( o16 ) teardrops on the fire
pairing; stiles/derek. that's right. i gave in and now i'm giving up
rating & warnings; nc-17 - contains explicit, consensual sex involving a minor (in most states and to the federal government; seventeen) and featuring rimming, fingerfucking, (slightly humiliating) dirty talk, barebacking, knotting, multiple orgasms, coming untouched, and comeplay. warnings for light dom/sub and slight undernegotiated kinkage, brief references to: fisting, voyeurism, recreational drug use, somnophilia, orgies/gangbangs, and breeding/mating/mpreg, but this fic is not those kinks.
wordcount; ~nine thousand
author's note; a non-prompt ??? ?fic?? a new fandmo?? / done. i'm done. also posted to that shiny new ao3 toy i've been playing with (pseud: nymphe). title from massive attack.
Derek's got him on his knees in the middle of the bed, his shoulders slumped towards the mattress so that he makes a perfect, sinuous triangle, with one concave side where his back's curved like a stretching kitten. They always do it like this, because Derek likes the visual submission, and Stiles likes the vulnerability the position leaves him in, likes the way he can't see what Derek's going to do to him, can't predict his next move.
Likes the way Derek always whispers sinfully filthy praise into the sweat-slicked skin of his lower back.
"So pretty like this, Stiles," Derek says, and presses the tips of his fangs light like a tease at the dip of his spine. Stiles isn't expecting what comes next, of course, because each time with Derek, Derek throws a new kink at him. And Stiles trusts him with his back turned, literally, positioned like this, trusts Derek wholly and implicitly with his body, trusts Derek to make him feel safe. To take him to his limits, but to know how far's too far for him.
Stiles turns his face into a pillow and moans like he's dying in answer, like a moan is an answer, like Derek is expecting him to be able to answer when he can barely think straight, let alone think hard enough to produce words. All they've really done so far is make out, but Derek kisses him like he fucks him, hot and heavy and intense. He feels like a hussy for getting so desperate just from being kissed, but he justifies it by believing anybody else in his position would be just as far gone.
(It gets him even hotter every time he remembers that Derek is his, that he's the only one Derek fucks.)
"Shh," Derek hushes him, "I'll take care of you, you know I will, always do. My beautiful boy, Stiles."
And then Derek dips his head low, low, low, to where Stiles' balls are hanging heavy between his thighs, drags the point of his wet, wet, wet tongue up from his taint to pass over his asshole, right back up to the asymmetrical scattering of moles in the twin dimples above his ass. Stiles' thighs are shaking with tension by the time Derek lifts his face, lifts his hands to press his thumbs into the backs of his thighs, smoothing the muscles like he knows Stiles' legs are about to give out.
(And, Stiles thinks, Derek probably does know by heart when exactly Stiles' legs will give out, because Derek is the type of guy who fucks like it's his sole intent to give his partner earth-shattering, bone-jarringly intense orgasms, always drawing out the pleasure until Stiles' entire body has jellied, half-collapsed into the mattress, the floor, the table, the fucking wall. His ability to read Stiles' every stuttering heartbeat probably helps, too; Derek's probably timed how long it takes to get him in a state.)
Derek's never rimmed him before, but from the amount of porn featuring rimming Stiles has on his hard drive, Stiles figures it's a safe bet Derek'll be able to get him off just with his mouth.
"Yeah," Stiles manages, "yeah, with your- keep with your, mouth, please, Derek," and he breaks off into an absolutely wrecked pornstar moan, and Derek is going to keep with the mouth, alright, definitely, that's a thing he's definitely going to do.
And Derek does, ever the Alpha, strong and sure and in control. He smooths his thumbs up to the curve of Stiles' asscheeks, then spreads his ass apart with one hand and wraps the other around Stiles' hip to steady him and just fucking goes for it, shoves his face right where Stiles is open and musky and begging for it.
He's not tentative about it, either, just licks wet and messy with the flat of his tongue over Stiles' asshole until Stiles is spreading his legs as far as they can go, squirming back and unclenching so that Derek can wriggle the tip of his tongue inside of him. He doesn't push his whole tongue into him, not yet, because Derek loves to tease him. He thrusts the tip into him, moves it in little circles, loosening him up and getting him slick. It's obscene how wet Derek gets him, how wet he feels; he's so wet he doesn't think Derek'll have to use lube to fuck right into him.
He will, though, because they both like it dirty, rough, the utterly masculine feel of come and spit and sweat and lube everywhere; dirt and a little blood, too, that one time they'd fucked out in the woods after a run-in with hunters. Sweat's already pooling in his lower back and at the bends of his knees, his elbows and his forehead pressed against the pillow. His dick's drooling precum into his belly button, his mouth's hanging open and probably drooling on the pillow. He's a mess, the bed's a mess, and they've barely even started. This wouldn't be the first set of sheets they've sacrificed in the name of really, really good sex.
Derek licks at him and licks at him, around his hole and into him, and he's so overwhelmed by all the sensation he's sure he'll go off like a rocket and be ready for round two by the time Derek feels merciful enough to finger him. And then, God help him, Derek pulls back and spits right above his hole, and he can feel it dripping down into him where he's loosened up, and he practically convulses when Derek rubs his spit over his clenching hole and pushes it into him with the tip of one finger.
It feels so dirty he wants to scream, and come, God, he really wants to come. "Derek," he whines, and tries to shove his arm under him to wrap a hand around his cock, hard and pulsing between his stomach and the sheets, but Derek stops him, smacks his hand away, growling.
"If you wanna come, you'll do it without touching yourself," Derek says, like the controlling Alpha freak that he is, and Stiles whines some more until Derek pushes his finger in slowly, knuckle by knuckle, and he's relaxed and wet, but he's still so tight around it. Derek twists his finger, stretches his hole open and licks into him, around his finger, fingertip pressed against his prostate, and moves his hand from its' place around Stiles' hip to reach up and tweak his nipple, and Stiles can't help it, can't take that much stimulation. He shakes until his legs give out and he collapses, whimpering and shooting sticky lines of come onto his belly and the bed.
"There you go, come for me, sweetheart. Such a good boy, Stiles, so gorgeous," Derek says, each word heavy and burning like a brand where he whispers it, mouth pressed against his asshole in a sloppy kiss, and if Stiles hadn't just come two seconds ago, he'd be coming all over again, Derek's praise melting him from the inside out, leaving him quaking, tears in his eyes.
"Fuck," he says, because fuck, it's amazing. It's so amazing, it's ridiculous.
Derek works him through it, pressing chaste, open-mouthed kisses up his spine, tapping the pad of his finger against his prostate so Stiles' body hiccups through the aftershocks, until it gets to be so much he's hissing and squirming away from Derek's finger. Derek keeps his finger in him, kisses the back of his neck, his hair, his earlobe. Turns Stiles' head and kisses his cheek, the tip of his nose, his mouth when Stiles gets his wits about him enough to angle his head up.
"Derek," Stiles says, and even he's surprised at how cracked and broken his voice comes out. He wants to giggle like a schoolgirl, because Derek is so sweet to him, even when he's ruining him with crazy good orgasms. His stomach is slick with his come; he feels drenched in it, there's so much. It feels like he's still coming, the pleasure making him spasm every couple of seconds, every time Derek twists his finger or kisses him; like the intimacy of it alone is milking the pleasure from his body.
"Okay?" Derek asks, kissing him soft and sweet, little closed-mouthed kisses on his bottom lip, chin. He waits for Stiles to nod, and then says, "Because I'm not done with you yet."
Stiles wants to groan, and go to sleep, because orgasms are tiring, oh my God, he feels like Derek just wrung him out. But he's used to having two or more orgasms with Derek by now, and sure as fucking shit, his cock's still half-mast, like even his dick knows Derek's not finished with him. Traitorous dick.
"Yeah," Stiles moans, "'m good, fuck, fuck me, are you gonna fuck me now?"
"So desperate for it, you want it so bad, don't you, slut." Stiles gasps, shaky, because slut feels like a term of endearment as much as sweetheart or baby now. Derek drags his finger out of him, slow so Stiles can feel each knuckle passing the rim of his asshole. His come is cooling, tacky in his treasure trail and sticking to his pubes. It feels gross, and he sort of wants to get up and wash off, but more than that he wants Derek's dick in him, like, now, preferably.
He might have said that last bit out loud, because Derek smirks into the crook of his neck, taking a long, pointed sniff and then licking the sweat off the back of his shoulder.
"You drive my wolf fucking crazy," Derek says, like Stiles doesn't already know this, know that his slutty submission makes Derek's wolf want to crawl to the surface and fuck him into next week. It's pretty obvious, anyway, evidenced in the way Derek's claws are tickling him where they scratch lightly up his sides, in the way Derek keeps scenting him, his arousal pungent in his sweat.
He feels heavy, too hot, his mind cloudy like a fog has settled over him. "That's nice," he slurs, "you gonna fuck me or not, Der?" Like Derek would think about denying him his dick in this state, hard and thick and dripping with precum, grinding between Stiles' asscheeks. Like he's not dying to get his dick inside Stiles, while he's limp and sleepy from orgasm. His wolf must be itching to play with his submissive little mate.
Derek draws back and kneels between Stiles' spread thighs, then wraps his hands around Stiles' hips and flips him over.
The second he's on his back Derek's mouth is on his, and they're not the sweet, slow kisses they were right after he'd come; Derek urges his mouth open, pushes his tongue inside, fangs tugging at his lower lip. For a fleeting second, Stiles almost thinks to push Derek's mouth away from him, because it's too much of a reminder of where his mouth just was. But Derek's mouth is firm, unrelenting; his fingers are holding Stiles' chin in place, and he's kissing him like he wants to leave a permanent imprint of himself on Stiles' lips. Stiles barely has the energy to keep up, his mouth slack and his body pliant, and all he can really do is lie there and take what Derek gives him, and it's so, so good.
Derek's hand snakes between the mattress and his back, slithering down to grab his ass. His claws are still out, and Stiles is caught between shivering and flinching, because they're pricking him and it stings, but holy shit, danger's always turned him on - no wonder he runs with the wolves. No wonder he's fucking an Alpha.
He throws one arm back behind his head, digging under the pillows for the bottle of lube they keep stashed there, snatching it up and tossing it at Derek's fucking ridiculous chest. Derek's claws retract as he moves his hand from his ass to Stiles' thigh, dragging it up to rest around his waist.
"How many fingers do you want tonight, baby?" Derek asks, pressing the pads of two against his hole.
Stiles has half a mind to tell him to just shove his dick in without fingers first, but he's not desperate enough to risk going without proper prep first. They've tried that before, and it felt fucking good, being stuffed full of dick, stretched wide and tight around Derek's thick cock, but Derek's dick leaves him sore enough in the mornings as it is, and he loves Derek's fingers too much to not want them in him all the time.
Stiles arches up to kiss Derek, humming against his lips. The rimjob and orgasm have got him relaxed, feeling loose and soaked, and he loves feeling so open. It feels liberating, like he's weightless, drifting, a pleasant buzzing beneath his skin - it feels almost like being high.
"F-four," he says, which is almost five, almost Derek's entire fist, and stick a pin in that thought, because the idea of Derek fisting him needs to be revisited in the future. They usually only manage three before he starts begging for Derek's dick, so four will be an exercise in restraint for him.
He feels like Derek's opened a pandora's box of new kinks for him, because before they started fucking, fisting wasn't a thing he'd given much thought to, beyond the obvious ouch, how, why from the porn he's seen. Of course, he never thought he'd be into a lot of the stuff Derek's done to him; but holy hell, he's gone from undesirable virgin with a tendency for researching kinks with no hope of acting on them, to Derek's personal fucktoy/kink tester in the few months they've been together, and there aren't a whole lot of kinks they've tried that he hasn't ended up getting off on and jerking off to later.
The sudden burst of pheromones he's giving off must rouse something in Derek, because he shoves his face into Stiles' neck and bites him, sucking a hickey into his skin. Stiles stiffens all over and bites his own lip to stifle a moan; he learned fucking fast that biting was a huge turn-on for him, something he's grateful Derek loves to do so much of.
"Derek," he whines, and he's a little ashamed that Derek's reduced his vocabulary to pretty much just his name, and a little more ashamed that the humiliation of being so slutty turns him on even more. "Fuck, I need-"
"Quiet, baby, I know what you need." And, God, Derek's bedroom talk is another thing doing him in, and he can just tell his next orgasm is probably going to be one of those blackout orgasms. When they first started having sex, he was a little afraid Derek's strong-and-silent aura would carry over into bed, and he's never been more pleased to have been so wrong.
He must have missed Derek lubing up his fingers while he was whining like a bitch, because the next thing he knows Derek's smearing what must be the entire fucking bottle all over his ass. He wonders if this is what it feels like to be a girl, so wet all over down there, but then Derek pushes two fingers into him and he suddenly doesn't have the capacity to do much wondering about anything anymore, so caught up in just feeling.
The first two fingers go in easily; Derek usually starts him off with two, so he's gotten used to the pressure, the stretch, the slight ache. There's so much lube slicking him up that they just sort of glide right in, and there's friction because he's tight, but he hasn't tightened up enough since his orgasm for it to burn. His body just opens right up to them, accepts them into him like he was made for it, and the idea that his body was made just to be Derek's gets him so hot that he starts shaking again.
His thighs fall open around Derek, and he'd closed his eyes when Derek's fingers entered him, but he can feel the heat of Derek's gaze watching where their bodies meet. Derek loves watching Stiles' tiny hole stretch tight around his fingers, his dick - Stiles knows because Derek's told him, is always telling him, and Stiles always makes sure to keep his legs spread far as they can go so Derek can watch.
That's another thing he thought he'd never be able to get off on - the feeling of being watched so intently, of being on display, like a ten-course meal served up to a starving man. Years of comparing himself to people like Jackson have left him with a shattered self-esteem, but having Derek's attention focused on him makes him feel important, worthy, and Derek's constant commentary about how good he looks like this has probably given him a bit of an ego complex. Derek makes him feel sexy, like he's a catch, like he's someone people would want to fuck. Like he's someone.
He makes a noise like a purr when Derek teases him with a third finger, rubbing it in the slick around his hole. Derek surges up to kiss the noise out of him, scissoring his fingers.
"You love my fingers, don't you, pet," he says, in case Stiles wasn't making it obvious with all the blissful sounds falling out of the bitten-raw O of his mouth. He keeps trying to control his noises, keeps pressing his lips together, biting his own mouth, the inside of his cheek, keeps turning his face to quieten himself into the pillow. But Derek loves his breathy little noises, loves being able to fuck grunts and gasps and moans out of him, and he always ends up giving in, anyway, too turned on to put the energy into controlling himself.
He's always been self-conscious about being too loud, too mouthy, and that's another reason he was scared of entering a sexual relationship; he thought his partner would be annoyed by how noisy he'd get, but knowing Derek loves his noises gets him even more worked up. Derek's done wonders for his self-esteem.
His dick's lying plump against his stomach again, already, thick drops of precum leaking out of him, wetting his belly. "Another, want more," he slurs, because he knows that if he doesn't beg Derek for more, Derek'll just keep toying with him all night long, and he's not sure he'd be able to keep up. He barely has the ability to string together the words to beg as it is.
"You look so sweet like this," Derek says, "so peaceful, like you could live happily the rest of your life if I'd just keep my fingers in you."
Stiles wriggles his hips, feels like he's a ship being anchored, weighted down and sinking. His eyes are watering, and his stomach muscles are clenching, and it's an effort not to burst at the seams.
"You need this, don't you, pup. More than you need to breathe." Derek's mouth latches onto his clavicle, and Stiles thrashes and grips the bedsheets between his fingers and fucking comes again, before Derek even manages to get a third finger in him. There's less come dribbling out of him this time, but it feels like his orgasm hits him harder, lasts twice as long as his first one.
He's kind of shocked that he'd come so soon, so suddenly; feels breathless, like it was punched out of him, something he'd had no control over.
Derek murmurs more flattery into his collarbone, and he doesn't sound disappointed in Stiles at all, which makes his heart flutter; Derek sounds like he's happy with Stiles' utter lack of control, like he's happy Stiles is so overwhelmed with Derek's touch that he comes without warning. Like he's proud of him - and Derek probably knows that he's a fixer, always trying to do good by people, never happy until he knows he's made other people happy. That he's someone who needs to feel validated, recognized, after years of having people ignore him and blow off all the work he's put into failing friendships and broken relationships. That he's at his happiest when he feels like he's done something good enough to make people proud of him, finally.
He's never felt deserving of appreciation; ever since his best friend and the rest of the pack have gone from a bunch of reasonably weak, unpopular teenagers like himself to strong, powerful, popular creatures of the night, he's felt sort of left behind, worthless, lonelier than when Scott was his only true friend. Having Derek, the Alpha, this impossibly strong, gorgeous man, practically worship him makes him feel so serene, so soft and calm. Powerful in his own right, like he finally owns himself. Like he's no longer just the inferior human in a pack of flawless beings, but someone valuable, precious.
He slumps against the bed, and if ever a person fit the definition for docile, he's certain he's that person.
Derek's hushing him, bringing him down slowly, and he wonders what Derek must be seeing: glazed-over eyes, dewy skin, flushed pink cheeks, yielding, vulnerable body; he must seem the perfect picture of submission. That's certainly what he feels like, at least.
He's read a lot about BDSM, and subspace, and he's talked with Derek about it, because he's always known he'd be a little submissive in bed. But he didn't know he'd be this submissive; he didn't think he'd ever be able to relax enough to get that into it. He wonders now if this is what subspace is; if the primal satisfaction he's feeling is a normal thing during sex, or if this is what being a sub feels like. But thinking back on the other times they've had sex, he doesn't ever remember feeling like this - it was always good, obviously, but he's never felt so perfect, so at peace. So safe and protected.
Derek wraps his arms around him, and it feels so intimate. He's almost scared; if he were with anyone else, he's sure he'd be terrified with how vulnerable he feels right now, like anyone else could destroy him while he's open and malleable. But he's with Derek, and he trusts Derek, knows he'd never take advantage of him in this state.
"I know, baby, I know," Derek's saying, and "You're so good, pup, almost."
He's shaking, he can feel it, violent shudders wracking his body, like bolts of lightening striking him over and over again throughout his entire body.
He sighs, soft and breathy, and it feels like an admission. He doesn't even realize he'd thrown an arm across his face until Derek peels it away, so carefully, like Stiles is a precious and fragile thing, a porcelain vase his mother told him to never break.
"Look at me," Derek whispers, kissing his cheek, petting his hair. Stiles leans into the caress, needs the anchor to keep him grounded. "I've got you, you're okay."
Stiles blinks his eyes open, tentatively, because they've been shut for a while and the light bathing the room feels harsh and blinding.
"Good," Derek says, "good. One more, okay, sweetheart?"
Stiles feels his face go hot again with Derek's unyielding attention to him. He nods, not trusting his voice not to break, not trusting himself to not start sobbing if he opens his mouth.
"No, Stiles. Tell me. I need you to tell me you're okay, I need you to tell me what you need."
He goes to turn his face into the pillow to wipe any stray tears he expects to start leaking out of him once he starts to speak, but Derek catches his chin between his fingers and turns his head to make sure he's alert and looking at him when he speaks.
Derek always told him never to look into the eyes of a predator, but he feels less like prey and more like an equal right now, so he looks straight into Derek's piercing gaze and says, "More, Derek, I need more," and Derek lets him turn his head into the pillow when his voice cracks and he starts crying.
He never feels like he can tell what Derek's about to do, but he's expecting it when Derek kisses him and licks the tear off his cheek.
"You're doing so well, Stiles. One more, we're almost done."
He whimpers at the loss when Derek removes his fingers, but it's only to squirt more lube onto them, and then he's back with three fingers. He presses in slowly with all three, kissing Stiles' cheek when he goes breathless and his stomach muscles clench.
He fingers him slowly, but this time it's less like he thinks Stiles is breakable and more like he knows Stiles needs the frustration of being taken apart piece by piece, less about frequency and more about intent. He needs to be taken apart piece by piece, so he can have the reassurance of Derek putting him back together, carefully fitting all his puzzle pieces into the right slots.
Derek doesn't aim for his prostate, because now it's purely preparation; he wants Stiles to come when he's inside him, this time. He needs to feel Stiles give in completely, needs to feel him shudder apart so Derek can fix him.
"So perfect, so good," Derek says, a quiet rumble into his neck. "Tell me how it feels."
"Yeah," Stiles sighs, "it's- Derek, it's so, God. I can't-" Stiles sounds so broken, like an overwhelmed child, sobbing out these half-noises into the pillow and biting his lip. He's falling apart, slowly, but it's not enough; Stiles needs the liberation of being completely at Derek's mercy, and Derek can read him like an open fucking book, because-
"You can, baby, you are. Look at you, taking it like such a good boy. So open, so eager." So young, so innocent, so ruined. He lets his fingertips brush over Stiles' prostate just once, just enough to see him twitch, his mouth going slack.
Stiles has seen impossible monsters, straight out of nightmares. He's held strong and stoic through cruel hunters and sadistic rogues, has fought for what's his when he should have been growing up normally, without being thrown into the hellish whirlwind Derek's pack has dragged him into. He's had his adolescence stolen from him, has been forced into growing up far quicker than he should've had to. Derek's only seen him look older than his seventeen years - lying to his Sheriff father and stealing county documents, breaking into buildings and rescuing his kidnapped friends and being kidnapped and beaten and facing death.
Derek's never seen him so vulnerable, so seventeen. Stiles has never looked more like a child than he does now - wide, wet eyes, flushed skin, soft features, lanky, relaxed body.
Here, under Derek's relentless hands and mouth and words, he's allowed to feel young and innocent again. He's allowed to go soft where he's learned to go harsh; can yield where he's been taught to tense up. He's allowed to take pleasure, instead of denying himself the opportunity, because there's always something lurking around the corner, and he's used to waiting for it, ominous, instead of living his teen years like he should be.
It makes Derek want to keep him here, like this, forever. It makes him want to kiss Stiles silly, until he's the soft, brilliant boy he was before he was forced into werewolf business. Before he grew hard and angry and fierce.
Stiles makes a pitiful noise and Derek quiets him with a kiss, nipping at his lower lip. "Want another finger, baby?"
Stiles says, "Yeah, yeah, Der, want," and tilts his hips, releasing a series of pent up obscenities that make Derek want to laugh, because Stiles is such a teenager - a horny, overzealous teenager used to jacking off alone and ideas of being forever virginal, finally having what he fantasizes and daydreams about.
Stiles cries when Derek fucks his pinky into him. He feels so stretched, so full, like he's at his limit. But he knows Derek's dick is going to be even bigger inside of him, and a wave of tremors pass through his body. He's vibrating, thinking about Derek's dick inside of him, how good it's going to feel; he'll be so loose, afterward, so sloppy and raw. He craves that feeling, of being so used and abused, so fucked out and weak.
He's so glad it's summer, and he can stay the night, because the idea of driving back home and facing his dad and his friends at school the next day would be unimaginable. He knows he'll be limping, and he might lie to his dad on a daily basis, but he's not about to risk his dad finding out he's getting fucked pretty regularly by a man he'd once gotten arrested. And he might not see Scott daily anymore, but he's really not prepared for Scott's pretentious wolf senses to figure out he's fucking their Alpha.
He's going to need an entire day of cuddling and napping, followed by a rigorous shower or three, before he'll be able to face his dad or his friends without giving everything away. He almost - he feels his face go warm at the thought, but, he almost wants them to be able to tell; he wants Scott and the pack to be able to smell Derek on him, in him.
Stiles wants people to know he belongs to Derek. He wants Derek to show him off, parade him around, wants to feel like Derek's so proud of having Stiles to himself that he wants to flaunt it in front of people. Like he's so lucky he's claimed the finest possession available, and wants to show off his shiny new toy to all the kids on the playground.
He thinks Derek might want to do that, too, is so possessive that he'd probably get off on making sure people knew just how much Stiles is his and only his. Stiles wants to whine at his sudden desire for his pack to see him like this - owned, thoroughly fucked, quiet and exposed and vulnerable. He goes hot all over, clenching and twitching every time Derek's fingers fuck into him, and for a second he seriously thinks he's going to come again unless Derek puts his dick in him right now.
"Der," Stiles moans, dragging a hand up Derek's arm to dig his fingernails into Derek's bicep. He can feel his asshole, slick and rubbed raw, clamping around Derek's fingers, trying to keep them in him every time Derek drags them out of him, and matches the rhythm of his fingers biting little crescent moons into Derek's skin with Derek's fingers sinking into him. "'m ready, need you now, need."
Derek mouths at his chest, lapping at his sweaty skin, and removes his fingers one at a time, until just his pinky is tugging at his rim. Stiles is left practically writhing, with Derek keeping him open around one finger; it's a tease, and so not fucking enough, it's agonizing, terrible and wonderful.
"Spread your legs, pup, let me see you." Derek's mouth is so hot where he's laying kisses around his nipple, and Stiles obeys like that's all he knows how to do anymore - opens his thighs wide, his knees splayed around Derek's waist, ankles locked above his ass. He's gonna need a fucking massage after this; his muscles are aching, and he's glad for all the running he does for lacrosse, because it's made him flexible enough he can stretch for long periods of time without cramping.
Stiles gathers the rest of his waning energy and fucks back onto Derek's finger, trying his level best to tempt Derek into getting his dick in him fucking yesterday. Derek loves him when he's eager, restless and hungry for a cock filling him - which is probably what landed him in his currently wanton state - and all he can do is shove his hips back greedily, a silent plea for more.
Until he gets not-so-silent; little gasps of, "Please, Derek," and "Derek, your fucking dick," and, what probably does Derek in, "Please, love you, trust you, need you, now, God."
Because he only breaks out the L-word for special occasions - life-affirming sex, and that one time when he was really high and couldn't hold it back. It feels like that now, tumbling out of his mouth without his permission, and his brain-to-mouth filter is usually broken at best, but it feels fucking non-existent now.
He's never been shy about love confessions, as so clearly evidenced by his ridiculously lengthy infatuation with Lydia, but it feels more somehow, with Derek - probably because he's actually in a romantic/sexual relationship with Derek, and love is an actual thing that he feels has a chance to be requited, this time.
But now that he's said it, he can't fucking stop, half-words falling from his mouth gracelessly, disjointed and mangled. He thinks he should feel self-conscious about it, terrified of rejection, but all he can feel is safe, tingly. Like Derek's been telling him he loves him all along, with the way he lays kisses against his skin, the way Derek's always saving his life, the way Derek trusts Stiles to save his.
It's too much, it's too - he's not used to feeling this way, so heavy and light at the same time, like he's having an out of body experience. He thinks he might black out, until-
"Shh, gorgeous, I'll give you what you need." Stiles is openly sobbing now, face blotchy and tears wetting his cheeks, his cupid's bow. He licks his lip and chases the saltiness away, and Derek keeps kissing him, chaste, sweet as fucking candy, as he drags his pinky out of him.
"Yeah," Stiles says, so soft, so willing. "Please, Der."
They don't use condoms - something Stiles never figured he would be okay with, but Derek's incapable of contracting human disease, and Stiles was new, fresh and clean, a perfect virgin, when they got together, and with no chance of a pregnancy occurring, he's pretty sure there's no other reason why he'd want Derek to wear one anyway, besides occasions when a quick cleanup is necessary. The feel of Derek's come marking him up from the inside out, the praise Derek showers him with when he plays with the come dripping out of his hole, and, not to mention, not having to shell out money for the ridiculous amount of condoms they'd go through if they wore one every time they fucked: the idea of bothering with condoms just seems wasteful, unnecessary.
He hitches one leg up a little higher around Derek's waist, prodding a knee into his pectoral. Sighs a little, blissful, because he's finally about to get what he wants, what he deserves, what he fucking needs.
Derek squeezes more lube onto his dick and around his asshole, leans down to kiss him when he drags himself along his rim, still teasing, feeling Stiles shiver and clench with every brush against his oversensitive, burning asshole. "Please," he says, still quiet, mostly because he still can't fucking stop spewing words, loose-lipped with pleasure, but also because he knows Derek needs to know he's still with him, still aware. Still consenting.
The stretch doesn't hurt when Derek finally presses the head of his dick inside of him. It burns a little, obviously, because he's already been toyed with for so long, until he's sore and raw; feels like a pull, elastic, like he's a rubber band slowly being stretched. Like he's being molded into something new, something better. Reworked to fit all the good things Derek's pouring into him.
It feels dramatic, but the intimacy is drugging him, and he feels like Derek's changing him, permanently, like his entire life before Derek was just that, just a before to an after. He feels like those people who suddenly find God after a near-death experience or a traumatizing event, who find clarity. He feels like he's found clarity.
Stiles' eyes are damp and he's probably muttering insensible noises, because Derek shushes him with reassurances every inch he presses in. It's impossible how much he's feeling; he's spent so long trying to mask his emotions in the face of everything they've faced recently, it feels like an overload of too much, too-sudden sensory input. Everything is so sharp, so loud: the pressure of Derek's cock, the squelch of the lube, his shattered breaths.
He's stretching and stretching and about to snap. Derek's going to break him, and he's never wanted to be broken so much in his entire fucking life. It feels - oddly soothing, to be so consumed.
Stiles almost doesn't think he could possibly feel any more, until Derek bottoms out, hips flush against him, and he feels like a loosened dam, everything flooding out of him. He needs, needs to be shuffled and rearranged and put back anew, in the right order, this time.
He goes fervent, everything in him a blazing fire; scratches up Derek's back, clawing desperately, mewling and practically thrashing, he's so urgent. Derek's hips are stalled against his, probably in an attempt to give him time to adjust to it, but then Stiles whimpers out a wet, cracked sob, and Derek growls and bites at his throat and finally fucking moves. He moves like Stiles needs him to, too - eager, jagged thrusts, like he doesn't have the strength or the patience to fuck him tenderly.
Derek always tries to hold back on him when they fuck; tries to keep his claws sheathed, his fangs in. Tries to keep from leaving too many noticeable marks, like he's ashamed of the animalistic needs of his wolf, but something seems different, now. He's less careful. His face is furry where he's shoved it into Stiles' neck, and his claws are points of dangerous pressure on his stomach. He's biting less, but leaving more marks, in the form of hickeys that he's really hoping are in places his dad won't notice them.
He must sense that Stiles needs to be broken, because he's certainly not acting like he's afraid of breaking him, like usual.
Stiles uses Derek's hold on his waist as leverage to lift his hips, trying to get Derek deeper. It doesn't take much effort, because Derek's hold on him is so tight that he's taking most of the weight, and Stiles goes up easily, his ass practically in Derek's lap.
Which, wow, he's a fan of that angle. The new position lets Derek fuck down into him, and it's doing fucking perfect things for his prostate. Which, at this point, is starting to feel less perfect and more devastating. If he were in less of a state, he'd probably have told Derek to stop for fear he'd black out. He almost wishes they had a safeword, because he's still not sure he won't black out.
He's not even sure he'll mind if he does black out, as long as Derek doesn't stop.
He's also a little terrified of how unconcerned he is with the idea of Derek continuing to fuck him while he's blacked out.
(He's even more terrified of how the idea of Derek fucking him while he's unconscious sort of, a little bit, turns him on. That's a piece of his subconscious he's not even ready to bring to the surface yet.)
Derek's thrusts are growing more unsteady, jerky, quick little thrusts, never pulling out too far for too long. Like Derek can't bear to take his dick out of Stiles.
He wants to whine, squirm around to get Derek going again, too greedy for the dick inside of him. Too far gone to care.
Derek groans every time Stiles clenches down like a fucking vice around him, pulling him in. "My little whore, aren't you. You love my dick."
Stiles stiffens up all over, so close, so - he's going to come, if Derek keeps fucking calling him that. "I do, Der," he cries, "Your- your little whore. Only yours." He's hiccuping, his breath hitching, tears streaming down his cherry-red cheeks. He feels like a fucking mess.
Derek smirks, like hearing Stiles acknowledge Derek's possession over him makes his wolf salivate with happiness. His hips are stalled against the backs of Stiles' thighs, just, waiting, and Stiles isn't fucking sure what he's waiting for, but he needs to know, so he can give it to him.
"Trust me?"
What - of course Stiles fucking trusts him. Derek has got to know Stiles trusts him. "Always, Derek, yeah." He's not even sure if it comes out right, his voice is so slurred with pleasure.
Derek lowers them back down against the mattress, so he's hovering over Stiles, still inside of him, but so that Stiles' hips aren't cushioned on his lap anymore; his lower back is back against the sheets, and he's sort of grateful for the support, for not having to hold his hips up any longer - getting a cramp right now is not exactly high on his list of things he wants to do. Also, the sheets are pleasantly cool against his sweaty skin. He's learned to be grateful for the little things.
Derek's tense above him, arms held taut either side of his shoulders. He licks Stiles' throat, and Stiles shudders at the feel, it's so wet, so utterly possessive. Derek's saliva drawing an invisible mark into his flesh.
"Gonna knot you, baby. Gonna fill you up with my come, lock it in you," he's saying, and - oh, God, his dick is, he's not sure what Derek's dick is doing, and he wants to go back to ten minutes ago when he thought he couldn't get any fuller and smack himself for being so fucking wrong. Because Derek's dick is definitely getting bigger, like that's a fucking thing that happens.
Not that he should be surprised anymore, honestly. He's fucking an impossible creature of the night, something that shouldn't exist, and he thinks he's capable of being surprised?
He's trembling, and, "Der, I can't, it's too much, it's so - Derek," and Derek's dick is going to rip him fucking in half. It hurts, not just a buzzing ache, but an active pain, and it probably wouldn't hurt so much if the gratuitous thickness inflated and stopped immediately, but it's slow, continuous. Derek's enormous knot is expanding inside of him torturously slowly, so that he feels every extra centimeter he's being stretched open.
Stiles clenches down around Derek, just to see what it feels like, if it feels different than his dick. It feels like extra, like Derek's dick has listened to his greedy moans for more and acquiesced, and it's actually exquisite, aside from the bursts of pain. He actually feels sort of blessed, because he's grateful for receiving Derek's dick on the regular - it's a fantastic dick, worthy of thanks - and to have even more of it?
Stiles is so far passed utter bliss. He thinks if he'd worked more on his spark this summer, he'd actually be glowing with all the energy surrounding him. He knows the importance energy has in the little magick he possesses, how powerful he could become with all the energy he feels in this moment.
He feels powerful. He wonders if this is how Derek feels when he goes into a full Alpha shift. Like he's a hurricane, like he could bring down entire towns with all the power in him. His fingertips feel jittery, pattering against Derek's skin, like he wants to use all the energy suddenly at his disposal, but doesn't have anything to pour it into.
Derek's panting over him, like his control is being pushed to his limits. Like he's seconds from wolfing out entirely, and he probably would, if Stiles weren't so human and breakable. He doesn't have much leverage anymore, tied so tight into Stiles, but he swivels his hips in circular little motions that knock his knot across Stiles' prostate, teasing little bumps.
Stiles is probably going to come again in a second, and it's going to be an orgasm that's going to leave him with nothing left to give for the next week or so.
"Tell me, if," Derek's saying, and his voice is strained, his words choppy, like producing words is taking effort he doesn't have, "if it hurts too much, I can - I can take some of your pain away."
"I can take it," Stiles says, whimpers, whatever, "I want it, Derek, give, come in me, please," and Derek, like he could ever deny Stiles when he says please, when he begs, Derek starts to come, groaning and spurting hot splashes of come into him.
Stiles' feels like his insides are being hosed with it, there's so much, and Derek keeps coming for what feels like forever - and he's already got a freaky werewolf dick, so the excessive amounts of come flooding his insides must be a werewolf thing, too. Stiles is probably going to regret when Derek's knot deflates and it all comes rushing out of him.
He almost wants to keep Derek's come in him forever. He wishes he had a buttplug to keep it locked inside of him for when Derek does manage to pull out. He thinks he'll have to invest in one.
Derek kisses his throat, soft, almost apologetic, and Stiles is not going to stand for that. This is probably single-handedly the best thing to happen to their sex life, and if Stiles has anything to say about it, it's going to happen every fucking time from now until he goes to his grave.
His dick is still hard, aching and red against his belly, and he needs to come. He nuzzles against Derek's chin and drags him into a kiss, still soft, because Derek gets so sweet after he's come - still coming, Stiles can feel it still splashing in him, in longer intervals - and licks at his lips until Derek trails one hand down to his stomach and presses, probably feeling the ridiculous amount of come filling him up, distending his flesh.
And if that's not the hottest thing he's ever felt. So full of Derek's come that his body has actually stretched to accommodate it all. He's moaning again, pitiful, whiny moans, and he can barely even moan anymore, he's so far gone. "Need," he's saying, "Derek, I need you to touch me, please."
"How does it feel," Derek says, "my come in you, filling you up. Wish I could breed you, stuff you full of pups. Want you to have my cubs, baby. You'd be such a good father. I'd keep you full with another litter every time, every-"
Stiles jerks and groans, his leg tightening around Derek's hip, and tonight has been an experience for him, he's never been introduced to so many kinks of his in one fuck.
Derek's still talking, still talking about having a family together, about getting Stiles pregnant, about Stiles having fucking children, cubs, and he's started to touch Stiles all over, feather-light, his nipples, so sensitive, his stomach, his dick, his asshole where he's stretched tight around Derek's knot.
"Yeah," Stiles says, "I want, Derek, I want to have your pups in me, I want you to fuck children into me, want it, Der."
Derek starts to roll his hips against him, like he's trying to fuck him still, even though there's no possible way he'll be able to pull out enough to get a good rhythm going again. His dick is relentless even when he can't move it, and every time Derek moves against him Stiles is reminded of how it's stuck inside of him, how they're locked together, how Derek's talking about fucking a child into him, and he's so overwhelmed with emotion his heart feels like it's going to go into overdrive and stop.
Not yet eighteen and he thinks he's probably going to die not from being chased and kidnapped by supernatural beasties, but rather because sex with Derek is so intense he's going to have an unnaturally early heart attack. And he's been worried about his dad's heart this whole time.
He can barely breathe, every inhale filled with Derek's scent and every exhale a stuttery exclamation of Derek's name. He'd be worried about having a panic attack and hyperventilating if he didn't trust Derek to keep him grounded to Earth.
Derek's caresses are still slow, but growing more determined - he strokes his dick in long, firm pulls, his entire concentration put into getting Stiles off. Stiles hasn't put so much careful attention into getting himself off since he hit puberty and discovered orgasms - the amount of commitment Derek's putting into Stiles' orgasm is honestly fascinating.
Stiles' stomach muscles quiver and clench with every tug on his dick, and it draws even more attention to the feel of Derek's come slicking him up, Derek's dick still plugging it inside of him, and he falls apart when Derek tilts his chin up with his nose and kisses him, his other hand pressing into his belly.
He gasps and flails like a fish out of water, the orgasm flowing like electricity through his entire body, and there's not much come left in him from his first few orgasms, just a couple of weak little trickles weeping over Derek's fingers.
"Good boy," Derek says, "So proud of you, baby, I knew you could come again," and Derek's pulling his come-covered fingers up to his own mouth to lick at them, to suck Stiles' come into his mouth, Jesus Christ, Stiles actually can't handle this.
The noises he makes when Derek kisses him with a mouth full of his own come are inhuman and very likely impossible. As soon as he gets his ability to make words back, he's going to call the kind folks at Merriam-Webster to tell them he's discovered new noises he thinks needs to be listed in the dictionary.
He throws himself into the kiss, trying to non-verbally thank Derek the only way he knows how for a sexual awakening he thought he'd already had when he lost his virginity, scooping his come out of Derek's mouth and swallowing it down like a thirsty man in a desert. There's come slippery on his lips from how messy the kiss is, come dribbling out of his mouth and down his chin. It's downright dirty; he's never been so full of, so covered in come.
He's never seen porn with someone as covered in come as he feels. He feels like he's been through one of those bukkake things, like he's just been gangbanged with come. Which is not altogether an unpleasant idea. If he or Derek were less possessive, he'd almost want to suggest, in the future, maybe, the idea of being gangbanged.
Maybe he will, anyway, just to see if it's something Derek would be interested in - they're open enough with their kinks that if he's curious enough about it, he's sure Derek would be more than happy to see it happen.
Also, even if Derek turns out to be opposed to seeing Stiles get gangbanged, he's sure the mere mention of wanting to be covered in someone else's come would ramp Derek up enough to keep him covered in himself for a good month or more. It'd go down as a win either way, in his book.
He sighs contentedly when Derek pulls away from his mouth to lay soft, come-wet kisses down his throat.
"Thanks," Derek says, "for allowing me to knot you. It's - I usually wouldn't. I'm sorry if I hurt you."
Stiles practically gurgles through a mouth full of come when he tries to respond. "Really wasn't - wasn't exactly a hardship for me, there, babe. Also, allowing you? I pretty much begged for it." No, he did beg for it.
"Regardless. My wolf -"
"I think I understand, Der. If it's anything like what I was feeling, I definitely. Yeah." He's too scared to put it into words, but. He figures the whole knotting thing must be intimate, or something, something Derek wouldn't feel comfortable doing if he didn't utterly trust Stiles; like how Stiles wouldn't feel comfortable being that submissive if he didn't utterly trust Derek.
Shit, he never expected to be this over the moon for Derek. It's just hitting him, how much he must trust Derek. He's probably in love with him.
"I think I'm love with you," Stiles says. Which, as opposed to his previous I love yous, is probably way bigger.
Derek doesn't respond, not exactly, but he doesn't tense up, or rip his still-inflated knot out of Stiles and run for the hills. He kisses Stiles' ear and the tip of his nose, and Stiles thinks that for Derek, the sentiment is probably there.
"I can hear your heartbeat," Derek says, which, obviously. He's a werewolf, and Stiles is well aware of his capabilities.
"Of course you can, doofus." Stiles' throat is way too scratchy to keep up with this conversation. Funny, he doesn't remember screaming being among the noises he'd made tonight.
"No, it's - louder. It sounds like it's intertwined with mine, somehow. I think-"
"No, shh, quiet. We should nap now. I'm gonna take a nap," Stiles says, because the next words out of Derek's mouth are probably going to be a bomb he's not sure he's prepared to have dropped on him yet. Maybe in the morning. After some coffee and a shower and a three-hour massage, and maybe some gooey, emotional morning - mid-afternoon, whenever he wakes up, honestly - sex.
His legs are still wrapped loosely around Derek's hips, his toes pressed into Derek's calves. He's warm, and Derek's nearly crushing him with his metric ton of muscly body, but he's comfortable. Especially with Derek still petting him all over.
"I don't know when my knot - I've never," Derek is so adorably flustered, and Stiles would grin if he could gather the energy to move his facial muscles.
"'s fine," Okay, he's smiling anyway, he can't help it. He's happy. "I like it. Being close. Ugh, you know I love cuddling." Derek's smiling, too, he can feel it against his neck. He's going to be pretty disappointed if Derek goes all weird and stoic when he can pull out.
He almost doesn't want to ask, afraid of Derek's answer, but he needs to know. There're knots in his stomach, and he's never been able to ignore his curiosity. "You don't regret it, do you? Knotting me?"
Derek makes a noise similar to a beached whale, so the answer to that is probably a no. "Do you?" Derek asks. "I didn't - you're good, right? This is okay?"
He's relaxed and tingly and so in love, and he's not about to let Derek smother him with manpain and an absurd fear that Stiles isn't one-hundred percent consenting to this, to everything.
"I'm not even going to respond to that," he says, but surges up to kiss Derek's dumb face instead. He wants to kiss Derek a lot, all the time. Derek deserves to be kissed all the time.
He opens his eyes when he falls back against the pillow, and Derek is honestly too cute for him to handle, he looks so vulnerable, so soft and squishy. Also, a little ridiculous - and a little ridiculously hot - because he has Stiles' come on his chin and lower lip.
Ugh, they should probably clean up before he passes out, or he's going to wake up with scratchy, dried come all over him, and he's had enough wet dreams to know that it's not exactly as sexy when it's dried and crusty as it is when it's still warm and wet.
There's no washcloth nearby, and the tissues are too far for him to reach his jellied arms, so, obviously, he's only left with his tongue. Not that he has any particular problem with licking come off of Derek's mouth. Not that Derek has a problem with it either, if his dick twitching inside of him is any indication.
"That's nice, hey. You can fuck me in the morning, but we're sleeping now. Cuddling, too." Derek scoffs, but nuzzles at his bared throat.
"You'd better be making me pancakes when I wake up," he says, and then passes out with Derek still in him, on him, all around him, with Derek kissing sweet-nothings into his skin.
rating & warnings; nc-17 - contains explicit, consensual sex involving a minor (in most states and to the federal government; seventeen) and featuring rimming, fingerfucking, (slightly humiliating) dirty talk, barebacking, knotting, multiple orgasms, coming untouched, and comeplay. warnings for light dom/sub and slight undernegotiated kinkage, brief references to: fisting, voyeurism, recreational drug use, somnophilia, orgies/gangbangs, and breeding/mating/mpreg, but this fic is not those kinks.
wordcount; ~nine thousand
author's note; a non-prompt ??? ?fic?? a new fandmo?? / done. i'm done. also posted to that shiny new ao3 toy i've been playing with (pseud: nymphe). title from massive attack.
Derek's got him on his knees in the middle of the bed, his shoulders slumped towards the mattress so that he makes a perfect, sinuous triangle, with one concave side where his back's curved like a stretching kitten. They always do it like this, because Derek likes the visual submission, and Stiles likes the vulnerability the position leaves him in, likes the way he can't see what Derek's going to do to him, can't predict his next move.
Likes the way Derek always whispers sinfully filthy praise into the sweat-slicked skin of his lower back.
"So pretty like this, Stiles," Derek says, and presses the tips of his fangs light like a tease at the dip of his spine. Stiles isn't expecting what comes next, of course, because each time with Derek, Derek throws a new kink at him. And Stiles trusts him with his back turned, literally, positioned like this, trusts Derek wholly and implicitly with his body, trusts Derek to make him feel safe. To take him to his limits, but to know how far's too far for him.
Stiles turns his face into a pillow and moans like he's dying in answer, like a moan is an answer, like Derek is expecting him to be able to answer when he can barely think straight, let alone think hard enough to produce words. All they've really done so far is make out, but Derek kisses him like he fucks him, hot and heavy and intense. He feels like a hussy for getting so desperate just from being kissed, but he justifies it by believing anybody else in his position would be just as far gone.
(It gets him even hotter every time he remembers that Derek is his, that he's the only one Derek fucks.)
"Shh," Derek hushes him, "I'll take care of you, you know I will, always do. My beautiful boy, Stiles."
And then Derek dips his head low, low, low, to where Stiles' balls are hanging heavy between his thighs, drags the point of his wet, wet, wet tongue up from his taint to pass over his asshole, right back up to the asymmetrical scattering of moles in the twin dimples above his ass. Stiles' thighs are shaking with tension by the time Derek lifts his face, lifts his hands to press his thumbs into the backs of his thighs, smoothing the muscles like he knows Stiles' legs are about to give out.
(And, Stiles thinks, Derek probably does know by heart when exactly Stiles' legs will give out, because Derek is the type of guy who fucks like it's his sole intent to give his partner earth-shattering, bone-jarringly intense orgasms, always drawing out the pleasure until Stiles' entire body has jellied, half-collapsed into the mattress, the floor, the table, the fucking wall. His ability to read Stiles' every stuttering heartbeat probably helps, too; Derek's probably timed how long it takes to get him in a state.)
Derek's never rimmed him before, but from the amount of porn featuring rimming Stiles has on his hard drive, Stiles figures it's a safe bet Derek'll be able to get him off just with his mouth.
"Yeah," Stiles manages, "yeah, with your- keep with your, mouth, please, Derek," and he breaks off into an absolutely wrecked pornstar moan, and Derek is going to keep with the mouth, alright, definitely, that's a thing he's definitely going to do.
And Derek does, ever the Alpha, strong and sure and in control. He smooths his thumbs up to the curve of Stiles' asscheeks, then spreads his ass apart with one hand and wraps the other around Stiles' hip to steady him and just fucking goes for it, shoves his face right where Stiles is open and musky and begging for it.
He's not tentative about it, either, just licks wet and messy with the flat of his tongue over Stiles' asshole until Stiles is spreading his legs as far as they can go, squirming back and unclenching so that Derek can wriggle the tip of his tongue inside of him. He doesn't push his whole tongue into him, not yet, because Derek loves to tease him. He thrusts the tip into him, moves it in little circles, loosening him up and getting him slick. It's obscene how wet Derek gets him, how wet he feels; he's so wet he doesn't think Derek'll have to use lube to fuck right into him.
He will, though, because they both like it dirty, rough, the utterly masculine feel of come and spit and sweat and lube everywhere; dirt and a little blood, too, that one time they'd fucked out in the woods after a run-in with hunters. Sweat's already pooling in his lower back and at the bends of his knees, his elbows and his forehead pressed against the pillow. His dick's drooling precum into his belly button, his mouth's hanging open and probably drooling on the pillow. He's a mess, the bed's a mess, and they've barely even started. This wouldn't be the first set of sheets they've sacrificed in the name of really, really good sex.
Derek licks at him and licks at him, around his hole and into him, and he's so overwhelmed by all the sensation he's sure he'll go off like a rocket and be ready for round two by the time Derek feels merciful enough to finger him. And then, God help him, Derek pulls back and spits right above his hole, and he can feel it dripping down into him where he's loosened up, and he practically convulses when Derek rubs his spit over his clenching hole and pushes it into him with the tip of one finger.
It feels so dirty he wants to scream, and come, God, he really wants to come. "Derek," he whines, and tries to shove his arm under him to wrap a hand around his cock, hard and pulsing between his stomach and the sheets, but Derek stops him, smacks his hand away, growling.
"If you wanna come, you'll do it without touching yourself," Derek says, like the controlling Alpha freak that he is, and Stiles whines some more until Derek pushes his finger in slowly, knuckle by knuckle, and he's relaxed and wet, but he's still so tight around it. Derek twists his finger, stretches his hole open and licks into him, around his finger, fingertip pressed against his prostate, and moves his hand from its' place around Stiles' hip to reach up and tweak his nipple, and Stiles can't help it, can't take that much stimulation. He shakes until his legs give out and he collapses, whimpering and shooting sticky lines of come onto his belly and the bed.
"There you go, come for me, sweetheart. Such a good boy, Stiles, so gorgeous," Derek says, each word heavy and burning like a brand where he whispers it, mouth pressed against his asshole in a sloppy kiss, and if Stiles hadn't just come two seconds ago, he'd be coming all over again, Derek's praise melting him from the inside out, leaving him quaking, tears in his eyes.
"Fuck," he says, because fuck, it's amazing. It's so amazing, it's ridiculous.
Derek works him through it, pressing chaste, open-mouthed kisses up his spine, tapping the pad of his finger against his prostate so Stiles' body hiccups through the aftershocks, until it gets to be so much he's hissing and squirming away from Derek's finger. Derek keeps his finger in him, kisses the back of his neck, his hair, his earlobe. Turns Stiles' head and kisses his cheek, the tip of his nose, his mouth when Stiles gets his wits about him enough to angle his head up.
"Derek," Stiles says, and even he's surprised at how cracked and broken his voice comes out. He wants to giggle like a schoolgirl, because Derek is so sweet to him, even when he's ruining him with crazy good orgasms. His stomach is slick with his come; he feels drenched in it, there's so much. It feels like he's still coming, the pleasure making him spasm every couple of seconds, every time Derek twists his finger or kisses him; like the intimacy of it alone is milking the pleasure from his body.
"Okay?" Derek asks, kissing him soft and sweet, little closed-mouthed kisses on his bottom lip, chin. He waits for Stiles to nod, and then says, "Because I'm not done with you yet."
Stiles wants to groan, and go to sleep, because orgasms are tiring, oh my God, he feels like Derek just wrung him out. But he's used to having two or more orgasms with Derek by now, and sure as fucking shit, his cock's still half-mast, like even his dick knows Derek's not finished with him. Traitorous dick.
"Yeah," Stiles moans, "'m good, fuck, fuck me, are you gonna fuck me now?"
"So desperate for it, you want it so bad, don't you, slut." Stiles gasps, shaky, because slut feels like a term of endearment as much as sweetheart or baby now. Derek drags his finger out of him, slow so Stiles can feel each knuckle passing the rim of his asshole. His come is cooling, tacky in his treasure trail and sticking to his pubes. It feels gross, and he sort of wants to get up and wash off, but more than that he wants Derek's dick in him, like, now, preferably.
He might have said that last bit out loud, because Derek smirks into the crook of his neck, taking a long, pointed sniff and then licking the sweat off the back of his shoulder.
"You drive my wolf fucking crazy," Derek says, like Stiles doesn't already know this, know that his slutty submission makes Derek's wolf want to crawl to the surface and fuck him into next week. It's pretty obvious, anyway, evidenced in the way Derek's claws are tickling him where they scratch lightly up his sides, in the way Derek keeps scenting him, his arousal pungent in his sweat.
He feels heavy, too hot, his mind cloudy like a fog has settled over him. "That's nice," he slurs, "you gonna fuck me or not, Der?" Like Derek would think about denying him his dick in this state, hard and thick and dripping with precum, grinding between Stiles' asscheeks. Like he's not dying to get his dick inside Stiles, while he's limp and sleepy from orgasm. His wolf must be itching to play with his submissive little mate.
Derek draws back and kneels between Stiles' spread thighs, then wraps his hands around Stiles' hips and flips him over.
The second he's on his back Derek's mouth is on his, and they're not the sweet, slow kisses they were right after he'd come; Derek urges his mouth open, pushes his tongue inside, fangs tugging at his lower lip. For a fleeting second, Stiles almost thinks to push Derek's mouth away from him, because it's too much of a reminder of where his mouth just was. But Derek's mouth is firm, unrelenting; his fingers are holding Stiles' chin in place, and he's kissing him like he wants to leave a permanent imprint of himself on Stiles' lips. Stiles barely has the energy to keep up, his mouth slack and his body pliant, and all he can really do is lie there and take what Derek gives him, and it's so, so good.
Derek's hand snakes between the mattress and his back, slithering down to grab his ass. His claws are still out, and Stiles is caught between shivering and flinching, because they're pricking him and it stings, but holy shit, danger's always turned him on - no wonder he runs with the wolves. No wonder he's fucking an Alpha.
He throws one arm back behind his head, digging under the pillows for the bottle of lube they keep stashed there, snatching it up and tossing it at Derek's fucking ridiculous chest. Derek's claws retract as he moves his hand from his ass to Stiles' thigh, dragging it up to rest around his waist.
"How many fingers do you want tonight, baby?" Derek asks, pressing the pads of two against his hole.
Stiles has half a mind to tell him to just shove his dick in without fingers first, but he's not desperate enough to risk going without proper prep first. They've tried that before, and it felt fucking good, being stuffed full of dick, stretched wide and tight around Derek's thick cock, but Derek's dick leaves him sore enough in the mornings as it is, and he loves Derek's fingers too much to not want them in him all the time.
Stiles arches up to kiss Derek, humming against his lips. The rimjob and orgasm have got him relaxed, feeling loose and soaked, and he loves feeling so open. It feels liberating, like he's weightless, drifting, a pleasant buzzing beneath his skin - it feels almost like being high.
"F-four," he says, which is almost five, almost Derek's entire fist, and stick a pin in that thought, because the idea of Derek fisting him needs to be revisited in the future. They usually only manage three before he starts begging for Derek's dick, so four will be an exercise in restraint for him.
He feels like Derek's opened a pandora's box of new kinks for him, because before they started fucking, fisting wasn't a thing he'd given much thought to, beyond the obvious ouch, how, why from the porn he's seen. Of course, he never thought he'd be into a lot of the stuff Derek's done to him; but holy hell, he's gone from undesirable virgin with a tendency for researching kinks with no hope of acting on them, to Derek's personal fucktoy/kink tester in the few months they've been together, and there aren't a whole lot of kinks they've tried that he hasn't ended up getting off on and jerking off to later.
The sudden burst of pheromones he's giving off must rouse something in Derek, because he shoves his face into Stiles' neck and bites him, sucking a hickey into his skin. Stiles stiffens all over and bites his own lip to stifle a moan; he learned fucking fast that biting was a huge turn-on for him, something he's grateful Derek loves to do so much of.
"Derek," he whines, and he's a little ashamed that Derek's reduced his vocabulary to pretty much just his name, and a little more ashamed that the humiliation of being so slutty turns him on even more. "Fuck, I need-"
"Quiet, baby, I know what you need." And, God, Derek's bedroom talk is another thing doing him in, and he can just tell his next orgasm is probably going to be one of those blackout orgasms. When they first started having sex, he was a little afraid Derek's strong-and-silent aura would carry over into bed, and he's never been more pleased to have been so wrong.
He must have missed Derek lubing up his fingers while he was whining like a bitch, because the next thing he knows Derek's smearing what must be the entire fucking bottle all over his ass. He wonders if this is what it feels like to be a girl, so wet all over down there, but then Derek pushes two fingers into him and he suddenly doesn't have the capacity to do much wondering about anything anymore, so caught up in just feeling.
The first two fingers go in easily; Derek usually starts him off with two, so he's gotten used to the pressure, the stretch, the slight ache. There's so much lube slicking him up that they just sort of glide right in, and there's friction because he's tight, but he hasn't tightened up enough since his orgasm for it to burn. His body just opens right up to them, accepts them into him like he was made for it, and the idea that his body was made just to be Derek's gets him so hot that he starts shaking again.
His thighs fall open around Derek, and he'd closed his eyes when Derek's fingers entered him, but he can feel the heat of Derek's gaze watching where their bodies meet. Derek loves watching Stiles' tiny hole stretch tight around his fingers, his dick - Stiles knows because Derek's told him, is always telling him, and Stiles always makes sure to keep his legs spread far as they can go so Derek can watch.
That's another thing he thought he'd never be able to get off on - the feeling of being watched so intently, of being on display, like a ten-course meal served up to a starving man. Years of comparing himself to people like Jackson have left him with a shattered self-esteem, but having Derek's attention focused on him makes him feel important, worthy, and Derek's constant commentary about how good he looks like this has probably given him a bit of an ego complex. Derek makes him feel sexy, like he's a catch, like he's someone people would want to fuck. Like he's someone.
He makes a noise like a purr when Derek teases him with a third finger, rubbing it in the slick around his hole. Derek surges up to kiss the noise out of him, scissoring his fingers.
"You love my fingers, don't you, pet," he says, in case Stiles wasn't making it obvious with all the blissful sounds falling out of the bitten-raw O of his mouth. He keeps trying to control his noises, keeps pressing his lips together, biting his own mouth, the inside of his cheek, keeps turning his face to quieten himself into the pillow. But Derek loves his breathy little noises, loves being able to fuck grunts and gasps and moans out of him, and he always ends up giving in, anyway, too turned on to put the energy into controlling himself.
He's always been self-conscious about being too loud, too mouthy, and that's another reason he was scared of entering a sexual relationship; he thought his partner would be annoyed by how noisy he'd get, but knowing Derek loves his noises gets him even more worked up. Derek's done wonders for his self-esteem.
His dick's lying plump against his stomach again, already, thick drops of precum leaking out of him, wetting his belly. "Another, want more," he slurs, because he knows that if he doesn't beg Derek for more, Derek'll just keep toying with him all night long, and he's not sure he'd be able to keep up. He barely has the ability to string together the words to beg as it is.
"You look so sweet like this," Derek says, "so peaceful, like you could live happily the rest of your life if I'd just keep my fingers in you."
Stiles wriggles his hips, feels like he's a ship being anchored, weighted down and sinking. His eyes are watering, and his stomach muscles are clenching, and it's an effort not to burst at the seams.
"You need this, don't you, pup. More than you need to breathe." Derek's mouth latches onto his clavicle, and Stiles thrashes and grips the bedsheets between his fingers and fucking comes again, before Derek even manages to get a third finger in him. There's less come dribbling out of him this time, but it feels like his orgasm hits him harder, lasts twice as long as his first one.
He's kind of shocked that he'd come so soon, so suddenly; feels breathless, like it was punched out of him, something he'd had no control over.
Derek murmurs more flattery into his collarbone, and he doesn't sound disappointed in Stiles at all, which makes his heart flutter; Derek sounds like he's happy with Stiles' utter lack of control, like he's happy Stiles is so overwhelmed with Derek's touch that he comes without warning. Like he's proud of him - and Derek probably knows that he's a fixer, always trying to do good by people, never happy until he knows he's made other people happy. That he's someone who needs to feel validated, recognized, after years of having people ignore him and blow off all the work he's put into failing friendships and broken relationships. That he's at his happiest when he feels like he's done something good enough to make people proud of him, finally.
He's never felt deserving of appreciation; ever since his best friend and the rest of the pack have gone from a bunch of reasonably weak, unpopular teenagers like himself to strong, powerful, popular creatures of the night, he's felt sort of left behind, worthless, lonelier than when Scott was his only true friend. Having Derek, the Alpha, this impossibly strong, gorgeous man, practically worship him makes him feel so serene, so soft and calm. Powerful in his own right, like he finally owns himself. Like he's no longer just the inferior human in a pack of flawless beings, but someone valuable, precious.
He slumps against the bed, and if ever a person fit the definition for docile, he's certain he's that person.
Derek's hushing him, bringing him down slowly, and he wonders what Derek must be seeing: glazed-over eyes, dewy skin, flushed pink cheeks, yielding, vulnerable body; he must seem the perfect picture of submission. That's certainly what he feels like, at least.
He's read a lot about BDSM, and subspace, and he's talked with Derek about it, because he's always known he'd be a little submissive in bed. But he didn't know he'd be this submissive; he didn't think he'd ever be able to relax enough to get that into it. He wonders now if this is what subspace is; if the primal satisfaction he's feeling is a normal thing during sex, or if this is what being a sub feels like. But thinking back on the other times they've had sex, he doesn't ever remember feeling like this - it was always good, obviously, but he's never felt so perfect, so at peace. So safe and protected.
Derek wraps his arms around him, and it feels so intimate. He's almost scared; if he were with anyone else, he's sure he'd be terrified with how vulnerable he feels right now, like anyone else could destroy him while he's open and malleable. But he's with Derek, and he trusts Derek, knows he'd never take advantage of him in this state.
"I know, baby, I know," Derek's saying, and "You're so good, pup, almost."
He's shaking, he can feel it, violent shudders wracking his body, like bolts of lightening striking him over and over again throughout his entire body.
He sighs, soft and breathy, and it feels like an admission. He doesn't even realize he'd thrown an arm across his face until Derek peels it away, so carefully, like Stiles is a precious and fragile thing, a porcelain vase his mother told him to never break.
"Look at me," Derek whispers, kissing his cheek, petting his hair. Stiles leans into the caress, needs the anchor to keep him grounded. "I've got you, you're okay."
Stiles blinks his eyes open, tentatively, because they've been shut for a while and the light bathing the room feels harsh and blinding.
"Good," Derek says, "good. One more, okay, sweetheart?"
Stiles feels his face go hot again with Derek's unyielding attention to him. He nods, not trusting his voice not to break, not trusting himself to not start sobbing if he opens his mouth.
"No, Stiles. Tell me. I need you to tell me you're okay, I need you to tell me what you need."
He goes to turn his face into the pillow to wipe any stray tears he expects to start leaking out of him once he starts to speak, but Derek catches his chin between his fingers and turns his head to make sure he's alert and looking at him when he speaks.
Derek always told him never to look into the eyes of a predator, but he feels less like prey and more like an equal right now, so he looks straight into Derek's piercing gaze and says, "More, Derek, I need more," and Derek lets him turn his head into the pillow when his voice cracks and he starts crying.
He never feels like he can tell what Derek's about to do, but he's expecting it when Derek kisses him and licks the tear off his cheek.
"You're doing so well, Stiles. One more, we're almost done."
He whimpers at the loss when Derek removes his fingers, but it's only to squirt more lube onto them, and then he's back with three fingers. He presses in slowly with all three, kissing Stiles' cheek when he goes breathless and his stomach muscles clench.
He fingers him slowly, but this time it's less like he thinks Stiles is breakable and more like he knows Stiles needs the frustration of being taken apart piece by piece, less about frequency and more about intent. He needs to be taken apart piece by piece, so he can have the reassurance of Derek putting him back together, carefully fitting all his puzzle pieces into the right slots.
Derek doesn't aim for his prostate, because now it's purely preparation; he wants Stiles to come when he's inside him, this time. He needs to feel Stiles give in completely, needs to feel him shudder apart so Derek can fix him.
"So perfect, so good," Derek says, a quiet rumble into his neck. "Tell me how it feels."
"Yeah," Stiles sighs, "it's- Derek, it's so, God. I can't-" Stiles sounds so broken, like an overwhelmed child, sobbing out these half-noises into the pillow and biting his lip. He's falling apart, slowly, but it's not enough; Stiles needs the liberation of being completely at Derek's mercy, and Derek can read him like an open fucking book, because-
"You can, baby, you are. Look at you, taking it like such a good boy. So open, so eager." So young, so innocent, so ruined. He lets his fingertips brush over Stiles' prostate just once, just enough to see him twitch, his mouth going slack.
Stiles has seen impossible monsters, straight out of nightmares. He's held strong and stoic through cruel hunters and sadistic rogues, has fought for what's his when he should have been growing up normally, without being thrown into the hellish whirlwind Derek's pack has dragged him into. He's had his adolescence stolen from him, has been forced into growing up far quicker than he should've had to. Derek's only seen him look older than his seventeen years - lying to his Sheriff father and stealing county documents, breaking into buildings and rescuing his kidnapped friends and being kidnapped and beaten and facing death.
Derek's never seen him so vulnerable, so seventeen. Stiles has never looked more like a child than he does now - wide, wet eyes, flushed skin, soft features, lanky, relaxed body.
Here, under Derek's relentless hands and mouth and words, he's allowed to feel young and innocent again. He's allowed to go soft where he's learned to go harsh; can yield where he's been taught to tense up. He's allowed to take pleasure, instead of denying himself the opportunity, because there's always something lurking around the corner, and he's used to waiting for it, ominous, instead of living his teen years like he should be.
It makes Derek want to keep him here, like this, forever. It makes him want to kiss Stiles silly, until he's the soft, brilliant boy he was before he was forced into werewolf business. Before he grew hard and angry and fierce.
Stiles makes a pitiful noise and Derek quiets him with a kiss, nipping at his lower lip. "Want another finger, baby?"
Stiles says, "Yeah, yeah, Der, want," and tilts his hips, releasing a series of pent up obscenities that make Derek want to laugh, because Stiles is such a teenager - a horny, overzealous teenager used to jacking off alone and ideas of being forever virginal, finally having what he fantasizes and daydreams about.
Stiles cries when Derek fucks his pinky into him. He feels so stretched, so full, like he's at his limit. But he knows Derek's dick is going to be even bigger inside of him, and a wave of tremors pass through his body. He's vibrating, thinking about Derek's dick inside of him, how good it's going to feel; he'll be so loose, afterward, so sloppy and raw. He craves that feeling, of being so used and abused, so fucked out and weak.
He's so glad it's summer, and he can stay the night, because the idea of driving back home and facing his dad and his friends at school the next day would be unimaginable. He knows he'll be limping, and he might lie to his dad on a daily basis, but he's not about to risk his dad finding out he's getting fucked pretty regularly by a man he'd once gotten arrested. And he might not see Scott daily anymore, but he's really not prepared for Scott's pretentious wolf senses to figure out he's fucking their Alpha.
He's going to need an entire day of cuddling and napping, followed by a rigorous shower or three, before he'll be able to face his dad or his friends without giving everything away. He almost - he feels his face go warm at the thought, but, he almost wants them to be able to tell; he wants Scott and the pack to be able to smell Derek on him, in him.
Stiles wants people to know he belongs to Derek. He wants Derek to show him off, parade him around, wants to feel like Derek's so proud of having Stiles to himself that he wants to flaunt it in front of people. Like he's so lucky he's claimed the finest possession available, and wants to show off his shiny new toy to all the kids on the playground.
He thinks Derek might want to do that, too, is so possessive that he'd probably get off on making sure people knew just how much Stiles is his and only his. Stiles wants to whine at his sudden desire for his pack to see him like this - owned, thoroughly fucked, quiet and exposed and vulnerable. He goes hot all over, clenching and twitching every time Derek's fingers fuck into him, and for a second he seriously thinks he's going to come again unless Derek puts his dick in him right now.
"Der," Stiles moans, dragging a hand up Derek's arm to dig his fingernails into Derek's bicep. He can feel his asshole, slick and rubbed raw, clamping around Derek's fingers, trying to keep them in him every time Derek drags them out of him, and matches the rhythm of his fingers biting little crescent moons into Derek's skin with Derek's fingers sinking into him. "'m ready, need you now, need."
Derek mouths at his chest, lapping at his sweaty skin, and removes his fingers one at a time, until just his pinky is tugging at his rim. Stiles is left practically writhing, with Derek keeping him open around one finger; it's a tease, and so not fucking enough, it's agonizing, terrible and wonderful.
"Spread your legs, pup, let me see you." Derek's mouth is so hot where he's laying kisses around his nipple, and Stiles obeys like that's all he knows how to do anymore - opens his thighs wide, his knees splayed around Derek's waist, ankles locked above his ass. He's gonna need a fucking massage after this; his muscles are aching, and he's glad for all the running he does for lacrosse, because it's made him flexible enough he can stretch for long periods of time without cramping.
Stiles gathers the rest of his waning energy and fucks back onto Derek's finger, trying his level best to tempt Derek into getting his dick in him fucking yesterday. Derek loves him when he's eager, restless and hungry for a cock filling him - which is probably what landed him in his currently wanton state - and all he can do is shove his hips back greedily, a silent plea for more.
Until he gets not-so-silent; little gasps of, "Please, Derek," and "Derek, your fucking dick," and, what probably does Derek in, "Please, love you, trust you, need you, now, God."
Because he only breaks out the L-word for special occasions - life-affirming sex, and that one time when he was really high and couldn't hold it back. It feels like that now, tumbling out of his mouth without his permission, and his brain-to-mouth filter is usually broken at best, but it feels fucking non-existent now.
He's never been shy about love confessions, as so clearly evidenced by his ridiculously lengthy infatuation with Lydia, but it feels more somehow, with Derek - probably because he's actually in a romantic/sexual relationship with Derek, and love is an actual thing that he feels has a chance to be requited, this time.
But now that he's said it, he can't fucking stop, half-words falling from his mouth gracelessly, disjointed and mangled. He thinks he should feel self-conscious about it, terrified of rejection, but all he can feel is safe, tingly. Like Derek's been telling him he loves him all along, with the way he lays kisses against his skin, the way Derek's always saving his life, the way Derek trusts Stiles to save his.
It's too much, it's too - he's not used to feeling this way, so heavy and light at the same time, like he's having an out of body experience. He thinks he might black out, until-
"Shh, gorgeous, I'll give you what you need." Stiles is openly sobbing now, face blotchy and tears wetting his cheeks, his cupid's bow. He licks his lip and chases the saltiness away, and Derek keeps kissing him, chaste, sweet as fucking candy, as he drags his pinky out of him.
"Yeah," Stiles says, so soft, so willing. "Please, Der."
They don't use condoms - something Stiles never figured he would be okay with, but Derek's incapable of contracting human disease, and Stiles was new, fresh and clean, a perfect virgin, when they got together, and with no chance of a pregnancy occurring, he's pretty sure there's no other reason why he'd want Derek to wear one anyway, besides occasions when a quick cleanup is necessary. The feel of Derek's come marking him up from the inside out, the praise Derek showers him with when he plays with the come dripping out of his hole, and, not to mention, not having to shell out money for the ridiculous amount of condoms they'd go through if they wore one every time they fucked: the idea of bothering with condoms just seems wasteful, unnecessary.
He hitches one leg up a little higher around Derek's waist, prodding a knee into his pectoral. Sighs a little, blissful, because he's finally about to get what he wants, what he deserves, what he fucking needs.
Derek squeezes more lube onto his dick and around his asshole, leans down to kiss him when he drags himself along his rim, still teasing, feeling Stiles shiver and clench with every brush against his oversensitive, burning asshole. "Please," he says, still quiet, mostly because he still can't fucking stop spewing words, loose-lipped with pleasure, but also because he knows Derek needs to know he's still with him, still aware. Still consenting.
The stretch doesn't hurt when Derek finally presses the head of his dick inside of him. It burns a little, obviously, because he's already been toyed with for so long, until he's sore and raw; feels like a pull, elastic, like he's a rubber band slowly being stretched. Like he's being molded into something new, something better. Reworked to fit all the good things Derek's pouring into him.
It feels dramatic, but the intimacy is drugging him, and he feels like Derek's changing him, permanently, like his entire life before Derek was just that, just a before to an after. He feels like those people who suddenly find God after a near-death experience or a traumatizing event, who find clarity. He feels like he's found clarity.
Stiles' eyes are damp and he's probably muttering insensible noises, because Derek shushes him with reassurances every inch he presses in. It's impossible how much he's feeling; he's spent so long trying to mask his emotions in the face of everything they've faced recently, it feels like an overload of too much, too-sudden sensory input. Everything is so sharp, so loud: the pressure of Derek's cock, the squelch of the lube, his shattered breaths.
He's stretching and stretching and about to snap. Derek's going to break him, and he's never wanted to be broken so much in his entire fucking life. It feels - oddly soothing, to be so consumed.
Stiles almost doesn't think he could possibly feel any more, until Derek bottoms out, hips flush against him, and he feels like a loosened dam, everything flooding out of him. He needs, needs to be shuffled and rearranged and put back anew, in the right order, this time.
He goes fervent, everything in him a blazing fire; scratches up Derek's back, clawing desperately, mewling and practically thrashing, he's so urgent. Derek's hips are stalled against his, probably in an attempt to give him time to adjust to it, but then Stiles whimpers out a wet, cracked sob, and Derek growls and bites at his throat and finally fucking moves. He moves like Stiles needs him to, too - eager, jagged thrusts, like he doesn't have the strength or the patience to fuck him tenderly.
Derek always tries to hold back on him when they fuck; tries to keep his claws sheathed, his fangs in. Tries to keep from leaving too many noticeable marks, like he's ashamed of the animalistic needs of his wolf, but something seems different, now. He's less careful. His face is furry where he's shoved it into Stiles' neck, and his claws are points of dangerous pressure on his stomach. He's biting less, but leaving more marks, in the form of hickeys that he's really hoping are in places his dad won't notice them.
He must sense that Stiles needs to be broken, because he's certainly not acting like he's afraid of breaking him, like usual.
Stiles uses Derek's hold on his waist as leverage to lift his hips, trying to get Derek deeper. It doesn't take much effort, because Derek's hold on him is so tight that he's taking most of the weight, and Stiles goes up easily, his ass practically in Derek's lap.
Which, wow, he's a fan of that angle. The new position lets Derek fuck down into him, and it's doing fucking perfect things for his prostate. Which, at this point, is starting to feel less perfect and more devastating. If he were in less of a state, he'd probably have told Derek to stop for fear he'd black out. He almost wishes they had a safeword, because he's still not sure he won't black out.
He's not even sure he'll mind if he does black out, as long as Derek doesn't stop.
He's also a little terrified of how unconcerned he is with the idea of Derek continuing to fuck him while he's blacked out.
(He's even more terrified of how the idea of Derek fucking him while he's unconscious sort of, a little bit, turns him on. That's a piece of his subconscious he's not even ready to bring to the surface yet.)
Derek's thrusts are growing more unsteady, jerky, quick little thrusts, never pulling out too far for too long. Like Derek can't bear to take his dick out of Stiles.
He wants to whine, squirm around to get Derek going again, too greedy for the dick inside of him. Too far gone to care.
Derek groans every time Stiles clenches down like a fucking vice around him, pulling him in. "My little whore, aren't you. You love my dick."
Stiles stiffens up all over, so close, so - he's going to come, if Derek keeps fucking calling him that. "I do, Der," he cries, "Your- your little whore. Only yours." He's hiccuping, his breath hitching, tears streaming down his cherry-red cheeks. He feels like a fucking mess.
Derek smirks, like hearing Stiles acknowledge Derek's possession over him makes his wolf salivate with happiness. His hips are stalled against the backs of Stiles' thighs, just, waiting, and Stiles isn't fucking sure what he's waiting for, but he needs to know, so he can give it to him.
"Trust me?"
What - of course Stiles fucking trusts him. Derek has got to know Stiles trusts him. "Always, Derek, yeah." He's not even sure if it comes out right, his voice is so slurred with pleasure.
Derek lowers them back down against the mattress, so he's hovering over Stiles, still inside of him, but so that Stiles' hips aren't cushioned on his lap anymore; his lower back is back against the sheets, and he's sort of grateful for the support, for not having to hold his hips up any longer - getting a cramp right now is not exactly high on his list of things he wants to do. Also, the sheets are pleasantly cool against his sweaty skin. He's learned to be grateful for the little things.
Derek's tense above him, arms held taut either side of his shoulders. He licks Stiles' throat, and Stiles shudders at the feel, it's so wet, so utterly possessive. Derek's saliva drawing an invisible mark into his flesh.
"Gonna knot you, baby. Gonna fill you up with my come, lock it in you," he's saying, and - oh, God, his dick is, he's not sure what Derek's dick is doing, and he wants to go back to ten minutes ago when he thought he couldn't get any fuller and smack himself for being so fucking wrong. Because Derek's dick is definitely getting bigger, like that's a fucking thing that happens.
Not that he should be surprised anymore, honestly. He's fucking an impossible creature of the night, something that shouldn't exist, and he thinks he's capable of being surprised?
He's trembling, and, "Der, I can't, it's too much, it's so - Derek," and Derek's dick is going to rip him fucking in half. It hurts, not just a buzzing ache, but an active pain, and it probably wouldn't hurt so much if the gratuitous thickness inflated and stopped immediately, but it's slow, continuous. Derek's enormous knot is expanding inside of him torturously slowly, so that he feels every extra centimeter he's being stretched open.
Stiles clenches down around Derek, just to see what it feels like, if it feels different than his dick. It feels like extra, like Derek's dick has listened to his greedy moans for more and acquiesced, and it's actually exquisite, aside from the bursts of pain. He actually feels sort of blessed, because he's grateful for receiving Derek's dick on the regular - it's a fantastic dick, worthy of thanks - and to have even more of it?
Stiles is so far passed utter bliss. He thinks if he'd worked more on his spark this summer, he'd actually be glowing with all the energy surrounding him. He knows the importance energy has in the little magick he possesses, how powerful he could become with all the energy he feels in this moment.
He feels powerful. He wonders if this is how Derek feels when he goes into a full Alpha shift. Like he's a hurricane, like he could bring down entire towns with all the power in him. His fingertips feel jittery, pattering against Derek's skin, like he wants to use all the energy suddenly at his disposal, but doesn't have anything to pour it into.
Derek's panting over him, like his control is being pushed to his limits. Like he's seconds from wolfing out entirely, and he probably would, if Stiles weren't so human and breakable. He doesn't have much leverage anymore, tied so tight into Stiles, but he swivels his hips in circular little motions that knock his knot across Stiles' prostate, teasing little bumps.
Stiles is probably going to come again in a second, and it's going to be an orgasm that's going to leave him with nothing left to give for the next week or so.
"Tell me, if," Derek's saying, and his voice is strained, his words choppy, like producing words is taking effort he doesn't have, "if it hurts too much, I can - I can take some of your pain away."
"I can take it," Stiles says, whimpers, whatever, "I want it, Derek, give, come in me, please," and Derek, like he could ever deny Stiles when he says please, when he begs, Derek starts to come, groaning and spurting hot splashes of come into him.
Stiles' feels like his insides are being hosed with it, there's so much, and Derek keeps coming for what feels like forever - and he's already got a freaky werewolf dick, so the excessive amounts of come flooding his insides must be a werewolf thing, too. Stiles is probably going to regret when Derek's knot deflates and it all comes rushing out of him.
He almost wants to keep Derek's come in him forever. He wishes he had a buttplug to keep it locked inside of him for when Derek does manage to pull out. He thinks he'll have to invest in one.
Derek kisses his throat, soft, almost apologetic, and Stiles is not going to stand for that. This is probably single-handedly the best thing to happen to their sex life, and if Stiles has anything to say about it, it's going to happen every fucking time from now until he goes to his grave.
His dick is still hard, aching and red against his belly, and he needs to come. He nuzzles against Derek's chin and drags him into a kiss, still soft, because Derek gets so sweet after he's come - still coming, Stiles can feel it still splashing in him, in longer intervals - and licks at his lips until Derek trails one hand down to his stomach and presses, probably feeling the ridiculous amount of come filling him up, distending his flesh.
And if that's not the hottest thing he's ever felt. So full of Derek's come that his body has actually stretched to accommodate it all. He's moaning again, pitiful, whiny moans, and he can barely even moan anymore, he's so far gone. "Need," he's saying, "Derek, I need you to touch me, please."
"How does it feel," Derek says, "my come in you, filling you up. Wish I could breed you, stuff you full of pups. Want you to have my cubs, baby. You'd be such a good father. I'd keep you full with another litter every time, every-"
Stiles jerks and groans, his leg tightening around Derek's hip, and tonight has been an experience for him, he's never been introduced to so many kinks of his in one fuck.
Derek's still talking, still talking about having a family together, about getting Stiles pregnant, about Stiles having fucking children, cubs, and he's started to touch Stiles all over, feather-light, his nipples, so sensitive, his stomach, his dick, his asshole where he's stretched tight around Derek's knot.
"Yeah," Stiles says, "I want, Derek, I want to have your pups in me, I want you to fuck children into me, want it, Der."
Derek starts to roll his hips against him, like he's trying to fuck him still, even though there's no possible way he'll be able to pull out enough to get a good rhythm going again. His dick is relentless even when he can't move it, and every time Derek moves against him Stiles is reminded of how it's stuck inside of him, how they're locked together, how Derek's talking about fucking a child into him, and he's so overwhelmed with emotion his heart feels like it's going to go into overdrive and stop.
Not yet eighteen and he thinks he's probably going to die not from being chased and kidnapped by supernatural beasties, but rather because sex with Derek is so intense he's going to have an unnaturally early heart attack. And he's been worried about his dad's heart this whole time.
He can barely breathe, every inhale filled with Derek's scent and every exhale a stuttery exclamation of Derek's name. He'd be worried about having a panic attack and hyperventilating if he didn't trust Derek to keep him grounded to Earth.
Derek's caresses are still slow, but growing more determined - he strokes his dick in long, firm pulls, his entire concentration put into getting Stiles off. Stiles hasn't put so much careful attention into getting himself off since he hit puberty and discovered orgasms - the amount of commitment Derek's putting into Stiles' orgasm is honestly fascinating.
Stiles' stomach muscles quiver and clench with every tug on his dick, and it draws even more attention to the feel of Derek's come slicking him up, Derek's dick still plugging it inside of him, and he falls apart when Derek tilts his chin up with his nose and kisses him, his other hand pressing into his belly.
He gasps and flails like a fish out of water, the orgasm flowing like electricity through his entire body, and there's not much come left in him from his first few orgasms, just a couple of weak little trickles weeping over Derek's fingers.
"Good boy," Derek says, "So proud of you, baby, I knew you could come again," and Derek's pulling his come-covered fingers up to his own mouth to lick at them, to suck Stiles' come into his mouth, Jesus Christ, Stiles actually can't handle this.
The noises he makes when Derek kisses him with a mouth full of his own come are inhuman and very likely impossible. As soon as he gets his ability to make words back, he's going to call the kind folks at Merriam-Webster to tell them he's discovered new noises he thinks needs to be listed in the dictionary.
He throws himself into the kiss, trying to non-verbally thank Derek the only way he knows how for a sexual awakening he thought he'd already had when he lost his virginity, scooping his come out of Derek's mouth and swallowing it down like a thirsty man in a desert. There's come slippery on his lips from how messy the kiss is, come dribbling out of his mouth and down his chin. It's downright dirty; he's never been so full of, so covered in come.
He's never seen porn with someone as covered in come as he feels. He feels like he's been through one of those bukkake things, like he's just been gangbanged with come. Which is not altogether an unpleasant idea. If he or Derek were less possessive, he'd almost want to suggest, in the future, maybe, the idea of being gangbanged.
Maybe he will, anyway, just to see if it's something Derek would be interested in - they're open enough with their kinks that if he's curious enough about it, he's sure Derek would be more than happy to see it happen.
Also, even if Derek turns out to be opposed to seeing Stiles get gangbanged, he's sure the mere mention of wanting to be covered in someone else's come would ramp Derek up enough to keep him covered in himself for a good month or more. It'd go down as a win either way, in his book.
He sighs contentedly when Derek pulls away from his mouth to lay soft, come-wet kisses down his throat.
"Thanks," Derek says, "for allowing me to knot you. It's - I usually wouldn't. I'm sorry if I hurt you."
Stiles practically gurgles through a mouth full of come when he tries to respond. "Really wasn't - wasn't exactly a hardship for me, there, babe. Also, allowing you? I pretty much begged for it." No, he did beg for it.
"Regardless. My wolf -"
"I think I understand, Der. If it's anything like what I was feeling, I definitely. Yeah." He's too scared to put it into words, but. He figures the whole knotting thing must be intimate, or something, something Derek wouldn't feel comfortable doing if he didn't utterly trust Stiles; like how Stiles wouldn't feel comfortable being that submissive if he didn't utterly trust Derek.
Shit, he never expected to be this over the moon for Derek. It's just hitting him, how much he must trust Derek. He's probably in love with him.
"I think I'm love with you," Stiles says. Which, as opposed to his previous I love yous, is probably way bigger.
Derek doesn't respond, not exactly, but he doesn't tense up, or rip his still-inflated knot out of Stiles and run for the hills. He kisses Stiles' ear and the tip of his nose, and Stiles thinks that for Derek, the sentiment is probably there.
"I can hear your heartbeat," Derek says, which, obviously. He's a werewolf, and Stiles is well aware of his capabilities.
"Of course you can, doofus." Stiles' throat is way too scratchy to keep up with this conversation. Funny, he doesn't remember screaming being among the noises he'd made tonight.
"No, it's - louder. It sounds like it's intertwined with mine, somehow. I think-"
"No, shh, quiet. We should nap now. I'm gonna take a nap," Stiles says, because the next words out of Derek's mouth are probably going to be a bomb he's not sure he's prepared to have dropped on him yet. Maybe in the morning. After some coffee and a shower and a three-hour massage, and maybe some gooey, emotional morning - mid-afternoon, whenever he wakes up, honestly - sex.
His legs are still wrapped loosely around Derek's hips, his toes pressed into Derek's calves. He's warm, and Derek's nearly crushing him with his metric ton of muscly body, but he's comfortable. Especially with Derek still petting him all over.
"I don't know when my knot - I've never," Derek is so adorably flustered, and Stiles would grin if he could gather the energy to move his facial muscles.
"'s fine," Okay, he's smiling anyway, he can't help it. He's happy. "I like it. Being close. Ugh, you know I love cuddling." Derek's smiling, too, he can feel it against his neck. He's going to be pretty disappointed if Derek goes all weird and stoic when he can pull out.
He almost doesn't want to ask, afraid of Derek's answer, but he needs to know. There're knots in his stomach, and he's never been able to ignore his curiosity. "You don't regret it, do you? Knotting me?"
Derek makes a noise similar to a beached whale, so the answer to that is probably a no. "Do you?" Derek asks. "I didn't - you're good, right? This is okay?"
He's relaxed and tingly and so in love, and he's not about to let Derek smother him with manpain and an absurd fear that Stiles isn't one-hundred percent consenting to this, to everything.
"I'm not even going to respond to that," he says, but surges up to kiss Derek's dumb face instead. He wants to kiss Derek a lot, all the time. Derek deserves to be kissed all the time.
He opens his eyes when he falls back against the pillow, and Derek is honestly too cute for him to handle, he looks so vulnerable, so soft and squishy. Also, a little ridiculous - and a little ridiculously hot - because he has Stiles' come on his chin and lower lip.
Ugh, they should probably clean up before he passes out, or he's going to wake up with scratchy, dried come all over him, and he's had enough wet dreams to know that it's not exactly as sexy when it's dried and crusty as it is when it's still warm and wet.
There's no washcloth nearby, and the tissues are too far for him to reach his jellied arms, so, obviously, he's only left with his tongue. Not that he has any particular problem with licking come off of Derek's mouth. Not that Derek has a problem with it either, if his dick twitching inside of him is any indication.
"That's nice, hey. You can fuck me in the morning, but we're sleeping now. Cuddling, too." Derek scoffs, but nuzzles at his bared throat.
"You'd better be making me pancakes when I wake up," he says, and then passes out with Derek still in him, on him, all around him, with Derek kissing sweet-nothings into his skin.