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A Time to Be So Small

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Stiles wakes with a cock in his ass. It’s the first thing he becomes aware of, the thing that drags him back from his dreams, this sensation of being spread open. It’s all very slick, slipping slowly, slowly in and out of him, so easy. He’s been lubed up, fingered open, loosened in his sleep without even a flicker of awareness. Then he’d been sleep-fucked.

He wonders how long it’s been, since a dick was shoved in him. How long he’s been getting slowly, slowly nailed.

This might actually be rape.

Stiles always slept like the dead. He burned too much energy, stayed up for long hours through manic bursts and too much Aderall. Then he crashed out of orbit, the weight of his heavy bones dragging him down, overcoming his pulsing blood and quick mind. It was never long, but it was always deep and hard. Deep, hard, like the dick spearing open his asshole.

To say that Stiles has woken, may be overstating things just a bit. Mostly he’s scrabbling his way back to consciousness, slowly, which is uncommon for him. Usually Stile pops right out of bed after five or six hours of playing dead to the world. Now though, now he’s drifting in that in-between state of waking that he’s heard other people speak of, but never quite experienced for himself.

It might be the steady, long strokes working through him, all of the way inside then almost all of the way out. It’s drugging him, the smooth pace, the strange sensation. His body closes and it opens, it tightens back up then yields again. It gives and gives and gives.

Stiles has never put anything in his hole before, only played around with it, rubbed a slick finger over and over it while he was jerking himself off. He’s not exactly surprised that it feels good, the way the hard flesh parts him so easily, grinds into all of those untouched nerve endings. He is surprised that it feels good enough that he isn’t panicking. Fucked without consent and Stiles isn’t protesting, doesn’t even want to, and what the hell does that say about him?

“I put it in your mouth first,” Derek confesses, having known the exact moment his dick woke Stiles. “Not all the way, just the head pressed against that smart tongue of yours.”

Derek’s hips jerk with the memory, jab at Stiles with a harsh thrust that stings a little. It isn’t much really, just the slightest stutter before the pace steadies again, that long slide in measured beats. That tiny bit of sting dissipates quickly, like it was never there. If there was ever any real pain, Stiles slept through it, like he slept through Derek’s cock in his mouth.

“Can you still taste my come?” Derek asks on a groan.

Stiles smacks his lips, because he can actually, a little musky and bitter on his tongue and painted tackily across his lips.

Derek is so fucking heavy, even with half of his weight propped up on one arm. Stiles blinks his eyes open and they sting from sweat, but he can see a thick-fingered hand gripping the sheets by his face. Stiles can also feel the other hand spreading open one of his ass cheeks, thumb notched between his rim and Derek’s girth. Derek feeling up the space he’s made for himself in Stiles’ body is a little sickening. It makes Stiles’ hard dick jump beneath him.

“I fingered you for half an hour and you barely even noticed, not even when I got up to four.”

The fucking keeps going and going, staying too smooth and unhurried. It’s maddening, but not in the way it should be. Stiles is pretty sure he’s supposed to cry or shout, kick out and struggle. That’s what people do when someone takes like this. Stiles doesn’t do anything, he just lies belly down and lets Derek use him.

Derek tells Stiles about all of the things he did while he was passed out.

“I just touched you for a while, got my hands all over you.”

“I kissed you and sucked those pretty fucking lips ‘til they were red and shiny.”

“I sucked your dick until it was hard. Fuck, I bet you wish you’d been awake for that.”

There are long pauses between each confession, but every word is gutting Stiles, going straight to his dick until he’s aching to come.

“When I finally put my dick in you, I went so slow, Stiles. Listened to every slow beat of your heart while I stretched you open. You didn’t wake up until I wanted you to.”

After that, Derek stops talking, finally speeds his thrusts into Stiles. They’re making these slick, slurping noises now, Derek fucking through the mess of lube he filled Stiles with, painted over the dried spit he left behind because, oh yeah, Derek confessed that he’d eaten Stiles out before he fingered him.

Stiles wants to beg Derek to let him come, but he can’t break his vow of silence. This has all been about what Derek wants, so Stiles isn’t even sure that the alpha cares one way or the other if he gets off on it.

Derek dicks him hard and fast, slaps his hips against Stiles’ ass with enough force to jar him up the mattress. He’s panting and moaning his way through it, biting off curses and growls and Stiles just takes it, the long gouging strokes.

Any second now, Stiles is going to get the come fucked right out of him, so he bites his lips and squeezes down on Derek. He holds back until he’s sure he won’t make it, then Derek rips his dick out of him with a snarl. Stiles finally makes a noise, a low whine of protest and sudden hurt, but Derek is flipping him onto his back, kneeling over Stiles while he strips his angry, red, uncut dick.

Come splatters over Stiles’ cock and balls, dripping hot and sticky into his pubes. He can’t help how his hips judder and hitch up for it, arch into the mark of his alpha.

Derek hasn’t even stopped coming before he’s leaning down, sucking Stiles’ entire dick into his hungry mouth. Stiles doesn’t even have time to savor it, his first waking blowjob, because he shoots immediately, drunk down in contracting swallows that have Stiles’ eyes rolling in a bliss so jarring it almost hurts.

Stiles falls back into that in-between state, half sleeping, half aware. It lasts for a few minutes, but by the time he pries his eyes back open, Derek has licked him completely clean and curled a possessive arm around Stiles.

They’re lying together, Derek half propped on a pile of pillows and Stiles’ back curved into his side.

“Why?” Stiles finally asks, voice small and croaky. He’s so very confused, scared and a little bit elated at the same time. Maybe he’s drunk on endorphins, but this doesn’t feel as ugly as it should and that’s more alarming than anything else right now.

Derek hums sleepily, tugs Stiles in closer. “You declared yourself pack. It’s an alpha’s right.”

It takes a minute for that to make any sense to Stiles, but when it does, the implications make him shudder and shake.

“You fuck all of your pack mates?”

Derek’s fingertips sift up and down through the trail of hair on Stiles’ belly. “I could,” Derek answers. “But why would I want to fuck them when I can fuck you instead?”

It doesn’t make sense, with the way his other pack mates look, but Stiles is too shocky still to question it. Instead he drifts back to sleep, lulled under by the heat of Derek and his steady breathing.

When Stiles wakes again, hours later, he’s not being fucked, but he’s well on his way to it.

*