needy,” he murmurs, bends so his whole torso’s flush against Stiles’s back, breathing into his ear as he slides into Stiles, makes them both gasp with it.

“You okay?” he asks, reaches under Stiles and pulls him up so they’re vertical, his knees spreading Stiles’s legs apart, forearm a steady pressure against his chest. Stiles lets his head drop back onto Derek’s shoulder, wraps his hands around Derek’s arm and holds on as Derek starts to fuck him with a steady rhythm, breath hot and damp on his neck. Stiles’s dick is so hard that it’s up against his belly, bobs a little with every thrust, but he doesn’t touch it, just clings to Derek’s arm like an anchor.

He can’t stifle the little noises he makes, half vocalized sounds. Can’t hold anything back, can’t muffle his words in a pillow or the comforter, can’t bite down to stop himself from speaking. It’s kind of the worst. He hates it afterwards, sometimes, hates the way he’s been so honest, laid himself bare. Hates how soft Derek’s face goes, how gently he touches him afterwards. “Please,” he says, and Derek kisses the side of his neck, presses the heel of his hand against his stomach like he’s feeling for the space he’s making inside him. “Please,” he says again, doesn’t know what he’s asking for. Something. Something he trusts Derek to give him.

Derek bites down this time, bites the muscle on his shoulder, almost hard enough to draw blood. He takes his hand off Stiles’s belly, drags his fingers up Stiles’s torso, traces under his pectoral muscles and skims just over his nipple, just a quick flick of his nails. It’s enough to make Stiles arch up into it, to nearly dislodge Derek’s dick as he tries to get more sensation. He can feel Derek smiling into his shoulder, his soft exhalation.

Derek touches his nipple again, strokes it with his thumb, just a soothing up and down motion. Keeps fucking him, doesn’t change rhythm at all, keeps it deep and steady as Stiles whines, turns his head and kisses him, kisses his ear, his hair, any part of him he can reach. “You’re so--fuck, you’re so good,” he breathes, “so good. Love this.”

Derek hums, a small, pleased sound. He pinches Stiles’s nipple the next time he fucks in, dick angled up to glide right over his prostate, keeps fucking him at that angle until it’s nearly too much, his dick leaking, balls drawn up tight. The steady pressure on his nipple doesn’t let up; he knows he’s going to feel it tomorrow. He throws his head back against Derek’s shoulder, moves up as much as he can into it as Derek pinches, rolls his nipple between his thumb and forefinger. “Derek, I-- I can’t,” he gasps out, both hands tight on Derek’s arm, but Derek keeps going, speeds up his thrusts until the sound of them fills the room, until Stiles is fuck stupid, head lolling back. Derek lets go of his nipple suddenly, pinches it again just as hard as Stiles yells out, comes with his back arched, scrabbling at Derek’s arm as his dick jerks against his belly, jizz spilling out onto his stomach, thighs, the comforter.

Derek fucks him through it, doesn’t let up until Stiles has gone limp with the overstimulation, dick twitching against his thigh as little spurts of jizz keep dribbling out. He rubs Stiles’s come into his skin, clamps his mouth down over a mark he’s already made and sucks at it, soothes the hurt with his tongue. “Gonna knot you soon,” he murmurs. “Gonna keep my come all locked up inside you. I’ll be able to feel it, filling you up. Press my hand against your belly and feel it. All for you.”

“Like a present?” he asks, and laughs when Derek nods. “So weird,” he says, strokes Derek’s hair, scratches the spot behind his ear that makes him go all relaxed and pliant. Derek hums, agreeable, keeps rubbing small circles in his stomach. “Wanna kiss you,” he says, so Derek takes his arm away and he twists, seeks out Derek’s mouth, his fingers splayed on Derek’s jaw to hold him in place. Derek stills his thrusts, lets Stiles kiss him deep and dirty, trace his teeth with his tongue, press small kisses to the corner of his mouth. “You’re my favorite,” Stiles tells him soft and secret, and he can feel him smile against his cheek.

He can feel Derek’s knot start to swell, breathes steadily as Derek shudders behind him, grips both his hands and pushes back so he’s braced, so that Derek can fuck into him and they won’t fall. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to the feeling of his body giving way, making a space inside him. He never wants to get used to the sound of Derek gasping behind him, these shivery little breaths that he pants out into Stiles’s skin. The knot pushes right up against his prostate, stretches his rim from the inside and he can feel himself chub up already, lets go of Derek’s hands, gives himself a few strokes to get himself hard as Derek whines and grinds forward.

“C’mon, touch yourself. Wanna see,” Derek says, hooks his chin over Stiles’s shoulder, presses his hand to Stiles’s lower stomach so that their hands brush up against each other as Stiles starts to jerk off. His breath is hot on Stiles’s skin, skin hot where they touch, damp with sweat. His knot is pulsing inside him and he knows Derek’s feeling it. Maybe he can feel himself filling Stiles up every time his knot twitches. Stiles moves his hand faster, angles his hips so Derek’s knot is pressing up against his prostate and Derek watches, doesn’t look away, rests his free hand on Stiles’s hip and strokes his thumb back and forth. He presses the hand on Stiles’s stomach down harder, starts grinding his hips in slow circles. “I can feel my knot. Feel it inside you. Is it good? Does it feel good?”

Stiles exhales shakily, can feel himself getting close. “S’good, you know it is,” he slurs out. “Love your knot.”

“C’mon, give it up, show me how much,” Derek breathes, sounds almost giddy with it. “Fucking yourself back on it, such a good, dirty-- so good,” and he keeps moving his hips as Stiles jerks off, hand stripping his dick ruthlessly, the slick sound of it loud in the hush. He comes easier this time, Derek gentling him through it, whispering dirty half sentences into his skin, watching, eager. When he does come, it’s onto Derek’s hand where it’s resting on his stomach and Derek brings it up to his mouth and Stiles licks it clean, sucks his fingers in and chases every bit of his spunk. “Now I smell like you,” Derek tells him, brushes his thumb over Stiles’s lower lip. “You’ve marked me up, claimed me. Love it when people know I’m yours.”

Derek kisses the side of his neck, the hinge of his jaw, keeps moving his hips in little circles, jolts his knot against Stiles’s prostate. Stiles has come twice, but his dick keeps on twitching at the stimulation. “You’re so-- so perfect,” he whispers into Stiles skin, strokes down his sides so gently it almost tickles. “So beautiful. I love this, love you. Wanna keep you here,” and Stiles nods, would agree to anything, never wants this to end. Derek sucks another mark into his shoulder, teeth just on the point of breaking the skin, and he’s brushing his fingers over Stiles’s nipple and even that gentle touch is too much. He can feel something building, something beyond that itchy, restless feeling. He’s overheated, antsy, like something’s just on the tip of his tongue, just out of reach.

“You can come again, I know you can,” Derek tells him. “You’ll come for me, won’t you? Give it up so prettily. My good boy,” he says, gives Stiles his fingers to suck. “Get them wet, we’ll see if I can make you come,” and he doesn’t care what Derek’s saying, not really, sucks his fingers until they’re shiny with spit, eyes closed. Derek rubs a tight circle on his nipple, nail pressing in, giving an edge to the slide. “Suck again,” he says, gives Stiles his dry fingers to wet, pulls them out of his mouth, leaves a trail of spit running between Stiles’s lower lip and his fingers. He rubs both of Stiles’s nipples, pinches them gently, pulls at them a little until it feels like everything Stiles is feeling is emanating from them.

“Look at you, taking my knot so well. You’re so good, so good for me,” Derek croons, all praise, and Stiles would give anything to hear Derek always sound like that, would do anything to make him sound that happy. He’s so tired, so fucked out, but Derek keeps squeezing and pressing at his nipples, his knot working Stiles’s ass every time Stiles moves into the sensation. “I’ll keep you here forever, keep you safe and warm in our den, fill you with good things,” he says, and something gives way, clicks into place and it’s like coming, feels so good, so right that he just surrenders to it, accepts it, relaxes back into Derek’s embrace and lets it happen.

Derek goes quiet and still behind him. That’s the first thing he notices, Derek’s utter stillness. “What’s--what’s wrong?” he slurs, blinks a few times, takes a breath. He can feel his come drying on his stomach, dick twitching with the aftershocks, trails his fingers through it. Derek’s dropped his hands to his sides, isn’t touching his chest any more but his nipples feel tender, sensitive to the currents of air in the room. His chest’s damp. He can feel something trickling down his skin, something sweet smelling. It doesn’t feel quite like blood; it’s too thin, a different kind of warmth. “Derek?” he says, voice cracking a little. “Derek, what’s-- what’s happening to me? What’s going-- I’m not--”

He tries to get away, tries to hide, regroup, but he’s tied to Derek, the knot tugging painfully at his ass and Derek still isn’t talking, isn’t moving. “Derek, fucking-- say something. Please. This hasn’t-- I’ve never--” and he breaks off, touches his nipple with a shaking hand. It comes away wet. His brain stutters to a halt for a few seconds when he looks at his hand, at the white droplets clinging to his skin. He stares at his fingers, hand starting to shake. Has to force himself to look at his chest, at the milk that’s leaking from his nipples, trickling down to mingle with the spunk on his torso. Milk. He’s about to wipe his hand on the comforter, grab something to wipe himself clean with when Derek grabs his wrist.

“I never thought,” he starts softly, voice hoarse. “Never thought this could happen to me.” Derek’s hand is shaking a little as he keeps Stiles’s hand trapped. “I’ve heard stories, but-- Stiles,” he breathes, lifts Stiles’s hand to his mouth, licks every drop of milk off his skin. Stiles can feel his face heating up, stomach swooping with this prickling kind of humiliation.

“Stop,” he grits out, gets his hand free, covers his nipples up as if it’ll stop this from happening, gets his palms all damp with milk as it seeps out of them. His nipples hurt; his chest feels too full, too tender. “I’ll just--once the knot goes down, we can forget this, okay? Forget all of this. We can just--”

“Show me,” Derek says. “I don’t ever want to forget. It’s a gift, Stiles. It’s your gift, and it’s-- it’s so much. I never thought--” he gently pries Stiles’s hands away from his chest. “You don’t need to be ashamed, never. Not for this. Let me help. I’ll help.”

“Help?” Stiles shrieks, and he’s starting to panic, to really freak out. “How can you help? Are you going to make it stop?”

“Never,” Derek says, and his gaze is trained hotly on Stiles’s chest. “I hope it never stops. It means I did good, Stiles, it means you like how I take care of you.”

“I jizzed three times already,” Stiles says, and he still wants to cover up, still wants to Eternal Sunshine the whole experience but he’s also strangely vulnerable to the soft, worshipful way Derek’s touching him. “I’d think that’d be obvious.”

“It’s more than that,” Derek says, and then “Can I--can I taste again?” and he’s breathing heavy, hands still tight on Stiles’s hips.

Stiles wishes he could see his face, work out what was going on but he can’t, and it seems fruitless to deny Derek this, not when it’s making him sound like that. “Yeah,” Stiles says, “yeah, if you have to,” and before before he's even finished speaking, Derek's moving him, hooking Stiles’s arm around his neck and anchoring his thighs over Derek’s hips until Stiles is is twisted on his lap, positioned exactly where Derek wants him.. “Jesus,” Stiles chokes out, and his hands go straight to Derek’s head as Derek lowers his mouth to suck.

It’s the strangest experience he’s had to date, and the competition for the title is fairly high. There’s the strongest sense of relief, like the pressure building up on his chest is being eased, like Derek’s drawing out the tension, little by little. But it’s also more than that, like the amount of nerve endings in his nipples have quadrupled, like every movement of Derek’s hot, wet mouth is being telegraphed along his body in IMAX level detail.

He can’t make any sounds but gasps, just shocked inhales, his hands fisted in Derek’s hair like a lifeline, like he’d float away otherwise. Derek seems to know right when he gets too sensitive, when it becomes too much because he lets go with a slick pop to get at Stiles’s other nipple, treats it to the same fevered passion.

He’s biting now, fiercely joyful about it and he keeps pulling off to kiss Stiles, to press a little of the milk into Stiles’s mouth. Stiles can’t decide whether he wants to duck away, whether he wants to know what it tastes like, but by the time he reacts, Derek’s gone back to suckling at him. “Thank you,” Derek says, once he’s drained both sides of Stiles’s chest, can’t cajole any more from him. “Thank you, Stiles, thank you, baby.”

Stiles has nothing to say to this, too overwhelmed and shocked silent. He’s shivering a little, goosebumps pebbling up on his arms, and Derek maneuvers them down, guides Stiles under the warm blankets, spooned up with Derek behind him, holding tight.

He seems loath to let go of him, even after they’ve both quieted down, gotten their breath back, mastered their heart rates. Stiles knows the knot has gone down, can feel it when he shifts his hips but Derek’s still in him, still molded against his back, still has his arms tightly caging Stiles’s body.

It feels good, reassuring, but Stiles desperately wants to look at his chest, inspect his body, relearn it. He’s sore all over and his skin feels weird, like he’s not sure what it encompasses anymore.

He drums his fingertips lightly on Derek’s forearm where it’s tight against his ribs, and there’s a flex, like Derek has to struggle to let go, but he does. He loosens his grip, pulls out carefully, and turns Stiles to face him.

Derek is practically glowing with happiness. It’s a little disturbing actually, like maybe he’s been taken over by aliens who aren’t doing facial expressions right. Stiles can’t take his eyes off of him; it’s blowing his mind.

“I’m going to warm up some soup,” Derek says, and swoops down to press a light, airy kiss to the middle of Stiles’s forehead, like he’s a benevolent saint bestowing his blessing on Stiles. He stands up, strides bare-assed to the door and Stiles hears him leap down the stairs in a happy clatter.

“Smug bastard,” Stiles mutters as he pulls himself upright, and he hears Derek laugh downstairs, unabashed. He can’t help but smile himself, a little, as he snags his boxers and one of Derek’s henleys and takes them to the bathroom.

His hair is an absolute wreck. Bedhead doesn’t even begin to cover it; he looks like a Don King impersonator. His cheeks are still flushed up, and his lips are swollen, bitten red. Gross, he thinks and splashes water on his face, cold and refreshing. He runs his wet fingers through his hair, tries to calm the most of the tangle, and then sighs heavily over the mess of hickeys on his neck and shoulders. Derek’s pretty good about not leaving them too high, knows that Stiles likes having something for his collar to press against but no higher. He sees one outlier, though, a soft mark under the hinge of his jaw. He’s probably going to have to use some of that concealer Lydia bought after the last time she caught him awkwardly trying to cover a hickey with his hand.

And then when there’s nothing more to look at, no more avoiding it, he turns his gaze down lower.

His nipples look deceptively normal, a little flushed, swollen, but nothing that screams “we’re betraying bastards, impulsive rebels.” They aren’t visibly different than Stiles has ever known them to be, and he gives them a long, dirty look before he wets a washcloth and carefully wipes away the tracks of milk that have crusted below his pecs. When he makes too rough a pass over his left nipple, he hisses. They’re both sore, abraded, and when he touches one gently, it’s a little warm to the touch. He hopes the consequences of their actions means they’ve learned their lesson about not consulting the rest of him before acting out on their own. He can’t help but press again on his other nipple, testing, leaning into the soreness before straightening up and sliding on Derek’s henley.

These days, he and Derek are closer to the same size than they’ve ever been. They trade clothes back and forth constantly, bitching about bloodstains and Hot Pocket crumbs. Still, Derek’s shirts, especially the well-worn ones, tend to have more give than Stiles’s own do, tend to cling less to Stiles’s chest and right now he’s grateful for it. Even just the drag of the fabric as he pulls it over himself sends agonizing shivers through his spine and he has to cup himself for a second, soothing before he can straighten the fabric and finish cleaning up.

“Better?” Derek says, when Stiles pads downstairs to the kitchen, his face breaking out into a smile.

“Stop gloating,” Stiles says grumpily, sinking into a seat. “It could happen to anyone. I bet you’ll never even make it happen to me again.”

The bowl of soup is put carefully in front of him, but before he can reach for it, Derek takes his chin, tilts his head back for a kiss, deep, intoxicating. “It doesn’t,” he murmurs, when he releases Stiles again, a determined look on his face. “And I will.”

“Go away,” Stiles says, and swats him with his spoon, face heating right back up again. Derek makes a noise, dismissive and incredulous at once, and pulls up a chair right next to him instead, close enough for their knees to touch, for Derek’s fingers to brush against his occasionally, as they eat.

“Is this borscht?” Stiles asks, suddenly, staring down at his spoon.

“Yes?” Derek answers, arching an eyebrow at him. “Something wrong?”

“No,” Stiles mumbles, staring at it. He knows how long it takes to make borscht. His mom only ever made it for him on special occasions; she was forever complaining about how long the beets took to peel, how finicky it was to prepare. He hadn’t even texted Derek to say he’d be coming over later until a little past noon. “Just, you made me borscht.”

“Yeah,” Derek says, soft, putting his hand on Stiles’s neck and dragging a easy thumb over the curve of his tendons. Stiles ducks his head, because he can’t face that smile all night, that quietly happy grin, the intensely proud aura Derek’s working right now. It’s going to give him indigestion.

Derek hums as they wash the dishes, side by side, keeps smiling down at the sudsy water. Stiles watches him instead of drying them, lets them gather on the rack. His tongue feels too large for his mouth. He doesn’t know what to say, how to regroup. Wants to buy himself time and space, but he watches Derek smiling instead of making plans. “They’ll fall,” Derek says. Stiles looks at the stack of plates, the whisk and five different knives.

“The pan should stabilize it. You were-- that was what you were gonna do next, right?” he asks, suddenly self-conscious.

Derek kisses him on the cheek. “Of course it was. Only way to do it,” but it isn’t the only way. It’s Derek’s way. Stiles nods, looks down at the tiles, at Derek’s bare feet. He thinks Derek maybe expects him to say more, but when he meets his eyes, Derek just looks soft, kind. Still proud. It makes Stiles feel small in ways he doesn’t quite understand. “You okay?” Derek asks, and he doesn’t know quite what to say. The right way to be truthful. He shrugs. It makes the fabric of the henley pull against his nipples. Derek looks at his chest again, smiles, sweet and slow. He stays quiet, and Derek taps his forehead, huffs out a little laugh when Stiles scowls. Taps his heart, turns back to the dishes before Stiles can react. He picks the pan up, hums tunelessly as he washes it.

He leaves for work the next morning before Derek’s awake, slips out early on the excuse of wanting coffee, needing the extra time on his own. He spends it fruitlessly worrying, nervous and feeling a little claustrophobic. He thinks about not going to Derek’s later, of avoiding him, maybe going to see his dad and Melissa instead.

Of course, he goes to Derek’s later.

Derek maybe senses his mood, reads him the way he does sometimes, and doesn’t crowd him, isn’t looking at him. Derek acts normal, snickering, flinging bits of dinner at Stiles, drinking the last sip of Stiles’s beer like an asshole. Stiles finds himself relaxing into it, lowers his guard. They’re still them, he thinks and sticks his cold toes under Derek’s thigh.

Derek wraps his hands around Stiles’s ankles, takes his feet into his lap. They look funny, he thinks, his bony, knobbly flippers held in the grip of Derek’s hands. He wiggles his toes at Derek, laughs when Derek captures his little toe between two pinching nails.

“Come on,” Stiles says, mock seriously. “Stop being distracting, I’m trying to watch something here.”

Derek snorts, gives him another pinch for good measure but releases his toe easy enough. He shifts then, drops one of Stiles’s feet in favor of wrapping both of his thumbs around the other. His fingers are warm and gentle, rubbing perfect, soothing circles right into the arch. Stiles gasps, can’t help but melt into it, give himself over to Derek’s magic hands. He’s trying to keep his attention on the television, but it’s too hard--his eyes close like they have weights attached to their lids.

Derek moves up eventually, working the muscles on his calves, massaging and stroking until Stiles’s legs part for him almost of their own accord. Derek slips between them.

“Lift up,” he says, low, and Stiles doesn’t hesitate to brace his feet on the couch, hitch his hips into the air so Derek can slide his shorts down, eases them down his thighs and tosses them sideways, careless.

Stiles doesn’t offer his shirt, and he’s relieved when Derek doesn’t try for it. He’s not ready for Derek to touch him there, there at the center of everything that makes him twisted up and mortified. Derek seems to get that, and picks up Stiles’s foot again, lifts it to press a small kiss against his ankle Then trails his lips up the inside of Stiles’s calf, moving higher and higher until he stops to suck a stinging mark onto Stiles’s thigh.

Stiles would have mouthed off, normally, would have shoved his dick into Derek’s face, and made a crack about Derek being useful.

He doesn’t now, feels hypnotized silent as Derek works him over. Stiles is hard; his cock is angry red, drooling all over his belly, but he doesn’t feel like rushing it. It feels like Derek is trying to tell him something, worshipping him with the soft, drugging touches and Stiles’s skin is on fire as he waits to see what Derek’s going to do next.

Derek is making his way closer to where Stiles really wants him, but he seems distracted by the marks he’s leaving. There’s a trail of them now, flushed bite marks decorating the soft skin of his inner thigh. Derek skips right over his dick to suck matching marks on the other thigh, eyeing the placement so it’s perfect.

“Need a ruler?” Stiles says, breaking the spelled silence with his snickering.

“Maybe,” Derek says, and delivers a swat to Stiles’s ass. Stiles yelps and squirms, but Derek’s grasp on him is firm, and Stiles doesn’t want to go anywhere anyway.

The thought makes his cheeks heat, and he stares at the top of Derek’s head as he works, his hair brushing the edge of Stiles’s balls. He doesn’t want to go anywhere, would let Derek stay there between his legs, not even touching him, as long as he wants.

It isn’t just a hookup. He’s known it for awhile, but hasn’t admitted it. It isn’t just a hookup, and it isn’t casual and he can’t help but jerk his hips up at the thought of it.

“Eager,” Derek says picking his head up to look at Stiles. He’s laughing, looks happy, and Stiles is about to retort, when the look changes. Derek’s eyes widen and Stiles doesn’t understand for a moment, and then suddenly he does.

He squirms again, with more purpose, trying to turn over, trying to hide, but Derek’s on him, catching his shoulders in his hands, making weird noises that Stiles thinks are supposed to be soothing. They aren’t.

“Derek,” he’s begging, and he’s humiliated, embarrassed, because his nipples are leaking again. Derek hasn’t even gotten his dick in, and Stiles is damp in two obscene circles, spreading fast across his t-shirt.

“Show me,” Derek says, “Stiles please, show me. I want to see what you’ve done for me,” and Stiles can’t take it, he has to cover up his face, hide his mortification into his palms, even if it means losing the battle of his shirt.

There’s a cool rush of air as Derek uncovers him, and the wet, stiff peaks of his nipples harden even more under Derek’s gaze. He feels a rivulet trickle down his skin and Derek catches it up with his finger, licks it up noisily and appreciatively. Stiles groans, hiding behind his palms, torn between his embarrassment at the situation and letting go, letting Derek’s obvious arousal for what’s happening overwhelm him.

“It tastes good,” Derek says. “Do you have any idea how good you taste?”

“Compared to what,” Stiles says, muffled through his fingers. “Have you banged many dudes who leaked?”

“No,” Derek says. “Just you,” like it’s something special Stiles did just for him.

“Blame your stupid dick,” Stiles snaps, even as he knows, he knows Derek’s going to point out the obvious here.

“We hadn’t even gotten started,” Derek says, low, and his voice is incredulous, wondering. “Not really. It wasn’t anything to do with me, it was just you, what were you--” and Stiles sucks in a breath, because whatever it was he was thinking, it’s his business, it’s not anyone else’s and he’s about to argue it, defend his right when Derek interrupts, says “I’ve heard legends--” and then he’s dropping kisses on the knuckles of Stiles’s hands, pressed tightly to his face. “I know you’re scared of your feelings, baby.”

Stiles immediately whips his hands away. “I’m not scared of feelings.”

Derek gives him a look. “You ripped an onion open to hide your tears the first time I told you I loved you.”

“I was cooking,” Stiles says, furious. “See if I ever make you dinner again.”

Derek kisses him, deep and tender, and Stiles doesn’t know whether he wants to hit him or kiss him back. Before he makes the decision, Derek is pulling away and his eyes are dropping back down to Stiles’s chest.

“Stiles,” he says, and he looks sex-stupid already, that glassy-eyed soft-mouthed look he gets already taking over, just from this, just from this. “Stiles, can I put my mouth--?”

“Yeah, yes, whatever,” Stiles snaps back, embarrassed. He’s not normally squeamish about werewolf stuff. He’s cleaned Malia’s coat free of burrs, he helped milk Jackson for his venom before he left for London. Hell, he didn't even blink when Derek's knot made its first appearance, unexpectedly, in his butt.

But that was the point. This shit doesn’t happen to him. His body doesn't do this, his body doesn't put its stuff on the outside, where anyone could see it. His body is supposed to wait until Stiles is damn good and ready to admit to any hypothetical feelings.

Derek ducks his head down, stares at his chest in that intense, squinty way. He opens his mouth to be rude, make a comment, get Derek moving again, but Derek murmurs, "you did this for me," in this grossly grateful tone and Stiles's mouth slams shut and he goes bright red.

"I didn't do anything," he says, petulantly. "I was minding my own business, trying to get a damn orgasm, when you--” but Derek is shaking his head.

"No, it was you." Derek touches his chest, gently rolls his nipple between two of his fingers and Stiles arches, can't help but press into it as Derek milks him. "You loved me so much you wanted to provide for me, to show me you could take care of me," and his voice is so warm and approving and Stiles's body is so wet, dripping everywhere that he feels like he's melting, melting into a hot little puddle of mortification and blue balls.

"I'm just-- I'm ordinary. I'm nothing-- I'm normal," he says, because he thinks those are tears in Derek's eyes and he doesn't know where to put himself, what to do. "It's all-- it's you," he says, spreads his legs wider, grips onto Derek's hair because he wants-- he wants to surround him. Wants to take him in, to be the only thing he smells and sees, the only thing he feels. Wants to protect him. He strokes Derek's hair, then, becomes gentle, waits until Derek meets his eyes again because he's having feelings right now and he's scared. "It's-- I suck at this. Fuck. Derek, can you just-- put your dick in me? And-- and my-- my nipples. You can suck them.”

"Yeah," Derek breathes, and he's still doing it, still acting like Stiles is giving him something. Stiles has to close his eyes. Derek’s fingers are gentle and coaxing as he works Stiles open and Stiles floats on it, quietly sinking into the feeling.

It's a surprise then, when he feels himself being turned. Derek slides his hands under Stiles’s hips, yanks him up close against his body as they turn, carefully, until Derek is the one on his back. Stiles bends low over Derek’s body, bracing his arms on the arm of the couch as Derek urges his hips up and back until they hit the angle, and Derek slides in, slow, careful, perfect.

Derek is propped up a little on the arm of the couch, enough that he only has to angle his head to get one of Stiles's nipples in his mouth. He sucks hard and Stiles feels it, feels a twisting, maddening urge to give Derek anything, everything.

"Look at you still going," Derek says, low, and Stiles looks down and sees the pearly liquid just flooding his chest obscene, obvious.

He bends down so he's got his lips pressed to the top of Derek's head, rolls his hips as Derek sucks, wraps his arms around Derek and just holds on, feels wet and open, gives and gives and gives because he wants Derek to have everything, everything good he has inside him. He's getting milk on his dick and he's having too many feelings and this is the worst thing in the whole world. Derek's crooning at him, making these odd, gruff sounds, rubbing the scruff of his beard on his chest as he moves his hips, fucks up into him.

"You're so-- you're so weird," he whispers, kisses every part of his head he can get to. Derek nods, moves onto his other nipple and he has to smile because Derek's always so charmed when he calls him weird. Like it's a pet name.

The knot, when it expands, feels like it’s going to put Stiles back together. Derek is shoving up and up, never back, working his dick fast in little pushes as he swells, sealing Stiles tight. “I’m so proud of you,” Derek tells him, and Stiles is held fast on his dick, spread over his body, firm in his hands.

“Derek,” Stiles groans out and pulls him up for a kiss. It’s all he can do for a bit, lost in the heat of Derek’s mouth and the rush of wet flooding into his body.

"I think you could bear," Derek says, when he’s gotten his breath back. He rubs his palm in gentle circles over Stiles's stomach to make his point.

Stiles huffs. He can feel the tear tracks drying on his cheeks, the slightly itchy crust on his nipples, the sore, involuntary clutch of his hole on the knot still tucked inside him. Now's not exactly the time he wants to think about anything else being added to the equation.

"Dibs on not telling my dad your freaky werewolf jizz knocked me up." he says.

Derek won't rise to the bait, won't be distracted. "I told you," he says, pressing lightly against the tender softness of Stiles's abdomen. "It's not me. I won't have any say in it at all. You'll decide when it's time, you'll ride my knot and take it so sweetly inside, hold me still while you take what you want, take what you need to get big and round. It'll be all you, squeezing me, draining my knot, and if you do bear, it'll be because I gave enough, I satisfied you enough, I was good enough for you."

Stiles is done, always is when Derek starts talking, starts rambling like he's had all this filth stopped up in him and decided to release it all at once. Once Derek gets going, he’s a fountain of kinks Stiles didn’t even know he had. Derek’s still talking, still murmuring things into his ear, and Stiles is sore and gross and done, but his hips rock down on Derek's fat knot, shocking a gasp out of both of them. "Derek," he groans, in protest and in pleading.

"Yeah," Derek answers, and drags his thumb over Stiles's nipple, brings it up to Stiles's mouth to suck off the sweetness.

He licks it, takes Derek's thumb into his mouth to get every drop off. He still hasn't come, won't let Derek touch his dick. He likes to wait-- likes it when he comes untouched, for the soft look of surprise on Derek's face, for the hungry way he watches Stiles's dick twitch against his stomach, balls drawn up high. He likes Derek knowing he did this, that his words did, his dick. Sometimes, Derek presses him down into the mattress, taps against his prostate until he doesn't even get hard, his dick just dribbling come in sad little streams, limp and overstimulated. He cries every time that happens, face red, covered in snot and tears, hoarse from yelling.

"I'll give you anything you want, everything I have. Build you a den and keep you safe, here with me. We'll have everything," Derek murmurs, stroking his face. Stiles keeps his mouth on his thumb, keeps sucking as Derek's other hand goes to his nipple, traces around it, soothing on the faint hurt. "We'll be so happy," and Stiles closes his eyes, pushes down, moves his hips, his legs shaking as he uses Derek's knot to milk his prostate as Derek hushes him, tells him how beautiful he looks, how many cubs they'll have and he loves him so much, how the hell did he ever make enough room in his heart to love him? Stiles is sobbing as he moves faster and faster, it's still not enough, feels like it'll never be enough.

Derek leans forward again, puts his mouth around Stiles's nipple. Stiles looks down at Derek, at his eyes closed in bliss, his lips, moist and parted, the flush on his cheeks. He’s like a painting, something perfect and tender. Stiles feels raw and ugly as he comes, face red, sweating. He tries to arch back, body pulled taut and it's fucking agony, it's horrible feeling so much. He's absolutely wrung out, shudders running through him as he stops moving, looks down at Derek, lying still and sated beneath him.

He slips away later, when Derek, passed out on the sofa, loosens his arms enough for Stiles to wriggle free. It's a gorgeous night, warm enough that Stiles doesn't shiver when he pads outside only in his thin sleep pants and threadbare tee. The preserve lurking behind the house is somehow both silent and comforting in its summer lushness. He’s gained a certain respect for the land, both from the hard-won truce he made with the nemeton and from settling in here, with Derek, in the house Derek rebuilt, rebuilt for him, he knows, even though Derek’s never said it. He’d stubbed his toe on a floorboard in the bathroom of the old loft, had cut himself on a rusty nail sticking out of it and Derek had taken him to get a tetanus shot, grim faced and unhappy. The next day Derek had gone down to City Hall, had started the process to get his family’s land back.

The back porch creaks as he walks, and it sounds loud even to his ears, but he doesn’t pause heads right towards the back corner where his favorite spot in the whole house lives. His mom had demanded a porch swing when she and his dad had first bought their little house, the house Stiles was born in, grew up in. They had both been fond of telling Stiles about building it, repeating the old stories over and over as the three of them rocked together, crammed into the creaky, misshapen little bench. Stiles remembers how safe he had felt there, cradled between them, full of the feeling that nothing could touch him as long as he was swinging gently under the moon, his parents warm on each side, laughing at little jokes over his head. When his dad sold the house to move in with Melissa, Derek had come over with a stepladder, had reached up high and unscrewed the bolts that had held it there for fifteen years of Stiles’s life, had reattached it to his own porch with new bolts, without Stiles ever having to ask. Stiles swings there now, listening to the high whine of the chain as he shoves off from the ground, forcefully, needing the jolt and the breeze as the swing gains momentum.

He never asked for all this to happen. Admittedly, he’d made a move on Derek first, had crowded Derek back against his own car in the parking lot of a convenience store, had gotten into Derek’s space, hot and brimming with something he never could explain to his own satisfaction.

Derek hadn’t risen to his bait, had infuriatingly learned the value of patience somewhere along the way. He hadn’t tried to regain any personal space, either, had just let Stiles shove up against him, only saying, “You should work on that anger,” and Stiles had smarted from it, stung that Derek, Mr. Anger is My Anchor, was probably more stable than he was.

“Yeah,” Stiles had said, clenching his fists, digging his nails into his palm. “Wanna help?”

Derek had, always does. He’d lifted his car remote and unlocked the doors, shooting Stiles a challenging look. Stiles had gotten in, and never really ever gotten out. He still gravitates to Derek in his worst moments, when no one else can stand to be around him and he can’t stand anyone else.

It was more of a surprise when he’d started coming around for other reasons too, because he was hungry and broke and Derek always cooked, because his roommate had sexiled him and he wanted to crash, because he’d heard Derek had never seen Indiana Jones and Stiles couldn’t live in a world where that was true. Eventually he had stopped making up excuses, had just come over without explaining why, and after awhile, Derek had gotten a key for him. He’d hung it on a keychain with a cartoon Grumpy Bear hanging from it, and left it on the front seat of the Jeep where Stiles had stumbled across it and grinned, big and stupid, for the rest of the day.

He’d blown Derek later, had deep throated him for the first time, working out his gratitude on Derek’s dick, gagging and tearing up while Derek had whispered praise to him, thumbing away the wetness around his eyes. Sex with Derek has always been, probably will always be, intense. Stiles is mostly used to it now, doesn't fight back the tears when they come, doesn't agonize over the things he's done, things he's said when Derek has him ramped up, has him drunk on the impossible pleasures of his knot, his fingers, his kiss. It was the driving appeal of hooking up with him in the beginning, that Derek could read him so easily, could play him like a instrument, anticipated him in a way Stiles barely anticipated himself.

Tonight felt different than that. He's known about the way Derek refers to him, to them, like they'll last, like this is it. Derek has said it, says it easily, but Stiles hasn't. Stiles still pays rent on an apartment he hasn't been to in months, still lists Scott as his next of kin after his dad. He's stubborn about every inch territory he cedes to Derek, jealous of every scrap of his heart Derek gets his claws into, even as he knows Derek will never hurt him.

His hand comes up to touch at his nipple, gingerly. It's dry now, flat. If he wasn't a little sore, it'd be like something he dreamt. A hallucination of his body working against him, changing, fitting against Derek better than he's ever thought he was capable of. It’s not just a hookup, he thinks again, and knows he’s been lying to himself for a long time now.

Stiles’s dad is okay now, content with his life at the station, happy with Melissa at his side, a new lease on life. Stiles doesn’t begrudge him that in the slightest bit. He’d stood up as his dad’s best man when Scott had walked Melissa down the aisle, all four of them with matching, delirious grins. But Stiles was there for the long years when his dad was half a person, a hollowed out shell. He doesn’t know how his dad had ever had the courage to try again after that, how he had gone into this thing with Melissa without holding back, without any regard for protecting what was left. How could you make room, so much room for another person, knowing that there was no getting any of it back? If Stiles lets Derek have him, have all the things he whispered into Stiles's neck when Stiles was broken open and defenseless, what becomes of him when Derek goes?

He startles when Derek insinuates himself onto the swing.

"Making a lot of racket," Derek says.

"I told you last week that it was time to oil the hinges," Stiles says, and lets Derek pull him close, pull him back into the warm circle of his arms.

"Wasn't talking about the swing," Derek says and folds a palm over Stiles's chest, tapping out the frenzied rhythm Stiles hadn't realized he'd let his heart get into.

"I went into a-- you know how I get," he says, makes a helpless little gesture. Derek's found him having crises over trained attack dolphins, the problems facing the bee population, the infinity of pi. He sits with Stiles at three in the morning when his mind has spiraled out of control and everything feels too big to deal with, talks to him until it feels a little less frightening. He's never impatient, never dismissive. “I went into a minor spiral,” he says now, tries to smile. Derek kisses the side of his head, strokes down his stomach, rubs little circles on it, hands warm on the fabric of his shirt. He knows that if he asked, Derek would drop the subject, seems to know when he really doesn't want to talk about something, knows with instinctive delicacy when to push, when not to. He never-- he never thought anyone would. Never thought anyone would know a way around the spots of quicksand, the places he was afraid to go in his mind.

"How are you so sure about us?" he asks. He swings his legs up so he's resting fully on top of Derek, lets him creak the swing back and forth.

"I's maybe not about feeling sure," Derek says. His hand doesn't stop stroking Stiles, he doesn't stop offering comfort. "I don't know if anyone's sure. But I know I love you, and I know you."

Stiles looks up at the sky. It's a half moon, hanging low, swollen. It's a clear night, stars painting the sky overhead. He's never said he loves Derek. Never consciously, never deliberately. Never out of bed, with full control over himself. "You terrify me," he says. "You keep-- you don't hold anything back. I don't know how you can be so--" he makes a helpless gesture. Derek kisses the top of his head.

"Handsome?" he suggests, and Stiles just knows he's smiling at his own joke, can feel the slight movement his little silent laugh makes.

"You mentioned there were legends," he says. Derek's fingers dig in briefly, pressing hard over his waistband. He's not as good at telling with Derek, when he should let it alone or to push. He thinks his default will always be to push, but he's gotten better at waiting, letting Derek decide for himself.

He waits now, quietly rocking in the swing as Derek knuckles drag back and forth over his skin.
"Yeah," Derek says, finally. "Old stories, maybe just fairy tales. Could be nothing. "

"Could be," Stiles agrees, but he covers Derek's hand with his own, the two of them clasping their fingers together over his stomach. Before he can lose his nerve, he says, "I love you."

Derek goes still and tense for a moment before he's pulling Stiles around to face him, hauling him high on his lap. For all his quiet confidence in their life, for all his pride and awe in what Stiles's body did earlier, Stiles realizes now how much Derek needed to hear it, how much the words mean. He kicks himself for holding it back, for keeping this from Derek. "I love you," he says again, and he doesn't feel halved, or smaller, doesn't feel claustrophobic or restrained. He feels good, feels better and bigger for saying it, and he kisses the feeling right into Derek's mouth. Derek makes a noise, something primal and alive, and Stiles doesn't protest when Derek slices away his shirt to access his nipple.

"We'll have six cubs, and we'll give them rhyming names, and--oh, Jesus, am I leaking again? Damn, that was-- fuck."

Derek strokes his sweaty hair back from his forehead. "Six seconds," he says, looking up at him. "It's a record."

Derek timed how long it takes to get him leaking. He's in love with a complete-- "You're so weird," he says shakily, and Derek's eyes go soft, awed. Stiles squints at him, pulls back a little so he can see Derek properly. “Have you been hearing it as I love you every time I’ve said it?” he asks, traces the curve of Derek’s smile with his index finger.

Derek slips his hands under his tee, strokes down his back, calluses rough on his skin, the best feeling. "Yeah. For-- two? Two years now. That night in May, when we were escaping from those hunters," he says, rolls his hips up, the swing creaking obnoxiously. "We-- we jumped over the fire together, holding hands. You said it then."

Stiles gapes at him, can’t help it. “You’d just told me that we’d have plenty of healthy cubs and a large herd of cattle, then coughed up blood on my sneakers,” he says.

Derek shrugs. “It was Beltane. It seemed appropriate.”

He’d pulled an arrow out of Derek’s side, punched him back into consciousness. They’d staggered through the preserve, bloodied, scorch marks on their clothes, hair singed, half dead and delirious. “We’ve got the worst anecdotes. We’re never gonna get invited to dinner parties,” he says. “At least, not for a second time.”

“Good stories to tell the cubs, though,” Derek murmurs, ducks his head down to Stiles’s nipple again as Stiles closes his eyes at the jolt of yearning that shoots through him. He rests his chin on the top of Derek’s head, strokes his hair as he mouths at Stiles’s nipple, holds him close as the swing moves slightly. Derek’s probably designed the nursery already. Planned for some vague future with Stiles in it but never pushed, never forced anything. Stayed patient, and heard ‘I love you’ every time Stiles told him he was weird.

He closes his eyes, the breeze cool on his face. Derek’s still sucking, the tugging sending warmth through him, these waves of pleasure that wash through him. "I love you," he whispers. There's moonlight on their skin. Something feels like-- this feels sacred. He feels like life could bloom and grow, like he has more to give to Derek and he wants to give it-- wants to give him everything. Derek lifts his head, kisses him softly. He can taste his milk on Derek’s lips, the sweetness of it. When they break apart, he feels hazy, his lips tingling. He strokes down the side of Derek’s neck with a shaky hand, loves the way Derek leans into it. Out here,under the wide dark sky and the stars, it feels like they’ve made a little world for themselves. Something precious, fragile. He rests his forehead against Derek's, takes a shaky breath. "You're it for me, and that scares me."

"It should," Derek says. He soothes Stiles with his hands, brushes his nose down his cheek, starts a gentle rhythm with the swing, a steady back and forth. "But I'm a sure thing."

“You’re my sure thing,” Stiles says. He can feel Derek’s cheek move as he smiles, traces the laugh lines around his eyes with his fingertips. Stiles wants to put more laugh lines there, to watch his hair go white at the temples, his belly soften, his hands gnarl. Wants to be his sure thing. This is it, the end of his defenses, the end of Stiles holding anything back. He’s okay with that.

“Take me to bed, weirdo,” he says.

And Derek does.