Work Header

Things We Know, Unsaid

Work Text:

Stiles finds out by accident, on a Tuesday.


They’ve finally figured out Derek’s bad luck is actually legitimately supernaturally bad (Stiles is about 98 percent sure it’s Peter’s fault), so Derek and Stiles are scouring the apartment in search of the hex bag that has to be around somewhere. Stiles finds an old leather trunk in a storage closet and figures it for a good place to hide some bad juju. But when he opens it, well.


“Uh,” Stiles says, because of course Derek chooses that moment to appear behind him.


If he thought Derek would be angry or embarrassed at Stiles finding a trunk full of quality BDSM gear in his closet, he’d have been wrong. “I used to do it professionally, in New York,” Derek says easily, and Stiles—Stiles doesn’t know how to process that. Because he’s seventeen and has eyes and an unfortunately vivid imagination, and if he lets it go there he’s not going to get any use out of any body part except his dick for several hours.


So he just says, “Okay,” and he and Derek sort through the trunk in search of the hex bag.


They find it in with a collection of silk scarves. Stiles burns it, and then he goes home and jerks off thinking of Derek wearing those leather gloves, and they don’t talk about it. Not for weeks.


But Stiles’s imagination can only supplant his curiosity for so long. “Do you miss it?” he asks idly one day as they run a routine border patrol through the preserve.


Derek shrugs. “Sometimes.”


Stiles waits.


Eventually Derek goes on. “I needed something I could control, after the fire. And people needed to be able to give that control to someone else.” Then he lifts one corner of his mouth in a wry half smile. “Besides, the money was good.”


Stiles can’t begin to imagine how much money people would pay someone who looks like Derek to tell them to take their clothes off. He just nods.


And then they go on not talking about it. But they don’t talk about a lot of things.


They don’t talk about it when Stiles loses his virginity—and maybe it’s a less romantic experience than he always envisioned it, but he learns a lot about his body, about sex, and it feels like a natural extension of friendship. He can’t feel bad about it, especially when Lydia says, “I always knew you’d be a fast learner” while Stiles has his head between her legs.


Jackson comes back to town two weeks later, and the expression on his face when he realizes—well. Stiles actually feels bad for him. He has no problem backing off to let nature take its course.


But he and Derek don’t talk about that.


When Stiles (finally) turns eighteen, that becomes one more thing they don’t talk about, though Stiles notices changes. He gets more of those measured looks now, the one Derek gave him after Stiles slept with Lydia. Touches linger. They spend more time together, just the two of them.


Those are just a few of the mounting list of things they don’t talk about. Stiles thinks maybe they don’t have to.


He’s had the website bookmarked on his laptop since the day he found the chest, but he’s never done anything about it. He wanted to be sure, and he knows Derek never would’ve touched him like that before anyway. Not when he wasn’t legal, and not when he was still a virgin. But now—


Now Stiles reads through the questionnaire, the clauses of the contract, with a critical eye. Because he knows he trusts Derek, but with all the not talking they’re doing, he doesn’t know how to say it.


This might work.


Stiles prints the pages—one set’s labeled ‘House Copy’—and fills them out identically, with annotations, the payment clause blacked out. At the bottom of the house copy, he scrawls Only if you want and then, after a moment’s thought, I trust you, just in case that wasn’t clear. He signs them and dates them and leaves them in a sealed envelope in Derek’s mailbox.


He doesn’t see or hear from Derek in two days, which doesn’t surprise him. On the third day, he gets a text message.


Are you sure this is what you want?


Stiles has to snort at that, because how can he know before he’s done it? But he texts back anyway. I’m sure I want to try it with you.


Apparently that’s good enough, because the next text message reads Be here tomorrow at 8.




Stiles takes his time getting ready. He showers more thoroughly than he has in his life, he brushes, flosses, mouthwashes, does it all over again just to be sure. He uses fragrance-free soap, washes his new underwear in unscented detergent, leaves his hair free of product. He’s not sure why he does that.


He’s still ten minutes early, but he waits in his Jeep. There will be a time to push boundaries later. This isn’t it.


Derek answers the door wearing black jeans and a tight black T-shirt, barefoot. Stiles doesn’t know what he expected, but this wasn’t it. Not that he’s disappointed, because the combination of casual confidence and vulnerability apparently does it for him.


Derek says, “Take your shoes off and sit on the couch.” By the way his lip twitches, Stiles figures he can tell Stiles is hard already.


This is not going at all as Stiles planned, which, actually, is probably the point.


“Tell me why you want this,” Derek says as he sits, knees splayed, on the coffee table in front of Stiles. Stiles doesn’t know how he’s supposed to have any kind of ability to respond at all in sounds that contain meaning, especially since beside Derek on the table there’s a partial inventory laid out on a cloth, every surface gleaming.


But clearly Derek’s not going to proceed until they catch up on all the talking they haven’t been doing, so. He forces his eyes up to meet Derek’s.


This isn’t the kind of test you can study for. Stiles doesn’t know the right answer. His only option is honesty.


He has a lot of really honest answers, but some of them come easier than others.


He starts with the ones Derek already knows. “Because I’m attracted to you. Because I’m curious.” And then things get real, because he can tell Derek isn’t convinced, not yet. Stiles leans forward on the couch, then thinks better of it and slides onto his knees instead. His pulse pounds. “Because maybe if I can prove that I trust you with this”—he nods at the collection of toys, blindfolds, paddles, nipple clamps—“you might be ready to trust me with this.” He puts his right palm flat over Derek’s heart.


In the seconds of silence that follow, Stiles thinks Derek’s apartment has never felt so small, and he grasps desperately for a joke, an also, we’d be really hot together. But he makes himself keep his silence. This is important.


Derek’s throat works as he swallows, but he doesn’t break eye contact. Finally he reaches up with his left hand to cover Stiles’s, squeezes it once. Then he stands up, moving the hand to Stiles’s shoulder to keep him on his knees. “Take a look at what I’ve laid out,” he says. “Make sure you understand what everything is. If you don’t, ask. If you don’t want to use something, tell me.”


Stiles swallows, licks his lips. Derek didn’t say he could move, so he doesn’t inch closer, just turns his head and takes inventory as Derek wanders toward the kitchen.


Most of it’s pretty straightforward: a pair of soft-looking leather cuffs, a blindfold, a few plain strips of cloth, a feather. There’s a bar bookended with leather buckles that must be a spreader, and a sort of stick with a few strands of chains coming out one end that Stiles really hopes isn’t to hit people with, a cock ring, a few sets of nipple clamps, a leather-covered paddle. A wickedly curved black dildo he can’t even look at without flushing. Different sizes of plugs—metal, plastic, rubber.


Stiles widens the splay of his knees without really thinking about it.


“You can touch them if you want,” Derek tells him as he returns with a large glass of water in each hand. He sets them on the end table, then sits down in an obvious display of nonchalance.


Stiles reaches for the paddle first, runs his fingers over the butter-soft leather before turning it over. The other side is studded, and he inhales sharply, imagining what it might feel like on his skin.




God, where to begin. Stiles puts the paddle back and picks out the whip-chain thing. “What is this?”


“A tickler.”


It doesn’t look much like it’s designed to tickle, but Stiles gets that it doesn’t have to be a literal meaning. “So… not for whipping me with.”


Derek frowns seriously. “You said you didn’t want me to hurt you.”


Wow, Stiles is doing a bang-up job of proving that whole trust thing. “But… I mean, there’s this.” He lifts the paddle again.


Derek’s doubt seems to disappear now that he sees what Stiles is getting at. “That doesn’t have to hurt,” he says. “But we can put it away if you want to.”


Stiles thinks about it, then puts it back to show his acceptance. “Why no gag?” After all this time, he’s surprised Derek doesn’t want a way to force him to shut up.


But Derek just stares at him levelly. “The only thing I’m going to put in your mouth tonight is me.”


Well. That’s much hotter than expected. Stiles may whimper a little. “Okay,” he says a little faintly. “Yeah, we can do that. Let’s do that.”


Derek smiles and Stiles’s breath catches. “Good,” Derek says. “Come up here and kiss me.”


Which is how Stiles finds himself straddling Derek’s lap for their first kiss, with Derek’s hands on his hips and Derek’s mouth under his and Derek’s tongue slipping gently past his teeth. For all that they’re in the middle of a kink negotiation, it’s just a perfectly normal kiss, except for with more butterflies than usual.


A lot more.


Then Derek pulls Stiles’s lower lip between his teeth and normal flies out the window. Stiles digs his fingers into Derek’s shoulders and holds on.


Eventually Derek pulls away, bringing one hand up to the back of Stiles’s neck, some kind of gentling or calming thing, maybe. It would probably work if Stiles’s whole body weren’t primed for sexual contact. Instead of being soothed, he shudders.


Derek holds his gaze. “You can talk as much as you want. Red for stop, yellow for slow down or discuss, green for keep going.”


Stiles nods, then thinks of something. “Do you want me to call you Sir?”


Derek blinks. “Do you want to call me Sir?”


Ugh. “No.” When Derek raises an eyebrow, Stiles shrugs. “I am generally not attracted to people I call Sir.”


“You have a problem with authority,” Derek points out with a twist to his lips.


Stiles nods. “That too.”


“This should be interesting, then.”


Well, it’s definitely not going to be boring. “So I should just…?”


“‘Derek’ is fine.” He makes a coaxing gesture with his hands; Stiles takes the hint and stands up. “I’d stay away from ‘sourwolf’ unless you’re feeling daring.” Stiles follows his gaze to the leather paddle.


“Uh.” He exhales shakily. “Okay.”


Probably reading into the sound, Derek turns to him again. “Stiles, we don’t have to do this.”


“I want to,” Stiles says stubbornly. He knows Derek won’t hear a lie. There isn’t one.


Derek nods. “Then take off your clothes.”


Stiles’s pulse kicks up a notch as he pulls his shirt over his head. He could be self-conscious about this; he knows Derek’s built better than he is. Derek’s built better than just about everyone. But Derek’s not doing this with anyone other than Stiles. That has to count for something.


When he reaches for the waistband of his boxer-briefs, Derek shakes his head. “Leave those for now.”


Stiles lets his hands fall to his sides and just… waits. He knows Derek can see how hard he is, the way his erection pushes at the fabric of his underwear. But instead of being ashamed, he’s… he doesn’t know. Liberated, maybe.


Derek nods at the items laid out on the table. “Pick two.”


Okay, no pressure, then. Stiles looks over the selection again. He’s here to prove his trust, so it’s not that difficult. He lets his fingers linger a moment over the handle of the dildo, but ultimately he picks up the handcuffs and a soft cloth blindfold.


When he turns around Derek’s in the middle of pulling on the black leather gloves Stiles saw in the trunk. They should look ridiculous with a short-sleeved shirt. They don’t. They look like sex. Derek pretty much always looks like sex, though. His hooded gaze flickers from Stiles’s chosen items to his face, and his eyes go dark. “Get on the bed, on your knees.”


Which… Stiles has sort of been avoiding noticing, but Derek moved the bed. It’s not next to the window anymore; it’s more or less in the center of the room, dominating everything. It’s been stripped to the sheets—black, of course, Stiles thinks a little hysterically, because for some reason Derek wants them to show all the stains. He gets on the bed.


Derek joins him a minute later, holding an unopened bottle of lube and the dildo Stiles was eyeing earlier.


So apparently that’s happening. Stiles takes a few deep breaths through his nose, trying to keep calm.


“Okay?” Derek asks.


Stiles catches his gaze, then pointedly looks down at his crotch. He’s starting to leak through his underwear.


Derek raises his eyebrows.


Oh. Right. “Green,” Stiles says. Communicating. Apparently the bedroom—playroom?—is the only place Derek’s comfortable doing it. Figures.


“Good,” Derek says. He takes the handcuffs first and turns them over like he’s debating. “Hands behind your back.”


Stiles shudders. He doesn’t know why that’s so delicious. Maybe because he knows how hard it’ll be to keep his balance.


Maybe because he suspects by the end of the night he’s going to end up bent over with his hands still bound and his face in the mattress.


Derek secures his hands just tight enough that the leather doesn’t dig in, then smoothes his hand up and down Stiles’s back a few times. It’s the first time he’s really touched Stiles since his clothes came off, and the cool leather feels comforting and alien at the same time. “Color?”


Stiles shifts his knees farther apart for better balance. “Green,” he says again. His voice is hoarse.


The bed dips as Derek climbs on behind him. He trails the ends of the blindfold down Stiles’s chest before bringing it up to his face, covering his eyes. Once it’s tied, the ends fall against his shoulders, a subtle tickle. “And now?”


Underneath the safety of the blindfold, Stiles rolls his eyes. “Still green—”


Derek grabs the ends of the blindfold and pulls him roughly backward. Without any leverage, Stiles has no choice but to go where Derek puts him, which in this case means back against his chest, hands squished awkwardly against the heat of Derek’s abs. “You just can’t resist, can you?” Derek murmurs. Stiles imagines he can hear the smile.


“You like me this way,” he says. A little wiggle proves it too; he can definitely feel evidence of Derek’s interest against his right ass cheek.


“We all have our crosses to bear.” Derek sets Stiles to rights again, on his knees, back straight. This time, though, he presses his own body in close enough that Stiles can’t escape the warmth of him, and runs his gloved hands down Stiles’s chest. “Tell me what you want.”


Stiles’s breath stutters when Derek catches a nipple between forefinger and thumb. “You.”


Derek presses a wet, openmouthed kiss to the side of Stiles’s neck. “I’m not going to fuck you like this tonight.”


Stiles licks his lips. “How about tomorrow night?”


Derek laughs, then bites him, human teeth only. The spark of it shoots down Stiles’s spine and burns in his cock. “Depends on if you behave. Do you want to know the rules?”


“Rules were meant to be broken.”


Derek draws one gloved finger up Stiles’s sternum, over his neck, ending at his chin. He tips his head back automatically. “Not these ones.”


He takes a shaky breath. “Tell me.”


“Don’t come until I say you can.”


Stiles swallows. He figured on that one. “Is that all?”


“No.” Derek fits his whole palm against Stiles’s neck now, not exerting any pressure, just to show that it’s there. So Stiles feels it. “If you want something, you have to ask for it.”


Stiles’s dick pulses in his boxer-briefs, and he hears what Derek hasn’t said: Derek’s going to make Stiles ask for his touch. He’s going to make Stiles ask for the dildo, probably. He’s going to make Stiles beg to come.


Maybe he’ll even say no.


Fuck, that’s hot.


Stiles says, “Green,” almost automatic. His heart pounds. He inhales deeply through his mouth. “Does that mean… does that mean you want me to… everything? Like, specifics? Or just”—Derek’s gloved hand slides down through the hair on his belly—“in general?”


When Derek speaks, his chest vibrates against Stiles’s back. He moves his hands up again, almost massaging Stiles’s chest, then drags them up his shoulders. “Start with the general. We can move on to specifics later.” The warm leather presses down once more, over Stiles’s nipples, over his hips, over the tense muscles in his thighs. Paradoxically, he finds it kind of relaxing.


“I want you to kiss me again,” he says.


Derek puts his lips to Stiles’s nape, light, a tease.


“On the mouth,” Stiles says, “like you mean it.”


The hand on his left thigh moves to his neck again, steadying him as much as it prevents him from moving. The hand on his right disappears, and then there’s the scent of leather, butter-soft warmth brushing his lips. Stiles can’t resist the urge to lick his lips, and when he does, his tongue slides against the tip of a finger.


Derek growls. “Keep going.”


Stiles is already shaking with it, knows Derek must be able to smell him leaking, see the wet spot on the front of his boxer-briefs. “It’s not complicated,” he says, and his voice—he already sounds fucked out. “I want you to touch me however you want to touch me. I want to suck you off.” Derek’s hand tightens infinitesimally at that before relaxing again. “I want to come. I’d like it if you fucked me, but apparently that’s not a thing we’re doing, so.”


Derek kisses him behind the ear. “Not like this,” he murmurs. “Not the first time. But soon.”   


Stiles can probably live with that, provided Derek doesn’t kill him with his hotness first.


“Do you want to know what I want?”


“Please.” He means it to come out edgy, maybe even sarcastic. He manages desperate.


“I want to make you helpless with it.” The graze of teeth over the shell of his ear. “I want to know what you look like with my cock in your mouth.”


Said mouth waters. “Oh my God.”


Derek continues as if he hasn’t heard him. “I want to break you down, make you beg for it. I want to see if you can come without a touch on your dick.”


“You’re gonna find out sooner than you planned if you don’t cut it out with the dirty talk,” Stiles tells him. He can’t widen his legs any farther and it still feels like his erection doesn’t have any room. He really needs Derek to get him naked.


Or maybe Derek wants to see Stiles come in his pants, untouched.


Derek pushes one leather-clad finger into his mouth: stop talking. Stiles’s eyes roll back as he closes his lips around it, suckling.


So he may have a slight—slight—oral fixation.


“I want to fuck you with that toy. I want to see how much you can take before you beg me to let you come.”


And fuck, Stiles forgot—forgot he’s not allowed, not until Derek tells him. Oh Jesus, he’s going to die. His stomach muscles contract.


Derek pulls his finger out, smears the wetness around Stiles’s mouth. “Color?”


“Green,” Stiles says hoarsely, “you asshole.”


Derek laughs against the side of his neck. “Good.” And then he pulls his hands away and—


And guides Stiles down onto the bed so he’s resting on his face and shoulders with his ass in the air and his hands behind his back. “Now?”


“Is there a color for ‘hurry the fuck up and do something before I die of blue balls’?”


Derek snaps the waistband of his underwear. It doesn’t hurt, just heats the skin, makes him want more. “I should’ve known you wouldn’t be able to resist mouthing off.”


Stiles huffs. “You’re the one who didn’t want to gag me.”


“That’s because I’d rather hear you beg.”


It’s possible, Stiles thinks, that there is such a thing as communicating too honestly in the bedroom.


“And I never said I didn’t want to gag you. I just don’t want to do it with anything rubber or plastic.”


Stiles hears I want to gag you with my dick and consents to that enthusiastically. “Uhhh,” he says as Derek hooks his fingers under the waistband of his boxer-briefs again. This time he slides the material down but not off, so it’s bunched just under Stiles’s ass, hobbling him. His dick is still trapped because, as he’s always suspected, Derek’s an asshole. “Green?”


Derek snorts. A second later he has his hands on Stiles’s skin again, but this time—


The mattress shifts. There is a leather-clad hand on each of Stiles’s ass cheeks. Derek rubs circles with his thumbs before pulling them apart, just gently, and the cool air of the room hits Stiles’s asshole.


Derek scrapes his teeth over the top of Stiles’s left cheek, then soothes the sting not at all with the rasp of stubble. “Color?”


Stiles is trembling; his knees don’t want to hold him up anymore; his face feels like it’s on fire. He draws in a shuddery breath. “Green,” he whispers. “Green, oh my God, Derek, please—


Derek spreads him farther and puts his mouth on Stiles’s hole.


Oh my God. Stiles breathes heavily against the soft cotton sheets as Derek licks into him, first little teases of tongue and then long wet slides that seem designed to make as much mess as possible. Which they probably are. Stiles thinks about what it must look like, about how his skin is probably bright red from the abrasion of Derek’s stubble, about whether—whether Derek can see his hole loosening under his tongue or if he only feels it. “Oh holy fuck. Derek. Don’t stop.”


Stiles mewls pathetically when Derek pulls his face away, but then he brushes his—finger? Thumb?—over it instead, and Stiles bucks. Or he would if he had any leverage whatsoever. He has several seconds of untetheredness when Derek stops touching him completely, but he must have just been taking his gloves off, because when his touch returns it’s warmer and slicker, and that’s skin against his, not leather.


“Ask for it,” Derek tells him.


Fuck. Stiles arches his neck against the sheets. “Do it. Please.”


The first finger slides in like a hot knife into butter, liquefying the remains of Stiles’s bones. He’s starting to feel the strain in his shoulders, tension burning hot in his muscles, but he doesn’t care. Everything Derek’s doing to him is so good.


“Talk to me,” Derek says.


Like he doesn’t know how far beyond words Stiles is right now. “Give me another f—” He cuts himself off when his body tries to arch; Derek’s rubbing over his prostate, just gentle but it’s more than enough. Stiles’s underwear are actually soaked with precome; he doesn’t know how Derek’s holding back, because Stiles can smell himself. God, he wants to come.


Derek lets up after a few seconds and Stiles pants into the sheet; it’s damp under his skin now, from sweat or drool or God knows what. He doesn’t care.


“You think you can take two?”


“I can take whatever you give me,” Stiles says—stupidly, it turns out, because what Derek gives him then is a fat lot of nothing. He pulls his finger out and then—and then drizzles cold lube right on Stiles’s open asshole. “Oh you fucker,” he snarls, but no matter how he wriggles his hips, he can’t get away from it.


“You asked for it,” Derek points out, his amusement audible. Then his tone grows darker, serious. “And now you’re going to get it.”


Stiles would laugh at the cliché, but suddenly there’s something against his ass again, and this time it’s not part of Derek. It’s slick and cool and too hard to be flesh, and oh fuck. Fuck, Derek is going to make him take the dildo now, after just one finger of stretching. So this might hurt.


“Color?” Derek says gently, one palm stroking warmly down Stiles’s lower back.


Because of course he’s giving Stiles an out.


Stiles swallows. “Green,” he answers. Then, when Derek doesn’t move, he pushes past the shame and fear and—“Put it inside me, Derek. Fuck me with it.”


This time he can hear Derek’s shuddery exhale, and for the first time he wonders what this is doing for Derek. He wants to know—wants to see. But with the blindfold on, he can only guess. “Bear down,” Derek says hoarsely, and he pushes the toy inside.


He goes slow but it still hurts, which is probably a blessing because thirty seconds ago Stiles was pretty close to begging to come, and he’s reasonably sure Derek would’ve denied him. Still, by the time Derek stops pushing Stiles is trembling again, his eyes squeezed shut. The burn fades into fullness. When Derek gives a tiny experimental thrust, Stiles makes a noise he can’t even identify. His balls tighten. “Derek!”


Derek doesn’t ask him for a color, just keeps stroking over Stiles’s back, over his ass, down the backs of his thighs. He doesn’t make a move to touch Stiles’s dick. Stiles is pretty sure he’s not going to have to. “You’re beautiful like this.” His touch is reverent. Stiles almost wishes for the paddle, because he doesn’t know how much more tenderness he can take. “I think I’m going to make you ruin your underwear.”


“Uhhh.” Stiles licks his lips and grits his teeth against orgasm.


Derek draws the dildo out, then pushes in again, keeping the motion shallow. Not that it helps. Stiles’s whole body is aching with it, with the need to let go.


He doesn’t know how long he manages to keep silent, letting Derek do whatever he wants, as the strokes move from miniscule barely there motions to long, slow, firm thrusts Stiles can feel in his molars. But finally he can’t—he can’t take any more. His dick is chafing in the sopping wet cotton of his shorts and his fingers are starting to tingle and his cheeks sting with sweat or tears or both. “Derek, please,” he whispers, and the movement stops. Stiles almost sobs. “Derek, I need to come. Please let me come.”


“Shh,” Derek says. The hand that’s been smoothing down Stiles’s back and ass trickles down his arms to his wrists. “Okay, shh. You’re doing well.”


Stiles isn’t doing anything except lying there and taking it, which he can’t actually do anything about, so he doesn’t dignify that with a response.


Then the pressure on his shoulders eases and he realize Derek’s freed his wrists. He presses a kiss to the underside of each one, massaging gently until some of the feeling is restored.


Then he takes Stiles’s right hand and pulls it back, down, until his clumsy fingers encounter the handle of the dildo.




“You can come,” Derek tells him, and he must’ve moved because he’s stroking through Stiles’s hair now, over his cheek. “But you have to do all the work. I want to see you fuck yourself with it.” He thumbs Stiles’s lower lip again. “And don’t even think about touching your cock.”


Stiles is too far gone to reply. His fingers are still tingly, and he doesn’t have near the dexterity he’d like for something like this; it takes him two tries to get a good grip. The handle is slippery with lube.


None of it’s going to matter. Stiles is going to come in about five seconds.


He grits his teeth on the first stroke, too weak as he scrambles to for purchase. The second is better, almost too hard but only slightly off target. By the third thrust he’s trying to spread his knees further again, but he can’t, hobbled by his own underwear.


Stiles loses himself completely, is own wet-heavy breathing filling his ears along with the squelch of lube as he fucks the toy hard against his prostate until he comes, loud, openmouthed, his untouched cock jerking hard as come slides down to his balls, coats his shorts and his skin and maybe the sheets too, fuck, did he just make a mess on Derek’s sheets? Is that what he wanted?


When Stiles’s arm can’t take anymore Derek grasps the dildo’s handle and takes over, coaxes out a few more juddery aftershocks until Stiles mutters, weak, “Yellow.”


Right away, the motion stops, and Derek pulls the dildo out slowly. There’s a soft thunk, probably the sound of it being set aside, and then he runs his hands up Stiles’s legs and disentangles him from his underwear.


The blindfold goes next, and Stiles expects to be blinking into the harsh brightness of the loft, but the sun has set completely, and the low light doesn’t hurt his eyes at all. Derek rolls him over, gets one hand behind his back for support, props him up and holds up a glass of water. “Drink,” he says. He doesn’t seem to expect Stiles to use his own hands at all, which is probably for the best.


Stiles does as he’s told, suddenly thirsty, but Derek only lets him take small sips at a time, and a few minutes pass before the glass is empty and Derek finally sets it aside.


Derek, who is still fully clothed. If Stiles had two operational brain cells to rub together right now, he’d be appalled. “Do you want me to….”


Derek laughs a bit, tilting his head back against the headboard before looking down at his lap, then over at Stiles. “What do you think?”


Stiles looks. Derek’s jeans are tight on a good day. Right now they’re so tight Stiles could make an educated guess that he isn’t circumcised. “I think there was a reason you made me drink all that water.”  


“Dehydration is a real thing,” Derek says in a passible imitation of Stiles’s voice. But then he grows serious, tracing a thumb over Stiles’s cheekbone. “This was never about what I want. And the rules still apply. If you want something, ask for it. Otherwise, we can just go to sleep.”


Apparently they’re sleeping together now, which is good to know. And not that Stiles isn’t exhausted, but—fuck that sideways, actually. Like hell he’s going to miss an opportunity to make Derek come. “I want you to take off your clothes,” he says as calmly as he can. He’s still feeling pretty fucked out; asking is easier than he thought it would be.


Derek stands up, takes off his shirt, folds it. Then he repeats the process with his jeans. Stiles’s long-held suspicion that he goes commando holds true.


Stiles wants to touch him everywhere, but he’s feeling much too lazy for that. Maybe later, once he’s had a chance to recover. “I want,” he says—and then Derek turns around and Stiles’s mouth falls open a little and he loses his train of thought. God, he had an idea of what he was getting himself into, but Derek is even more perfect from the front than the back, all defined muscles, and the perfect amount of body hair, and—


And his dick. He’s hard, long and thick, uncut just like Stiles thought he would be. He’s even visibly wet.


Stiles’s mouth waters. “I want to suck your cock.”


Derek climbs back onto the bed. “Do you?” he says. He takes Stiles’s right hand and guides it to his erection; it’s even slicker than it looked, so hot with blood it almost shocks him. “Do you want to suck me?” he asks as he guides Stiles’s hand up to the tip, holds it there before sliding it back down again. “Or do you want me to fuck your mouth?”


Stiles firmly reminds himself that he’s eighteen years old and no longer a virgin and he’s not going to come untouched twice in one night. He’s not sure his dick is listening, though. “Yeah,” he says, because apparently that’s a thing he wants. He’s scooting down the bed before he really thinks about it, rolling onto his back. He can still feel the cool wetness between his legs, still feels open and used. “You should—you should do that.”


Apparently Derek doesn’t need a written invitation. He slings a leg over Stiles’s shoulders, stuffs a pillow under Stiles’s head. Then he guides himself forward into Stiles’s waiting mouth.


Stiles can’t help the moan that tries to escape him. Derek tastes salty, musky, and his dick is smooth and hot and heavy in his mouth. Yeah, so Stiles is going to get hard again at the very least. He can’t help his oral fixation.


He hollows his cheeks and sucks.


Derek swears.


Stiles does everything he can to make it good: lots of tongue, no teeth, mouth as wet as he can make it. On one particularly deep thrust he discovers he doesn’t have much of a gag reflex, and Derek’s eyes go hot and he presses forward again, deliberate. Stiles takes that too, overwhelmed with how much he wants it, wants to make Derek lose it, wants the flood of Derek’s come on his tongue.


Derek says, “Jesus Christ, Stiles, your fucking mouth,” and then he slides his free hand into Stiles’s hair so he can hold his head at just the right angle, his balls brushing Stiles’s chin.


It’s so perfect Stiles wants to cry.


It doesn’t take long after that, and Stiles gets everything he wanted: the sight of Derek with his head thrown back in bliss, the long moan when his body finally gives in, the salt-sweet-hot-bitter wave of come, too much to swallow so that some trickles down his chin. Derek’s legs shake with it.


Finally he pulls away, kneels back, and wipes his thumb over Stiles’s chin. Then he kisses him again, finally, soft and affectionate. “Come on,” he murmurs. “Let’s get cleaned up.”


Stiles doesn’t know how Derek has the energy to basically carry him into the shower. It must be a werewolf thing. He definitely doesn’t know how he has the coordination to curl his fingers around Stiles’s renewed erection and stroke him gently until he comes and the shower washes away all the evidence. Or how he manages to make the bed when it’s all Stiles can do not to fall asleep on the couch as he waits, sipping at his second glass of water as directed.


But they don’t really talk about anything until they’re curled up in bed again with Stiles sprawled half on top of Derek, listening to the steady thump of his heart beneath his ear.


“Stiles,” Derek says, brushing his nose over Stiles’s hairline.


Stiles hums.


“You know I do, right?”


Stiles hides his smile in Derek’s chest. “Yeah,” he says. “I know.”