Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/505575.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Derek_Hale, Stiles_Stilinski
  Additional Tags:
      Age_Difference, Canon-Typical_Violence, Rough_Sex, Knotting, Explicit
      Language, Rimming, Felching, Mildly_Dubious_Consent, Somnophilia, Unsafe
      Sex, Fluff_and_Angst, The_Author_Regrets_Nothing
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-09-06 Words: 11384
****** Runnin' On My Mind Boy ******
by tourdefierce
Summary
     Derek lets himself have this indulgence. That's how he thinks of it
     but maybe he's wrong. Not about it being dangerous and stupid,
     because it is definitely still that, but perhaps he's not the one
     making all the decisions around here. For once, maybe Stiles is
     giving him this and Derek isn't so much as taking, as he's just stop
     lying to himself.
     [A story in which Derek feels all over the place, is still creepy,
     and Stiles acknowledges all of that, but doesn't understand why they
     can't be having sex and angsting about their lives at the same time.]
Notes
     This was written for marguerite-26's Round_6_of_Kinkspiration:
     Knotting. Thank you to sabriel75 and kittie8571 for the quick and
     stunning beta-skills they both have. As always, samsamtastic for
     fixing my last-minute fuck-ups and reassuring me that this doesn't
     suck. (I'm sure that I wouldn't be able to produce any fic if it
     wasn't for this woman. She's amazing.) Any remaining mistakes are my
     own. This is my first foray into Derek's POV, so it's definitely an
     experiment and I still feel dramatically insecure about it. Title is
     from Frank Ocean's song Forrest Gump.
     As for content notes: it should be acknowledged that Derek has
     violent and animalistic thoughts while with Stiles and it can/may be
     perceived as sexualized violence. The knotting is also oral and not
     anal.
He wishes he knew how to stop. But between everything else roaring around him,
he lets himself have this—have Stiles. It's stupid. It's going to get one or
both of them killed, maybe Scott too. But it's hard to stand up to someone like
Stiles, who just doesn't give a damn what you think when he knows he's right.
Getting Stiles to certainty is the hardest part. His insecurity is fueled by
years of always being somewhere in the middle of the popularity contest and
lusting for those at the top. Once the research is done, once Stiles is
certain, there isn't any way to stop him. Human conviction is something Derek
longs for when the sun is low on the horizon, daylight bleeding into the
vibrant hues of an autumn sunset that promises bright, crisp stars that come
before winter. He has instincts but so often he finds that they have led him
astray in this new life—if his family were still alive, if that pack was still
thriving here in the private woods of Beacon Hills, then instinct would be
enough because the pack would show him the way.
It's not like that anymore.
The rules have changed and the human compass, to do what is right above all
else, often leads them to better results. Instincts feel useless when the world
has changed. He knows he must adapt but it's so much better here, in the small
safety of Stiles' room—where it seems like the only thing that matters is who
Stiles is arguing with on the Internet, if they're out of lube (and who has to
go to CVS to get some) and being quiet when the sheriff is home.
It's simpler here.
Maybe that's why it's so hard to give up.
Derek shakes his head, drumming his hands on the steering wheel as he waits for
the sheriff to pull out of the driveway. He takes his time getting out of the
house, making sure that the porch light is on and that the door is locked,
dead-bolt tight, before he gets into his car. He's going to be early tonight,
probably stopping off for an item that Stiles has banned from the house
(anything with taste) before he heads into the station.
Even here, staring as Sheriff Stilinski leaves, making sure his boy is locked
up safe, Derek doesn't feel guilt. He's starting to feel like he'll never feel
guilty again, like he's filled up his quota for his life—the weight of his
family sitting on his shoulders, the shadow of the Alpha taking up all his
guilt and owning it until he's bursting. Not only is there not enough for
Stiles but he doesn't want it anyway.
He doesn't feel guilty over Stiles—quiet maybe and fiercely protective—but not
guilty. Maybe that makes him a terrible person.
Derek's not a person though.
He's a wolf in human's clothes, except he's not hiding. Not here, not with
Stiles.
"You comin' in tonight, or do you feel like jerkin' off in your car again like
someone who deserves to be slapped by a restraining order?"
Derek doesn't flinch but it's a near thing. He hadn't heard Stiles coming or
smelt him and yet, here he is, hands braced on the top of the car as his torso
curled through Derek's open window. He looks amazing, long and lean, if
slightly awkward like a newborn fawn that has barely gotten a hold of his
knobbly knees before he's hit with another growth spurt.
"I was waiting for the sheriff to leave," Derek says in lieu of surprise.
Stiles rolls his eyes and wiggles his hip, possibly unconsciously but it's
still distracting. His hips are slim and firm, they fit inside Derek's palms
and make him want to bite marks all the way down to the bone.
"Dude, that's my dad. You call him “Sheriff” all the time like this is some
sort of Western and let me tell you, my dad is definitely wearing the white hat
and that leaves you in the black hat, wereboy. But shit, that makes me the
saloon whore. Why do all my analogies end up in prostitution?"
Derek doesn't respond because Stiles isn't expecting an answer, he just opens
the door up and lets it hit Stiles in the face. His over dramatic squawking is
worth it, even if he clings to Derek's shoulder a little after and whines,
bright and loud about his tender face. It's just gone twilight and they
wouldn't want any of the neighbors to clue the sheriff in to who has been
sneaking into his house almost every night. That would be just another problem
that Derek doesn't really need to deal with right now.
Doesn't seem to stop him though.
It's never fucking easy now, but Derek leans down despite himself, to smell the
clean sweat behind Stiles’ ear and barely restrains himself from palming
Stiles' newly shorn head.
                                    <3<3<3
He's not a master chef, but he makes a decent sandwich and he can smell the
masked hunger on Stiles, who never remembers to eat, medication muting his
hunger or whatever manic issues Stiles has with food that keeps him from eating
like a normal teenage kid. It makes watching him eat kind of unpleasant,
incredibly violent and open mouthed, crumbs flying everywhere. Derek suspects
it has something to do with his mother but he doesn't press because his
skeletons creak when he pries too much into Stiles' secrets, their rattle of
hypocrisy too loud in this small house. Instead he lets Stiles get knee-deep in
a story about Mr. Harris that Derek can hardly believe. This is more than one
explosion and curse words that Derek didn't even know existed, let alone
approved by Beacon Hills HS Curriculum board, and that's all before he's even
started slicing the cucumbers.
He makes half a sandwich for himself, extra turkey with mayo, tomatoes, avocado
and too much lettuce, before layering cheese, cucumbers, tomatoes and avocado
(extra salt because the sheriff isn't looking) for Stiles. His complete
loathing of lunch meat, no matter how thinly sliced, makes Derek oddly content
and he nods when Stiles looks up and says, "Such a dick. I mean, right?"
It's not like he's hungry, but he eats his half-sandwich in three large bites.
Stiles finishes his story with a few muttered exclamations about Scott and
Allison but his heart's not into the bitching too much because when Derek
slides the sandwich in front of him, he squeaks and does a little fist-pump
before diving in.
Derek takes advantage of Stiles' stooped position to slide up behind him and
wrap his hands around his waist and chest. Stiles eats on, humming through his
sandwich and devouring it as inelegantly as humanly possible. Despite Stiles'
completely human form, he eats like a whole pack of hungry wolves—savage and
messy. Derek just closes his eyes and listens to the steady chomp of Stiles'
teeth.
He loves the feeling of Stiles' bony shoulders against his chest, the rounded
but sharp feeling of his shoulders as they curve and the prickly sensation of
his hair against Derek's face as he rubs his face in the curve of Stiles' neck.
He inhales, rubbing his nose back and forth there—right at the nape of Stiles'
neck, where the hair is dew-soft and so short—smelling of citrus shampoo, sweat
of the day and some mix of laundry detergent, body soap and cotton that sticks
on Stiles' skin and makes him smell innocent and pliable.
A lie, clearly, but a welcome one.
"I think it's a werewolf thing," Stiles says, licking his fingers of tomato
juice.
Derek hums questioningly, concentrating on rubbing the flat of his palms up and
down Stiles' chest, trying not to get in the way of Stiles' flailing arms as he
gestures.
"Creepy stalking, long, unblinking stares—you know, your patent seduction
moves," he answers. "Because I swear to you, Scott didn't used to do that shit
and now, Allison is going to get pregnant just from sitting in Brit-Lit by the
way Scott is just carrying on. Is it a werewolf thing? Because it's not like I
can tell from Jackson. He did Blue-Steel walking down the hallway even before
his stint as Lizard Boy. And Isaac—"
Derek nips at the soft skin of Stiles' neck and says, "Are you implying that
you feel impregnated when I look at you?"
"Okay, one? Don't say impregnated. It's creepy when you say it. Two? No. That
is not what I'm saying, you pervert, I’m saying that—wait, you're thinking
about sex now, aren't you?"
Derek's not. He's thinking about how nice it is to scent Stiles after a day
spent apart. He can still smell himself—and them—underneath the history of
Stiles' day. Derek can smell the stench of the locker room—the strongest,
grassy lacrosse and Coach's onion breath—but it's fading every moment Derek
spends pressed up against him. He loves the smell of Stiles but there is
nothing better than erasing where he's been, trumping all of those distractions
with a claim that lingers longer than any of the other scents on Stiles' skin
because Derek keeps there, stays where he belongs in the depth of Stiles' skin,
until it's impossible to tell Stiles; and Derek's scents apart from their
combined scent.
It's another thing he allows himself—another small link that Derek ignores
between his family and whatever is happening between him and Stiles. Derek
isn't oblivious, just carefully blind for his own sanity. It's a choice, even
if it's a bad one.
"You are totally thinking about sex. Why is it that whenever I mention Isaac,
everyone starts thinking about sex? Am I missing something?"
"Let's go upstairs," Derek says into Stiles' skin and then herds him there,
mouth open on his skin and hands guiding Stiles' hips as he bitches, mostly
about Isaac's soft hair and big blue eyes, pausing to giggle frantically as
they try and maneuver up the stairs.
"Homework?"
Stiles makes a sound like a wounded animal, all teenage frustration and Derek
wants to be annoyed that Stiles can still get worked up over something as
inconsequential as homework but then Stiles is speaking, going on about how
idiotic it is that The Great Gatsby isn't taught as a Queer Theory text and
Derek sort of forgets about being annoyed and enjoys Stiles' face.
"I mean, I see it on the syllabus for college classes and they get to talk
about immigrant culture and queer theory! How cool is that? And I'm stuck
talking about the eyes and how Greenberg thinks it's like when Coach watches
him pee."
Derek sits down on Stiles' bed and raises an eyebrow. Stiles shuts the door,
toeing off his shoes and says, "I know! Greenberg is an idiot!"
"I was going to speculate on why your coach is watching to a high-schooler
pee."
Stiles collapses into his chair and then spins it around and gestures to his
entire body.
"Okay Judgey-McJudgerson. You're the one bumping uglies with a high-schooler."
Derek doesn't respond and simply stares. Stiles breaks into a grin and spins
around once and says, "Don't worry, man, I know I’m too awesome to resist!
Greenberg is weird. I'm not sure Coach actually watches him piss but I wouldn't
be surprised if they're doing it. I'm not judging. Well, I'm judging
Greenberg's taste in men, sure, but I'm not going to judge. Nookie is
nookie—also, it's not like Greenberg gets special treatment."
Stiles laughs, like there's some joke in there but Derek doesn't understand it.
He doesn't even know how Greenberg even exists. He seems like he's on the
fringe of Stiles' life, from class to lacrosse, but Derek has never met him. If
it wasn't for Scott or Jackson mentioning Greenberg every once in a while,
Derek would think he was Stiles' imaginary friend.
"But anyway, I've got this history project for Mr. Kyle and it has to be on
immigrants," Stiles rambles on. He's opening notebooks, his computer whirling
to life and Derek watches, pushing back onto the bed and lying down. As much as
Stiles teases him about his "stalkish-mentally-unstable" behavior, Derek is
more embarrassed by it than he lets on. But there is something fascinating
about Stiles—something between watching prey and scouting an enemy that trends
into something far more dangerous and comfortable.
"I've been thinking about combining the two? Mr. Kyle is usually up for like,
interdepartmental circle jerks—or well, he's always telling us that when he's
locking us in the library. He has crazy eyes that are even crazier than Uncle
Undead."
Derek rolls onto his belly and toes out of his own shoes. "Don't call him
that."
"He's your uncle, dude, and he was dead. And then he wasn't. This is my coping
mechanism," Stiles says over his shoulder and Derek snorts.
He settles more firmly into the soft plushness of Stiles' bed. It smells like
Stiles but Derek is there too—lingering but strong and the two blending
together into something that smells so amazingly delicious that Derek instantly
feels his dick twitch.
The bed dips.
"I'm going to get some shit done. You look like you're going to pass out."
Derek turns his head and rubs a stubbled cheek against Stiles' jeans. "Could
do."
"Sweet," he says and suddenly there is a flurry of movement. The laptop is
being hauled over, papers being pulled out of drawers and notebooks, pens are
flying dangerously close to Derek's ears and finally Stiles settles down.
"Would you prefer to nap to a chemistry documentary about the periodic table or
Frozen Planet?"
Derek hums. It doesn't really matter, not when Stiles' hand is settling into
his hair and paging through books. He's going to fall asleep soon.
"Chemistry?" Derek mumbles but he can already hear an English accent start
speaking about neutrons and protons.
"You're almost cute when you're sleepy, sourwolf," Stiles says but then he
ruins it by tracing his fingers over the top of Derek's ears. It's the
lightest, most damning touch that has Derek squirming and biting into Stiles'
jean-clad thigh.
"Hey! No biting."
"Stop being a brat," Derek growls but his heart isn't in it. Stiles always does
this—cuts the hardest parts of Derek out, like non-anesthetized amputation, and
sticks his fingers in all the gaps—plugs Derek full of the smell of home and a
human weakness that snarls into strength before their eyes.
Stiles hums, hands back to Derek's hair and it's quiet for a while, only the
English man's voice filling up the room. But soon Stiles is shuffling closer
and nudging Derek with his hip against Derek's face.
"What."
Stiles laughs. "Take your shirt off. You'll fall asleep and sweat all over me
and that is the least attractive thing in the world. It's like watching a
kitten in a dryer."
What an insane and ridiculous image. But it doesn't stop Derek from struggling
out of his t-shirt and settling back in, one of Stiles' legs bent and tucked up
underneath Derek's chest so that Derek's face can fit into the dark crease of
Stiles' hip.
"You just want to objectify me," Derek mumbles, sleep already barreling into
him as the smell of home seems to overwhelm him. There is always a flash of
panic that Derek fights and he ignores the need to flee, get away from this pit
of unknown that Stiles stands neck-deep in, cheerfully tugging at Derek until
he's suffocating under their combined weight. He should run away, the memory of
his family being ripped from him a burned reminder of what it is like to gamble
with love. It swells when Stiles' hand moves from his hair to his back, tracing
his tattoo.
Change.
The constant reminder that everything can be conquered, even the deepest and
darkest of fears or the ugliest truths—or the sickest nothingness that might
lie beneath them all. Or perhaps just inside of Derek.
He pushes it all away, swallows the urge to bite Stiles to the bone—flesh,
sticky fat and slick blood to curdle in his mouth to reveal the sweetest taste
beneath—and he settles into sleep, the same smell that panics him, leading him
into dreamless sleep.
                                    <3<3<3
Derek wakes up, warm and half-hard, in Stiles' bed. The documentary is still
blathering on but Stiles doesn't seem to be doing anything but rubbing his
fingers all over Derek's face and twisting his hair into a bedhead that would
rival post-sex hair any day.
"Are you awake?"
Derek inhales, toes curling, as he stretches, keeping his face firmly in the
pillow of Stiles' thigh and says, "No."
"Asshole," Stiles squawks but he doesn't jostle his thigh so Derek doesn't
complain. Silence settles in again and Derek listens to the documentary talk
about nuclear fission to the background of Stiles' thoughts. God, even they are
incredibly loud and Derek wants to either crack his head open and see them all
linear and clear or smack him against the headboard to stop the constant sound
of over-thinking.
"So I've been thinking," Stiles says and Derek waits because there is always
something more. Case and point, Stiles waves his hands around, makes three
crude gestures and smiles. "About your dick."
Derek fights to keep a straight face and turns his face to see Stiles'.
"Am I supposed to act surprised?"
Stiles smacks his lips together. "No, obviously, because I do think about dicks
and you know, specifically your dick and whoa, only your dick, growly wolf, but
what I mean to say, was that I have been thinking about your dick and its
special parts."
It’s already dark outside, coolness streaming through the barely open window.
If Derek lets Stiles continue to ramble, all 17-year-old boy with an obsession
with nice breasts and getting his dick sucked, nothing will get accomplished by
the time Derek has to sneak out... other than Derek feeling extremely old when
Stiles uses ridiculously Scott phrases and words like freakin’.
Derek grabs his wrist and squeezes, smelling Stiles' flare of arousal and a
drop of fear.
"The point, Stiles. Special parts?" Derek says scathingly.
"Right," Stiles says, grinning widely now. "Your—your swelly thing. At the base
of your dick. Whatever that's—"
He makes a gesture with his hands that starts out mimicking expansion but goes
a bit too far and breaks apart, only to end in what can only be described as
jazz hands.
"My knot," he answers, even though his throat feels tight and his vision blurs
with the force of his arousal.
In front of him, Stiles' whole body seems to surge up with lust and the scent
is heavy, even as the view gets better, Stiles' face flushing up his cheeks and
there, the tell-tale sign of Stiles' already half-way through whatever sex they
will be having in a few minutes, except all up in his head—the wide sweep of
Stiles' tongue on his bottom lip and then it's trapped between his teeth, his
jaw moving back and forth to pop his lip on the inside and outside of his
bottom row of teeth.
"Yeah, your knot."
Stiles struggles over the word but Derek can't smell fear, only excitement and
belly-deep arousal that makes Stiles tremble and Derek wants immediately to
tear him apart. It's always like this between them, struggling through the lust
that drives the wolf to find the quiet hum of arousal that beats human, whole
and happy. But when Stiles opens his mouth and starts speaking like he's part
of the pack—an idea that has been a hard sell for Stiles—it makes Derek crazy.
He feels wild: skin on fire with sensitivity; ears thrumming from the sound of
Stiles' erratic heartbeat and the heady rush of hearing his blood pumping so
close to him; his cock is hard, leaking in his briefs and his balls ache; his
fingernails throb, wanting to feel the growth of his claws, and his teeth
shift, driving home the almost overwhelming need to take Stiles.
Not only to fuck him open with his cock and yes, his knot, until he begs for
more—until he cries for Derek—but to bite him hard enough to break his neck,
hear the crack and shatter of his bones before they reknit into something
wholly Derek's, bound by nature and never going to leave without a fight. The
wolf howls with the knowledge that Stiles deserves to be owned—has earned
Derek's desire and even the soft, human part of him wants to hold and keep
Stiles in the quiet, in the dark—but Derek knows that no one could ever own
Stiles because Stiles is anchored by his humanity. Derek can see it in the
tension between Stiles and the sheriff, but also in the physical contact and
the trust that threads them together. While it causes the wolf to pace angrily,
Derek shakes with the scent of pack when he meets the sheriff around town and
that knowledge steels him, comforts him and for once in his life, grounds him.
It has always been anger and now that's changing, shifting with Stiles'
presence, not because Stiles asked or demanded but because this is how it is
now—how Derek wants it.
"—I was paying attention in Chemistry, don't give me that look, okay? But I was
also thinking about blowjobs. I can multitask! You've seen me do it! I have
opposable thumbs! But that's totally not the point, I don't need a lecture
about paying attention in school because I am way smarter than half the kids
there and my predicted SAT is like, Ivy League, right? Because I'm awesome. So,
what do you think?"
Right. Because Derek is supposed to be listening to that.
Derek pulls back, puts inches between him and Stiles and closes his eyes.
"Is this about Scott?"
Stiles doesn't say anything for a few moments. When Derek opens his eyes,
Stiles is blinking, mouth gaping open and then closing it quickly, only to open
it back up again, like a goldfish. It makes Derek want to smack him but he
doesn't. He lies still and feels frustration bleed into their space again. He
hates this. He hates that he can't take one goddamn evening and enjoy this—even
if it's stupid and reckless; he doesn't care—because there's always something.
"Dude, I'm talking about your dick," Stiles says, unhelpfully.
Derek snorts. "So it is about Scott."
"What! No! Are you fucking crazy?" Stiles looks scandalized and Derek hates
him, for a few seconds, because he's ruining this and he's not even trying to.
They both are. Two objects constantly in motion that have found each other in
too tight of a space. They collide, rattling about but can't seem to make it
work when they're at rest.
"Just tell Scott to mind his own business," is what Derek growls, turning over
so that his back faces Stiles and he can study the wall. It’s childish and
petty.
He feels caught-out.
The stench of his own embarrassment is some sick feedback loop that makes Derek
queasy and unbelievably angry. He should leave, go run the woods for the rest
of the night and get his head on straight. If he was thinking remotely right,
he wouldn't have come here tonight to indulge in Stiles.
"I'm done." It's rude and short, something about his flat tone of voice that
Stiles loathes and expresses so frequently. He's sitting up when Stiles pulls
on his shoulder and looks him in the eye, teeth bared and yes, there is anger
there too.
"No. No. Fuck no. You don't get to just do that," Stiles says and it's without
a doubt. "Back up, seriously, because you lost me on your hairpin turn at the
intersection of Emotionally Stunted and Real Asshole."
Derek growls. He doesn't want to talk about this.
"I'm going," he says and wrenches out of Stiles' grip.
His vision is all red, blurring around the sides and he feels the nauseous
swell of his own fear in his stomach. It's rancid in the back of his mouth as
he takes three steps to the door but then Stiles doesn't move.
"I fucking swear, Derek, if you walk now—" Stiles huffs and Derek feels smug.
What is Stiles going to do to him? What is this stupid, worthless boy going to
do to stop him? He waits, hand on the door, listens to Stiles take a huge
breath of air and then listen as he suddenly deflates.
"Just, don't walk out on me. I'm asking you right now, this is me asking you to
stay. I have no idea what Scott has to do with knotting or whatever the hell
set you off but you can't just walk out on me."
This is why Stiles is dangerous—the way he pulls Derek in so many directions.
His voice trembles and Derek feels the resonance of abandonment, of not just
fear but expectation and resignation. He feels the anger, which used to be such
a reliable tether, unravel at Stiles voice, open with frustration but willing
to struggle for clarity. Derek doesn't know what to do with that. Without the
familiar comfort of his anger, he strays—swaying a little by the door and
utterly conflicted. There is something about Stiles that isn't right. It
doesn't make sense other than he is there, cutting Derek at the knees and
sticking around to see if he can help him rebuild. Stiles isn't Kate and Derek
has never had to remind himself of that but Stiles is still human. The way that
Stiles unravels him, unhinges anger and leaves Derek struggling between too
human and too wolf whenever he's around—unsettled and out of breath.
"I always want you," is what Derek hears himself saying. His forehead finds the
cool wood of the door and he digs the tips of his claws into his thighs, like
this was something that could be fixed with a jump-start for his healing. "I
always want you. That's what the knotting is about."
It's not a declaration and it doesn't sound like one. For that, Derek is
grateful. He hears the click and slickness of Stiles' throat as he swallows.
"I didn't tell Scott—"
Derek scoffs. "He doesn't need to be told, Stiles. You reek of me."
"So what? You want me. I want you. We're a little unconventional but it's
working. Right? I mean, beyond the fantastic sex—not like I have anything to
compare it to but hey—I mean, we're doing all the other stuff okay, too?"
Derek hates the waver of self-consciousness. He always wants Stiles to be sure.
Always.
"Scott can smell my knot on you," Derek settles on finally. "He might be dim
but his instincts are getting better. He knows what it means."
"What does it mean?" There is nothing in Stiles' voice but curiosity.
"That I want you—to be pack. And that's not possible. Not—I always want you and
that means I treat you like pack and I can't do that."
"Why not?"
Derek's bleeding, sluggishly, from the claw holes in his thighs. He hates this.
Talking about this is even more dangerous than being involved in it but he
can't make himself leave.
"Because you'll leave," Derek whispers. "I told Scott that Allison would leave
and she will. So will you. You're human and you'll die, or worse, betray us
because you're human. Even if that's one of the reasons that you're so
appealing."
There is a sputter of indignation but Stiles is squawking a little, "Appealing?
Seriously? What is wrong with you!"
"Stiles."
"No, Derek. Listen, I'm not a hunter."
"You don't have to be a hunter to break a pack," he says but they both hear the
replacement word. So weak and pathetic even to his own ears, Derek can hear the
faulty hesitation. To break an Alpha. To break Derek.
"Is that how you see the world, Derek? Everyone is either a werewolf in your
pack or they're Death Eaters? Life isn't like that. It's not that black and
white," Stiles says. He's angry enough for both of them and for once, it feels
good not to be the angry one. Derek feels the roll of his shoulder and he pulls
out his claws. He'll heal quickly enough but the holes in his jeans will still
be there.
When he turns around, Stiles is still sitting on the bed but he's shirtless and
smiling. Derek doesn't even know what to do with that.
Stiles shakes his head and throws up his hands; it's an aborted and twitchy
movement. His face is practically splitting open with a grin. He looks
ridiculous but he's breathless and Derek's mind is spinning. He's off kilter,
the ground underneath him trembling with the sheer force of Stiles' bravery.
Brash and open, Derek watches as he leans back on the bed and wiggles his hips.
It's not sexual. It is because bodies are but that's not the motivation
though—it feels different, like this is Stiles' way of telling all the world to
go fuck itself and take Derek's instincts too.
"Hell, maybe everything is that simple," Stiles says, rubbing a hand over the
fuzz of his head and down to his neck. It's a path that Derek follows, usually
leaving marks along the way. But Stiles doesn't stop looking at Derek. He can
smell nervousness but not uncertainty? Just anticipation, like when you're
about to jump off a cliff, the raging water below you and there are rocks down
there, and you know there is a statistical chance that you might not surface
but you're not scared. It won't happen to you. It's youthful faith and Stiles
is staring at him and daring Derek to do something about it..
"Maybe it's all going to go to hell, Derek. I can't predict the future and I
can't go back and unfuck the past. This is all we got. I honestly couldn't tell
you how we got from talking about your dick, to fighting about how Scott is
even remotely involved in what is going on between us—which, is good, okay?
We're good. I feel good when I'm with you and I want you, and maybe I want you
in my pack—maybe that's what me wanting your knot means. Screw Scott or
whatever emotionally challenging conversations that you two participate in,
because obviously they are beyond your maturity if you guys are screwing it up
this bad."
Stiles cocks his head, licking his lips after his little speech and not looking
away from Derek. He tilts his chin up, a challenge but Derek can smell his
fear. It's amazing to him that Stiles can acknowledge that fear, look it in the
eye and own it. Whatever happened to the boy Gerard broke, he is no longer
evidenced here in Stiles—this Stiles wears his fear on his sleeve, like a badge
of honor, and it doesn't stop him. He doesn't care. Where Derek's instincts
take him in the other direction, Stiles asks him why he's leaving, when there
is so much more to be terrified by.
"Derek," he says. "Fuck if I know how we ended up here but if you want me,
maybe you should come and get me.”
Unsurprisingly, it sort of devolves from there and suddenly, Derek can't stop
himself. Being on the other side of the room from Stiles is physically painful.
Next thing he knows, he's shirtless, lying on the bed, concentrating on the
pink bud of Stiles' nipple with a snarl and Stiles is jerking his head by his
hair.
"What?" Derek says, suddenly feeling a hot rush of embarrassment as he pulls
off. Stiles is glaring down at him and Derek wants to go back to hiding his
face against the smooth skin of Stiles' chest, rubbing his stubbled cheeks
until they burn the skin around Stiles' pretty nipples—until he's raw and
tender.
Stiles flicks his ear.
"Would you just use your damn words?"
Derek growls, his own frustration tearing through him but he doesn't back away.
He just snarls into the soft skin of Stiles' belly, teeth bared and catching on
the skin. He can smell Stiles' fear now, thick and heady, but no more than
normal. It's there because Stiles' wants it to be—because this, whatever
happens between them, is dangerous—because it's growing but neither of them
understand how to stop it. Nor do they care.
He breathes harsh puffs of air into Stiles' belly-button before he drags his
teeth up, laving at a taut nipple until Stiles' whines and Derek stays there,
licking and sucking until it hurts. Stiles curses, fingers tugging on Derek's
hair but he doesn't move. He bites, gnawing on the reddening nub until Stiles
cries out, knee jerking to hit Derek in the stomach.
Derek growls but he releases the nub, having gotten exactly what he wanted, and
buries his face in the lean space of Stiles' armpit. He smells like grass,
sweet sweat, laundry soap and the lingering scents of the places he's been
today before he was here with Derek.
"Derek, are you doing that thing again? Because I'm not totally opposed to that
thing but last time you stuck your nose in my armpit like a total creep, I had
like five orgasms and I mean, yeah, that is awesome but we were talking
and—about my mouth and your were-dick and—"
Derek tunes him out, listening only to the cadence of his voice as he inhales
hard. Soon, the rest of the world will fade away from Stiles' scent and it will
only be Stiles, earthy but sweetly young, and Derek's own that will cling to
Stiles' frame, begging to sink into his skin and take up residence, demand to
have what's rightfully his—he found it first and he wants to keep it.
Eventually, Stiles' voice peters off but he's still stroking his jagged, quick-
bitten fingernails through Derek's hair and down his neck, scratching and
marking him—mostly to be annoying—Derek knows, but also because it's comforting
to both of them. Derek licks around the patch of hair, rubbing his cheek along
the coarseness and placing open, sloppy kisses wherever he can. The snag of
Stiles' nails on his shoulder brings him out of Stiles' armpit, straightening
so that he can trail his mouth up Stiles' bony shoulder and along the pale
strip of skin below and above his collarbone that leads to his long, bared
throat.
"If you want my knot," Derek whispers, teeth pressing up against Stiles'
jugular. "You'll have to work for it."
Stiles full-body shudders, his spine lengthening as he stretches his head back
for Derek to lick and suck, the flat of his teeth dragging against Stiles' skin
until Stiles moans, legs widening to accommodate Derek's more imposing frame.
"Yeah?" Stiles puffs out. "I can do that."
"Can you?"
Stiles' chest expands, taking a breath before speaking and Derek moves quickly,
sliding two fingers between Stiles’ lips, pressing down on his tongue and
stoppering his mouth.
"It's instinctual," he says into Stiles' ear. He's so close that he can only
smell Stiles and can no longer see him. "When I'm fucking inside of you and I
smell you coming on my cock, I want to keep you there—open and slutty around
me. I want to lock you there so that I can breed you or tear out your throat
until your submission wills you into taking my seed by force."
See, Stiles should run from him. Derek knows that the scratch of his voice and
the close proximity of his fangs to Stiles' neck should send him running—that
all of this should be too much for a boy all of seventeen but Stiles doesn't
move. He moans around Derek's fingers, hips bucking up against Derek but not
for freedom. Not at all. When Derek inhales, he smells the thrill of
attraction, the way Stiles' hole clenches and unclenches, as if he's
remembering Derek's knot buried there only a dozen hours ago, how Stiles had
cried, forcing himself back on Derek's knot until they both were a mess of come
and desperation, fighting to be closer without killing each other. More than
anything, Derek knows that the rush of power Stiles feels from being able to do
this to Derek is enough—the knowledge of how to make Derek lose control is the
prize for Stiles. At least, that's what Derek thinks it is. He can't be sure,
not with Stiles, but whatever it is, he's staying.
He squirms in Derek's hold, mouth tight on his fingers, but it's for Derek's
benefit.
"You'll have to force me to knot in your mouth," Derek says and stops. It's too
hard to say. He's not embarrassed but he's not Stiles, who wears his arousal on
his face, unashamed by what he wants as he moans and writhes for Derek. It's a
naked vulnerability that Stiles has never stopped being, while Derek hasn't
experienced that sort of desire in years. He's not denying it now but the words
stick in his mouth and he growls, trying to get them out but they don't come.
He taps his fingers on Stiles' teeth and releases him, pushing up from him and
watching as he flails, eyes flying open and angry of having been deprived
touch. Derek strips out of the rest of his clothes, mind racing to try and calm
his erratic heartbeat. So often his body tries to manipulate itself into
Stiles', heartbeat threatening to beat fitfully out of his chest as irregular
as Stiles' own Adderall dependent one.
He pushes Stiles out of the way, sets to stacking the pillows, and when he's
done, he reclines against them and spreads his legs wide. Stiles has stopped
his own undress, oddly quiet, as he stares. Derek lifts his eyebrows but Stiles
doesn't scoot closer. He just stares.
"Stiles," he says, low and steady, listening—he hears the skip of Stiles' heart
beat and he closes his own eyes then, stroking his cock as he hears the
symphony of irregular sounds that indicate that Stiles is frightened but
wanting anyway. Derek settles in, forcing himself to relax into the pillows as
he strips his cock deliberately. He pauses to squeeze at the hard base, where
the swell of his dick hardens beneath the ring of his fingers.
He sighs, moaning into the next stroke of hot, easy pleasure, feeding off
Stiles' arousal fueled fear.
When he opens his eyes, Stiles has removed his clothes as quietly as he could,
which means that Derek heard every single swoosh of fabric against his skin—but
he's lying on his belly, underwear gone, mouth hovering over the tip of Derek's
cock like there is no place in the world he'd rather be.
His breath is too hot but it still sends a shiver down Derek's spine. Stiles'
oral fixation is something to be marveled at, always putting something in those
kiss-swollen lips and always a welcome distraction. Here, it's a filthy
promise—waiting with parted lips that he licks, always the tip of his tongue
chasing away dryness.
And Derek's going to crack them wide open.
He tosses the lube down and says, "don't get distracted, Stiles," then he's
palming the prickly-soft fuzz of Stiles' head and lowering his puckered lips to
the tip of his cock because he can and it's exactly what Stiles' wants. His
head pushes back on Derek's palm, even as his mouth puckers, until Derek exerts
a bit more force for him to smile at.
He moans too, sound vibrating up Derek's dick and spreading hot pleasure up his
spine and chases it with his tongue, openly mouthing at the head and sucking at
the foreskin. It burns, sharp and too hard before he pulls it back with his
lips and licks swirls across the exposed head, fingers working.
"Fuck," Derek moans because no matter how inexperienced Stiles is, how
impatient he is to have come in his mouth, he's always hot and sloppy. Spit
mixed with precome is already sliding down Derek's length—Stiles' mouth is
loosening and clenching up, trying to catch all the come on his tongue to savor
but constantly forgetting how to swallow.
Derek presses down until Stiles opens his eyes, rolling them, before he
clumsily takes more of Derek into his mouth. There's too much teeth but Derek
hardly notices because his eyes are on Stiles' fingers that are trying to get
slicked with lube.
He doesn't even manage to get the cap off, too distracted by Derek pushing into
his mouth and chasing the heavy weight on his tongue. Derek growls and bends
down, shoving his dick deeper into the swell of Stiles' mouth and listening as
he chokes a little on the length, chin and nose pressing solidly against his
knot.
"You're going to choke on it," Derek promises, spilling lube onto Stiles'
fingers and pushing them. Stiles struggles, trying to reposition himself but
Derek keeps steady pressure on the back of Stiles' head.
He fights it, thrashing a bit, but Derek has him solidly, guiding his fingers
past the bulk of his balls and to the space behind them. Stiles doesn't wait
for a written invitation but Derek can smell his surprise—whatever he thought
Derek was hinting at seems to be vanquished and confirmed at the same time.
Stiles moans, gagging a little when Derek jerks his hips on the fumbling press
of two fingers.
"Stiles," he growls out. It hurts, two fingers feel like they're stretching him
too far but it's just the angle and Stiles' inelegant fingers and it feels
good, the pain, real and persistent. "Stiles, more."
He doesn't listen.
He bobs his head, licking the underneath of Derek's dick with complicated and
seemingly random patterns but knowing Stiles, they're inscriptions that Derek
will be quizzed on later. His fingers are ruthless, a gap between them that
feels like Stiles has gone straight for stretching. The fingers twist but there
is still only two, scissoring him open with a lazy, inability to multi-task
that Derek knows to be complete falsehood but Stiles' doesn't seem to be
teasing. Merely enjoying himself.
Derek watches, hips canting to force himself too deep into Stiles' mouth every
time he backs off. His nostrils keep flaring, trying to get more air in when he
can but Derek loves the stop-stutter of breath on his cock too much to give
Stiles' a break.
"You'll have to come," Derek gasps out, riding a wave of pleasure as Stiles'
blunt fingers press solidly onto his prostate. "I'm going to need to smell you,
Stiles but you'll have to keep pressing as hard as you can—there, fuck,
there—as you come all over yourself for me."
Stiles is nodding but he's barely moving his head now, just sucking with the
hallow of his cheeks and messily slobbering around Derek's dick, lips
tightening and widening around the edge of Derek's knot. He can't pop the whole
thing into Stiles' mouth—well, he could but then he'd be too far down Stiles'
throat and although he does want to choke Stiles with the length of his cock
and lock up his mouth with come, he wants Stiles to be conscious.
"Stiles," he moans, bucking his hips and watching Stiles try and keep up but
Derek can see the way his bare ass is moving over Stiles' shoulder, how he's
humping the mattress and that makes Derek grin, wolf-fangs lengthening to press
against his lips. He's likely to cut himself but he wants to taste blood now,
like Stiles will soon.
"Give me more." It's a demand that curls out of his chest but doesn't have him
pressing up into Stiles' mouth. Instead, he's grinding back on two fingers and
moaning at the steady struggle of a third. He's tight, clenching and fighting
Stiles' third finger, even as he grinds back. He almost slips out of Stiles'
mouth but the wet heat chases him, Stiles' lips desperately tightening around
the shaft as he practically bounces against the mattress to grind his dick and
feed himself Derek's at the same time.
Stiles' chokes, it's a little hiccup, but it's enough to have Derek pressing
harder down on Stiles' head and watch him come. He's writhing on the bed,
grinding his dick into the comforter and spilling come on the sheets like he's
in the midst of the wettest dream of his life. "There you go," Derek says, his
voice rough and gritty but Stiles keeps coming and the smell fills the air.
Derek clamps down on the fingers in his ass and curses.
Pleasure is exploding everywhere and as he rides out the wet, greedy slide of
Stiles' slutty mouth, Derek can feel his knot pressing harder against the
slippery seal of Stiles' lips. Derek feels like it's not going to happen, that
he'll come on Stiles' tongue but his knot won't. Stiles seems to be able to
feel his fingers again because they're back pressing inside of Derek. They'd
gone slack with the force of his orgasm but the air is full of Stiles' wet,
come scent and the thick press of his fingers causes Derek to cry out. Anyone
else would back off, knowing the shout of sensation is too much, but Stiles
just sucks harder and rides Derek's prostate so hard that he feels like Stiles
is punching it with his fist.
Finally, Derek feels it and chokes out, "it's coming," stomach clenching with
the pain of the thickening of his dick.
Stiles' eyes fly open. They're liquid amber and it reminds Derek of the smell
of leaves as they turn. Not death and decay but the bliss before that—of
autumn's crisp preparation for winter. The knot comes on quickly. Derek's palm
holding the bulk of Stiles' mouth down until his lips form a tight ring enough
for his knot to come on full force.
Derek can't look away. His body is rolling with pleasure and he has to keep his
hands on Stiles' head, pushing him down because his body is wild—out of his
control, he’s thrashing back onto Stiles' three, relentless fingers and jerks
into the confines of his mouth.
"Your teeth," Derek hisses, fingers dropping over Stiles' face until he can
trace the outline of Stiles' lips. "Your teeth will stop the knot from—fuck,
from getting too big."
Derek can't even feel the press of teeth on his dick. He's already tensing,
feeling the first wave of orgasm rising to the surface. He's screaming a little
through his own teeth, "fuck, Stiles, fuck—I'm gonna knot your face—fuck."
Coming with the knot is a lot like being with Stiles: painfully conflicting but
worth it. The base of his dick is swelling and it's about as throbbing and
tender as it sounds, just as it starts to be too much he starts to come and
it's worth it. It's the push past the burn in his muscles, panting with oxygen
deprivation and struggling through that to take a breath deep enough to open up
to a howl—it's that and Stiles, piled on top of it. It's intense but Derek
fights to keep his eyes open to watch Stiles.
He's still clearly struggling through his own orgasm, mouth too wet and face
red. His hips are still jerking against the mattress but he moans around the
pressure at his lips, pressing forward to try and seal his slick lips over
Derek's knot. The sound, choked off and vibrating up Derek's spin makes Derek
want to thrust up, pushing his thumb into the underside of Stiles' jaw and
force his knot behind the flat of his teeth. It's overwhelming—the need to be
deeper, to fill Stiles up until he bursts and gurgles around him. Derek growls
instead. He rakes his fingernails across the curve of Stiles' head and runs his
fingers all over his face.
Soon, the stretch will be too much and Stiles' face will be wet with tears and
Derek wouldn't miss it for the world.
Here, swelled to fit the seams of Stiles' mouth, it's hard not to want anything
but to lay Stiles out and bite him—bite him until he starts to heal, until the
blood replenishes itself and wounds knit over Derek's teeth marks. It's
impossible not to want anything but to steal Stiles away, knot his ass and his
mouth until he no longer smells like anything but Derek, until he never wants
to leave Derek's side and is always open for the full pressure of Derek's knot,
swelling to remind him of where he belongs.
Stiles' eyes alternate from wide to scrunched with wetness—not long now, as
Derek streaks inside of him, that he'll be too full and he'll cry on Derek's
cock. Derek is too big but he's stopped swelling with the aid of Stiles' teeth.
He's big enough to stretch Stiles' mouth until it's gaping, stuffed clear full,
but Derek can see the way the corners of his mouth are splitting underneath the
pressure. He's bleeding there, cracked and split raw.
Derek tracks his fingers there too.
Stiles is struggling to breath a little, taking too much of Derek's cock,
trying to readjust and get a breath in. The top of Derek's dick presses hard
against the flat of Stiles' front teeth and Derek hisses, "keep still," but it
only seems to make Stiles realize that his fingers have stopped their movement.
He spreads them, wicked pleasure dancing in his wet eyes as Derek hollers,
smacking Stiles' shoulder and arching back into the painful stretch. Stiles is
crying in earnest now, whimpering around the fullness of Derek's dick and so
overwhelmed that it almost makes Derek want to stop.
He stays, still coming in long jerks along Stiles' tongue, because Stiles has
three fingers twisting and stretching inside of his ass, nails riding his
prostate and the unapologetic look in his eyes is visible behind the sheen of
tears. Stiles' grip on his hip is solid, arm wrapped around Derek's thigh—every
time Derek's pulse of come is stronger, shooting down Stiles' throat, the hand
on his hip sneaks down to pull at the wiry hair on Derek's thighs. It makes
Derek want to bare his belly and throat. It makes him want to splay his legs
and let Stiles rut into him, messy and frantic, until he comes all over both of
them.
 
"Jesus, Stiles," Derek groans out, head falling back with his realization.
But Stiles' doesn't relent, just pressing fingers deeper and slides his thumb
up to massage between his balls. He rolls the skin there, fingernails catching,
and presses too hard and it makes Derek's knee jerk. His stomach clenches and
pulls him up to curl around Stiles' head, until the prickly-soft fuzz of
Stiles' hair is gouging his belly-button and Derek's stretched arm can scrape
nails up Stiles' ass.
The movement seats him on Stiles' fingers and Derek roars a little, the urge to
choke Stiles—to ram his cock deeper until the palette of his mouth splinters
and the ball of his knot sits happily on the flat of Stiles tongue—rams into
him and then scuttles away as quickly as it came.
A few more minutes and Derek can feel his knot go down a little. He's not
coming as hard anymore but he's still spurting sluggish pulses of come and
Derek leans down, smacks at Stiles' ass and says, "it's going down now,
Stiles.”
For a terrifying moment, Derek thinks Stiles has a case of lockjaw, with the
way his tongue works but his mouth goes nowhere. But then Stiles is snuffling,
nose twitching and the tears are still coming. He's licking and sucking, too
much sensation for Derek's cock but he lays back anyway, lets Stiles do
whatever he needs to do. He keeps his eyes open though. He refuses to give in
so quickly to the dead pleasure in his brain, making him need sleep to recover
from claiming Stiles so thoroughly.
For a while, Stiles just lets Derek's cock hang in his mouth. His fingers have
gone still but they're spread wider than Derek's completely comfortable with
and it's barely on his radar as he's too busy watching Stiles cry on his cock,
struggling to stay there like he needs Derek's come.
"Stiles," he rasps out. "Stiles, come up here."
Stiles shakes his head, Derek's cock falling out to smear across his lips.
Derek hisses when Stiles mouth moves back, lips rubbing and bumping up against
the sensitive tip of his dick. He's still coming but it's lazy. Nevertheless,
it's a pretty picture: tear tracks running down his cheeks, mouth puffy and
skin broken at the corners with smeared blood and the redness of Stiles' face
from spending too much time with Derek's knot blocking off his airways.
"You're fucking gorgeous."
And he is. Derek can see the way he's humping the bed now and he can smell the
pungent smell of Stiles' arousal, no longer passive or happy to be submissive
to the swelling force of Derek's orgasm but now chasing its own.
"Stiles, come up here," Derek says and he pulls at him until Stiles complies.
His fingers jerk out of Derek but it's no matter, not the way he nuzzles at
Derek's face and whimpers into his mouth as they kiss. It's sloppy and
uncoordinated but Stiles' mouth smells like Derek's come and the thick claim of
Derek's knot.
"Stop humping my leg," Derek says, tonguing the open splits of Stiles' lip.
Stiles whimpers.
"Fuck, Derek, I'm a minute from coming again," he says. "A minute, like, tops."
Derek pulls a knee up, abruptly stopping Stiles' hips mid-thrust and Stiles'
shoulder rams into him, almost giving him a bloody nose.
"Seriously, Derek? You're going to complain about a little sensitivity here?"
Derek smirks, bites Stiles cheek and says, "You want to get off on my leg? Go
ahead. Or—"
"There's options? What is this? A multiple choice test?"
Derek pinches his side. "Or you could put your dick in me, you big cry baby."
Stiles does that quick blinking in rapid succession, followed by a rough shake
of his head, like a dog shaking water from his ears.
"No way."
There's no response to the barely contained excitement on Stiles' face. Derek
doesn't know how he ever forgets that Stiles is so young, with so many
experiences ahead of him, even as the list of things he's experienced is twice
as long as many his age—each milestone more dangerous than the last. Derek
forgets that Stiles is sometimes just a boy trying to get laid, possibly in the
middle of falling in love. So human and fragile but natural.
"I'm going to come embarrassingly fast," Stiles say, disbelief still on his
face and tone politely cautionary.
"Yep," Derek says, smiling. "Like the virgin you are."
Stiles grins crazily back, now holding his cock and kind of waving it around
with an excitement that can only be had by someone seconds away from washing
away the last vestiges of their innocence.
"Dude, shut up. I'm about to totally dick you."
Stiles is grinning, shifting back on his knees a little and Derek just lies
there, letting his legs fall open a bit more and reaches down to gently play
with his balls. His aren't as sensitive as Stiles', who has a shameless habit
of dragging Derek's hand down there whenever he can—happily forsaking a reach
around stroke in exchange for a lengthy ball grab when Derek takes him from
behind. But it feels good, rolling them gently in his hand and watching come
pool on his stomach.
"Really? Anytime soon? Cause I thought we were going to discuss it some more.
Maybe you want to make a diagram you're always yammering about at pack
meetings," Derek deadpans but Stiles is already moving, limbs flailing like the
complete noodle he is.
There's too much lube but Derek doesn't mind. Stiles doesn't really go anywhere
near his prostate. He's a complete and total mess, fingers clumsy with
excitement. He slips into Derek almost by accident and gasps, mouth opening and
eyes slamming closed with a high-pitched sound. Derek's still riding out a slow
pleasure, cock slightly swelled at the base and smearing small amounts of come
on his belly. It pulls there and shakes with every uneven, frantic thrust of
Stiles' hips. He's impatient, too needy to put the effort into long, slow pulls
but alternates between jackknifing his cock into Derek and grinding there, so
that his balls press against Derek's ass.
It's a relief that Stiles is still him, eager and clumsy but perfect, even in
this. Derek is hazy with slow pleasure but this is a strange position for him.
Bottoming has never come up between them like this, always under the assumption
that Stiles would be the one being bent over and ravaged. And he is most of the
time but Derek doesn't deny the urge to let Stiles take control every once in a
while. He doesn't know what makes him let go now. He doesn't know what allows
him to let the vulnerable rush of being this exposed collide with the heady
power of letting Stiles fall apart like this, hips crazy and rhythm gone, as he
sporadically thrusts into Derek, dick dragging inside of him as he chasing his
orgasm.
"Oh my god," Stiles says.
Derek grins, adjusting his hips a little to angle Stiles away from his
prostate. It's not likely he's going to get anywhere near it but Derek's riding
out the tail-end of his orgasm and anything that rides to close to his prostate
will have him crawling out of his skin. He's never insanely sensitive until the
end but now that Stiles' is here, rabbiting hips and mouth hanging open, little
"oh god"s falling out of his mouth as he inelegantly fucks Derek.
Stiles' hands slip, barely grabbing onto the backside of Derek's thighs, nails
dragging down the sensitive hairs there. It sends fissures of pleasure through
Derek, keeps his dick idly pulsing on his stomach as the knot shrinks.
He's stupidly beautiful like this, drunk with pleasure and ready to come at any
second. Distantly, Derek thinks that Stiles might be good at this, that they
might fit like this too. Stiles' dick is long, curved slightly to the left and
he's raw like this, just like when he's splayed out on Derek's cock or trying
to coax his dick into Derek's mouth when Derek's sleeping. (Stiles calls them
sneaky blowies, which is disturbing but Derek will admit to enjoying waking up
with Stiles' scent engulfing him, choking him with the length of his cock and
his needy whines for the pleasure of Derek's mouth.)
Stiles comes with a chorus of strangled, high-pitched "oh god"s, leaning down
with one hand to awkwardly cup at his balls as he shoots inside of Derek—well
mostly. He slips out at the end and makes a mess of Derek's ass cheeks, which
makes Derek wince and growl a little but Stiles doesn't mind. He continues to
fondle his balls for a few moments before collapsing on Derek with little
regard to Derek's sensitive dick or his internal organs wish to not interact
with Stiles' elbows.
"Oh my god," he repeats into Derek's collarbone. "Seriously fuck. Is it always
like that? Because fuck, Derek, oh my god, that was better than lasagna. I
didn't know—"
Derek laughs because he can and his mind is gone, benching the look on Stiles'
face when he came and the way it curled tight in Derek's chest. It felt like
being gutted, left to die there but knowing he'll heal—knowing he'll get back
up and live again but wishing desperately that he could go back to that moment
when he was torn apart.
He palms Stiles' damn head, leans down to nip at the top of Stiles' ear and
says, "you're tighter" and Stiles groans. His wet dick is smearing come all
along Derek's thighs and it's quickly getting uncomfortable. He lets Stiles
catch his breath, arms wrapped around Derek in the nakedest hug ever, but as
soon as Stiles starts to nuzzle down like he's getting sleepy, Derek pokes his
side.
"Clean me up," Derek says. The expected groan of annoyance doesn't come.
There's a slight pause, where Stiles shifts a little before becoming incredibly
still.
"Just like you do?" He finally mumbles, meek and curious.
"If you want."
Stiles keeps his head in Derek's neck, suddenly shy and slight. "You like it?"
"When I clean you or do I like it done to me?" He doesn't wait for an answer.
"Yes."
Stiles hums and Derek traces up and down his back for a while before Stiles
leans up. Stiles' mouth is still a mess, crusted with spit and come, blood
smeared around the edges of his lips but Derek kisses him anyway. It's soft
because Stiles cups his face, gentle and reverent in a way that Derek just
wants to absorb—worried that when it's all over, he'll forget what these
moments feel like.
"Be right back," Stiles says. He disappears to the bathroom and comes back with
a washcloth to clean them both up. Derek doesn't move much, just
watches—curious now and nebulous feeling—as Stiles wipes himself clean with
quick, sharp movements. When he presses the cloth to Derek's stomach, it's cool
but his face is serious and determined.
The cloth makes its way to the creases of Derek's thighs, rubbing there before
he dips back and carefully cups and cleans there too. It's just courtesy. Derek
gave up trying to corral Stiles into a shower post-orgasm after Stiles threw a
phenomenal tantrum and ended up wearing the same plaid shirt for four days in
some sort of half-assed protest. Instead, there's always this and of course,
Derek's own definition of clean up.
"You don't have to," he says, when Stiles sets the cloth aside. But Stiles just
shakes his head and smiles, small and honest.
"I want to."
Exhaustion, bone deep and satisfied, settles in his body at the first touch of
Stiles' tongue to the dampness of Derek's balls. It's not sexual when Derek
does this, not after they've had sex and Stiles is still buzzing and his
arousal gets beaten out by the lazy afterglow of sleep and the way he leeches
off Derek's warmth. And it's not sexual now, as Stiles licks long flat strips
up to his swollen entrance. Derek sighs, melting into the smooth repetitive
motion of Stiles' tongue laving at his skin. It's easy and familiar, the ritual
of cleaning them up like this, even if Derek is usually on the other side. He
can smell Stiles' come on his mouth and Derek's own scent, licked behind his
teeth and kept soft there. Derek lets him lick him clean, dipping inside to
taste there, before Stiles retreats to Derek's balls.
That's when he reaches down and tugs Stiles up.
"What?" He's licking at his sore mouth, eyes wide and lost, head still bent and
ready to go back. Eager.
"I don't like that as much as you," Derek says, soft. "You can stay down there
as long as you want but lay off my balls."
Stiles nods, already ducking back down. He rearranges Derek's legs until one is
thrown over his shoulder so that he has more access. He stays there, mouthing
and licking until Derek smells like Stiles' mouth, until Derek's hands feel
numb from rubbing at Stiles' shorn head and Derek wonders if he's going to fall
asleep there, mouth open to Derek's soft, taken body. Finally Stiles hums,
thumbing Derek's cheeks and the insides of his thighs for going on five minutes
before he kisses his way back out and settles to rub his face against Derek's
soft cock.
"I like it," Stiles says. "More than I thought I would from—you know, this
side."
"Yeah."
Stiles closes his eyes, lays his head on Derek's hip and doesn't move. Derek
stares because he can. He catalogs the slight up-turn of Stiles' nose, the soft
flutter of his breath, the slow and constant thrum of Stiles' irregular
heartbeat.
"Still don't see how any of that's Scott's business," Stiles slurs out, sleepy
and petulant. Derek shakes his head. It wasn't the time to talk about it then
and it's still not time to talk about it now.
"It's not," Derek says. "Come up here."
It's a lie but it doesn't stop Stiles from crawling up Derek. They kiss—well,
Derek kisses Stiles' slack mouth, licking into the corners and laving at the
taste of them that lingers deep and sweet.
It is Scott's business because Derek's poaching his pack and he has full
intentions to steal Stiles away, regardless of the consequences and Scott's
made it clear that joining packs isn't on the table. It's just another thing to
negotiate around, but Beacon Hills hasn't been uncomplicated since Derek's
childhood. Staying here was a decision made out of desperation. Derek was
grasping in the dark, looking for his parents and for the lingering scent of
his pack. What he found was something that smelled different and looked
different but tasted the same.
The sound of the heart here, the way it makes his sound, is the same.
"Shut up and sleep, Stiles," he says, rearranging Stiles without more than a
mumble of protest from the boy. Derek waits until Stiles is asleep, on his back
with half his body lying directly on top of Derek and the other curled up
underneath the pillow and covers. He finds the lip balm Stiles is fond of,
honey raspberry flavored, and dips his finger in it. Carefully he spreads it
over the bow of Stiles' top lip and carefully circles his entire mouth,
attentive to the cuts at the corners and the deep cracks in the bottom lip. He
traces them until they're soft and wet, Stiles' snuffling in his sleep and
unconsciously pushing back on Derek's chest.
He thinks about leaving then, easier now than in the morning when Stiles is
late or grumpy with morning light but he can't get his limbs to move. Instead,
he watches Stiles sleep. His mind is surprisingly clear and it's so rare that
Derek just lies there, applying lip balm to Stiles lips until he's heavy with
sleep too.
Derek wiggles a little so that he can free his arm up to the space of Stiles'
neck and slide it across his chest. He snuffles and smacks his wet lips but
burrows back into Derek's chest, legs splaying even more awkwardly into Derek's
space. Soon, the sheriff will pull in, tired but happy to have a job to be
exhausted about. Derek will have to listen to him puttering around in the
kitchen below, most likely eating something with a salt content Stiles would
throw a tantrum about, before settling in to watch some worthless late-night
television. Derek will fall back to sleep to the sound of Friends or Big Bang
Theory and Stiles' noisy, attention demanding heart managing to drown it all
out and lull the anxiety of the sheriff being in the house.
The moon shines bright and shadowed across the bed, high-lighting the steady
clench and release, clench and release of Stiles' hand around Derek's wrist
that's pressed low into Stiles' belly. The tickle of Stiles' happy trail
against the tender, skin of his inner wrist is distracting but he doesn't move.
Instead, Derek tucks into the curve of Stiles' shoulder and lets his breathing
sync up with the slow rise and fall of Stiles' chest. There will be time to
dwell on the burden of his selfish decisions tomorrow—guilt is never far. For
now, there is only his scent on the pale expanse of Stiles' skin and the anchor
of his heart.
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