The first few weeks are sort of shockingly fast and exultant and full of nothing but want and sex, and “please please please fuck me” begging. He asks for it and Derek gives it each and every time, always without complaint or the smallest hesitation.
It’s not until later, when things are not so new new new and things have slowed down just a little, the new relationship rush and years of sexual tension finally released, that Stiles starts to realize that Derek has wants too. They’re together six weeks before Derek gives any indication that he needs something different. And of course Derek can’t just come out and say what he wants. He can’t just ask for what he needs. Instead he has to leave some type of sexual bread crumbs for Stiles to discover and figure out for himself.
It’s a Tuesday night, and Stiles goes to Derek’s place after a particularly bad day at work, to find Derek spread out across the bed, reading a book and waiting for him. There’s hello kisses and murmured inquires about how their days had gone, and the slow removal of clothes. And Stiles is hungry for it, needs to just forget about everything. He wants it hard and fast, and almost brutal. But Derek has different plans. He stretches out across the bed, and pulls Stiles on top of him, gripping him by the knees and hauling Stiles up his thighs to sit on his stomach.
“Like this?” Stiles asks. Derek nods, yanking him down for another kiss, hands tugging and holding, and keeping his body weight pressed down on Derek’s. Stiles ends up sliding down Derek’s body, kissing across his chest, his hips falling between Derek’s spread thighs, and crotch pressing hard and eager against Derek’s. Derek makes a little whining sound at the rolling motion of Stiles body against his own, knees pulling up and mouth dropping open. But Stiles doesn’t quite notice. He’s too hungry. He slides off Derek and over to the side, tugging him over on top of himself and biting at Derek’s bottom lip. “Please, Derek.”
It’s only later, sated and half asleep, Derek curled around his back bleeding heat like an electric blanket, that he remembers the needy look on Derek’s face. Remembers the way he’d turned almost pliant under Stiles’ firm grip, the way his hips had arched and rutted up into Stiles’ belly just before Stiles flipped the tables on him. He sort of feels inexplicably guilty about it as he falls into an exhausted sleep. By morning it’s become a faded memory.
Later in the week, on the following Friday night, Derek leaves the pack meeting visibly irritable and tense. There’s something in their territory, creeping through the forest, leaving strange scents behind and traces of magic that make Derek and the other werewolves in the pack antsy and nervous. Stiles and Lydia are researching between work and other pack obligations, Allison checking her family’s bestiary for any clues it can offer. Stiles wants this solved and taken care of. Peacefully or not, he doesn’t care, he just wants it over. And he’ll work on that. Tomorrow. For tonight however, Derek is his main concern.
He follows Derek’s angry shoulders out to the Camaro, shrugging off Scott’s concern and Isaac’s knowing smirk. He flips the beta off, without comment, and jogs to catch up with Derek. He slides into the passenger seat, just as Derek starts the car. Derek looks over, eyes hooded and dark as Stiles buckles his seat belt.
“Stiles,” he says, voice low. Stiles looks out the front windshield.
“Let’s go,” he replies.
“Stiles,” Derek says voice sharper. Stiles turns to look at him, one eyebrow raised.
“Just drive, Derek,” he looks back out the front window, and feels a sense of quiet victory when Derek does as told.
Derek is calmer by the time he gets to the loft, not as angry, but still tense. Stiles follows him upstairs, staying half a step behind him, but close. It’s intentional, letting Derek feel his proximity, his support, but being careful to not smother him. He’s learned how to deal with werewolf instincts in the last six years.
When they finally make their way through the door of the loft Derek’s shoulders sort of droop with a weariness that makes Stiles want to take care of him. He directs Derek to the couch, watching him pull off his leather jacket and fling it over a chair near the door, before slumping down on the far end of the couch. Stiles gets a few beers from the fridge, and joins him there, kicking off his shoes under the coffee table, and curling up against Derek’s side.
“We’re going to find it,” Stiles says. Derek grunts, popping the top off his bottle and taking a long swallow. He’s making his grumpy face, and Stiles feels irrationally fond of the way his forehead furrows. “Getting all tense and angry about it isn’t going to help us find it any faster. It just makes you look like a juvenile asshole.”
“I don’t want you here when I’m pissed off,” Derek says, looking away.
“Why? You’re not going to hurt me. I’ve seen you angry , pissed off, murderous, even drugged out of your mind, and you’ve never actually hurt me. Not even when you threatened too. Why would you worry about it now?” Stiles asks, twisting off the top of his own bottle of beer, and taking a drink. Derek’s frown seems to deepen at the corners. It’s almost comical how he can make his whole face look so incredibly unhappy.
“I’d just rather not risk it,” Derek says, avoiding Stiles’ eyes, and taking another long drink of his beer.
“But, that’s sort of what I’m here for. We said this wasn’t going to be just sex. If it’s a real relationship we’re aiming for here, than emotions and support and caring about each other are all going to be part of it,” Stiles bumps his shoulder against Derek’s. He waits for a response but none is forthcoming, so he speaks again. “Let me do my part? Help you release the tension?” he asks with a suggestive smirk. Derek rolls his eyes, takes one last drink from the beer, and puts the empty down on the end table. He seems to melt down lower in his seat, his body going loose and relaxed, a smirk sliding over his features. It has Stiles grinning like an idiot, even as he pushes the table away and slides to his knees on the floor between Derek’s spread thighs.
Stiles tugs at Derek’s zipper, pulling the denim open, and urging him to lift his hips. He gets the oh-so-tight denim down past Derek’s knees, but only because Derek helps him. His underwear is easier to tug down and out of the way. And then he gets to his prize.
Derek’s big, not like monstrous huge, but bigger than the average, even for his height and build. It’s long and thick and fat at the head, flushing red, and already wet before Stiles gets his hands and lips on it. He’s not circumcised. Most born Weres aren’t he’d explained once, not unless a human born parent insists on it. Stiles had briefly contemplated how it was even possible, when wounds healed so quickly on werewolves. But the thoughts and mental slideshow had only gotten more and more disturbing the longer he thought about it and so Stiles hadn’t asked.
However it works (or doesn’t work), Stiles doesn’t care just now. Because Derek’s hard and eager, and straining, cock already flushed and dripping. He can’t wait to taste him.
Stiles almost loses himself in it, in the scent and feel and taste of Derek’s cock in his mouth. There’s something heady, something powerful about having someone else’s pleasure under your control. Especially with someone like Derek, who seems at almost all times to be completely in control of every aspect of his physical body, if not their life. Stiles feels oddly grateful to be given the opportunity.
He licks and sucks and grips the base of Derek’s dick, pulling back the foreskin to tease at the head with the tip of his tongue. It pulses in his hand, the blood pumping through it so hard and fast that Stiles can feel the rhythm of Derek’s heartbeat in the veins. He squeezes, sliding his hand down and using just the tiniest hint of teeth. Derek bites back a shout, back curling up a little off the couch, his eyes squeezed shut tightly, hands gripping the edges of the cushion under his ass. Stiles relaxes his throat and swallows him deep just to watch his mouth fall open in a groan. He can’t hold it there long, so he gives a hard suck and pulls back to catch his breath, watching the muscles in Derek’s abs flex and move with each harsh breath he’s pulling into his lungs. He has his head tossed back against the top of the couch back, and somehow he’s shifted his whole lower body down until his ass is practically hanging off the edge of the cushion completely. Stiles takes a moment to admire the view, biting back a comment about how far gone Derek appears to be, and then dives back in.
This time he grips Derek’s dick with his left hand, his right sliding up Derek’s thigh, across the v of his hips and up to rest just under Derek’s belly button, before moving back down to cradle his balls. Derek shudders at the touch, and spreads his legs wider, giving Stiles more room. He rotates his hand, letting the sack sit warmly in his cupped palm, before rolling them higher in his hand toward his wrist, pressing his fingers back behind them on the soft skin of Derek’s perineum.
Derek’s hips jump under his hands, his body tightening up in what has to be the closest thing Stiles has ever seen to an orgasm that doesn’t happen. Derek’s whole body goes rigid, his balls pull up, his breath hitches in his lungs, but a second later he’s groaning and going pliant again, dick still hard and eager and ready. Stiles eyes him carefully, and when Derek has his breath back he does it again. He sucks hard, squeezing firmly with his left hand around the shaft, and using his right reaches back and presses hard on that soft stretch of skin. Derek‘s hips jolt forward again, causing Stiles’ finger tips to slip back further than before, to ghost across the entrance to Derek’s ass.
The effect is instantaneous. He body goes tight all over, strong pulses of come hitting the back of Stiles’ throat. He pulls back, swallowing thickly twice, before letting Derek’s dick drop from his mouth. Stiles stares at him in shock, watching his body practically twitch with aftershocks.
Before he can fully understand what the hell just happened, Derek’s eyes are flying open, and he’s dragging Stiles up off the floor and back on to the couch. It seems like half a second before Derek has his mouth on Stiles’ dick, and really it’s hard to remember what exactly he was thinking after that, if he was even capable of it just then.
Derek sort of passes out shortly after Stiles finally comes, stretching out down the length of the couch and falling asleep, with Stiles maneuvered over to lie on top of him. Stiles grabs the throw Lydia had purchased months ago to artfully drape over one end of the couch, and pulls it over himself to ward off the chill that’s has become just another part of nights spent naked in a big drafty industrial loft.
Stiles watches Derek sleep for a while, dozing in and out of consciousness himself, before the realization finally flies into his chaotic half-awake brain and once it’s there there’s no escaping it. Derek wants something. Something he hasn’t asked for. And Stiles is going to give it to him. Wants to give it to him.
Stiles spends the next day trying and failing to put a plan together. There has to be a reason why Derek hasn’t asked for what he so clearly wants. And it is sort of clear now that Stiles is paying attention. The whole planning things gets put off even further when he spends approximately 36 hours thinking sporadically about the problem splitting his time between dodging fucking demons in the woods and running for his life. It’s not until he’s pinned to a tree, immobilized and having the breath squeezed out of him, eyes locked on Derek’s terror filled face as he screams for the demon to “Let him go! Please! Please! Let Stiles go! I’m begging you! Please!” to finally figure it out.
Stiles watches with wide watery eyes as Derek slumps to his knees, two dark creatures holding onto him, one at each shoulder, his arms pulled back nearly to the point of dislocation, all the fight going out of him as he pleads for Stiles’ life. It’s the first time Stiles has ever heard Derek ask for anything. Sure he’s called for quiet during a movie when the pack got too loud, demanded help when he was dying from a wolfsbane laced bullet, but he’s never really asked for anything. He’s certainly never begged. The situation is looking pretty dire and Stiles is fairly close to blacking out from lack of oxygen when the cavalry arrives, arrows blazing, salt and claws hurling through the air.
Stiles comes too in the back of his jeep, curled in Derek’s lap, sore but alive. When he stirs Derek’s arms curl around him tighter.
“Come home with me. Please. Please Stiles come home with me,” he whispers. Stiles nods, pulling himself closer with hands fisted in Derek’s t-shirt, pressing his face into Derek’s neck, and soon passing back out again. Melissa comes to check on him, declares him fine, and leaves, shaking her head, to go check on everyone else.
He remembers his dad coming by at some point, but he’s pretty out of it for a day or so. Exhaustion, Derek explains when he finally thinks to ask.
Derek seems hesitant to touch him for a while, metaphorically dancing around him, and treating him like glass. It’s two weeks after that night in the forest that Stiles finally has enough.
Derek’s kissing him like he’ll crumble to dust if Derek applies even a hint of too much pressure, leaning over him carefully, hands braced against the mattress so they’re barely touching. Stiles groans in frustration and Derek freezes pulling back.
“I’m not hurt you know. You don’t have to treat me like I am,” Stiles stares up at Derek’s face as confusion crawls across his features.
“I’m not treating you like you’re hurt,” Derek replies. Stiles shoves at his shoulder and Derek backs off, letting Stiles sit up.
“I’m strong. I’m not fragile. I’m not breakable,” Stiles says. He’s not angry, just frustrated and he watches Derek, looking for a reaction from him. Derek looks down, and then nods.
“I know you aren’t. I just…” he pauses, looking pained and Stiles moves closer to him almost instinctively, he presses into Derek’s side, and drapes himself across Derek’s back and shoulder, one hand sliding up the back of Derek’s Henley to over the tense muscles there.
“You’re going to have to learn to talk to me at some point, Derek. You know how much I love to talk,” Stiles teases. Derek turns in place, pushing Stiles back to lie against the pillows.
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Why?” Stiles asks.
“I don’t want to lose you.”
“Why?” Stiles asks again, intent on making him say it.
“Because I want to be with you for as long as I possibly can,” Derek says. Stiles frowns at him, vaguely shocked and trying not to show it.
“Why?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.
“Because… You’re everything. I need you. I couldn’t handle losing you.”
“But you don’t trust that I’m strong,” Stiles answers. “You treat me like I’ll break. Like I need to be protected.”
“You do need to be protected. You almost died!”
“But I didn’t. Since we met we’ve been mutually saving each other’s asses. Taking turns as equals,” Stiles says, sitting back. “I’ve always protected you right back, helped keep you alive, keep you afloat. You watched my back and kept me sane, but I kept you grounded and human. There has to be that balance, Derek or this won’t work.”
“There’s balance, Stiles. You still keep me grounded. You keep me focused. You give me direction.” Derek clutches him closer. “I trust you. Before you, I hadn’t had that in a really really long time.”
“Ok,” Stiles nods. “Then ask me for what you want.” Derek stares at him. “Trust me to give you what it is you ask for.” Stiles moves closer to him on the bed, swinging one leg up and over to sit across Derek’s lap. “Ask for what you want,” he says slowly. “Ask for what you need,” he drops his voice low, almost whispering. He watches Derek’s face flush, his eyes fluttering closed before flying open again, wide and alert.
“You’d…” he trails off and Stiles shifts closer.
“I’d do anything for you, Derek. I’ve bled for you and I’ve killed for you. There’s nothing you can’t ask me for. I’m not going to laugh or run away or do anything to hurt you. Just…” he cradles Derek’s face in his hands. “Just ask me,” he says, smoothing his hands across the angles of Derek’s face with calm focus.
“Please, Stiles,” his voice is low, and he stops to swallow thickly. “Please just fuck me.” Stiles nods slowly, face serious, heart hammering in his chest. He doesn’t want to fuck this up.
“Ok. Yes,” he watches relief take over Derek’s face, his eyes sliding closed and his mouth falling open just a little with it. Stiles reaches for him, starting to undress. He pulls his shirt up and off, pushing Derek gently backward to lie across their shared bed. This feels big. Special. Like he has to be careful. He strips his own shirt off quickly, unceremoniously, before reaching for Derek’s fly.
Derek is patient, helping Stiles get his jeans off (as usual), and then lying back down again. Stiles pauses, suddenly feeling a little overwhelmed with what is about to happen.
It’s Derek of course who snaps him out of it.
“Fuck, Stiles. It’s not like I’ve never done this before. It’s just been a damn long while,” Derek says. And then all the weirdness is gone, because this is Derek, just Derek. And, yeah, this is new, and a little different, but it’s still Derek. It gets Stiles moving, but he doesn’t rush. He takes his time touching Derek all over, running his hands down the slope of his shoulders, across the his chest, dragging fingers through his chest hair, and down the line of his abs to his dick. Derek relaxes into the touches, watching with half hooded eyes as Stiles makes it all about him.
Stiles kisses him right on the peck, directly over his heart, all while pulling Derek’s knees apart to settle in between them. He smiles at the way Derek’s breath quickens, face already flushing with excitement.
And it’s different touching Derek the way Derek usually touches him, having Derek lay there body bare and yielding. He watches Stiles touch and explore and prepare, enjoying the attention, and following every nudged order of Stiles hands to reposition him. And that’s part of it Stiles starts to realize. That Derek wants to have Stiles in control this time, more so than usual. He wants to be taken care of by him. Maybe later Derek will push Stiles over and climb on to his dick and take what he wants, but right now it’s about something different.
It’s slower than normal, strangely quiet, but no less emotional, probably more so. Derek’s thighs curl up over Stiles’ hips as his dick presses inside, and Derek arches his head back, exposing the long expanse of his throat. Stiles keeps it slow and steady, pressing in until his hips press snuggly against the back of Derek’s thighs. He rests there, watching the tension ripple out of Derek’s features, his mouth going slack and his eyes falling closed.
“Just… fuck. Stiles, please...” Derek moans, and Stiles watches his hands fly up to grip the edge of the headboard above them, arms flexing with the effort to not make Stiles move the way he desperately wants him too.
“I told you to ask, I never said you had to beg,” Stiles says, watching a grin tug up the corners of Derek’s lips. It’s all he needs to start moving. He rolls his hips in a steady even rhythm, hands sliding across Derek’s chest to grip the tops of his shoulders.
It only takes a few thrusts to get a moan out of Derek, and another two before Derek gives up all pretense and arches his hips up into Stiles’. His breath catches in his chest as the angle change causes Stiles’ dick to slide half an inch deeper on the next thrust. He lets out a shout of pleasure and lets go of the headboard to reach for Stiles’ waist, tugging his hips into his own harder and faster. Stiles groans, hips stuttering. He pushes up, shifting his weight temporarily back onto his knees. He moves his hands to Derek’s chest. He leans forward again, uses the new position to hold Derek’s upper body down to the bed. Derek’s stronger than him, he could easily flip them, easily take control from him, but he doesn’t. Derek’s hands fall away from Stiles’ waist, one hand curling around his own knee to pull it up and out, making more room for Stiles’ hips against his. The other slides up Stiles’ chest and stops there just off center to feel the hard and fast beat of Stiles’ heart. His nails dig into the skin, blunt and human, but stinging.
“Derek,” Stiles says, breathless and moaning. His hand closes over Derek’s, tugging it away from his chest and turning it to press palm to palm with his own, threading his fingers through Derek’s. He pushes it down into the mattress, fingers clenching as he fucks deep and hard into Derek’s ass. “Derek,” he whispers. Derek groans, squeezing Stiles’ hand back, and letting go of his knee to reach for his dick. It’s hard and full, resting heavy and leaking against his abdomen. Stiles thrusts again, rocking into and against Derek with a hard thrust that sends Derek’s erection sliding in a pool of their combined sweat. Derek groans getting his hand around it. Stiles gasps, hips faltering in their rhythm, at the look that takes over Derek’s face. He looks wrecked, completely blissed out, his hand moving quick on his dick in counterpart to the movement of Stiles body against his. “Derek,” he pleads. “Christ. Derek!” He shifts his angle, slowing his hips to a stop, and leaning close to kiss across the stubble of Derek’s jaw. Derek surges up into him, mouth aggressive against Stiles’, teeth nipping and tongues tangling.
Stiles breaks away sucking in deep desperate breaths. He leans back again, taking in the flush coloring Derek’s chest and face. He looks wrecked. Stiles wants him to look like this all of the time. Wants to personally be the reason he looks wrecked all the time. For forever. The realization hits like a punch to the gut. He gasps, bracing himself against Derek’ raised knee. He studies Derek’s face as his eyes blink open dazedly, awareness creeping in around the edges as his focus zeroes in on the expression on Stiles’ face.
“Stiles, wa?” He swallows thickly, reaching for Stiles again. “Just... fuck come on!” he urges.
“I... I wanna do this forever,” Stiles says. Derek’s head cocks to the side with question, eyes squinting. It’s adorable enough to make Stiles want to smile. A big stupid sappy smile. It sneaks out before he can even attempt to stop it.
Derek stares at him for a few seconds, eyes scanning his face, the wheels in his head turning visibly. And then he nods slowly, his mouth already open to take in sucking breaths, twitches up into a smile. He closes his eyes and lets his head flop back to lie against the mattress. He hikes his right leg up higher around Stiles’ hip, foot sliding across the smooth sheet.
“Okay,” he says. Stiles blinks at him.
“Okay? Just okay? Dude, I just confessed like epic love for you!” Stiles says. Derek laughs, and his grin gets wider.
“Actually, I think you proposed,” Derek teases. Stiles flinches in surprise.
“Fuck you, I did not. Everyone knows you’re going to end up asking me. Not the other way around!” Stiles objects, indignant. Derek just laughs.
“Too late. Already done. No take-backs!” Stiles stares at him in confusion and shock. Before starting to grin again.
“Wait, if I proposed, then that means that you totally accepted my proposal!” He watches Derek roll his eyes, mouth quirking up in amusement. “You want to marry me!?” he asks half surprised.
“Can we fight about this later? We were kind of in the middle of something,” he says, and then he rocks his hips up against Stiles in a way that sends Stiles eyes rolling back in his head.
There isn’t any time for talking then.
Later they lay twisted around and up against each other, pressed skin to skin in the dark. Stiles curls in closer, pressing his face further into the side of Derek’s sweaty neck.
“We can do that whenever you want. You don’t have to hide from it, or deny yourself anything. Just give me a clear sign, an obvious one, and I’ll give you that whenever you want it,” he drags his mouth up the length of Derek’s jugular. “My dick is yours for the taking dude. No appointment necessary,” he whispers this in Derek’s ear, trying for seductive. Derek chuckles and shakes his head.
“All of you is apparently all mine,” Derek replies. His hand tightens on the nape of Stiles’ neck. “What do you think about a Winter wedding? I’m thinking the solstice.” Stiles’ face twitches up into a grin, that Derek can feel grow against the skin of his throat.
“Fine, but I get to pick the tuxes,” Stiles replies.
“No way, I’ll end up in something plaid or baby blue.” They argue back and forth for at least 20 minutes debating who gets Scott for their best man (Stiles, “He’s been my best friend since we were four, Derek! Since we were four! I peed on his sandcastle!”), and who should (Cora, Jackson, and Isaac) and who should not (Peter!, obviously) be invited. When they have debated everything they can think of to argue about, which is really quite a lot, (Derek wants red ties? What is this Valentine’s Day?), they fall silent. They’re lying side by side, facing each other in the middle of the mattress.
“Hey, Stiles,” Derek says softly. Stiles hums in response, sleepy and content
“Yeah,” he says.
“This is me giving you a clear and obvious signal,” Derek says. Stiles rolling on top of him not even a second later, mouth too busy smiling to manage a proper kiss.
“Like I said, all you ever have to do is ask,” Stiles says.