Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/481511.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Derek_Hale, Stiles_Stilinski, Sheriff_Stilinski
  Additional Tags:
      Mating, Knotting, Rimming, Dirty_Talk, Humor, Unsafe_Sex
  Series:
      Part 2 of The_More_You_Know
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-08-09 Words: 4659
****** Stuck On You ('Til the End of Time) ******
by LouLa
Summary
     Stiles isn't all that inclined to give Derek what he wants most of
     the time, it just so happens that occasionally their wants overlap.
Notes
     I don't know that this classifies entirely as a standalone piece, as
     it does reference part 1 of the series, so I would recommend reading
     that beforehand, if you haven't already.
     Again, this has only been self-edited, and I'm horribly sorry for any
     and all errors.
     That said, thank you so much for the kudos and comments. I hope you
     enjoy!
Derek will show up at some point during the night, Stiles has learned that much
over the past couple of weeks. Even if Really Bad Shit is going down with his
wayward pack of miscreants, he'll still show up ― maybe later than usual, and
maybe smellier than usual, and definitely, somehow, grumpier than usual, but
he's there, nightly.
 
At first, and well, up and until the time being, actually, Stiles figured it
was completely down to the fact that Derek had nowhere better to go. It's not
like he could go home, considering there's nothing left there besides charred
wood and blackened stone, and it just so happens that home became hunter
central after Derek ripped Peter's throat out in the front yard. The warehouse
is great for pack meetings and all, but some blankets shoved into a corner
doesn't make for a very nice bed, and Derek is too tall to be sleeping in his
Camaro.
 
Stiles leaves his window unlocked, and it's been that way since the first time
Derek knocked, eyes glowing creepily in the pale moonlight as he glared
menacingly into the room. Honestly, Stiles had only opened the window to tell
him to leave, but Derek invited himself in before he had the chance.
 
That whole 'I'm the Alpha' spiel didn't really work on Stiles then, and it
doesn't work on him now, it's more just Derek himself, alpha or not. Stiles
isn't all that inclined to give Derek what he wants most of the time, it just
so happens that occasionally their wants overlap. He can't exactly deny Derek
something when he wants the same thing himself.
 
Things have been quiet as of late, and it's not even a comforting fact. It just
means that something is coming, they don't know when and they don't know what,
but it's pretty much inevitable now that something new and not good is going to
land on their doorstep ― though hopefully not literally, in Stiles' case, a
werewolf crawling through his window and into his bed on a nightly basis is
enough, thanks.
 
He's sprawled across his bed, Iron Man paused on his laptop as he texts Isaac
that no, you cannot borrow my jeep, don't think I've forgotten what happened
last time, when Derek slips into his bedroom with nothing more than a cold
draft and a quiet snick as he closes the window behind him. The chances are low
that Stiles is ever going to forget what happened the last time he let Isaac
take the Jeep ― there's practically no chance that anyone is going to forget
what happened last time, considering a perfectly innocent girl was nearly
maimed and killed by one irate alpha who claimed the Jeep absolutely reekedof
sex and girl and sex. Isaac thought Stiles' frantic phone call was hilarious,
spent ten minutes deny-deny-denying until Derek's livid growl in the background
eclipsed Stiles' begging to stop lying and made Isaac whine like a puppy and
fess up.
 
No, Isaac is  never borrowing the Jeep again, or anything for that matter. As
far as Stiles is concerned, Isaac is permanently restricted from all of his
things.
 
The plan is to focus on that, or the movie, or anything else for that matter,
and hopefully never have to bring up the conversation he had with Scott and
Allison tonight. Despite what Derek may think, everything is actually not his
business, so Stiles is going to just keep this one to himself. Which means not
thinking about it. Because if he thinks about it, he'll get all awkward and
Derek will super-sniff it out, because, again, he thinks he has to know
everything.
 
Unfortunately, the plan is failing, because Stiles is thinking about it, and he
keeps unintentionally side-eyeing Derek, who is slowly making his way around
Stiles' room like some drug-sniffing police dog, only there are no drugs, and
Derek is just a nosy bastard and can probably smell the lingering awkward that
was had by Allison and Scott and especially Stiles.
 
Surprisingly ― and maybe it shouldn't be surprising, Stiles is probably putting
off a  we're not talking about it vibe or something ― Derek doesn't ask. Stiles
is almost positive that he wants to, but he doesn't, just carefully makes a
spot for himself beside Stiles on the bed and watches the movie with him.
 
Stiles' dad is home, exhausted and resting after a too-long shift at the
station, but home regardless and they have to be quiet. Derek is good at quiet,
a champion at it, and Stiles can manage it, but he's still restless and
fidgety, even if his mouth isn't going.
 
Iron Man ends, and Stiles wants to wax poetic about it, so he does, his head
pillowed on Derek's arm, chin digging into his chest. Derek stares straight
ahead, face blank, and looking very much like he's completely ignoring
everything Stiles is saying to him, but he's not. Every word, Stiles knows, is
registering; Derek's thoughts are likely focused more on what Stiles  isn't
talking about, and Stiles' babble doesn't seem to be working to distract him.
 
He gives up eventually, because he is  weak , gives in without Derek even
having to say anything at all, his will absolutely nonexistent. Whatever, it's
Derek's fault. “Why didn't you even tell me I'm your mate?”
 
That,  that  manages to knock the whole  I-give-not-one-fuck look off of
Derek's face, as he tilts his head down to stare at Stiles with narrowed eyes.
“What?”
 
Stiles huffs into his face and then uses Derek's chest to lever himself
upright, glaring down at him. “Don't  what  me. I had every right to know. So
you, what. Why didn't you tell me?” he asks, jabbing a finger into Derek's
side.
 
“I've told you nightly for three weeks,” Derek says blankly, eyes all but
burning holes into Stiles' skull, like he wants to get inside of his head and
find the answers for himself. And hey, no, Stiles is the one with questions
here, Derek can keep his laserbeam eyeballs to himself.
 
Honestly, Stiles would have remembered a “ hey buddy, by the way, you're my
mate ,” so clearly that didn't happen. He feels his face heat when he thinks
about what  did  happen though, how Derek has apparently been telling him,
remembering the deep, deep rumble of Derek's voice against his ear and the
deeper fucked-wide-open pleasurepain of Derek knotting him.
 
And yeah, okay, maybe,  maybe , Stiles should have realized what that was, but
in his own defense, “ I'm mating you ,” during sex sounds more like freaky
werewolf dirty talk than an actual admission so.
 
Derek sighs and cuffs a hand around the back of Stiles' neck, squeezing lightly
and holding there. “Why do you think I come here every night?”
 
“Oh, I don't know,” Stiles starts off carelessly, “free food, free wi-fi, a
dry, warm place to sleep, other things,” he prattles off significantly.
 
“No. You're wrong,” is all Derek says to that. Stiles waits for more, an
elaboration or explanation of any kind, but he doesn't get one.
 
“Okay,” he draws out exaggeratedly, flopping back down beside Derek.
 
The silence stretches out. It makes Stiles uneasy, especially since he can feel
Derek lying so tensed beside him, like he's waiting for something.
 
“You're my mate,” he says eventually, and Stiles immediately replies with,
“Yeah, I got that, thanks.”
 
Then it's quiet again, just the sound of their breathing, a dog down the street
barking, the furnace kicking on, the hum of Stiles' laptop fan.
 
Derek inhales like he's about to say something, then hesitates, and Stiles can
feel himself holding his breath in anticipation, waiting for it, whatever Derek
is going to say.
 
“Do you want to be?” he asks finally.
 
Stiles moves to sit up again, but Derek's hand holds him down. His jaw is
tensed as he leans over Stiles, and Stiles is extremely aware of the weight
pressed against his sternum, where Derek's hand rests, and just how easily he
could squish Stiles like a bug if he wanted to.
 
But being aware of that and being afraid are two entirely separate things. He
doesn't know when exactly he started to trust Derek, or when he stopped being
afraid of him, but he thinks it's been longer than this whole boyfriends-slash-
matesthing has been going on. Vaguely, he wonders if he's smarter or stupider
for realizing the risk and taking it anyway.
 
“It's not as if I have much of a choice, is it? I'm your mate,” Stiles answers.
 
Derek doesn't look entirely sure what to do with that, jaw tightening further
and then loosening. “You have a choice,” he replies.
 
“Not really,” Stiles says. “Scott says we're like, gay werewolf married now and
that divorce isn't an option, so I think that means it's for life, or until
death, but that's kind of the same thing, huh. Which, yeah, would have been
nice if you said something, you know, while you weren't doing me in the butt. I
mean, sure, I probably would have said something like, 'isn't it a little soon
for rings,' but hey, I understand you just can't help yourself. All of this is
pretty irresistible. You made a good decision in the long run, think about how
hot I'm gonna be when I'm your age.”
 
“Scott says,” he repeats, and Stiles thinks he's going to continue and ramble
off what Stiles said Scott told him, but it's really just that.
 
That's  what he took from that. Just,  Scott says . “Yeah. Scott says. He also
says you made me your bitch.”
 
There's a rumbling sound coming from Derek's throat, and it's almost a growl,
but not quite. It's too amused to be a growl. “You're my mate,” he says.
“Scott's my bitch.”
 
A startled laugh bubbles out of Stiles' chest at that, and his hand flies up to
cover his mouth, because his dad, he's so going to wake his dad, oh crap. But
Derek's mouth beats him there, and his hand more or less smacks against the
side of Derek's head, not that he notices or anything, his mouth pressed over
Stiles'.
 
“Shh,” he hushes against Stiles' lips, and the giggles die just as suddenly as
they started with Derek's lips gently nudging against his.
 
Stiles makes a pleased sound as he wraps his arms around Derek's shoulders,
kissing him back. Derek pulls away much too soon, mouthing at Stiles' chin, his
jaw, before he pushes himself up, out of reach of Stiles' insistent kissy face.
 
“You have a choice. You are my mate, but if you want this to end, then it will
end. I won't be able to leave you alone if you're here. If this isn't what you
want, you have to leave.”
 
“Doesn't really sound like much of a choice to me,” Stiles mutters. Then, at
the sight of Derek's flaring nostrils, “I'm not going anywhere.”
 
That gets him a happy rumble, a quiet growl that sounds suspiciously like,
“Mine,” and then Derek is nuzzling into his neck again, kissing sloppily at the
skin of his throat.
 
“College, maybe, next year though. I'll have to leave for that,” Stiles
mumbles, just throwing it out there.
 
“We'll talk about it later,” Derek says just before he sinks his teeth into the
tender skin beneath Stiles' ear.
 
“Okay,” he concedes easily, eyes falling closed as Derek slides a thigh between
Stiles' legs. “Wait,” he gasps quickly. “My dad.”
 
“Out cold. Downstairs. TV's on,” Derek assures between biting kisses.
 
“Good. Good.” Stiles nods dumbly, chin knocking against the top of Derek's
head. “Clothes off,” he says. He plants his hands on Derek's shoulders and
pushes, and Derek resists simply because he can, making Stiles grunt in
frustration and then grunt in sexual frustration when Derek's thigh grinds down
just right against him because he may be a teenager, and he may not havethat
high of standards, but the first couple times of creaming his jeans were more
than enough. “Clothes. Off,” he bites out, pinching Derek's chest.
 
Derek pulls back and hauls Stiles up with him by his shirt, yanking it over his
head none too kindly. Stiles' arms flail as the shirt is jerked over his head,
and with a pointed glare, he reaches forward and treats Derek to the same
manhandling, though it's a whole lot less effective, considering Derek, super
werewolf strength; Stiles, frail human weakness. He does manage to leave some
scratch marks down Derek's arms though.
 
“Oops,” he says, mock-innocent.
 
“You're impossible,” Derek grumbles.
 
“Improbable,” Stiles corrects.
 
Derek shuts him up with a kiss, which happens more often than not, putting his
mouth to better use ― and jeez, that is a joke that was old the first time it
was used, now it's just ridiculous, not that it'll stop anyone, not even
Stiles.
 
“I can think of an even better better use for my mouth,” he says as soon as
Derek pulls out of the kiss, sitting back on his heels to get Stiles out of the
sweatpants he changed into after Allison and Scott left.
 
“I can think of at least a hundred better uses for your mouth,” Derek says, and
Stiles gapes, mildly offended, and then he's naked and Derek adds, “Good,
that's one of them,” and shoves his fingers into Stiles' open mouth. “Get them
wet,” he instructs.
 
Being bossed around isn't one of Stiles' favorite things, not even in bed, but
it's really difficult not to follow Derek's orders when they're such good
ideas. As much as Stiles wants to shout a resounding  fuck you  at being told
what to do, he complies because, yeah, wet fingers. He knows where those go.
He's all for  that , and it's kind of hot sucking on Derek's fingers anyway,
watching Derek's eyes do that thing where they slowly darken, fixed on Stiles'
mouth as he swallows them down, licks between them, drags his teeth over the
rough pads of his fingertips.
 
“Over,” Derek says gruffly, palming Stiles' hip with his free hand and urging
him onto his front. Derek's fingers slide free of his mouth with a quiet sound
and Stiles rolls closer to the edge of the bed, face down on the mattress, ass
held in the air by Derek's tight grip on his hip.
 
The hand lets go only momentarily, to spread Stiles open, Derek's thumb a dry
pressure against him. Stiles tightens up instinctively, and then more so on
purpose because  no , he sucked those fingers wet for a reason, goddamn it,
there's no call for that. But Derek's just nudging at him, pushing and staring
at him. It makes Stiles go twitchy, makes him feel like he's about to lose his
mind trying to stay still. It turns him on and makes him blush at the same
time, knowing that Derek is just looking at him,  there . The huge fucking
pervert.
 
Derek's fingers are cool and tacky by the time he finally decides to put them
to Stiles, drying. Stiles scrabbles his way across the bed, to the other side
of it where the lube is in his bedside drawer, which turns into a feat with the
way Derek is holding him in place, but he manages. He lobs the bottle over his
shoulder, hears it connect with Derek's chest and fall to the mattress, to be
knocked aside by one of Derek's knees and sent to the floor, where it rolls
underneath the bed. Stiles sighs.
 
He shouldn't be surprised, really. Derek hates using it. He doesn't like the
smell, he says. It's grape flavored, so Stiles thought, at first, that he just
disliked grapes, but he refused to use the unflavored sample packet Stiles had
nicked out of Danny's wallet during practice one day. He seemed just as adverse
toward lotion, and every other thing Stiles threw his way ― quite literally,
most of the time.
 
No, he liked to keep it natural.
 
Stiles makes an undignified sound at the feel of soft and slick where Derek's
fingers are holding him open, tongue sweeping out against him in broad, wet
licks. No matter how many times he does this ― and he does it  all the time  ―
it still shocks Stiles. Whether he does it because he likes to, or if it's more
to do with the fact that he just hates the smell of lube that much, Stiles
doesn't know, but whatever it is, he keeps coming back, almost always comes
back to this. Really though, Stiles is not complaining.
 
That undignified sound claws its way out of Stiles' throat again, and he
reaches up to the head of the bed, gripping the edge of the mattress beneath
his pillows as he mashes his face into them, muffling the next moan that
squeaks out of him.
 
One last long lick, and then Derek is twisting a finger into him. Stiles can
feel his breath puffing hot against his thigh and knows that Derek is watching
as he opens Stiles up ― slowly, and more slickly than he expects, or maybe he's
just getting used to spit for lube. If he's not using spit to slick the way,
than it's come, because Derek has some problems, but, again, Stiles is not
complaining.
 
So Derek is a kinky weirdo in bed, and kind of a creep in general, but hey,
Stiles likes it. That over-protective, emotionally-constipated, kinky-creeper-
weirdo is his boyfriend, or his mate, or whatever they're calling it now, and
he honestly can't think of a thing to complain about ― except for maybe the
general moodiness and the random aggressive outbursts and the monthly hairy
problem. But really, Stiles doesn't even mind those things, kind of likes them
actually, which, wow, god. He's so fucked.
 
It doesn't feel like a bad thing, though, considering. Stiles isn't for
everyone. Most people are so annoyed by him they can't bear more than five
minutes in the same room. He's got a lot of his own problems, he knows that,
can admit it to himself, but Derek doesn't care about any of that. He even,
maybe, likes Stiles' downfalls too ― but that's a pretty big maybe.
 
“I can hear you thinking.” Derek speaks quietly over the sound of Stiles heavy
breathing.
 
At first he wants to say  no you can't , but instead asks, “What's it sound
like?”
 
“Buzzing. Like a fly right beside my ear. Only slightly less annoying than the
sound of your voice.”
 
“You're the one who mated me,” Stiles reminds him, not lightly.
 
“Like you said, I didn't really have much of a choice,” Derek quips back, and
then, “Gonna mateyou again in a minute.”
 
“You,” he starts, completely intent on telling Derek off for being a dick, but
he's cut off by the wet that drips and spreads around Derek's fingers ― which,
gross, Derek, don't fucking spit on me, but also, yes, do it again, and Stiles
wishes his body and mind would just get along and find a happy medium between
disgusted and hopelessly turned on so he can stop being so confused all the
time ― and three of them splitting him open, “Fuck.”
 
“Definitely wouldn't have picked you on purpose,” Derek growls as Stiles grinds
back against his fingers, taking more of them in.
 
“Fuck you, I could have anyone I wanted,” and Stiles knows it's a lie, but he
says it anyway because he knows what it's going to get him, and bites down on
the mattress to quiet himself when all three fingers are shoved into him
roughly, as deep as they'll go. It's a punishment, definitely; his body so
wasn't there yet but the burn of the too-much stretch feels good.
 
Derek leans down  over him, all muscle and hulking intimidation as he covers
Stiles' body with his own. His smile is mean against the back of Stiles' neck,
breath too hot and teeth too sharp as he worries the skin with his teeth,
testing and warning bites, calming licks. “You could,” he growls, “but you
won't.” He punctuates the words with another quick jab of his fingers, twisting
them around until they're at the right angle and Stiles' whole body  bows  in
submission to him. “Right?” he asks.
 
“Yeah,” Stiles pants freely, nodding and rocking into the answer. “Just you.”
 
Stiles keeps nodding, keeps rocking, knees shaking and dick dripping, as Derek
says it over and over, “Just me. Only me. No one else,” each word combined with
another thrust, another push toward fucking Stiles open. “That's it,” he
murmurs. “You want to be my mate,” he says as he slowly slides his fingers out,
replaces them with his cock.
 
It's not even a question, but the answer is still yes, and whether Derek is
asking or not, Stiles tells him, “Yeah, yes, your mate. Want to be your mate.”
 
“Make you have my pups.”

That should maybe be a little disconcerting, considering Derek's never slipped
up and said that before. It's always been babies. Apparently he's going all
out.
 
He pushes in too slow and pulls out too fast, only to start the whole agonizing
process all over again. “I'll breed you like you're in heat.”
 
“Oh my god, you are so weird,” Stiles moans, choking out a laugh when his face
is shoved harder to the bed. Derek rocks into him a little faster, lets up on
the back of his head, and Stiles knows he's asking for it when he says, “Spank
me and call me your bitch.”
 
Derek growls into his ear, shoves his face into the bed again. “Don't tempt
me.”
 
Stiles doesn't mean to ― they're supposed to be having serious sex here ― but
he laughs again, can't really even believe his life. He expects more growling,
some biting, threats, maybe, but Derek just nuzzles into the back of his neck,
into his hair, snuffles against his ear. He hunches over him and hooks his chin
into Stiles' shoulder, whining softly.
 
Whining. Stiles tilts his head to try to see Derek's face, but he can't from
this angle, not at all, only gets the briefest flash of glowing red eyes before
Derek's mouth covers his, kisses him soft and deep. He feels every inch of
Derek's body against his own, Derek's rough stubble against the curve of his
shoulder, the strength in his thighs spreading Stiles', and the knot, suddenly
there.

Stiles freezes, whispers Derek's name, unsure. It's never been like this
before. Always after, once Stiles has already come, loose and languid and
riding the post coital wave of complete relaxation, that's how it's always
been. Derek would go tense and still, staying hard and tight up inside of him
for the longest time, but this. This is not that.
 
“Gonna keep you up on your knees like you should be, make you keep me in you
longer. Come on, Stiles, take it.”
 
He does as he's told with a hurt gasp, surprised at how big it feels when
Derek's all the way in, as far as he can go.
 
“Yeah,” Derek groans, voice rough. “Hold it in you, keep it in there.” His hips
only push forward, never back, he's got nothing left to give except these rough
little jostles that push Stiles closer to the headboard with every shove,
knocking tight, worked up sounds out of his mouth.
 
“Derek,” he rasps, throat closing up with the pain of it. He can feel the knot
getting harder and it feels like it's locking in place. Stiles is going tense
on it, he knows that; he's making it worse, and it only feels like Derek is
getting bigger. It'd be terrifying if he didn't know that Derek wouldn't hurt
him. He wonders just how much he's been holding back, and how much he's letting
go now.
 
Derek comes with a weak sound, holding Stiles in place with an arm wrapped
tight around his chest. “Don't move,” he warns, “don't move, don't move.”
 
Stiles tries to listen, but the knot  pulses  inside of him and he can feel it,
the throb and jerk of each spurt. He shifts at the feeling, barely at all, it
feels like, but Derek goes wild, rutting deeper, growling, “Keep still.”
 
Whimpering, Stiles locks up, feels like a stretched wire ready to snap, at the
breaking point. He doesn't know what to do, how to deal with the pain of it if
he can't move at all, if Derek won't let him or won't move either, won't help
him cancel it out, or how to ignore the pleasure of it to keep still, because
every pulse inside of him makes him want to press back, rock forward, reach
between his legs and feel the beat of it in his hand when he gets himself off,
like Derek is shooting deep into him.
 
“Stiles,” Derek grunts, exasperated.
 
His weight shifts suddenly, pressing Stiles' upper body into the bed as he
reaches down with both hands, one wrapping around Stiles' cock while the other
goes further, touching where Stiles is stretched tight around Derek. It feel
like Derek's moved even deeper, somehow; the angle is new and better, or worse,
and Stiles is so close to shaking apart, can barely keep from moving as Derek's
wrist flick-flick-flicks over him.
 
He can hardly breath, gasping into the mattress, sobbing through it, and when
Derek whispers, “You're making such a mess,” thumbing away some of the moisture
before it catches on his other fingers, before it can slick the way to no
friction at all, and Stiles snaps. Everything goes taut, and he feels like
someone wedged a stone inside of him. Derek's knot is unforgiving, unyielding
as Stiles' body wrings around it. It hurts in the best way, feels good in the
worst, and Derek pets him through it, talks him through it, which is good
because without the sound of Derek's voice to focus on, Stiles thinks he would
pass out, just go limp and sag to the bed without Derek's arm there to hold him
up.
 
It doesn't hurt much, after. He can feel Derek there, but everything feels
softer, like the sharp edges have worn away. Derek helps him lay down, still
stuck inside of him, but cradled back into his hips on their sides, instead of
his burning thighs fighting to keep his ass up for them to stay tied.
 
He doesn't feel the knot soften up, even though he's trying to. He watches the
clock, and knows it's done ten minutes later when Derek sighs against his ear,
kisses his neck, and tells him to roll onto his stomach.
 
Derek disappears and Stiles shivers, watches the door until Derek comes back.
He cleans Stiles up, the cloth warm between his legs, and nudges him over onto
his back, his tongue warmer as he laps at Stiles' belly.
 
“Weirdo,” Stiles says fondly, scratching at Derek's hair. Derek glares up at
him and nips at the skin around his bellybutton.
 
He wipes at the bed last, tossing the cloth with perfect aim into the
overflowing laundry basket in the corner. “You're sleeping in the wet spot,” he
says.
 
“You're sleeping on the floor,” Stiles replies.
 
Derek snorts as he stretches out along Stiles' side ― the dry side. “Good luck
with that.”
 
“I hate you,” Stiles mumbles, curling up as close to Derek as he can get.
 
“Seems that way,” he mutters. Stiles doesn't miss the way his hand inches
forward, not stopping until his fingers are fit perfectly against the curve of
Stiles' hip. “You okay?”
 
Stiles hums. “Sore,” he answers honestly. More than usual, but not bad, either.
 
“Want me to kiss it better?”
 
“Hate you so much,” Stiles groans, biting at Derek's chest.
 
“You're stuck with me.” Stiles laughs at Derek's poor choice of words, enjoying
it probably more than he should when Derek forcibly rolls him onto his back,
biting lightly at his throat. “Idiot,” he grumbles. “Go to sleep.”
 
He doesn't mean to do as Derek tells him to, he really doesn't.
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