
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/907632.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Derek_Hale, Stiles_Stilinski
  Additional Tags:
      Underage_Sex, Undernegotiated_Kink, Rimming, Light_Dom/sub, Established
      Relationship, Fingerfucking, Knotting, Dirty_Talk, Multiple_Orgasms,
      Barebacking, Comeplay, Coming_Untouched, (slight)_-_Freeform, Verbal
      Humiliation, gangbang_mention
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-08-01 Words: 9413
****** teardrops on the fire ******
by nymphe
Summary
     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.
Notes
     i'll take almost ten thousand words of straight marathon porn for
     600, please, alex. the longest thing i've ever written, and it's
     literally entirely porn. no, i don't think you understand. it's
     literally. entirely. porn. this was supposed to be a simple rimming/
     fingering/multiple orgasm thing, and somehow it turned into a
     complicated, slutty/knotting/feelings-infested thing.
     stiles is seventeen in this fic, and therefore underage. there is
     slightly humiliating dirty talk, but it is consensual, and all in the
     name of the orgasm game. also brief references to fisting, orgies/
     gangbangs/voyeurism, somnophilia, and breeding/mpreg/mating, but none
     of those are in this fic, and all mentions are brief enough i didn't
     feel they needed to be tagged. feelings-heavy, emotionally intense
     sex abound, basically. notes about the undernegotiated kink and light
     dom/sub tags at the end.
See the end of the work for more notes
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.
End Notes
     the undernegotiated kink tag is there because while derek and stiles
     trust each other in and out of the bedroom, some of the acts
     performed in this scene are done based solely on their trust in each
     other and with no previous conversations about the acts. the light
     dom/sub tag is there because while this is not, i repeat, not, a bdsm
     fic, derek behaves dominantly during the scene, and stiles behaves
     submissively and questions if he's entered subspace. this is the
     first time i've published a fic on ao3 as opposed to livejournal, so
     i'm sorry if i manage to fuck up the formatting or miss a tag. just
     beep me if you need me to add anything you might find triggery.
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