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One Step Forward, Two Steps Back, and One Giant Leap for the Things We've Shared

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Stiles had always thought his first time would be with someone he cared about. Maybe not Lydia, but at least someone he'd taken out on a good few dates, someone he'd gotten to know, someone who would laugh with rather than at him when he made an idiot of himself during their first time. There would be wining and dining and maybe a little romancing – definitely a little making out, at the very least – and then they would tumble into bed, shyly peel off each others' clothes and, well, have sex. Maybe it would be awkward and clumsy and hesitant, but it would be a good memory.

Instead, he gets Derek Hale fucking into him from behind like he's got something to prove. It's hard and just this side of rough, but even though Derek has a pretty good sense of how to nail Stiles' prostate on every other thrust, Stiles feels oddly detached, staring down at the bare mattress's faded floral print like he's contemplating the endless mysteries of the universe. The whole ordeal had been passionlessly efficient, from the perfunctory press of Derek's mouth against his to the rote 'one-finger, two-fingers, three-fingers, dick' to the mechanically precise rhythm with which Derek fucks him.

Stiles' dick is bouncing back and forth between his thighs, half-hard, but he doesn't really notice it, more interested in the way his fingers are splayed around one of the pastel clusters of tropical flora. They frame it like he's framing a scene for a picture, thumbs lined up, almost touching, index finger at a perfectly perpendicular 'L's. He widens the frame to include a palm leaf. It makes the red pop a little.

Derek reaches around and gropes for Stiles' cock, jerking it in time to his thrusts. The friction burns until the leftover smears of lube on Derek's hand ease the way, smoothing the rough pulls into something vaguely pleasurable. Stiles' dick plumps obediently, a pleasant distraction from the ugly-ass printed flowers, and between Derek's dick rubbing his prostate and Derek's hand rubbing his dick, Stiles comes. His jizz drips sluggishly onto the mattress beneath him.

It takes a few more hasty thrusts for Derek to come, filling the condom that he'd been generous enough to supply. Derek pulls out and it's uncomfortable and a little painful, and once he's out, Stiles feels sweet, sweet relief at being alone in his body again. He clambers off the mattress, one hand clutched to the small of his back, above where his hole is already starting to ache from the abuse. It hurts to bend over and pull up his underwear, but he pushes through; he's endured worse than a sore ass.

“You're leaving?” Derek asks quietly. He's pulled off and tied the condom, and is just holding it awkwardly.

“Yeah,” Stiles says. He props himself up against a column as he steps into his jeans.

“There's a shower here, if you want to clean up before you go.”

“Nah. I'll just shower at home.”

All the better to avoid you with, Stiles thinks. If he wasn't still feeling drifty and blank, he'd be weirded out by how not-Derek-like Derek is acting, but that would require feeling things, and he's not up for feelings yet.

Derek watches him dress from his place on the mattress, unselfconsciously naked. He looks unhappy, but hey, what else is new.

Stiles pats his pockets for his keys, phone, and wallet, and finding everything in order, turns to leave.

“Stiles, was it-” Derek looks from Stiles to the wall behind Stiles, and then back at Stiles, “was it what you wanted?”

Stiles wants to say 'no', but that's a lie, since he did want to have sex, and more specifically, have sex with Derek, but to say 'yes' is also a lie, because it sucked and he started regretting it about five minutes in. He goes with a shrug, which is ambiguous enough to suit. He thinks about saying 'thanks', but that would be a lie too, so he just leaves.

He drives home and putters around the house for a while, still stuck in that Hi, you've reached Stiles Stilinski, there's nobody home so leave a message after the beep funk he hasn't actually been trying so hard to shake.

Clarity returns like a kick to the balls when he strips down for a shower, though, and sees the red finger-shaped pressure marks already beginning to darken into bruises. He vomits into the toilet – bright candy pink from the strawberry Poptarts he'd eaten two hours ago – and then gets into the shower and scrubs and scrubs and scrubs.


The next morning is bright and sunny and Stiles resolves to pretend the whole fucking mess never happened. That decided, he swipes his hands together like he's clapping off dirt and goes to take a morning shower. The long bruises on his hips don't garner a second glance, the pink patches of irritated skin where he'd scrubbed himself too raw barely rating a first glance, and he whistles cheerfully through his shower like it's just another summer day, like he can't wait to see what surprises might be waiting just around the corner.

The day brings Lydia, which isn't actually a surprise so much as a pre-planned study date at the library. Come fall, they're all starting at separate colleges, some local and some not-so-local, so she's tutoring Stiles in Latin dialects while she's still got him when they're not slaving away at the Italian text that apparently used to belong to the Vatican. It's a good day, the coffee and low-fat, low-sugar, organic bran muffin pacifying Lydia into a mildly pleasant mood. She keeps giving him weird looks over the course of their study session, but he ignores them in favor of pounding his head on the massive hardbound Italian-to-English dictionary.

He throws in the towel when all the vowels start blurring together, but dutifully stays seated until Lydia's ego is satisfied with proof of her superior work ethic, at which time she finally releases him from her lovely clutches. On the way out, he says, “Hey, good work today, see you around,” or at least he thinks he does, because Lydia gives him a weird look like he's speaking in tongues. Which he may well be, after hours of Latin and Italian. Clearly he's been hitting the books a little too hard.

There's a surprise waiting for him at his Jeep. A Derek Hale-shaped surprise sitting against his Jeep's front wheel and taking a deeply uncomfortable-looking nap. He swallows down a knotted mess of emotion and treads closer.

“Derek,” Stiles prods Derek's knee with a sneaker. “Dude. Wake up.”

Derek breathes peacefully, in and out through his open mouth. There are dark shadows under his eyes, like he hasn't slept in a few days, which is weird because he looked just fine the day before. He's kinda tempted to leave the guy to it, but he does actually want to get home and catch some nap of his own, and he's sure as hell not going to leg it all the way back to his house. Especially not while he's still sore from getting fucked by the guy napping against his Jeep.

He squats down, tugging at his jeans, and stares for a while. Derek looks relaxed and almost happy like this, his eyebrows and mouth relaxing upward from their usual angsty scowl. It makes him wonder what Derek would look like with an actual, not-fake smile on his face. His hands are folded loosely in his lap, one hand curled over the other. He was probably holding his phone when he fell asleep, because it's sticking out of the bowl of his folded legs. Stiles gently eases it out with two fingers.

There are seven contacts total: Isaac, Erica, Boyd, Scott, Stiles, RePete, and Cenario's, which is that awesome pizza/Italian fusion place just off Marina Blvd. Stiles grins at Peter's entry. Derek had rolled his eyes expansively when Stiles had debuted that nickname, but Stiles knew he'd found it hilarious. He puts the number into his own phone under 'Uncle Zomwolf' and pencils some time for nefarious prank scheming into his mental schedule.

“Text me Peter's number while you're at it,” Lydia says.

Stiles flails, falling onto his sore ass and braining himself on the car parked next to his. It wakes Derek, who jolts upright, blinking widely at Stiles and then Lydia.

O Sanctus Deus,” Stiles spits, rubbing the back of his head with one hand and the small of his back with the other. “Lydia, che cazzo-”

“English,” Lydia snaps.

Stiles scrubs his fingers over his scalp and does a linguistic reset. “Holy god, Lydia, what the fuck. How the hell do you even sneak up on people in heels?”

“Natural talent,” she says, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “Did you need something, Derek?”

Derek glances back and forth between Stiles and Lydia. “I need to talk to Stiles.”

Lydia quirks a speculative eyebrow. “So you decided to take a nap on his Jeep.” Stiles can practically smell the judgment rolling off her in aromatic waves. “How unfortunate that you don't have a phone and can't just call him like a normal person. Stiles is taking me out to eat right now, so anything you could possibly have to say can wait until I'm done with him.”

Derek looks to Stiles, who gawps at Lydia, who glares at Stiles until he nods dumbly at her, then nods dumbly at Derek.

“Uh, yeah. Later, maybe. You know where my wi-uh, you have my number. Call me.”

Lydia holds out her arm and Stiles scrambles upright, patting himself down before escorting her around to the passenger side and opening the door for her. When he circles back around to the driver's side, Derek is already gone.

Lydia directs him to the vegan organic Thai-Chinese-Japanese-Italian fusion place that just opened up down the street from Jungle. The menu is in too many languages for Stiles to deal with, so Lydia orders for him and then pins him with her interrogative stare of 'Do Not Even Or I Will Eviscerate You'. Stiles feels himself start to sweat almost immediately.

After a handful of quiet seconds, Lydia's glare upgrades to 'You're Not Talking. Please Wait Quietly While I Ask The Wait Staff For Something Sharp'.

“Derek fucked me yesterday!” Stiles yelps. Lydia's expression softens instantly into something only slightly judgy.

“I know.”

“You- How?”

“You've been sitting like a virgin after a hard fuck and you've been Derek-weird all day. It was obvious.”

“'Derek-weird'? What the hell is that? Is that even a thing?”

“Please,” Lydia sniffs daintily. “You always get weird after spending time with Derek. It makes your ridiculous crush on him even more obvious than usual. Speaking of which, I'd offer congratulations on hooking up with him, but I'm pretty sure you don't want them.”

Stiles deflates, slouching deeply into his chair. So much for pretending it never happened. He fiddles with the lacquered chopsticks and silverware lined up next to his plate. “It was awful. Like, soul-crushingly bad. Crush-crushingly bad. I am literally no longer in crush with Derek Hale.”

Lydia beckons him to continue and folds her arms, tapping her fingers over her elbow.

“I mean, it was okay at the start, when he was kissing me, but then it started feeling like he was running through a checklist or something. How to get Stiles off in five easy steps: Kiss, strip, lube, fuck, come. I've had pelvic exams with more emotional connection.”

Lydia makes a sympathetic noise. “So you had bad sex-”

“It wasn't bad,” Stiles interrupts, only quailing a little when Lydia glares at him for interrupting. “I got off, it was just really, like, mechanical.”

“It was mechanical, ergo bad sex. I realize you don't have much experience, but mechanical sex is still bad sex. If you regret it, it was bad sex, and you clearly regret it, so be quiet and stop interrupting. I don't have to play agony aunt, but I'm doing it anyway.”

Stiles nods meekly.

“So you had bad sex,” she begins again, “and it turned you off of having more sex with him. But you're Stiles Stilinski, dyed in the wool monogamist, and it'll take more than just bad sex before you're able to move on from wanting him. You can't avoid him, since you're basically the only one in his little wolf pack who knows what the hell they're doing,” Stiles preens, “and you can't pretend that it never happened because Derek doesn't want to pretend it never happened, so-”

“Wait,” Stiles interrupts again, “What? Why not?”

Lydia looks up and prays for patience. Stiles can practically hear her thinking 'Lord, what fools these mortals be!'

“Because,” she replies testily, “he's not the only one with a ridiculous crush. He's just worse at dealing with it than you are. He also has enough issues to fill the periodicals section of the Library of Congress, ergo bad sex. Now shut up and process.”

Stiles' mouth snaps shut on the endless well of questions he wants to ask and he sits back and processes, eyes narrowing as he sorts through his own thoughts.

The food arrives before Stiles finishes, and they eat quietly, Lydia texting or browsing the internet on her phone and Stiles churning away at the whole issue of Derek and his myriad Issues. Eventually, he puts down his fork and rubs his hands over his face.

“Do you have any actual questions?” Lydia asks, dabbing her mouth with a napkin.

Stiles shakes his head slowly. “Nnnno. Not for you, at least. For Derek, yeah, tons. Here's to hoping I can get him to answer them, though.”

Lydia briefly rolls her eyes. “You'd be surprised. Though you really shouldn't be.”

“Hey, what's that supposed to mean?” Stiles asks, affronted.

“It means you're an unreliable narrator,” she says, and pushes the check to his side of the table.


Derek isn't lurking in Stiles' bedroom when he gets back, which is a nice change of pace. It also freaks Stiles out a little, because apparently Lydia was right about a few things that Stiles hadn't previously considered. He flops onto his bed, hoping for a nap, but his phone rings literally thirty seconds after his head hits the pillow.

It's Derek, obviously. Stiles briefly contemplates not taking the call until he's feeling less like his brain has been put through the wringer a few dozen times, but Lydia would probably find out and verbally hand him his ass on a silver platter. He takes the call.

“Hello?” he says like an idiot.

“It's Derek.” Which yeah, he already knew. Caller ID and all that.

“Hey. You wanted to talk?”

Derek doesn't answer right away and an awkward silence languidly stretches out between them.

“Can I come up?” Derek asks. And that certainly explains Derek's impeccable timing.

Stiles' chest clenches and his pulse picks up, heart pounding. He shoves up off of his bed and paces around his room, very deliberately not thinking about why he suddenly feels ten seconds away from a panic attack.

“Y'know wha-” his voice breaks and he clears his throat. “Y'know what, maybe you shouldn't. It's a total mess in here, haven't done laundry in like, a month. Just a total sty. I'm surprised my dad hasn't grounded me yet, or thrown a can of Febreze at my head yet.” It's a total lie, obviously, and Derek can probably pick up on it, but if he does, he doesn't mention it.

“Okay. That's fine,” Derek says.

Neither of them say anything. Awkward. Stiles almost throws himself into his computer chair but reconsiders at the last minute. He's not going to have this conversation with his ass in pain.

“About yesterday-” Derek begins.

“Yes?!” Stiles shouts. He smacks himself in the forehead. “Um, what about it?”

“I fucked up. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have, I mean, I should have done better. Made it better for you.”

And yeah, this is familiar ground for Stiles. Derek isn't Derek if he's not riding the angst train, express line from Failureville to Guiltropolis. Stiles sighs.

“No, I mean yeah, it could've been better, but I shouldn't've pressured you-”

“You didn't pressure me, I wanted-”

“What the hell, I totally pressured you, and myself, too. It's just, everyone I know is having sex, so I succumbed to the whole peer pressure bullshit about losing my virginity or whatever, virginity is a dumbshit social construct and I don't know what I was thinking, and-”

“You trusted me to do that for you and I fucked it up from beginning to end, and I'm so-”

Oh my god, Derek, I never thought I'd say this but shut. up.”

Stiles can practically hear Derek's teeth click as his mouth snaps shut. And then, blessed silence.

“Look,” Stiles says. “I like you. A lot. I like like you, which is a big deal, because the last time I like liked someone, I pined after them from afar for almost a decade. So when I realized that I'd stopped like liking her and started like liking you, it was a big deal for me, because you clearly didn't like like me back.”

“What? Stiles, for fuck's sake, I look at your-”

“Mouth, yeah, I know. You look at my mouth all the time. You look at my mouth more often that I do, and I brush my teeth and floss twice a day. So yeah, not news.”


“Shut up, Derek. Just freaking listen for once. I swear, ever since you became the alpha, it's like the part of your brain that used to pay attention to what people are saying literally disconnected from the rest.”

“I listen,” Derek objects. Stiles can just imagine his pissy bitchface.

“Then shut up and do it,” Stiles snaps.

He waits for a few seconds, but all that comes down the line is Derek's heavy creeper breathing.

“So yeah, like I was saying, and now I totally get why Lydia hates people interrupting her with stupid questions and dumbass comments, I'm not actually blind and I know that you were looking at my mouth. I just thought you were only attracted.”

“Can I-”

“Go ahead.”

“I was- am. I am attracted to you.”

“Which I figured, except that wasn't what I wanted from you. Attraction is not affection, dumbass. And if you had managed the affection without the attraction, it would've been way better than the attraction without the affection. Which was what I thought you felt.

“So I didn't do anything about it, because what I wanted I wasn't gonna get. And don't you dare fucking interrupt, or I'll tell my dad to kick your ass and he'll make you regret it.

“Except suddenly it's the summer after graduation and all of my friends are hooking up except for me, the perpetual virgin, and I'm facing the prospect of going to college without even having made out with anyone so the whole thing becomes a big deal in my head, and I decide, 'fuck it'. So I gird my loins, figuratively and literally, and I go to you, because hey, two birds with one stone, right? And then, so yesterday happened, and it basically sucked and I totally regret it.

“But the worst part wasn't the actual sex part, because hey, I got off, right? V-card punched, orgasm achievement unlocked, whatever. The part that sucked was the part where you fucked me like you were getting paid minimum wage to do it. Like, the attraction was there, but not the affection. So when you asked me if it was what I wanted, yeah, it was, but no, it totally wasn't.

“And then Lydia said something to me today, and you totally owe her, by the way, about how you had a fuck ton of capital 'I' Issues, 'ergo bad sex'. Her words, not mine. And you know, it hadn't ever occurred to me that you'd have Issues about sex, because you're extremely attractive, and as far as I know, you've had sex with a hundred equally attractive dudes and/or chicks. But that got me thinking, because you've been here for over two years now and I can't remember seeing or hearing about you ever genuinely expressing interest in someone. And then I thought, 'well duh, if that doesn't scream Issues, I don't know what would'.

“Lydia also told me that you like liked me, which was news to me, teebeeaych. Apparently you get 'Stiles-weird' the same way I get 'Derek-weird'? That's a thing, according to Lydia. I'll have to ask Allison about it. But yeah, surprise, because I always thought that we were maybe kinda sorta friends in that I would try to piss you off and you would half-seriously verbally and physically threaten my bodily integrity and every now and then I would haul your ass out of the fire and you would return the favor. But since I figure your sex Issues are tied up with relationship Issues, well, suddenly I don't feel as stupid for not noticing that you had attraction and affection for me.

“I think that about covers everything, except now I get to tell you how this is going to go, because I think this can work and I'm pretty sure you want this to work, but there's going to be some ground rules so that yesterday never happens again, because I'd rather force myself to let go of you rather than deal with another yesterday, okay? Don't answer that, I'm not done talking.

“So since we've totally done things out of order, no more sex. Yeah, I just turned down sex. Not until we're at least friends, then friends that go on dates and friends that kiss each other. We can even be boyfriends, if that's not too exotic for you. But there needs to be actual talking going on. And not just stupid small talk stuff. Actual stuff, like feelings and hard things and parents and Issues. And yeah, I'm not exactly chomping at the bit to share my own Issues with the class, but I'll do it, and I'll need you to do it, too.

“To voluntarily offer that information. Because I know you'll tell me things I ask about, I've realized that about you, too, but I'm not actually psychic, unlike Lydia, so I'm not always going to know to ask, let alone what to ask, which is why you have to put yourself out there and tell me things. If it makes you feel better, I'm not going to make you tell me everything ASAP, but I'm going to expect to learn about things sooner or later. And that's a deal breaker, fair warning. And before we even get to the sex, there will be so many discussions about it. All the discussions. We'll talk about it so much that you'll just be 'ugh, let's just get on wi-'”

“One,” Derek cuts in.

Stiles swallows and licks his lips, mouth dry from talking non-stop. “What?”

“You said a hundred people. It was just one. Aside from you.” Derek's voice hurts like it's been dragged over broken glass. Stiles can hear Derek moving around on the other end, pacing or something.

“Derek, man, you don't have to do this now,” Stiles says softly, absently patting the air in front of him like he can vicariously soothe Derek.

“There are no Issues,” Derek says. “There was only ever one. One Issue that burned my family alive and made Peter go crazy so that he ended up killing a bunch of people and biting Scott. And then that Issue came back and Peter killed her, too, which made Gerard come, and then Jackson and the fucking Kanima and the Alpha pack and fuck, Stiles. Stiles, I was so fucking stupid.”


“I wasn't even that young, I was just so fucking naïve, I thought that attraction and affection were the same thing. I thought she loved me and I loved her back, except she was just using me like bait on a fucking line and it's-”

“Derek, christ, just get in here, already.”

“It's all my fucking fault.”

Stiles crosses over to his window and slams it open.

In, Derek. Right the fuck now,” he snarls at his phone. Derek must've wandered away from Stiles' house while they were talking because it's almost a minute before he's scaling the side of the Stilinski house and falling into Stiles' room, tripping over his own feet like he's Stiles circa growth spurt #1. Stiles drags him into a tight embrace, one arm tight around his waist and the other up along his shoulders. Derek crumples into him like tissue paper. They sway as Stiles adjusts for Derek's dead weight, but he keeps them upright and turns it into a deliberate rocking motion.

“Stiles,” Derek gasps, muffled by Stiles' shoulder. His fingertips pick at Stiles' shirt, not quite sure of their welcome.

“Hey, it's cool,” Stiles coos, petting Derek's hair. “I've got you, now. I've got you.” He uses his not-petting hand to flatten Derek's hand against his side until Derek gets the hint and splays his hands along the curve of Stiles' ribs. They slide around to his back and then past each other, his arms tightening around Stiles' ribcage like Stiles is a pillow or his own person-sized teddy bear. Stiles just whispers “I've got you, I've got you” over and over again into Derek's ear, and maybe sings a few half-remembered Christmas songs to break up the monotony even though it's July. And way after that, after Stiles has migrated them to his bed to cuddle more comfortably, he draws Derek's attention away from the snot he's dripped and smeared onto the damp shoulder of Stiles' shirt.


Four years later

“Your graduation present,” Derek says, pointing into the master bedroom of his apartment.

Stiles blinks at it. “What, the bed?”

“Since you're moving in,” he answers, like that explains everything.

Stiles gives the bed the hairy eyeball. “Was this supposed to be a surprise? Because I have distinct memories of being dragged around a mattress store and being forced to sprawl on like, five hundred mattresses.”

“Forty, max,” Derek snorts, “and I had to drag you off the Tempur-Pedic when you refused to try any more after that.”

“It's not my fault the rest were vastly inferior. Though King size was clearly the way to go.” Stiles tosses himself onto the middle of the bed and starfishes out as far as his limbs can reach. No part of him peeks out over the edges. “Congratulations to me. Nice sheets, though. Whoever picked these sheets clearly has exceptional taste. You might want to put him on your speed dial. Give him some Derek loving, even.”

Derek rolls his eyes at Stiles' waggling eyebrows and climbs on, shoving Stiles' arm up and out of the way so he can lay on his back next to him, hooking his calves over Stiles' extended leg. It gives him a sense of déjà vu.

“Hey,” Stiles says. “Remember that time in the Sheriff station with Matt and Jackson?”

It takes Derek a moment to sift through all the traumatic memories of Stiles' high school years to find the right one. “You smelled like glitter,” he says.

Stiles shrugs. “That happens sometimes when a bunch of your friends are drag queens.”

They lay like that for a few moments, reminiscing.

“Actually, that's a depressing thing to remember,” Stiles says abruptly. He rolls onto his side, then rolls again until he's mostly sprawled over Derek. “Let's have a celebratory make out instead.”

“Okay,” Derek says, leaning in to be kissed.



Stiles doesn't blink awake with epiphany in the middle of the night, because hel-lo, Tempur-Pedic mattress? He sleeps like a baby. But like a baby that can sleep through the night, unlike the McArgent baby which, if Scott's fondly aggrieved baby stories are anything to go by, cannot. Maybe more like a log. A baby log. Log baby?

Basically, he saves his epiphany for the morning, when he wakes up bright-eyed and bushy-tailed to Derek snoring and drooling into his armpit.

"Oh my god," he says at his sleeping boyfriend. "You totally bought this bed so our second first time would be awesome. You did, didn't you? You are just- I literally cannot. I love you, sourdough."

Drool drips onto Stiles' skin, which gross, and adorable, but still gross, so he slides out from under Derek's face, wipes it off, and drapes himself over Derek's back, pillowing his head on a muscular shoulder. Derek barely twitches through the whole thing. With any luck, Stiles will catch a few more magnificent Zs and revenge sleep-drool all over Derek's back.

Chapter Text

“HAPPY ANNIVERSARY!” Stiles shouts at Derek's dozing face.

Derek flinches, like he does every year, because he hates himself for how they got together in the first place. In fact, he hates the whole thing so much that he actually insists on celebrating their half anniversary every New Year's Eve, which generally leads to good-natured ribbing from the pack, which results in Stiles defending his boyfriend's honour-with-a-'u', which is typically followed by Derek and Stiles making out in a corner somewhere while their friends celebrate without them. It's a pretty win-win situation all around.

Stiles yanks at Derek's pillow, which Derek surrenders in favor of holding onto the sheets and pulling them up over his head.

“C'mon, honey bun, don't you want to know what I've got planned?”

Derek mutters something unintelligible. Stiles wiggles his way under the covers and latches onto his boyfriend of (officially) four years, wrapping his arms and legs around Derek like an overly friendly octopus. They've both got morning wood, but they've had four years of voluntary abstinence to practice ignoring it.

“C'mon, banana nut,” Stiles cajoles, scritching Derek's belly. His abs are a little less sharply defined than they used to be, now that he doesn't work out obsessively, but they're still hard enough to crunch beer cans on. Which Stiles knows from experience. What a night that was.

Derek rolls onto his belly, flattening and pinning Stiles' hands beneath him.

“Aaaaangel food cake. Blueberry muffin. Chocolate cupcake with buttercream frosting. Maple bar.”

“Fried,” Derek mumbles.

“Hm?” Stiles murmurs, busy dropping random kisses all over Derek's back. He's got a tee shirt on, so no licking, unfortunately.

“Donuts are fried, not baked.”

“Yep,” Stiles says. He squirms up and drops a kiss on Derek's cheek. “Wanna have sex now or later?”

“Ugh,” Derek grunts. “Let's just get on with it.”

His lack of enthusiasm catches Stiles off guard and he physically startles. “Oh my god, you are such a jerk!” Stiles tries to pull his hands free but Derek gets there first, holding him by the wrists. “Let go!”

“It was a joke, Stiles. Calm down.”

“What?” Stiles blinks at Derek, who is looking back at him through barely-open eyes.

“An anniversary joke. You were lecturing me, lecturing me,” he repeats over Stiles' wordless noise of fake aggravation, “and you said that we wouldn't have sex until we'd talked about it so much I would get tired of the whole thing and say, 'ugh, let's just get on with it.'”

Stiles lets his weight settle onto Derek. “I can't believe you remember that. Actually, I can't believe you of all people just made an anniversary joke. You hate our anniversary.”

Derek shrugs and turns his face into the mattress. Stiles kisses the back of his neck.

“So,” he says, nuzzling Derek's hairline, “want to get on with it now or later?”

While Derek weighs the pros and cons, he snuggles into the broad spread of Derek's back, rubbing his face over the threadbare weave of the shirt muttering, “cuddle cuddle cuddle” and “you smell like flour and dandelions.”

Eventually Derek pulls his face back out of the mattress. “Work today?” he asks.

“Nope,” Stiles answers, popping the 'p' the way Derek hates. “All yours, pound cake.”

“Okay. Now.”

“How do you want it?”

Derek rubs his face against the mattress, his stubble scratching loudly against their still newish sheets. “Like this.”

“Lazy,” Stiles snorts. “All in?”

'All in' is their code for penetration, a theoretical concept (excepting that first time) that is now becoming reality. They've talked about it a lot, enough to have an actual code for it, about pitching and catching and technique and anatomy and supplies and toys, and they're ready.

“Yeah,” Derek says. “All in.”

“Gonna have to let me up, chocolate chip,” Stiles says, tugging against Derek's grip on his wrists. “No all in without lube and condoms.”

“Don't want a condom.”

“Okay,” Stiles says easily, because they've talked that subject to death, too. Neither is worried about STDs; Stiles had been a virgin their first time, Derek had only been with Kate years before that, and neither of them has had sex with anyone else in the four years they've been together. They've been tested. They're clean.

Derek lets go of him and he pops up out of the covers, turning them down a little so the two of them won't suffocate, and grabs the lube off the bedside table. It's recently bought, but already a third used, since neither of them was willing to abstain from masturbating on top of sex. Stiles strips out of his boxer briefs while he's up, then manhandles Derek out of his, since Derek is being his usual lazy morning self.

“Shirt,” he says, plucking at the loose cotton.

Derek wiggles a little, rucking the shirt up around his ribs, then gives up. Stiles huffs and rolls his eyes and yanks it up higher, pretending not to see the smirk Derek isn't trying hard to hide. He gets his petty vengeance when he hauls the shirt roughly up over Derek's face, catching his chin and nose and ears on the collar. He yanks it off Derek's arms, which flop back onto the mattress, and crows with victory. Derek just wiggles, making himself comfortable.

“Open wide, sourdough,” he says, swatting at Derek's butt.

“Hate it when you call me that,” Derek mutters, letting Stiles slip in between his thighs.

“Really? You never said. Want me to stop?”

Derek folds his arms and tucks his face into them. “Whatever. Don't care.”

“Oh ho ho,” Stiles chuckles, sliding his hands down Derek's sides. “I see how it is. You like it when I call you sourdough. Maybe even like like it.”

“Enough with the 'like like' shit. Aren't you old enough by now to use real words?”

“I will never be too old to say 'like like'. That's one of our things, one of our relationship things that we do that make no sense to anyone else. It's our own little inside reference.”

“Fine. Do whatever. You always do anyway,” Derek grouses. Stiles leans down and kisses one blushing ear.

“As you wish, seed cake. See, that was also a reference, which I used because I love you.”

“How come I'm always the girl in your movie references?”

Stiles scoots down and reaches for the lube. “Are you seriously bitching about being Buttercup? You realize that she was one of the most beautiful women in the world, right? Of course, I would totally say that you're literally the number one most gorgeous guy in the world, but that's just me.”

“I want to be Westley,” Derek bitches.

“Too late. I got there first. But if it'll make you feel more manly, you can always get up off your lazy face and stick your dick up my butt.”

Derek goes quiet at that.

“I thought so,” Stiles says smugly. “I keep telling Dad and Melissa that you're the laziest guy on Earth, but they never believe me. It's like your muscles have them brainwashed or something.”

“Dad likes me better because I voluntarily wash the dishes.”

“Usurper,” Stiles hisses mock-threateningly, and jabs a slicked finger into Derek's hole. Derek startles at the intrusion, but opens easily.

“Jealousy is so unbecoming,” Derek drawls, rocking his hips back onto Stiles' finger.

“You seem to like it when I get possessive of you, though.”

“That's different. More.”

“Nope,” Stiles pops the 'p', “Gonna finger you 'till you're gagging for it. Tell me how it's different.”

Derek's hips roll against Stiles' knuckles as he fucks himself on Stiles' finger. “It just is,” he hisses.

“If you tell me how, I'll give you another finger,” Stiles cajoles.

“It's because you want me. I like to watch you want me and get mad at other people who want me, too. It proves that I'm yours.”

Stiles pulls his hand away just far enough to slip a second finger in. Derek moans, then moans again when Stiles says, “Damn right you're mine. I spent six years training you to my satisfaction, so I'm sure as hell not letting you go.”

Derek fucks back onto Stiles' hand and Stiles curls his fingers, brushing against his prostate with every push and pull. He leans over Derek's back and trails a line of kisses down his spine. “It's okay for you to be possessive of me, too,” he whispers to the space between to vertebrae. “I'd like it.”

Derek goes still. “I had the pack Facebook stalk you while you were at college,” he breathes. “I wanted to know what was going on with you without seeing it myself because I knew I would get jealous of your friends and your roommates and even the assholes who lived across the hall from you. I spent years being jealous of Scott because you gave him your unquestioning loyalty even though he didn't deserve it.”

Stiles licks the small of Derek's back and places a third finger at the rim of Derek's entrance, a wordless 'may I come in?' “Fun fact: Scott lost my unquestioning loyalty that night the Kanima trapped us in the pool. Fun fact #2: I started trusting you when you distracted Peter from killing me that night in the hospital when we found out he was the alpha.”

Derek groans and reaches back, groping for Stiles' hand and knotting their fingers together. He plants the other against the headboard and pushes back onto Stiles' three fingers, panting at the stretch.

“I know you've been kind of obsessed with making this time better than our first time, but just waking up next to you is already a thousand times better,” Stiles adds. Derek squeezes his fingers, both the ones tangled with his and the ones stretching him open.

“This is so fucking ridiculous,” Derek grunts, inching his way back onto the three fingers. “We're supposed to be having sex but we keep talking.”

“Aw, don't be such a lemon tart. It just means I've trained you well. I've gotten you so used to talking about your feelings that you can even do it with my fingers up your ass.”

“You are so weird,” Derek snorts, grabbing Stiles' pillow and shoving his face into it.

“You love it. You'd be bored without me hanging around being weird.”

“I would, which is just as weird. You've freaking broken me.”

Stiles curls over Derek's back and purrs into his ear, “Just be glad I haven't persuaded you to start wearing plaid.”

“Aaugh,” Derek groans. “Anything but.”

“Heh. Butt. Speaking of, wanna try four?”

“Maybe. Gimme a little longer.”

“Will this help?” Stiles asks, pressing his fingertips against Derek's prostate.

A breathy 'ah' catches in Derek's throat. His back arches up as he grinds against Stiles' fingers, muscles rippling as he tries to curl in on himself while still laying face-down.

“Yes,” he breathes. “Yes, fuck.”

Stiles breathes steadily in and out through his mouth, wishing he had a free hand so he could squeeze the base of his dick to keep from coming. He presses his face against Derek's back instead and closes his eyes. There'll be plenty of time for watching Derek's rim stretch pink and wide when he isn't five seconds away from coming. Derek's hand squeezes tight around his, and he leans down to buss Derek's knuckles.

“Say when,” he says, voice throaty with how impossibly turned on he is.

Derek fucks himself on Stiles' fingers, opening up around them until Stiles' pinky knuckle digs into his ass cheek with every short thrust. “When,” he gasps. “When.”

Stiles pulls his hands away, fumbling for the lube as Derek makes a noise of protest.

“Lube, profiterole. You are so gonna want lube when I put four fingers in you.” He even dribbles some directly onto Derek's entrance, watching him twitch at the feel of cold lube on the flushed pink skin of his rim and pushing it in with slippery fingers.

Four fingertips, tucked together, are actually narrower than three fingers in to the knuckle, and slide in easily. They keep sliding in, Derek pushing back greedily for more, until Stiles has four fingers halfway into Derek. The muscles flutter around Stiles' knuckles, and luckily Stiles has a free hand this time to strangle his dick, because it's already spurting an ominous amount of precome. It's going to take divine intervention for Stiles to last more than a few strokes once he actually gets his dick into Derek's ass. Derek bears down and takes another half inch, ribcage heaving with the depth of his breaths. He doesn't move except to breathe for a while and Stiles wonders if maybe four fingers isn't a little much.

“Wanna go back to three?” he asks.

“No,” Derek says, muffled against the pillow.

“If you're sure. We're gonna have to get you to relax, though.” Stiles drums the fingers of his free hand on his thigh, running through his options. With Derek cozy on his belly, blowing him is (temporarily) off the table. But Stiles has always been orally creative. Leaning his weight on his free hand, he eases himself onto his front between Derek's splayed legs, nudging his thighs a little further open with his shoulders. They go, and Stiles' fingers slip in a little deeper. “Gonna rim you, okay, baguette?”

The taut ring of muscle clenches around Stiles' fingers. Stiles presses a lingering kiss to the top of Derek's crack, then holding one cheek aside with his free hand, trails little kitten licks down to where his fingers are stretching Derek open. It's a little cramped, what with Stiles' hand getting in the way of his chin, but Derek hitches his thighs up a little further, spread so wide that they lift his groin a little off the bed. The stretch and new angle open him right up and give Stiles a little more room to move.

He mostly just kisses and licks at Derek's rim as he eases his four fingers in and out, brushing teasing fingertips along Derek's prostate. Derek grunts like he's been gut punched each time. He gets his arms under him, holding his upper body up off the bed so he can properly rock back onto Stiles' fingers.

“So, ah,” Stiles says, eyes riveted to the stretch of Derek's ass around his fingers, “think you can still talk about feelings with four of my fingers in you.”

Stiles,” Derek warns testily.

“'Cause if you don't, I can.”

Derek sighs. “What now?

“I just gotta say that I'mreally really really happy.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “Yes, sex, great.”

“No, it's not even the sex part. Well, not just the sex part. I'm just really happy in general. With you. Being with you.” Stiles lays on his side and pillows his head on Derek's thigh, watching his fingers dip in and out of Derek's ass, sliding a little deeper with every push in. “I read that one reason people cheat on their spouses because they're not being 'emotionally fulfilled' by the relationship. I'm like, the opposite; I'm so emotionally fulfilled being with you that I literally can't imagine being with anyone else.”

Wetness drips onto the back of Derek's thigh and he smells salt, a different salt than the sweat of their bodies.

“Augh, I'm so gross,” Stiles says, choking up. “You're gonna have to do the fucking because I just spontaneously grew a vagina.”

Derek stares blindly at the headboard. “In that case, you'll have to settle for the dildo, because I grew one first.”

Stiles rubs his leaky face on Derek's hairy thigh. “Scott and Allison wish they were as gross as we are,” he jokes.

“Allison does,” Derek says. “I don't know about Scott, though.”

Stiles' hand stills. “What?” he asks breathlessly.

“She overheard one of our conversations,” Derek admits, turning his face toward Stiles. “She told me that she wished she and Scott could talk like we do without being blinded by their own feelings.”

“Wait, was that when you two became friends?”

“That's what started it, yeah.”

Stiles goes back to working his fingers into Derek's body, dumbfounded. “Wow. We out-Scallisoned Scallison.”

“Don't call them that,” Derek says out of habit. “It sounds like a skin infection.”

“Y'know, I was so confused when I came back for break and suddenly you were defending your new BFFsie Allison left and right. I was a little worried for a while.”

Derek snorts. “Not as worried as Scott. He thought I was trying to steal her from him.”

“That certainly explains the anti-Derek hate mail that randomly started showing up in my email and voicemail. I thought he was just being nostalgic for the ol' 'I hate being a werewolf' days. I'm guessing Allison straightened him out?”

“Yeah. She asked me for advice about how to talk to him and everything.”

“Wow, she went to you for relationship advice?”

Derek groans. “I don't want to talk about it.”

Stiles laughs, jolting his hand and making Derek hiss. He peppers apologetic kisses all over Derek's fuzzy butt. “C'mon, cinnamon bun, spill. What did you say?”

Derek buries his face in his pillow. “Noooo,” he moans.

“Tell me,” Stiles wheedles, digging his fingertips into Derek's prostate. Derek shouts and jerks, clenching tight around Stiles' knuckles. A shaky thrust of his hips coincides with Stiles pushing in, and the bulge of Stiles' knuckles slips into Derek, the ring of muscle squeezing the breadth of his palm. Stiles stares.

“I'll give you a pass on that if you tell me something,” he says faintly.

“Please,” Derek pants. “Please.”

Stiles gives an experimental push with his hand and Derek rocks with it, moaning. “So we originally nixed fisting, but could you be convinced to reconsider?”

“Your hands are too big,” Derek gasps.

“Are you sure?” Stiles asks, gently turning his hand so he can slot his thumb into Derek's crack. “Because I am literally one thumb away from having my whole hand in you.”

“What?” Derek asks, reaching down. His fingers tremble and his breathing picks up as they feel Stiles' hand and his own obscenely stretched rim. “Holy god. Stiles, what the hell did you do?”

“You wanted four!” Stiles yelps. “So I gave you four, and then I got distracted and my hand just sort of slipped in? What the hell are you blaming me for, anyway?”

“I don't know! I'm just feeling really overwhelmed right now, okay?” Derek shouts. His other hand, the hand not digging its fingernails into Stiles' lube-slick wrist, claws at the sheets. Stiles instantly drapes himself over Derek's back as best he can with most of his hand still buried in Derek's rear.

“Hey, hey,” he croons, rubbing his free hand up and down Derek's side. “It's okay, tea cake. I've got you. I've got you.”

Derek is already calming down at Stiles' reassuring touch and the weight of him pressing down on Derek's body. His anus, which had been tightening almost painfully around Stiles' hand, relaxes by minute degrees until it's loose enough that Stiles thinks he could pull out without hurting Derek.

“Feeling better?” he asks gently, petting Derek's ribs.

Derek's legs shift and he opens up a little more around Stiles' hand. “Yeah. Sorry.”

“No,” Stiles says, kissing the faint bumps of Derek's spine. “It's my fault. I should've been more careful. You want it out?”

He doesn't get an answer at first, but he can all but hear the cogs in Derek's head grinding away.

“I don't know,” Derek says eventually.

The one thing Stiles wants to do right now is kiss Derek on the mouth, kiss him to show how much he cares about him, but he can't reach, not with his hand palm-deep in Derek's ass. He touches Derek's face with his free hand instead, tracing the sharp jut of Derek's jaw and the fine lines that have begun to form at the corners of his eyes.

“Tell me what you're thinking,” he prompts.

The muscles shift and bunch under Stiles' fingertips as Derek clenches his jaw.

“It's too much,” he whispers. “But I don't want you to take your hand out because I don't want to feel empty.”

“It is a lot for a first time. We can table it and maybe talk about it later?”

“Yeah,” Derek sighs. Most of the remaining tension seeps out of his shoulders and back. “Does this mean you're actually going to fuck me now?”

“Well, I'd hate to leave you feeling empty,” Stiles says, trying for sass and overshooting into sap. “Bear down.”

Derek's muscles flutter and clench, then push down. He grunts with the effort, and between him pushing and Stiles pulling, Stiles' hand slips out. There's red pressure marks at the edges of his palm where Derek's werewolf strength had pinched too tight.

Stiles pumps his dick with his lubed hand as Derek shifts restlessly, his hole still gaping open a little and twitching invitingly.

“Stiles, if you don't stop fucking around--” Derek warns.

“I know, I know, insert threat here. It's just, you're not the only one who's feeling a little overwhelmed, alright?” He kneels between Derek's legs and guides them down until all of Derek's weight is resting on the bed. “Ready, sachertorte?”

“Sachertorte? Serio-uh! Oh, oh.”

The whole near-fisting thing might've freaked them both out a little, but there is at least one upside: Stiles slides in all the way on one smooth push, Derek's muscles loose and relaxed around him. He heaves a calming breath and drapes himself over Derek's back like a living blanket. They fit perfectly; Stiles' end-of-puberty growth spurt gave him enough height over Derek that, even with his hips slightly below Derek's, he can still comfortably mouth at Derek's cheek without straining his neck.

“You good?” he asks, dropping kisses along the line of Derek's shoulders. Derek lifts his head off the pillow, eyes hooded, and they kiss clumsily, the angle difficult until Derek pulls his arms under his chest and tips just slightly to the side. Everything just clicks, then.

Stiles lets Derek take his weight and conscientiously wipes his hands on the sheets before smoothing them up and down Derek's sides. He rises and falls with the slightly accelerated in and out of Derek's breathing.

“Flour and dandelions, you are like a magical thing that makes no sense,” Stiles mumbles into Derek's stubble. It scrapes against his face as he rests the hollow of his cheek on a flushed-hot ear. It fits perfectly and much more comfortably than the sharp pressure of their prominent cheekbones digging into each other.

He gets a “hnn” in reply and watches Derek's eyelashes as he blinks repeatedly, like he's two minutes from dozing off.

“Wanna talk about feelings some more?” Stiles sighs.

“Nn,” Derek protests.

“Okay.” Stiles pulls his elbows in, tucking them along Derek's sides and cupping the balls of his shoulders. He settles in to savor the fluttering contractions of Derek's inner muscles molding to the shape of Stiles' cock.

The relatively cool air of their bedroom chills the thin layer of sweat that rises on his back and at the creases of his thighs and knees, a pleasant contrast to the heat and sweat trapped between his and Derek's bodies. It had grossed him out at first, Derek's propensity to sweat, but it's something he's gotten used to. Missed, even, when he was away at school and his clothes and sheets only smelled like detergent, Stiles, and crumbs until such time as he could get Derek to visit. His sweatiness had come in handy then, his b.o. soaking into Stiles' bed and pillow and the hooded sweatshirt that lived in Stiles' dorm that Derek wore religiously every night he stayed over and didn't get washed for literally four years. When Stiles' dad had come down to help Stiles pack up his dorm for the last time, he'd discovered the sweatshirt tangled in Stiles' bedsheets and gagged at the smell of it. Only a lot of fast talking and deliberate overshare had saved the beloved garment from being burned on the spot.

Stiles mouths at the nape of Derek's neck, licking up the salty sheen of sweat along his hairline. Derek squirms obligingly.

“Fuck, Stiles, are you going to fuck me or are we going to take nap, here?”

“Nap sounds good.” Stiles fake yawns, then actually yawns. “Why, you hard?”

There's a pause as Derek's hips shift against the mattress. “Sort of.”

Stiles snickers. “Got bored now that we're not sharing our feelings?”

“Just shut up and fuck me,” Derek growls.

“You love it when I talk. Don't front, crouton, lying is so unbecoming.”

“Fine, talk, whatever, what do I freaking care,” Derek snaps, neck pink. “Just fuck me already.”

Stiles obediently curls his hips forward in a luxurious grind. “Like that, spongecake?”

Derek pants and bares his teeth like he's not trying to get his knees under him for leverage to push back. “Harder,” he orders.

“Nope!” Stiles smirks and frots his hips against Derek's ass.

One of Derek's arms squirms out from under his chest and reaches down, presumably to manhandle Stiles into compliance, but Stiles catches his wrist and pins it to the bed, ignoring the low animal growl that grinds out from between Derek's clenched teeth.

“Hey, you know what? You should have a little faith. I said I've got you. Or don't you believe me anymore?”

Derek grits his teeth, pinned hand curling into a fist, and spits, “That's not fair.”

And it really isn't, Stiles realizes. Since the very first moment when he had spread himself out on Derek's back, Stiles had been doing his damnedest to rile him up. And then when Derek had gotten desperate for more, Stiles had pulled the 'don't you trust me' card. So he lets Derek's hand go and braces himself against the mattress.

“You're right,” he sighs into the tense muscles of Derek's back. “I'm sorry. I want to take care of you but I'm doing a crap job of it. Tell me what you need?”

Some of the tightness leaks out of Derek's shoulders. Stiles stares down at the bare, vulnerable nape of Derek's neck and is once again awestruck that, no matter how many times Stiles fucks up, Derek still lets himself be open and vulnerable. Of course, it hadn't always been like that. There were times in the beginning of their relationship, sometimes even month-long stretches, where Derek would revert to old habits and emotionally freeze Stiles out. But he'd never fully cut Stiles off, always leaving something important to him in Stiles' room so Stiles could look at it and say, 'he just needs a little time'.

“More,” Derek says into his pillow. The small of his back presses against Stiles' belly as he sets his knees into the mattress. “I need more.”

Stiles pants into the valley between Derek's shoulder blades, hot breath fanning out over the whorls of the triskelion. The new angle seems to agree with Derek, because he keeps pulsing and clutching around Stiles' cock, so hot and soft and wet inside like woah.

“You want it, you got it, carrot cake.” Stiles gets his knees under him and draws out slowly, shifting one hand to Derek's hip to keep him from following with his hips. It leaves Stiles balancing precariously, and when he pushes back in, it's more of a controlled fall that squeezes a gut-deep groan out of Derek.

“Yeah, yeah,” he breathes. “Fuck me harder.”

“Potty-mouth,” Stiles accuses through gritted teeth. Balanced as he is on one hand, this whole thing is more of an upper body workout than he'd thought it would be. He brings one leg up and plants his foot near Derek's hip. The new position makes it a little awkward to keep holding onto Derek's hip, but with his weight more evenly balanced he's able to give Derek a good, solid thrust and not so distracted by his own body that he misses Derek's high little 'ah!'.

Christ, but Derek's voice is adorable when he's not trying to be a growly werewolf.

The slap of flesh on flesh is deafening above their harsh breathing. Stiles slows down to a long, unhurried rhythm, pulling out until the pucker of Derek's opening is pursed around the very tip of Stiles' cock, then pushing back in on one stroke until his balls are pressed against Derek's perineum. Each penetration punches the breath out of Derek, his broad ribcage contracting visibly. It's kind of amazing, a lot amazing, really fucking incredible, actually, and Stiles is so lost for words that he's just staring dumbly at the flex of muscles in Derek's back.

On one pull-out, he shuffles further up the bed and angles his hips to fuck down and in instead of up and in. Derek arches with a cry, his shoulders trembling. His ass clamps down around Stiles' cock, practically strangling it with sensation, and Stiles quickly reaches down and gives his balls a firm tug to hold back his orgasm.

“Oh my god, biscuit, did you just come?”

Derek turns his face into the pillow and growls, “No. Keep going.”

Dubious, Stiles tries to squeeze a hand under Derek to feel for come, but Derek grabs him by the wrist.

“Keep. Going,” Derek snarls, angling a red-eyed alpha glare over his shoulder. It's not very effective, partly because Stiles is immune to all of Derek's assorted expressions of disapproval, but mostly because the red glow flickers dimly.

“Okay,” Stiles says placatingly. He eases his hand out from under Derek's hip and plants it on the mattress. “Okay. Can you- could you get up on your knees a little? Like--”

Stiles guides Derek into a new position with his legs folded under him, so that if he sat up, he'd be sitting on his knees. Neither of them can avoid Stiles slipping out of Derek, but Stiles maintains some point of stimulating contact through it—either a thumb pressing against his perineum or two fingers hooked inside, gently pressing down on Derek's prostate. When they're both comfortable again, Stiles re-lubed and the pillow shoved under Derek's chest, Stiles lines up and eases back in.

Derek has tightened up and Stiles is glad for the extra lube, but he's not so tight that Stiles doesn't slide home with one sweet, languid thrust. The new position means that Stiles can curl around Derek and mouth sloppily at Derek's tattoo, so he does. Holding his hips perfectly still, he licks and nibbles and kisses and sometimes just breathes on the whorls of black ink.

He starts with short little not-thrusts, more aggressive grinding than actual in and out thrusting. Derek squirms a little, clutching the pillow and bearing down on Stiles' cock, but his breathing picks up again surprisingly quickly. Draped over Derek's back, Stiles can literally feel it, feel the expansion and contraction of his chest and the sweat that beads on his skin as he works Derek back up again. When Derek starts grinding back Stiles sets his hands and knees in the mattress and shoves.

Derek grunts like he's just been kicked in the gut and shoves back. It's like some switch has been flipped, or a starting pistol has been fired, they lunge at each other, going at it hammers and tongs. There's no more of the slow teasing from before, no banter or even kisses; this is fucking.

It's great. It really is. Derek is soft and hot and slick as anything and Stiles is sprinting back toward orgasm, but all Stiles can think is how he wants to hold Derek's hand. So he hooks his arms under Derek's shoulders and hauls them both upright, then grabs his hips and pulls, forcing Derek down on Stiles' dick and not letting him go. One glance is all it takes to confirm that Derek has already come and is already getting hard again.

“What the hell, Stiles, let go,” Derek hisses, clawing at Stiles' hands with blunt fingers. When Stiles refuses to let go, he starts clenching around Stiles' cock instead.

Stop that,” Stiles barks, and Derek goes stiff and tight in a way that is less hell yes and more fucking ow.

“No, no, don't do that, don't get upset,” he pleads, reaching up to pet Derek's chest and belly. “I wanted to hold your hand, okay? I just wanted to hold your hand.”

Words meant to comfort have the opposite effect, which Stiles thinks he should have realized before he opened his big mouth. Derek's shoulders hunch in unhappily.

“I'm ruining this for you,” Derek says flatly. “Again.”

“Well, I won't deny that you ordering me to keep fucking you after you came made me a little uneasy, but I think it's a little premature to say that anything is ruined.” Stiles bucks his hips up, reminding them both how hard Stiles still is. “Let's just slow down a little, okay hamburger bun?”

“You did not,” Derek says, so primly offended that Stiles leers on reflex.

“Oooh, huf-fy,” Stiles teases. “Are you upset that I didn't say 'hot dog bun' instead?”

The lanky hand stroking Derek's abs slides lower to give his cock a friendly grope.

“You are terrible.”

“Horrible,” Stiles agrees. “Absolutely no good. But you love me anyway.”

Derek puts his hand over the one resting on his heart and twines their fingers together. “Yeah. I do.”

Stiles scritches Derek's pubes, enjoying Derek's shiver of pleasure.

“You need to stop thinking about the first time,” Stiles says lightly. “It's stressing you out and you always make the worst decisions when you're stressed out and blaming yourself. The worst.”

With a sigh of mildly fond irritation, Derek leans back against Stiles' chest and tips his head back onto a steady shoulder. “Stop being right. It turns you into a smug little prick.”

“Which rhymes with 'snug little dick'. Which is one third inaccurate, because I do not have a small penis. Just accept the omnirightness of the Stiles, bread pudding. It'll save you the stress in the long run.”

“One day you'll be wrong and I will laugh in your face.”

“The day that I'm wrong is the day that I agree to divorce you.”

Derek breathes in sharply. “What?” he gasps, then forces his voice deeper. “We're not even married. How do you divorce someone you're not married to?”

“Mmm,” Stiles hums, nuzzling Derek's shoulder. “Good point. I should rectify that.”

He stops teasing Derek's cock and reaches around behind himself. His hips twitch against Derek's and suddenly he's holding up a plain titanium band tied with floss to a pen cap.

Derek's nose twitches. “That ring smells like ass. You're proposing to me with a ring that smells like ass.”

“You say that like you wouldn't put your face in my ass at the first opportunity,” Stiles snorts. “Look, d'you want it or not?”

“Ask nicely,” Derek says loftily, like his heart isn't pounding in his chest.

Stiles turns his face into the curve of Derek's neck. “Derek Hale,” he murmurs. “Will you marry me?”

Derek has to swallow twice around the lump in his throat before he can answer. “Yes,” he says.

He slices the floss away with one claw, and together, they guide the ring onto Derek's finger. Derek marvels at how warm it is, the heat left over from the hours it spent in Stiles' body.

Stiles curls his arms around Derek's waist and watches him stare at his left hand.

“You know what this means, right?”

“Hm?” Derek says absently.

“Now that we're engaged, we can't 'fuck' anymore.” Stiles makes finger quotes that Derek feels rather than sees.

“What?” Derek looks at Stiles, who grins back.

“People who are as ridiculously in love as we are don't 'fuck', they make love,” he explains. “And now that I've popped the question, I think I'm due some celebratory lovemaking.”

A tightness in Derek's chest that he hadn't even known was there relaxes at Stiles' ridiculous logic. “Yeah?” he asks, smiling.

“Hell fucking yes,” Stiles announces. “But first, my legs are dying.”

“Oh thank god. Mine too,” Derek admits.

Stiles pulls out, made easier by having softened to half-hard, and they both sort of topple sideways in a tangle of arms and stiff legs. They suffer through the worst of the pins and needles together, then climb back to the middle of the king-sized mattress, legs still tingling slightly, to fall together, making out like horny teenagers. They roll and pinch and wrestle and fondle each other shamelessly, laughing and kissing and beaming at each other. Stiles loves it, can't get enough of it, and neither can Derek, who cuts loose and lets himself lick Stiles in weird places like his eyebrow and the point of his elbow and the second knuckle of his index finger. When Stiles ends up between Derek's thighs by chance, they almost ignore it and go back to playing, but by some inexplicable shared brainwave, they realize that they're finally, finally, ready.

Derek shoves the pillow under his hips and opens his arms and Stiles practically falls into him. For all that it'd been amazing before, it's even better face-to-face where they can kiss and stare into each others eyes like they've finally reached the 'happily ever after' part of their Nicholas Sparks novel. It's not perfect of course—there're bumped noses from too-enthusiastic kisses and Stiles has to hold up Derek's tree trunk legs because Derek is still the laziest person he knows—but it's perfectly them, and that's all that matters.

Derek tangles his fingers in Stiles' hair and commandeers his mouth, holding and turning Stiles' head as he sees fit, and being so close means Stiles can't maneuver for that perfect angle. Fortunately, he can get a hand between them to tease the slit of Derek's cock until Derek is bucking back and forth between Stiles' hand and his cock and shouting into Stiles' mouth.

When he comes, he shakes like he's being shaken apart, the muscles all along his front flexing into sharp relief as he curls up off the bed toward Stiles. Come streaks up his chest as far as his throat, a few drops catching in his stubble. Stiles desperately pounds him through it, so close he can practically reach out and lick it, and when Derek spasms in his arms from overstimulation, the reflexive squeeze of Derek's muscles around him throws him out over the edge and he comes with a wordless shout, Derek's weak and trembling arms holding him close.

Stiles thinks he might black out a little, but when he comes back to his body he's still propped up over Derek, Derek's legs still draped over his arms. He eases them down to the bed and Derek groans in relief as they fall limply around Stiles' hips.

“You okay, brioche?” Stiles pants, bussing Derek's cheek. He feels simultaneously wrung dry and made of sunbeams and Derek doesn't look much better.

Derek groans and pats Stiles' side, but otherwise doesn't move. Stiles' cock is still inside him and he doesn't want it to slip out just yet.

“Great. Greatness. I'm just gonna,” Stiles bounces his head on Derek's pectoral, “Just gonna put my head hear and rest my eyes. Love you. Let's do this again sometime.”

Derek mumbles something that may be “Love you, too” or “many, many times, in many different positions” depending on who's listening. He curls his left hand around Stiles', lays his right on Stiles' neck, and falls asleep.


Epilogue (the day at noon)

When Sheriff Stilinski opens his door the next morning to his son and his son's boyfriend, he throws his hands up in front of his face in slow motion and groans loudly and obnoxiously in half-genuine horror at how brightly they're glowing—no, how brightly they're shining. Christ, it's like looking into the damn sun. Melissa brusquely shoulders him out of the way and brandishes a frosted cake at them that reads CONGRATS ON THE SEX. Love, Scott and Allison is squeezed in along the edge.

“I'd like to thank the Academy,” Stiles declares, tossing an arm over Derek's shoulders. “And my fiance Derek 'Macaroon' Hale, without whom I never could have earned this prestigious and undoubtedly delicious cake.”

Fiance!” Scott shrieks from the kitchen and drops the salad bowl.