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If You Love Me Right (We Fuck for Life)

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Stiles stands at foot of his bed, staring down at the sleeping work of art tangled in his sheets, hands stilled on the top button of his uniform shirt, mouth falling open. He’s become accustomed to coming home from work to find Derek in his apartment, naked or just barely clothed, stoned and horny. And sometimes, after Derek has exhausted one of his bursts of creative explosion that have him up at all hours, he stumbles downstairs and slips into his bed in the middle of the night, Thor so used to his presence now that he doesn’t even wake up when Derek comes in, waking Stiles with a filthy kiss and two fingers in his ass.

It’s been almost two months since they met and began doing whatever it is they’re doing, and Stiles is no longer surprised when Derek, enigmatic and infuriatingly addictive, appears and disappears like the world's sexiest ghost, drifting in and out of his bed on his own obscure whims, hungry glint in his eyes when he arrives, smug, satisfied smile on his lips when he leaves.

Tonight though, Stiles is surprised, shocked even, because even though he’s familiar with the sight of Derek in his bed, he’s never actually seen Derek asleep in his bed, or asleep at all for that matter. The thick beard he's grown recently has softened the edges of his razor-sharp features, and sleep gentles him even more, makes him look fragile, vulnerable even. It squeezes at Stiles’ heart, his resolve to not develop feelings for him, flimsy to begin with, crumbling even more.

Derek is sprawled on his back in the middle of the bed, naked, sheet tossed low across his hips; those hands that Stiles can't stop thinking about are resting on his stomach, stained a pale indigo to the wrist from the organic dye he’s been working with. His colorful tattoos are bright against the white sheets, and the pelt of dark hair dusting his chest rises and falls with his steady breathing. Derek’s astonishing beauty is even more angelic in repose, and Stiles swears under his breath, a little dizzy with arousal and affection, cursing himself yet again for his utter powerlessness under his thrall. It’s one thing to screw around with the hot, stoner artist who lives upstairs; it’s something else altogether to imagine, often, what it might be like to have something more than epic sex with this petulant, unpredictable, rebellious enigma of a man.

Stiles is still staring down at him in awe when Derek wakes, long black lashes fluttering open slowly. If he’s surprised to have fallen asleep, he doesn’t show it; he just smiles drowsily, hooded eyes drifting down Stiles’ uniformed body. “Hello, officer,” he murmurs, voice husky, putting his arms behind his head, grinning.

“Hey, you,” Stiles murmurs, bending down to take off his boots and socks. “Been waiting long?”

“Not sure,” Derek yawns, stretching. “I wanted to suck you off, so I came down to find you. Fell asleep almost right away when you weren’t here.” If Stiles didn’t know better, he’d think Derek was pouting, but that’s probably just because he’s still half-asleep.

“Thor and I got in some overtime looking for a meth lab in the tunnels under Pioneer Square tonight,” Stiles explains, glancing over at where Thor is already asleep on the couch, lazy as any other dog as soon as his work harness is removed. “Good thing we have the next four days off,” he adds, letting himself think about what it might be like to spend his days off with Derek, and not just in bed. He imagines them eating breakfast together and taking Thor to the dog park, doing ridiculous shit like holding hands and taking selfies and sitting on the same side of the booth when they go out to eat. He wonders what it would be like to cuddle with Derek on the couch and watch a movie, what it would be like to kiss Derek just for the sake of kissing him and touch him casually, just because he can. 

He pushes the traitorous fantasies from his thoughts and refocuses on the actual fantasy draped across his bed, Derek's emerald eyes, slightly crinkled with laughlines, fixated on where he lets his hands linger on the top button again, deliberate and coy this time, teasing. During their third time together, Derek, in his deeply stoned, post-orgasm afterglow, admitted that before they met he had seen Stiles around the building in his uniform and had been wildly attracted to him, despite his (supposed) hatred of cops. Stiles still hasn’t gotten enough of teasing him about it, and he unbuttons his shirt slowly, watching his sleepy eyes track the languid movement of his hands. 

He untucks and slowly and peels it off, dropping it to the floor. The white undershirt he’s wearing is stained with red paint from an earlier rendezvous in Derek’s loft, and he doesn’t miss his smug smile when he notices it. He strips it off, tossing it playfully in his face and then quickly taking off his pants, too eager to tease any longer.

Naked now too, Stiles tugs the sheet away from where it’s barely covering Derek’s thickening cock, letting out a small noise of pleasure, groaning as the blood rushes to his own dick in a hot wave. His ass twitches in anticipation and he smiles, quite familiar with just what that cock can do, with how staggeringly good it feels to let go and give in to that part of himself that wants to submit, wants to be taken care of, filled up. With Derek’s eyes still on him, Stiles picks up one of his long, graceful feet and kisses the tip of his big toe, dusted with dark hair like the rest of him, and slips his lips around it, sucking wetly, smiling at Derek’s pleased hiss.

“You like that, big guy,” Stiles teases, not a question.

Derek meets his gaze, eyes narrow and heated, but he doesn’t disagree. Stiles keeps it up, suckles all of his toes on that foot, running a nail along the arch, smiling as Derek shivers and glares even harder at him, corners of his mouth twitching up. Stiles’ lips follow the path of his finger, kissing up around his heel to his ankle, suckles on the knobby bone hard enough to leave a mark.

He kisses up his calf, traverses the slopes of his knees, the supple, tender skin on the inside of his furred thighs, sucking small, stinging hickies on his pale skin until Derek is breathing heavily, ink-stained hands twisting in Stiles’ hair. It makes him grin and hum with pride, his lips vibrating against the heavy swell of Derek’s balls as he moves his mouth up. He licks and teases, pulls them into his mouth and sucks softly, kisses up his shaft, runs the tip of his tongue trailing along the familiar arc of the throbbing vein weaving a long path from base to crown. Lips skimming over the tip, Stiles slides his foreskin down so he can nibble at the ridge of his cockhead and lick into his wet slit, looking up at him from under his lashes, blinking fast and wide. 

“Stiles,” Derek growls, pulling his hair.

Smiling, tongue wet and leaving a shining stripe, Stiles licks back down his cock and through the coarse nest of dark hair at the base and over the muscled plane of his abs, all the way up to one of his hard, delectable nipples. He pulls the barbell between his teeth until Derek hisses, hips bucking hard and shoulders curling up. Stiles sweeps his tongue over to lick at his other nipple, biting the mirroring piercing and suckling, Derek’s cock jutting hard into his belly, leaving a trail of slick.

“Get up here,” Derek grunts, throaty command confident and smug. “And fucking kiss me already, officer.” Stiles obeys, as usual, pressing his lips to Derek’s with a hungry moan. Derek wastes no time getting his hands on his ass, cupping and squeezing as they kiss until they’re both breathless, until Stiles is rutting his hips into Derek’s and jutting his ass back up into Derek’s hands, demanding, frustrated that Derek’s fingers aren’t inside him yet.

He’s about to tell him as much when Derek breaks the kiss and skims his hands up back, hooking them into his armpits and hauling him even further up his body, grinning at Stiles’ surprised and completely undignified yelp. Derek manhandles him until Stiles’ knees are resting on his shoulders, and he slips down until he’s straddling Derek’s face, a knee on either side of his head on the pillow. Derek’s beard is long enough to be soft against the tender skin of his thighs, whispering a gentle tickle that makes his eyes roll back as he shivers. Derek pulls him closer, beard now brushing along the tight curve of his balls and making him downright shake, his long, pierced tongue seeking Stiles’ eager entrance, fluttering in teasing circles around his blossoming rim, the barbell slipping into him, grunting in pleased approval that Stiles opens so easily for him, and Stiles preens with pride, chest warming at pleasing him so. He steadies himself by wrapping his hands around the sturdy metal headboard, crying out when Derek pushes his tongue into him as far as he can, hands wrapping around his waist, pulling on his hips. 

Stiles takes the encouragement, head falling back and mouth lolling open, overcome with skin-tingling pulses shooting from his core, lighting up every inch of his skin. This isn’t the first time Derek’s rimmed him, hardly, but it’s the first time like this, with Stiles on top, grinding his hungry ass into his beard. He rocks up and down on his mouth until his thighs are aching and trembling, Derek’s mouth a slick ember of heat melting him open. Hips rolling, his cock drags over Derek’s face, still smug, even now, trail of sticky precome threaded through his unruly eyebrows.

Gasping, Stiles slips off and scoots back down his chest, muttering curses, grasping at the base of his cock so he doesn’t come too soon. Derek would never let him live that down, coming untouched from riding his face. “Fuck me, please,” Stiles whines, too on-edge and needful to be coy anymore. Besides, he knows how much Derek likes it when he begs a little bit, and what Derek likes always works out very well for Stiles.

Grinning, Derek manhandles him onto all fours, crawling behind him and over him, laughing as he kisses up his back, rubbing his beard along his spine, nipping at his neck. “Tell me again,” he whispers, gentle, but a command all the same. “Tell me, baby, tell me how much you want my cock.” He sucks the lobe of Stiles’ ear between his big front teeth, biting just hard enough to make him whimper. “Tell me, Stiles.”

“Fuck me,” he pants, stroking at his cock while Derek retrieves a bottle of lube from the nightstand and settles on his knees behind him, drizzling the cool lube straight over his loosened, spit-slick hole. “Please, Der, I need you.” Stile bites his lip, whining, glad Derek can't see his face so he can at least pretend that he's hiding how he feels about him.  

Derek shoves two fingers into him with a hungry grunt and makes quick work of readying him further, fingers scissoring and slippery, purposeful and thorough, the hand not working him open stroking up and down his back, comforting and sure. “That’s a good boy,” he praises, voice husky. Stiles writhes on his fingers, basking in the good-pain burn of the stretch, marveling once again at skill and care Derek’s always treated him with, like he’s handling something precious, all the while still somehow crawling under his skin and into his bones, taking him apart and putting him back together in new, Derek-stained configurations.

He pushes in a fourth finger, curling them to tease at his prostate and stretch him further, and Stiles bites at the pillow under his face, twists and pulls his hands in the sheets, hips rocking. Derek finally relents, slipping his fingers free with a satisfied grunt and bending back over Stiles’ quivering body, beard trailing a prickly-soft path across his ass, appreciative kisses peppering his skin. “You ready for me, officer,” he teases throatily, his laugh a hot exhalation right into Stiles’ spread cleft.

Beyond words, too hungry for him, Stiles just nods, approaching desperation, cock throbbing, achingly hard and beading precome. Derek makes another noise of pleasure and slaps him playfully on the ass. “Good. Now get over here and ride my cock.” Moving with more elegance and grace that Stiles could possibly muster at the moment, Derek crawls up the bed and sits against the headboard, grabbing him with indigo hands and pulling him up so he’s straddling him, thighs spread across his strong lap. 

Stiles stares down at him, overcome by the buzzing heat, Derek’s manhandling, wide-eyed hunger sparking in his prismatic eyes. He lifts Stiles’ hands and places them on his shoulders, steadying. He drags his own hands down Stiles’ sides, smirking when he trembles and chokes out a whining sigh. Derek holds him open while he lowers himself down onto his lubed cock, slow at first, so he can savor the feeling of him spreading him wider, filling him up, reshaping him around his big, beautiful dick.

Derek throws his head back, thumping it against the wall between the rails of the headboard, swearing. It’s too much, the way Derek finally gives in, the look on his face, the broken whine at the back of his throat that Stiles swallows up with a sloppy kiss, taking the rest of him with a powerful shove down, every inch of his skin igniting, every nerve ending firing and flaming.

Stiles rolls and rocks his hips, shuddering, quickly setting a fast, urgent pace, blistering with heat from finally being full but needing more, more of Derek, all of Derek. They kiss until they can’t breathe, panting into each other’s mouths when they finally pull away, Derek rocking his hips up as Stiles begins to bounce harder, faster, moans growing louder with rising heat of billowing in his core, spinning out from where he’s anchored to him, every point of contact between their sweaty skin an intoxicating tingle. Derek’s eyes are raking over him, impossibly wide and so blown with arousal there’s just a slivered halo of that luminous green. His stare is even somehow more intimate than the fact that he's buried to the hilt inside of him, watching Stiles take his pleasure on his cock like he’s witnessing something extraordinary, holy even.

Derek’s gaze has always been intense, has always cut Stiles right to the core, from the very first night they met when he barged into his apartment unannounced and found himself under the thrall of his eyes and hands and his goddamn smirk, his everything. But this is something else entirely, a raw, awestruck affection that echoes with what he felt seeing Derek sleep, the softness and vulnerability he caught a glimpse of earlier.

As the simmering pulses of heat consume him, Stiles wonders dazedly what his own face looks like, what it might be revealing about his feelings. He loses that train of thought though, all thought, when Derek twists a hand in his hair to pull his head back, attacking his exposed neck with his mouth. He licks across his collarbones, lays a kiss in the hollow of his throat, nibbles farther down his flushed chest to take a nipple between his lips, looking up at him from under his lashes while he suckles, flicking the barbell in his tongue across the tip. Stiles whines and fucks harder, ass bouncing against Derek’s thighs, clenching tightly around his cock, hands tangling in his silky hair, damp with sweat and slicked back a bit, making his slight widow’s peak more pronounced. Stiles presses his mouth against it, heart thumbing so loud against his ribs he’s sure Derek can hear.

Beard roughing up his skin, he kisses over to bury his face into Stiles’ armpit, nuzzling and grunting. Derek is murmuring admiration for the taste of him, for his ass, praising him for being so good and riding his dick so sweet, words spilling over his skin as he licks and bites, gently devouring, cock ramming his prostate, pulses of bone-tingling sensation flooding through him. “Derek, please, can I,” he pleads, knowing how much he likes it when he asks for permission to come.

“Yes, baby, you can,” Derek pants into his chest, hand dragging around his hip to circle around his bouncing cock.

Stiles grabs his hand before he can get a grip. “Wanna come on just your cock, please,” he adds, breathless, pulling Derek’s fingers up into his mouth, sucking sloppily, head falling back as the rising wave begins to crest, hips snapping in wild, chaotic spasms.

Derek drags his fingers over his bottom lip, thumb tucking under his chin. “That’s my good boy,” he mewls, voice broken and soft, and then Stiles is going, going, gone, tumbling over the edge into a cataclysmic, heady, tumbling rush, spiraling from his core and shaking him through and through. His balls, sweaty and sticky against Derek’s skin, contract so hard and tight it’s nearly painful, the release such pure relief he practically howls, streaking Derek’s flexing stomach with thick, searing ropes. He’s certain he’s never come so hard or so much in his entire life, shuddering and panting through the pulsating waves, spurting more heavy drops between them.

Boneless and wrecked, he falls against Derek’s chest, and he wraps his arms around him and flips them so Stiles is on his back against the pillows, legs spread wide and feet in the air. A few hard thrusts and then Derek’s biting Stiles’ neck, quaking as he empties himself inside of him, holding on so tight Stiles lets himself believe that it means something.


This is Stiles’ favorite part.

The afterwards.

He knows what that means about the true depth of his feelings for Derek and about his own capacity for denial and self-delusion, his true inability to go on this whole time pretending that this was just sex to him.

Lying in a sweaty, come-sticky heap, Derek’ssturdy body draped over his, breath hot on his neck: it gives new meaning to the word afterglow.   

As unbelievably intense and overwhelming, utterly perfect as sex with Derek is, Stiles’ favorite part is this magical time afterwards, when Derek lingers, lazy and languid, sometimes for hours, their limbs intertwined. He listens to Stiles ramble, laughing against his skin and murmuring his own wry retorts. When he’s stoned, which is usually, he’s more talkative. He’s told Stiles bits and pieces about his life: his MFA program and art projects in various media; living in Morocco after college; traveling to Fiji and Thailand; growing up with three sisters and learning to paint from his father. Sometimes Derek draws on him, felt-tipped marker dragging over his skin like a silken ribbon that he wields with precision and grace, decorating him with mandalas  and trees and bits and pieces of famous paintings; once, on his thigh, he drew a wolf so realistic and majestic Stiles didn’t shower for three days because he didn’t want to wash it off, until it smudged into an inky blur.

Derek is sprawled out again, this time on his stomach, half-lying across Stiles’ exhausted body, his come flaking between their bellies, Derek’s dripping slowly from his ass, head resting on his chest, idly rubbing his beard into his skin while lightly tracing circles low on his hip with featherlight fingers that feel like brushstrokes. Derek can never seem to get enough of admiring Stiles’ body as if it were a work of art, and Stiles can’t get enough of letting him, sighing contentedly, too comfortable, too happy, he knows, but that doesn’t stop him from giving in to it, delighting in the feel of Derek’s dense, relaxed body weighing him down. 

“I want to paint you,” Derek mumbles into his chest, scooting over so he’s fully on top of him again, kissing and biting at his throat.

“You already did, punk,” Stiles chides, chest warming like it always does every time he uses the insult from their first encounter as an endearment, an I think I love you whispered only in his heart.

Derek rises up on his elbows to look down at him, kiss-plumped lips curved into that devastating smile. “I want to again, asshole.” He kisses Stiles’ chin, the corner of his mouth. “I want to keep painting you. I want to paint your portrait too.” Stiles swallows hard, breath catching. Derek rubs his cheek over his. “And I want to photograph you, and film you.” He kisses the tip of his nose, smiling widely now. “I want to sculpt your perfect body and write epic poems about the color of your eyes.” Stiles starts to scoff, but Derek kisses the laughter from his lips, gentle and sweet, until Stiles believes it.

Breathless, Stiles wraps his arms around his back. “Are you saying you want me to be your muse,” he murmurs. 

“I think you already are,” Derek whispers, eyes glittering. He runs a hand through his hair and cradles his jaw, holding him tight, looking at him in that way he has, like he’s beholding a masterpiece. 

Derek finally rolls off him and Stiles turns so they’re facing each other, settling into the pillows, locked in each other’s gaze. Stiles feels like each heavy thump of his heart echoing with the question he’s too scared to ask, wanting nothing more than for Derek to spend the night, to wake up next to him.

“I’m going to draw you in the morning,” Derek mumbles, eyes falling closed, and just like that, he’s asleep again. Stiles watches him, entranced, until he falls asleep too, smiling, question answered.