Chapter Text
Stiles wakes up on the floor of the clinic with a pillow under his head and Derek’s leather jacket draped over him like a blanket. He sits up a little, every muscle protesting, and looks around the room. The wolves are all lying on the floor with their own pillows and jackets and the humans are there, too—Allison curled up between Isaac and Scott, Lydia with her arms tight around Cora and—Danny! Danny is right next to Stiles, his arms just as tight around Ethan.
Stiles lies down again, very sore and satisfied. Somehow, he did it. And he’s not dead! It’s so awesome!
Danny’s eyes open, instantly clear and alert, and Stiles jumps. “Hey,” Danny says softly.
“Danny!” Stiles says. His voice is shredded, like he’s been screaming and puking all night. “We got you back!”
“Yeah. Sounds like you almost killed yourself doing it.”
“Hey, no pain, no gain, right?”
Danny doesn’t smile, just looks at Stiles with a steady gaze and reaches out his hand. Stiles reaches out his own in kind and Danny grabs and squeezes it.
“Thank you,” he says.
“You’re welcome.” Stiles takes a deep breath, which hurts every part of his body, but deep inside, he feels good. He feels satisfied. “Do you know why everyone’s sleeping on the floor?”
“Because they were too heavy to move after they all collapsed.”
“What!”
“I don’t remember all of this, but Lydia and Allison told me about it. You were performing the ritual, and it was crazy, I guess—you were making wind with your hands and your eyes went black and you were chanting the incantation without hesitation—but you were sweating, veins bulging, going really pale—you’re dying and everyone’s freaking out, and then Derek comes out of the shadows and lays his hand on you and does that werewolf pain-taking trick, you know? But it was just killing him, too, and he wasn’t even taking enough to save you. So Cora started taking pain from Derek. And Ethan took pain from Cora and Aiden from Ethan and Isaac from Aiden and then finally Scott ended this crazy werewolf pain train, each of them taking enough that everyone could live through the ritual. And it worked.”
“That’s amazing.”
“I know. I wish I had been around for that. But it took a lot out of them—and you. I guess my soul was restored and everybody just dropped to the floor unconscious. You’re the first one to wake up. We could get you to open your eyes and mutter at us earlier, but the wolves are all out cold. Deaton says it’s a healing coma thing.”
“But they’re all okay?”
“Yeah!” Danny laughs, which is a beautiful sight. “Sorry, I should have led with that. They’re all going to wake up. They’re going to be fine.”
Stiles takes a deep breath. He forced himself to pass over Derek before, so he wouldn’t get stuck there and forget to check on everyone else, but now that he’s done due diligence, he turns to Derek’s sleeping form beside him and looks his fill. He looks pretty bad—in a really hot way—dark bruises under his eyes, skin chalky white. He has Stiles’ red sweatshirt stretched over him like a baby blanket.
He looks over his shoulder at Danny. “Do you know how we ended up switching jackets?”
Danny smiles. “He was squirming and whimpering until Allison got the idea to give him something that smelled like you. He settled down after that.”
Stiles wiggled across the inches between them, lifted Derek’s arm, and settled himself against his side. Seemingly by instinct, Derek’s face turned to press against Stiles’ head and inhale deeply. Stiles has no idea what he smells like, except Old Spice deodorant, but—Stiles presses is nose under Derek’s arm and, yeah, even now, unwashed and a little gamey, he smells really, really good. If Stiles smells anything like this to Derek, then he totally gets it.
“He really likes me.”
“Why do you sound so amazed by that?” Danny says. “You’ve been making out with him for weeks.”
“I’m an idiot.” Stiles thinks back a few nights. “I’m an idiot child and he doesn’t know why he likes me so much.”
Stiles traces his fingers over Derek’s collarbones. All this time he’d been waiting for Derek to make the first move—and the second, and the third, and the fourth, ad infinatum—waiting to react, never being the first to act, even when he ached with the desire to be close to him. Touching him casually, without any intention of getting off, just because he wants to, just because Derek is so incredibly beautiful and warm and close—it’s a revelation.
But he’s still exhausted, so he closes his eyes and falls asleep listening to Derek’s slow, steady heartbeat.
When he wakes up again the room smells like coffee and bacon. He opens his eyes and sits up a little to see most everyone is awake, sitting around, eating and talking quietly.
Lydia notices him first and comes over to him with a cup of coffee, the perfect caramel color of just enough milk. She kneels down in front of him and sets the cup on the ground.
“Hey there, hero,” she says.
“Hey,” he croaks. “Is everyone okay?”
“No thanks to you! You could have warned us about what was going to happen.”
Well, yeah, he could have.
“Pack means no sacrificing yourself without giving us a chance to fix your stupid plan. Right?”
“Right.”
“Come get some food.”
Stiles nods. He’s ravenous, like he always is after sleeping through the night. He looks down at Derek, who hasn’t so much as twitched. Stiles wonders if he wakes up hungry, too, and it’s unbearably exciting that he’s going to find out, that he’s going to be able to respond to that, take care of him.
“Hey,” Stiles says, shaking him a little. “Derek?”
Nothing.
“Has he woken up?” he asks Lydia, not looking away from Derek.
“Not yet.”
“Is he the only one who hasn’t woken up? Why hasn’t he woken up? Is he okay?”
“He’s fine, Stiles,” Dr. Deaton says, coming up behind Lydia. “He took a lot of pain from you, a lot more than any one else got. He just needs time.”
“Does he need to eat? Should we hook him up to an IV or something?”
“No,” Deaton laughs. “He’s in torpor. All of his metabolic processes have slowed down. Werewolves can safely be in this state for months.”
“Is he going to be asleep for months?”
“That’s very unlikely. I’d guess he’ll wake up this week.”
“You need to eat, though,” Lydia says.
Stiles lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Okay. Food sounds good.”
He gets up, every muscle in his body protesting the movement. Eating a tall stack of pancakes and a lot of crispy bacon, he lets everyone tell him how annoyed they are that he went into the ritual without warning them what would happen. He deserves it. He hopes his dad and Melissa never find out the whole story because that will provoke a talking to like he’s never heard.
It’s Thursday afternoon and they all missed school and lacrosse practice and decide they’re due a break from taking care of the pack, too. They start leaving for the night and by five Stiles, Derek, and Dr. Deaton are the only ones left at the clinic. Stiles is sitting with an AP Bio practice test on one knee and Derek’s head on the other. Running his hand through Derek’s hair is a surprisingly effective way to stay focused.
Deaton jangles his keys and clears his throat and Stiles looks up at him. “Do you mind if I stay?”
“Stiles, Derek is going to be fine. This is natural. He’s just healing.”
“Yeah!” Stiles smoothes some hair over Derek’s forehead. “Yeah, I know.”
“You watching him won’t make him heal any faster.”
“No, right.” Here’s Stiles, useless once again. Derek doesn’t need him, doesn’t need anything except to sleep for no one knows how much longer. Because he saved Stiles’ life.
“You can go home,” Deaton presses.
“Yeah, I will.”
Except if what he said earlier is true, Derek does need him. Staying close is exactly what Derek would want (no matter how impossible that still feels). So he will.
He calls his dad. “Hey,” he says, “so, I need your help getting an unconscious werewolf onto our couch.”
That was easier said than done and, no matter how cool his dad has been about Derek so far, it was pretty difficult to say. Derek is two hundred pounds of dead weight who very awkwardly fits into the backseat of the cruiser. He also doesn’t fit on the couch very well, too long, of course, but also far too wide to lie on his back without one arm hanging off the edge. They muscle him upstairs and onto the guest room bed. The bedclothes haven’t been changed in there for at least four months, since his grandparents came for Christmas, but that’s okay. Derek won’t mind some dusty sheets.
“Thanks, Dad,” Stiles says.
Dad nods. “Take off his shoes and his jeans. Those are damn tight. There’s no reason for him to wake up uncomfortable.”
“Good idea!”
He moves his hands to Derek’s belt buckle and his dad makes a weird squeaking noise. “I’ll leave you to it!” he says, and disappears.
Stiles laughs as he pulls off Derek’s shoes, socks, and jeans, but that leaves him in tight black briefs and a tight black tee, looking like an Calvin Klein ad and then Stiles is pretty glad Dad left them alone. Derek is brutally hot and Stiles wants nothing—nothing—more than to rub himself all over him.
That is weird, though, so he covers Derek with the quilt folded on the foot of the bed and lies down next to him, putting one appropriate hand on Derek’s chest.
“You should wake up,” he whispers.
Stiles presses a kiss to Derek’s mouth. “Wake up.” He kisses his cheek, stubble rough against his lips, his forehead, one eyelid, and then the other, his nose, his other cheek, the soft sideburns at his temple, his jaw, his chin, and then, again, his mouth.
And, as if awakened like Sleeping Beauty, Derek’s eyes flutter open and he glares up at Stiles. “Leave me alone, boy,” he groans. “Let me sleep.” Derek smacks his lips, which might be the cutest thing Stiles has ever seen. “More kissing tomorrow.”
Relief floods Stiles body and he collapses on top of Derek. He really hadn’t believed he’d wake up again until that moment.
Stiles kisses him one more time. “Okay. I love you.”
Derek moans pitifully. “Temptress. I caaan’t—“
“Tomorrow. I’ll be here tomorrow.”
Derek tightens his arms around Stiles. “Right here.”
After a moment his hold loosens again as his eyes close and he goes back into torpor.
Stiles has school the next day, so he doesn’t actually stay right there, but Derek doesn’t wake up again until Monday, either, so they both lied. Stiles is a little miffed that he finds out Derek woke up by running home in between last period and lacrosse practice to check on him and finding the bed empty. He’s nervous and fidgety that Derek and Cora have taken off for parts unknown again, all through practice and as he rides across town to the werehouse on Scott’s bike, until he sees the two of them sparring inside. Derek’s gaze snaps to Stiles as he walks through the door and Cora takes advantage of his distraction to kick him off his feet and lay her foot on his neck.
“Ha-ha,” Cora says, smirking down at him. “You suck.”
Stiles goes over to them and offers Derek a hand up. Derek stands and ends up barely an inch from Stiles, radiating heat. Stiles is about to ask him if he wants to go somewhere when he hears Scott shout, “Deaton! What are you doing here?”
Stiles turns and sees Dr. Deaton coming out of the little werehouse kitchen with a steaming mug of something—tea, coffee, hot chocolate mix, and an electric kettle are about all they keep in there.
“I have something to tell you all.”
“Is someone dying?” Stiles says immediately. He hasn’t been obsessing about it, but this has all seemed too good to be true. Things never work out this well. One of them has a secret tumor or something—that’s got to be it.
“No!” says Deaton. “No, it’s good news.” Sure it is. He’ll sure to believe that when he hears it. “What you did on Wednesday night was not give Danny back his humanity.”
Stiles looks at Danny, who has no interest in the fried chicken Ethan is scarfing down beside him, but is otherwise very clearly the kid Stiles has known since they were five, and frowns back at Deaton.
“Um, I really think—”
“I don’t know if the spell was more powerful than you understood, Lydia, or if there was something in Stiles that made it more powerful, and the wolves sharing his pain allowed it to succeed, but—you restored the humanity to Danny . . . and to every vampire within a hundred miles of Beacon Hills.”
After a long moment of silence, Danny says, “Bullshit.”
“No,” Deaton laughs. “I’ve confirmed it as far as the Oregon border.”
“So the trio—”
“They’ve been thoroughly punished. One of them left a note underneath the windshield wiper of your Jeep, Stiles. It’s parked around the back.”
He hands Stiles a white envelope sealed in red wax, one corner weighed down with something heavy. A big part of him wants to put this conversation on hold so he can check on his baby, but that smaller part of him is very considerate, so instead he cracks the seal and upends the envelope, a ring spilling out onto his palm. He slides that onto his pinky, pulls out a piece of velvety cardstock, and reads aloud:
Your pack has effectively killed two more of my sisters. They couldn’t live with what we’ve done over the past two centuries. I go forward alone to seek redemption. I’m sorry for what I’ve done to you and to your town. Someday I’ll find a way make it up to you, and to thank you for my liberty.
After a moment, Isaac says, “Is it weird that I feel bad for her now?”
“Definitely,” says Allison. She brings one of her hands to her mouth and presses a kiss to his knuckles. “I still want to hunt her down and shoot her full of wood.”
“There’s more,” Stiles says, holding up the ring.
The enclosed ring is a gift and an apology. With it worn on his index finger your friend may walk in daylight. Beware: should others know he has this ring, they will stop at nothing to take it from him.
Stiles finds Danny’s gaze and tosses him the ring.
“Sweet,” he says, putting it on. “Oh, shit—that could have been a trap.” Ethan grabs his arm. “Nah, I feel fine. Oh my god—can I go back to school?”
“If it works,” Scott says, “I think you can live a normal life, at least for a while. Stay on the team. Graduate with us.”
Danny grins, bright and happy as a summer’s day.
Derek puts his arm around Stiles shoulders and says, “You did that.”
Stiles turns his head and kisses him, easy as anything. “I had the power, but you had the Hail Mary idea to make it work.” Stiles laughs. “Can you believe that?”
“First time for everything,” Derek says.
Banishing a bunch of demons without killing the undead bodies they were possessing is great and all, but Stiles still really wants to check on his car so he heads outside as soon as possible. Sure enough, the Jeep is sitting calmly in the back alley. She doesn’t have a mark on her, might even be cleaner than she was before, but that’s about the extent of Stiles’ ability to actually check on her. He opens the hood and looks at the inexplicable jumble of parts inside.
“Do you have any idea what you’re doing?” Derek says, coming up beside him.
“I couldn’t tell you if the engine was missing.”
Derek laughs. “It’s not. It’s right there.” He points and Stiles nods like something in that area stands out. “Do you want me to take a look around? Make sure she didn’t rig it to blow when you turn it on?”
Stiles agrees and out of the Camaro’s trunk Derek produces a headlamp and a rag. He gets right to poking around at things and explaining that his mom showed him his way around a car before she let him take the permit test. After he and Laura left Beacon Hills, if they stopped for a while somewhere, he would get a job at a garage. Most places didn’t need references, he said, once he offered to fix a car for free and successfully did it.
“We didn’t really need the money, but it was a good way to keep busy. I like working with my hands. When did you last change your oil?”
“Uh . . .”
“Well, you don’t need to worry about it for another year. Looks like the vamp took care of it.”
That’s pretty weird, but an appropriate way to apologize for keeping his car captive, he supposes. Stiles stands up and walks over to Derek.
“You should probably show me what you’re doing, huh? Or who’s going to do it when you’re not here?”
Derek doesn’t play along. “If you need a mechanic, Johnny’s over on Glen is a good bet. If you want me . . . I’m not going anywhere, Stiles.”
Stiles forces himself to hold his gaze. “You promise?”
“Not until you go to college.”
“What then?”
“Hopefully wherever you go doesn’t require freshman to live on campus because I’m really looking forward to waking up next to you every morning.” Derek busies himself with folding down the prop rod and closing the hood and then he says, blasé as can be, “Isaac tells me you think I hate you.”
“No!” Derek squints at him and Stiles feels himself blush. “Not anymore.”
“But before?” Stiles nods. “Before I declared my love for you in the library?” Stiles nods. “But after I kissed you over and over again?”
“Well . . . yeah. I mean, I thought you’d take a bullet for me, but when it wasn’t life or death, you know—when life is a given and you could do what you wanted with it—you’d rather do anything but spend time with me. You’d rather leave Beacon Hills without a word to me and stay away for six months without a postcard. That’s what I thought.”
“Hn,” Derek said. “Is that how you feel about me?”
“Of course I’d take a bullet for you.”
“No, I meant—wait, no! No, you would not.”
“I would, too! I—”
“You will not. Even a shot to the heart with a wolfsbane bullet has less chance of killing me than a damn slingshot has of killing you. You will let me take the bullet, Stiles. Do you understand?”
“—Yes.”
“Good. But I meant—would you rather do anything but spend time with me?”
“No, not anything.” Derek stares at him. “There’s nothing, Derek. There is nothing I would rather do than spend time with you. There it is.”
Derek turns to him and nods, not touching him, not saying anything, not moving. Should he say something else? He has to—he can’t handle the silence. He swallows, ready to backtrack, apologize, anything until Derek kisses him, hitting Stiles in the chest like the first firework exploding in the air on the Fourth of July after a long wait for sunset.
Derek pulls back enough to whisper against his mouth—“Want to have sex in a bed?”
“Yes.”
“Clear it with your dad. I’ll make sure Cora’s out of the house.”
Stiles is happy to find that Derek and Cora are living in a nice, normal two-story house in a new development on the west side of town. It’s empty, and very beige, but it’s livable. It’s not a burnt down mansion or a gothic penthouse fit only for a dark Byronic hero. Derek could spend all day in his sweats in this house. They could paint the kitchen yellow. Girl Scouts would come to the door to sell cookies.
Then it occurs to him—“We’re allowed to be here, right? You’re not squatting?”
“Your faith in me is what I love most. Yes, we’re allowed to be here. I bought this place. I just haven’t bought very much furniture.”
“You’ve been back in town for two months! You decked out the loft fast enough.”
“That was all Isaac. And it didn’t work out very well, did it?”
It takes Stiles a moment to realize Derek is legitimately resentful of his old furniture.
“The bad things that happened there weren’t the furniture’s fault.” Derek shrugs. Stiles puts his arms around Derek’s waist. “Or your fault, by and large, terrible alpha though you were.” He gets a little smile for that, and Derek runs his hands up Stiles’ arms slowly, delicately, like he can’t believe Stiles is really there. “And you know furniture’s not really optional.” Derek shrugs again. “Well, it’s Lent right now. Maybe you’re giving up furniture until Easter. I’ll drop it until then.”
“We can buy a couch.”
“After Easter,” he whispers against Derek’s mouth. “You do have a bed, though, right?”
Derek has, in fact, the biggest bed Stiles has ever seen. That’s partly because Derek gave Cora the master suite and he’s in one of the smaller upstairs rooms, so any bed would look pretty big, but his king-sized mattress takes up all the space, sitting squarely in the middle of the room, just about a foot of carpet on any side. He has a dresser, a few shirts on hangers, and an extra pair of boots in his closet, a laptop on the bed, and that’s it, that’s the whole room. Bare walls, no knickknacks.
Derek quickly strips down, kicking his clothes into a corner, and flops on to the bed naked. He looks so good, all smooth, tanned skin on dark blue sheets. There wasn’t a tan line to be seen. Wherever he and Cora had been camping, clearly clothing had been optional. “Wait, did you and Cora hang out together naked?”
“She’s my sister. What do I care if she’s naked?”
“Uh—” Stiles didn’t have any siblings, but he really didn’t think it worked like that for everybody. Maybe it was a wolf thing.
Derek spread his legs and rubbed his thighs, distracting Stiles from anything else. Oh, yeah!—gorgeous naked man laid out in front of him—all night to do whatever he wants to him. Stiles moves to jump on the bed, but stops short when Derek holds up his hand.
“Strip first,” he says.
Stiles considers doing a strip tease, but really can’t imagine that coming off as anything but hilarious and pathetic, so he just goes for efficient and not tripping over his pants.
Naked, Stiles jumps, landing heavily on top of Derek.
“Hi,” he says, reveling in so much bare skin touching skin.
“Hi,” says Derek as he grabs Stiles’ ass with both hands, seemingly just because he can.
Stiles kisses his chin and follows Derek’s jaw with his mouth, to where it dips down to become his throat, and presses a kiss right below where his stubble ends. Then he bites down and sucks hard, reveling in the feel of Derek’s whole body tensing in his arms. Derek left him so marked up last time that Stiles really wants to return the favor. He pulls back, proud of the perfectly round red mark, and watches as it almost instantly becomes perfect pale brown skin again.
“You can’t bruise, can you? Of course you can’t.”
Typical of fucking werewolves. They take a piece of your soul, cover your body with evidence of that, and walk away without a mark on them.
“Your fingerprints cover my body, Stiles,” Derek whispers to him. “I know where each of them is. I just don’t share them with everybody.”
Stiles blinks at him. “Oh.” He kisses the invisible mark lightly. “Good.”
“Yeah, it is good,” Derek says. “It feels like armor.”
God. Stiles doubts anyone would call Derek a romantic, but they’d all be dead wrong. Stiles doesn’t know how he missed it the past few weeks. But then Stiles thinks about Derek with Kate Argent—how he must have treated her, what he said to her, as he fell in love. He thinks of Derek with Paige, Derek with Jennifer Blake, and . . . well, that’s why Stiles missed it. He still doesn’t understand it. How can Derek trust him, believe in what they could have together, when it worked out so badly for him in the past?
What did Stiles do to deserve this?
“Thank you,” is all he can say.
“I want you to fuck me.”
Whoa, whoa—“You do?”
“You thought because I’m older and bigger than you, I have to top?”
“Well—”
“I want to fuck you,” Derek says in a gravely voice. “We’re going to have a great time when I fuck you. But Stiles, I can’t wait to feel you inside me.”
Derek sits up and throws his leg over Stiles’ waist so he’s straddling him. He reaches behind him and takes Stiles cock in his hand, guides the tip over his ass, rubs it against his hole.
“I’m desperate for it,” Derek says, stroking Stiles’ cock slowly. “You think you can do it? You think you can fill me up?”
Stiles moans pitifully. He needs to take control of this situation right now or he’s going to fall apart. Taking Derek’s hips in his hands, he flips them over with surprising grace, so Derek’s on his back and Stiles is kneeling in between his legs. He didn’t even displace Derek’s hand from his cock.
“I am going to come right now,” Stiles says, putting his hand over Derek’s and moving it to jerk himself methodically. “I’m going to come all over you and then I’m going to lick it off and eat your ass until you’re begging me to stop. And then I’m going to spread you open with my fingers so you’re stretched to take my cock, but not so wide that you don’t feel—every—inch—and then I’m going to fuck you and I’m going to fill you like you’ve never been filled before. I’m going to fuck you so deep you never stop feeling it.”
Stiles comes at his own dirty talk, shooting ropes of it across Derek’s chest and belly. He closes his eyes and falls back a little, grabbing onto Derek’s legs to keep himself steady. Derek keeps stroking him, with slow, firm squeezes, milking out the last of it. As his head clears, Stiles opens his eyes to Derek smiling at him, pink-cheeked and eyes heavy-lidded.
“You sure are a pretty sight,” Derek says.
Stiles grins. “I was just thinking the same thing.”
His muscles are still post-orgasm weak, so he pushes himself forward and lets gravity drop him on top of Derek. He kisses him leisurely, letting his strength come back. When he pulls away, he realizes he can’t eat his come now, half-dried and cooled, so he runs to the bathroom, grabbing his shirt off the floor in case Derek doesn’t have washcloths. He does, in fact, have matching bath towels, hand towels, and washcloths folded in stacks so nicely that Stiles is sad to sacrifice one under hot water.
“Sorry,” Stiles says when he comes back and wipes Derek’s torso clean of spunk, “that I’m not—”
“Nothing to apologize for,” Derek says. “You don’t have to like eating come. Did you like coming all over me?”
“Yeah,” Stiles says, wishing he didn’t sound so bashful about it. “Oh my god, did you like it? Was that demeaning?”
“No,” Derek says, smiling a little.
Stiles lies down in between Derek’s legs, putting Derek’s thighs over his shoulders and settling in. He jerks Derek’s cock and sucks on his balls a little, nosing at his surprisingly soft, good-smelling pubic hair, psyching himself up to start rimming him. Is it weird to use the damp washcloth on Derek’s ass a little? Now that he’s down here Stiles is very aware that asses aren’t built for things going in—they’re built for things coming out.
“I’m clean,” Derek says.
“Oh!”—god, sexually transmitted infections. Right. This is a conversation they should have had an hour ago—or, like, two weeks ago. “I figured, I guess—figured you would have said something if you weren’t. I am, too.”
“No, I meant—I mean, I am clean. I have the papers to prove it if—”
“I believe you! I don’t have any papers, but—”
Derek sits up a little. “You haven’t—have you?”
The back of Stiles’ neck heats up, even though Derek isn’t teasing him. If anything, Derek looks and sounds homicidally jealous at the possibility that he has. “No. The farthest I’ve ever gone was with you.”
“Good. Now, what I meant was, I prepared myself for you, for—for you to play with my asshole, Stiles. My ass is clean.”
Stiles spreads Derek’s ass cheeks apart and sure enough, Derek is fucking pristine down there—pale skin, smooth and unblemished, not a hair to be found, around a little pink pucker, smelling as musky, salty good as the rest of him.
“Did you wax?” Stiles says before he can stop himself.
After a beat of silence, Derek growls, “Yes.”
“Did you do it yourself? Or did you, like, go to a spa?” Derek is silent. “You did go to a spa, didn’t you?” Derek is glowering at Stiles now, resting his weight on his forearms, looking down at him. “—what else did you do?”
“This is simple courtesy, Stiles.This is why you’re not bottoming.”
“Derek!” Stiles flicks his finger at Derek’s little pink pucker, not expecting Derek to moan like he loved it. “I thought you were desperate to feel me inside you.”
“I am,” Derek says, and then bursts into laughter, falling flat on his back. “Desperate to feel you in my clean, tidy ass.”
Stiles laughs, too, and hides his face in Derek’s thigh. “I’m sorry,” he says, his voice so muffled only a werewolf could understand him. “This is what you get fucking a virgin. I’m a fast learner, I promise.”
“You don’t have to wax. You don’t have much hair down there, anyway.”
“Did you get an enema? Is that—do people actually do that?”
“People do,” Derek says, and after a moment, “I do. I did, this afternoon, uh—but you don’t have to do that, either. I like the feeling. Before you bottom, we’ll take a shower together and I’ll make sure you’re clean. It’s not a big a deal. I just enjoyed—preparing for you.”
Stiles is still kind of stuck on the enema thing. “If you like it, maybe I’ll like it.”
“Maybe.” Derek runs the back of his fingers over Stiles’ cheek. “If you—helped me, I’d like that.”
Why is that so hot? Stiles nods. “Okay.”
Realizing he has the element of surprise, Stiles ducks forward and swipes his tongue over Derek’s ass and then blows on the wet stripe. From what he’s read, Stiles can’t really do this wrong so he just goes for it, licking and sucking and biting a little, whatever strikes him as a good idea, and Derek rewards him with the most amazing squirming and little noises he’s ever heard.
Derek hands him a hefty bottle of lube, hardly used, if at all, saying, “Fingers now.”
Stiles drizzles some onto his first two fingers and snaps the top closed again. He uses his thumb to spread the slick around and ends up coating all three fingers thoroughly. Rather too late, as he’s running his thumb over Derek’s pucker, he realizes topping is something he should have prepared for a little bit, too, not that he thought Derek would be interested in bottoming—if Stiles’ nails were any longer, sticking them up Derek’s ass would have been a very precarious process. As it is, he’s only mildly terrified as he presses inside. Derek moans and shifts his hips.
“Okay?” Stiles says.
Derek nods. “Deeper.”
Stiles pushes his thumb all the way in and then fucks Derek with it with slow, steady strokes, getting him used to the girth. Then he replaces it with his index finger, adding that length.
“Christ, you have long fingers,” Derek groans.
“Okay?” Stiles says again.
“Good,” Derek corrects him. “I’d look at your hands and get distracted thinking about this. It’s very good.”
He can do better than that. Stiles has never managed to give himself a very satisfying prostate massage, but he did find his own prostate, so he knows what he’s doing as he drags his finger over the front-facing side of Derek’s passage, grinning as Derek jerks and quivers under his hands. He rubs over it a few times and then brings his second finger in beside the first. He’s debating whether to bring his ring finger into this party now, or bring his thumb back, when Derek says, “Enough. Your cock now.”
“Um,” Stiles starts because he isn’t stretched half as wide as he’ll need to be, but Derek continues.
“I can handle a lot of pain.”
“Just because you can handle it doesn’t mean—”
“I like it. I want to feel you.”
“Okay.” Stiles sits up on his knees, moving Derek’s legs up so his ankles are sitting on his shoulders. Stiles wasn’t sure if that would work, but Derek is plenty flexible enough. Then he remembers—“I should use a condom, right?”
“Um, I know gay porn makes it seem like now’s the time to think about that, but you can get most of the same STDs during oral sex that you can during anal. If one of us is lying about being clean, the transmission ship has already sailed.”
“Oh!” says Stiles, feeling like an idiot. “Right.”
Derek sits up, folding in half to bring his face close to Stiles’ and kissing him. “But I’m not lying. And neither are you.”
Stiles squeezes an excessive amount of lube over his cock and spreads it around. He aligns his cock head with Derek’s winking asshole and presses in until Derek’s pucker closes around the flared base of the head and—oh!—Stiles has never felt anything like this. It’s so hot and so tight and he’s inside Derek. He knows he came less than an hour ago, which he’d really thought would let him last a while the second time here, but he’s already so close to the edge.
“Don’t worry about it,” Derek says, grappling for his hand. Stiles meets him palm to palm and threads their fingers together. “You can come, and get hard again inside me, and come again. This is so good, just being close to you. You can’t screw this up. Okay?”
Those words, and Derek’s warm, steady gaze, work like magic to make Stiles calm and sure and ready to give Derek the fucking love making of his life. Stiles takes a deep breath and pushes the rest of his cock inside, until he bottoms out, every inch of him being squeezed hot and tight by Derek. Stiles holds Derek’s waist for leverage and pulls out—and pushes back in.
“Like that?” Derek nods furiously, squeezing his eyes shut. “You sure?”
Derek claps both his hands over Stiles’ and squeezes. “It’s been years since I’ve done this and it’s never—this is more than—I can’t—”
Stiles leans over him, pressing Derek’s knees to his shoulders, and kisses him. “You can,” he says, thrusting in again, running along Derek’s prostate if his aim is right. Derek lets out a keening noise and bites Stiles’ jaw hard. “We can. We’re doing it.”
Stiles does come way too soon, right after that, but he doesn’t really lose his erection and he just keeps moving as he gets ramped up again and brings Derek to this beautiful, delirious headspace where he can’t seem to do anything but touch Stiles and whisper tender gibberish until he erupts—it’s the only word for it—releasing more come than Stiles has ever seen in his life, and passes out. It’s a little weird to finish inside Derek’s lax body, but he’s so close, almost dizzy with it, so he just lets go.
Then he pulls out, brings Derek’s legs down so he’s laying flat, and curls up against to him. Derek wakes up enough to throw his arm around Stiles’ shoulders and press a kiss to his head.
They both sleep for a while. Stiles wakes up to the room bright as day some time later. He dims the lights as he goes to pee, plug his phone into Derek’s charger, and get a fresh warm washcloth to clean Derek up as best he can. It’s hopeless, though; the come dried like glue in very sensitive places. Stiles wakes him up with kisses and says, “Shower time,” as Derek opens his eyes narrowly. He hauls him upright by the arm and Derek moans pitifully. “Come on, you big baby. You’ll thank me in the morning.”
Derek staggers like a zombie all the way to the bathroom, but he lets Stiles put him under the stream of hot water, holds his arms up and spreads his legs as Stiles rubs what has to be Cora’s sweet pea-scented body wash all over him. Stiles cleans himself a little less attentively and then switches places with Derek to rinse off.
Derek’s awake by the time they get out and towel dry. Stiles can tell when Derek presses him against the bathroom door and kisses him thoroughly.
“You have homework?”
“No,” Stiles says, even though he totally does and a couple classes are going to kick his ass tomorrow. From Derek’s frown, he knows Stiles is lying, but he doesn’t say anything. Stiles is grateful for that. His dad isn’t going to let him have another night like this for a while, at least not until he turns eighteen and this isn’t illegal anymore, so he wants to take full advantage of it.
He continues, “I don’t know if I can come again,” though because Derek is beautiful and rubbing up against him and his cock is taking just the barest tingle of interest in him.
“Do you mind if we make out a little?”
Stiles grins against Derek’s mouth. “No,” he says, and they go back to bed and do just that.
Eventually they’re just lying together, touching and breathing the same air, when Derek says, “Why did you think I was kissing you so much if not because I—I mean, because I wanted to. Why else would I kiss you?”
“I thought you were—making a point.”
“What point?”
“Various points. Like—don’t get hurt and feel better.”
Derek glares at him.
“I know! I’m an idiot!”
“What, did you think I was kissing everybody to make a point? Make a point here, make a point there?”
“No!” He hadn’t even considered that possibility. He would have been heartbroken if he’d found out Derek was kissing other people. What is wrong with him? “I just thought we were in a sexual—exclusive—friendship.”
“You know what most people call that?”
“I just couldn’t accept that you’d want that—with me.”
“I guess I can’t judge. I knew you were attracted to me, but I thought . . .”
“What?”
“I figured you were a horny teenager who wouldn’t say no even if you didn’t like me very much. I was hoping I could bring you around, but—”
“I love you.”
Derek’s mouth snaps shut and he smiles slowly. “I love you, too.”
“Okay, so, forget before. We know the score now.”
Stiles runs the tip of his nose down the bridge of Derek’s and then brings their mouths together—and this?—this kiss is a promise.
And when Derek pads barefoot into the kitchen to Stiles making breakfast, that kiss was good morning (and good morning, and good morning). And when it starts pouring rain and Derek brought him a rain poncho before practice, that kiss was you’re the best. And when Stiles won’t stop talking about Star Trek during training, those kisses were shut up, this is boring. And after Stiles makes him watch three episodes of the Original Series, those kisses, he can only assume, are okay, I was an idiot.
And years from then every kiss still means yours and mine and yes.
DONE.