Archive of Our Own

For all his outward toughness, Derek was terrible at disagreement, at differing needs in the moment, at a mismatch in their momentary wants, in general. He interpreted disagreement as rejection -- he always did, whatever it was. It could be as trivial as Stiles saying “No, I don't want to go to the bargain theater with the sticky floor and we have money anyway, so why?” (failing to grasp it was Derek's tentative attempt to overlay painful nostalgia of his dead siblings and parents, with love and happiness with Stiles) or as potentially, in Derek's head, serious -- and rejecting -- as "Can we just do doggie style? Lacrosse practice: I'm sore, not flexible" (forgetting for just a moment that it wasn't just sex with Derek; that he wanted to be face to face even though his mouth sought Stiles' with his eyes closed, like a lover -- he didn't keep them open to watch their hot fucking like he'd never see him again).

Then nothing Stiles could say or do would convince Derek it wasn't rejection -- he took things so personally. He was, Stiles had slowly come to understand, quite fragile in some ways, ways the others didn't see and Stiles would never reveal. That made total sense, of course, considering what Derek had been through and the blame he took for it.

Yet there was nothing to be done about it. Stiles could literally flail, explaining, taking it back. He could apologize, acquiesce to whatever it was Derek had asked for, or just assumed or needed to go his way. It was usually something Stiles only mildly disagreed about, anyway. Whereas there was no telling how meaningful some things were to Derek. But Derek would run.

~ ~ ~

The very first time, Stiles had been terrified, abjectly miserable, had even cried -- alone, in the shower, stifled sobs. He'd ruined it. Utterly blown it. Driven away the only person who made his heart skip and his body thrum and his throat ache with love -- he hadn't even said it, oh, God, why not? --

He knew he'd fucked it up beyond all repair with his big mouth, always finding the cheap shots and saying them before he could stop himself, that ADD "no filter" thing. He'd thrown himself into bed after the shower, drained, depressed, contemplating an empty, Derek-less future, endless lonely days, all his fault, his fault, what the fuck was wrong with him? There was no one else -- no one -- who made him feel like Derek made him feel: like he couldn't live without him, without seeing him at least once a day, without a chance to cajole a half-smile out of his sour wolf -- his -- well, he wouldn't be able to say that anymore: that Derek was his, that he was with Derek --

But hours later, well past midnight, Derek came back. Stiles was still awake, silently and listlessly gazing at his stupid ceiling in his stupid room in his stupid house because that was what he was, a stupid and immature child, thoughtless and careless --

Then came the sound of the window going up in the dark, and Derek coming through it. Stiles sat bolt upright, threw off the blanket and sheet, jumped onto his knees to scramble to the end of the bed and off it, to throw himself at Derek --

Derek met him there at the end of the bed, Stiles on his knees on the bed, Derek standing -- literally slammed into Stiles, his arms immediately around Stiles, hugging him like a frickin' python crushing the breath out of Stiles. Though, to be fair, Stiles had already been breathless with a surge of insane happiness and guilt and love at the sound of the window going up, so there wasn't much breath to squeeze out of him.

Stiles used all his strength to desperately hold Derek as tightly as Derek held him, even pinned his chin down over the muscles between Derek's neck and shoulder. Derek didn't do anything but hug him back just as hard and pressed his face into those same muscles on Stiles.

Stiles swallowed a few times, nearly weak with relief despite the tight circle of his arms around Derek. Some part of Stiles' brain instructed his arms don't let go don't let go don't ever let go. He couldn't say he'd ever liked the moist heat of Derek's breath in the shoulder of his shirt, but he'd never hated it, didn’t mind it, just preferred other, uh, sensations. . . but right now he wanted it there forever, to never leave.

He swallowed again, and when he spoke over Derek's shoulder -- as loudly and emphatically as he could, but also as quietly as possible to avoid alerting his dad -- his voice raggedly cracked. He meant to say he was sorry, so sorry, but that wasn't what came out.

"God I thought you were never coming back. I thought I'd fucked it up like I always do--"

"You didn't," Derek breathed into his shoulder. He gently shook Stiles in his arms to punctuate. "You don't, Stiles, it's--"

"I don't think first, I just speak, it's always gotten me in trouble. I'll work on that, Derek -- oh, God, you came back! I thought I'd lost you forever--"

"I will always come back to you," Derek said, his voice somehow deeper, but gentle, so gentle, it had never been so gentle. "I know you don't mean it. You're just you. I'm--"

He broke off and their bodies heaved with relieved breathing, and when Stiles tried to speak again, his throat aching, his heart bursting, Derek began to speak too.

"Derek, I am so sorr--"

"Stiles, it's me."

They both stopped talking and their arms around each other relaxed slightly. Stiles drew a breath to speak again, but Derek spoke first.

"It's not your fault. I'm --" He took a shaky breath and exhaled it hotly into Stiles shirt and shoulder.

"No, you're n--"

Derek interrupted him. "I know I am. It's not you."

He shook Stiles gently in his embrace, which Stiles was beginning to quite like, so he did it to Derek while he swallowed a few more times and then took a breath.

"No, I should--"

"Don't." Derek shook him again, and this time wriggled slightly, but only enough to move his cheek to press against Stiles' cheek.

"But I--"

Derek shook him again and backed up even more, though Stiles' arms tightened reflexively. He didn't exactly look Stiles in the eye, but pressed their foreheads together. "Stop," Derek murmured. "I know you don't mean to hurt me. It's me. I overreacted. I'm--"

"You're a normal person who's gone through more in a few years, than most people go ithrough in their entire lives," Stiles whispered. "I should know better."

Derek shakes his head, jostling Stiles' because their foreheads are still pressed together. "You're fine. I should -- trust you. I do. I'm not good at it. But I do. Don't blame yourself. It. . . it is what it is."

He squeezed Stiles tightly again, but kept their foreheads pressed together. Stiles finally relaxed, the tension seeping slowly out of his body, his jackrabbit heartbeat finally slowing.

"Still, I'll try," he mumbled. But then Derek's lips met his and shut him up with a warm, slow kiss, and they fell together on Stiles' bed.

The kissing became hotter -- at least Stiles' did -- and he slid a hand down between their bodies, to stroke Derek through his pants, but Derek's hand followed and grabbed it and laced their fingers together.

"What?" Stiles asked into Derek's mouth. "I --"

"That's not why I came over." Derek's lips pulled back to murmur into Stiles' cheek, then his jaw, then his neck. "We don't have to do anything. I don't expect it. This is enough," he finished softly, pulling back from Stiles' neck to press their lips together again.

He brought his and Stiles' hands up together, disentangling their interlaced fingers and sliding his arms around Stiles again, this time in a loose, relaxed embrace. Stiles relaxed in Derek's arms and loosened his desperate clutch of Derek's body. Their kisses slowed, lingered, somehow communicating their emotion, their relief to be back in each other's arms, their need for each other.

Derek's apology met Stiles' in the press of their lips together, their light touches of tongue, tentative and calm, reassuring yet just simmering below passion. . . needful, not that way, but yes that way, in every way: it felt unmistakable to Stiles that Derek's mouth on his pressed apology and love and need and relief, and he hoped his mouth felt the same way to Derek.

~ ~ ~

It happened like that a few more times. Derek always came back. But the time without him stretched Stiles' nerves into tension, worry, insomnia.

Nothing Stiles could do would change the fact that Derek wouldn't look at him, would dress swiftly -- would tear himself out of Stiles' grasp if Stiles grabbed his arm or hand to try to make him stay -- and leave. It was not one of those "I'm leaving to see if you'll follow me" leavings, either. The few times Stiles had tried to pursue Derek, by the time he'd gotten a hoodie, his car keys, started up his rattly old car, and slammed it into gear, Derek was long gone. Stiles would go to all the places he figured Derek would go -- even the old burnt out shell of the Hale home in the Preserve -- but he wouldn't find him. Not even the pack would know where he was.

Sometimes as he looked for Derek, Stiles got a slightly eerie feeling, a prickle of gooseflesh. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up; Derek felt near, very near. But no matter how Stiles called out, begged, yelled, Derek was nowhere to be found. Maybe hiding nearby, but not wanting to be found.

It would be hours or days before he came back and surprised Stiles as he miserably did homework at his desk having pushed the Derek situation to the back of his mind for, like, ten or twenty minutes; or played video games in an effort to forget about reality and Derek's withdrawal; or laid on top of his blanket and sheets on the bed, moping up at the ceiling, wishing there was something he could do to fix things.

Or Stiles would already be asleep, like a rock (Lacrosse practice), or fitfully (moping about his latest thing-that-upset-Derek) after it took too long to fall asleep, turning it over in his mind before he fell asleep, wondering what he could do, morosely wondering what would be the next thing to set Derek off, glancing over to his partially open window periodically, as if that could magically make Derek materialize.

Then a few hours/days (once, it was a week) later, Derek would appear at Stiles' window and come wordlessly to him or slip into bed with him. Wrap his arms tightly around Stiles, then push his forehead against Stiles'. Sometimes he said nothing but his entire body apologized, wrapped itself around Stiles; there was no question that he was sorry. More rarely, he would whisper.

"It's me. It's not you. It is me, Stiles."

His tone of voice would be awkward and haunted, and Stiles supposed it was. It hadn't occurred to Stiles, when they first got together, that he would have to share Derek with multiple ghosts. Not so much in reality (though there was always an eerie quiet around the old Hale house; not even birds sang), but in Derek's head. In his soul.

Since there was nothing to be done about it, Stiles accepted Derek's apologies, spoken or not.

~ ~ ~

The next time, Stiles tentatively suggested therapy. Or a support group -- the PTSD group forming at the hospital that Scott's mom had casually mentioned to Scott, who mentioned it to Stiles.

Derek's entire body tensed in milliseconds and he drew sharply out of Stiles' grasp.

"No," he said, voice low and growly, or maybe it just sounded that way to Stiles. Who had done it again, apparently.

"I'm sorry, I'm just trying to he--"

"No," Derek repeated more hoarsely, standing up, smoothing his clothes down, tucking things in. He turned away to grab his jacket, draped over Stiles' desk chair.

Stiles sat up. "Derek, I didn't mean--" he began miserably. "I'm sorr--"

Derek had already shrugged into his jacket and turned abruptly back to Stiles. "I can't. I can't."

His gaze, fierce, defiant, piercing , didn't match his mouth, which was -- some strange cross between utterly falling apart and terrified.

"It's just, we keep--"

"I keep, you mean," Derek's voice edged bitterly. "Yeah. I do. I'm sorry."

His gaze softened into sadness, the hollows of his eyes suddenly much more obvious; his expression slid unhappily past sadness and into a vague hopelessness, a thousand yard stare over Stiles' shoulder.

Then his gaze snapped back to Stiles', and fell to the floor, searching. He found his shoes beside Stiles' bed and toed them on, squatting to quickly pull the backs over his heels.

"I'm sorry." Stiles’ voice was a quiet, strangled thing. "I'm just trying to help."

"It won't." Derek's voice attempted defiant disagreement, but sounded mostly very tired. He zipped his jacket, not looking at Stiles. He turned and took the few strides needed to reach the window.

"Derek, hey," Stiles began. "I didn't mean an--"

Derek climbed out and paused on the roof, one strong hand gripping the window sill while the rest of him faced out to the trees and street. He turned his head slightly, as if to look over his shoulder, but didn't. He swallowed harshly.

"I can't," he said one more time, desperation and terror audible in his voice. He paused, but still didn't look back at Stiles over his shoulder. He swallowed and at first his voice was tight and strong. It quickly sank into tired and bitter, above a whisper but not by much.

"You should probably get rid of me."

Stiles jumped out of bed and rushed to the window, angry and heartsick, but Derek loosened his grip and leaped down. Stiles leaned out his window, and drew a sharp breath to yell after him.

But Derek wasn't running to the Camaro. He walked as fast as possible without running, but he didn't run. He kept his eyes on the ground. When he got to the driver's side of his car, he glanced up at Stiles' window.

Stiles looked at Derek, his body tense and tucked and zipped and contained, his expression forlorn, even at this distance. Derek looked at Stiles as he opened the driver's side door, then he paused and continued looking at Stiles, and didn't get in.

Stiles exhaled heavily, the impulse to yell with both anger and care gone. He lifted one hand in a tentative, hopeful "see you soon?" wave.

Derek stayed motionless for a long moment. Stiles didn't drop his hand, though it started to feel stupid that he'd even tried, that he still held it up.

But then Derek nodded slowly -- and, even from this distance, sadly -- up at Stiles, and lifted his hand in a slow, tentative wave. Then he quickly got in the Camaro, slammed the driver's side door, started it up, shifted viciously into Drive, and gunned the engine as he pulled out and accelerated away from his parking spot in front of the neighbors' house. He didn't peel away, laying rubber, but the thunder of the engine was an unmistakable "gotta get out of here."

Stiles dropped his hand from its wave. Derek had returned his "see you soon" wave. It was progress, sort of. He pulled back in from leaning out the window, and shut it. In a few quick strides, he let his body drop onto his bed. He stared at the ceiling, less moodily than thoughtfully.

~ ~ ~

Derek had slipped quietly into Stiles’ window and surprised Stiles from behind, while he sat at his desk, earbuds in and the music loud because somehow trig always went better when the rest of his mind was focused on the music, and a slice of it was hyperfocused on trigonometry. He’d slipped his arms around Stiles from behind, who had jumped, startled, but then happy, and had turned in Derek’s arms as he stood and shoved his desk chair away with one foot.

They kissed hard, passionately, Derek seeming wrapped around him in that weird way, like he surrounded Stiles, his hands everywhere. Derek stepped back and shrugged out of his jacket, still kissing Stiles, who loosened his grip on Derek’s upper arms to let the jacket slide off him. Stiles stepped back then, breaking their kiss, and ripped his hoodie off over his head along with the T-shirt under it. Derek tore his shirt off too. Stiles began unbuckling his belt, and Derek did the same, unbuttoning the top button of his jeans.

Suddenly he sank to his knees and, not looking up, he took Stiles' belt off instead of, then looked down and took off his own belt, the hiss of their belts through their belt loops somehow sexy and oddly suspenseful. Stiles' mouth -- lips still red and a little chafed from beard-burn -- quirked up in one corner, deliriously happy and feeling saucy, wondering what little additional twist to the usual that Derek had in mind. He figured Derek just wanted their belts out of the way, so he could open Stiles' jeans and inhale him as he often did.

But Derek knelt there before Stiles, motionless except for his chest rising and falling, breathing a little bit faster, his gaze and face cast down to the carpet, Stiles' belt in one fist, his own in the other. Stiles had begun opening his own jeans.

But as Derek knelt there, very still, Stiles faltered and stopped, his fingers on his zipper tab. He felt - thought - felt a faint, wordless ping of uncertainty. He hesitated, realizing Derek clearly had something else in mind, but clueless as to what.

Derek's gaze rose slowly up Stiles' body, but not in the slow, drinking-him-in, smoldering way Stiles loved. The further up towards Stiles' face it tilted, the slower Derek seemed to lift his gaze, as if his head grew heavier the closer he got to meeting Stiles' eyes.

When Derek finally met Stiles' eyes, his expression was unidentifiable. It was -- it was naked, somehow, yet impassive. It was neither Derek's truly impenetrable expression, masking irritation, frustration, even anger. . . nor the fake stony that's-not-funny-it's-stupid expression Derek would try to maintain when Stiles did or said something funny or silly. . . but that eventually slid into one of his secret smiles that made Stiles' heart sing (it made Stiles so happy to make Derek happy, something unexpected that he hadn't understood at first, but he came to know meant he really loved Derek).

But this was not that. At all. This impassivity had a subtle feel of instability -- but not because Derek was about to finally give in and crack a smile at Stiles' antics. The faintest lift of his outer eyebrows' suppressed nervousness, or a wisp of a shadow of guilt -- why? Stiles wondered.

Derek's softened jawline (he wasn't clenching his teeth with suppressed hunger and desire like he did all the time when they were alone together, fooling around), the tension of his hands fisted around both their belts, contrasted with an infinitesimal slackening of his shoulders Stiles would have likened to the posture of a dog that knows it's been bad. (Derek would definitely not like that description; it was incredibly hard for him to ever admit he was wrong, proud and obstinate as he was -- secretly uncertain and defiant as he was underneath.) These were new, even slightly alarming.

Stiles felt his heart skip a beat and start tripping into a nebulous "oh, no, now what. . . ?" rapid rhythm of growing alarm. He slowed his breathing, a little trick he had learned after Lydia's "dude, stop panicking" kiss (which was delightful and yet nothing at all like he'd wanted it to be, somehow a solidification of his suspicion that they would only ever be friends, which was okay).

He looked down at Derek, confused, bewildered, slowing and deepening his breathing to calm the worry that wanted to take over his body. Derek was so incredibly gorgeous, even more so when his face was nakedly loving, relaxed, affectionate, happy -- and he was so sensitive and sweet underneath, and staunchly loyal, a sheep in wolf's clothing in ways no one knew but Stiles. . .

But this look, this look on Derek's face as he looked up at Stiles from his knees, this soft chin of his that didn't tremble and yet seemed it could, maybe even would, was nakedly something -- something foreign to Stiles. "Sad" wasn't the right word. That was too strong, too far in a direction this expression didn't seem to be. Still focusing half his mind on calming his breathing, while the other half racked his brain as to what this could mean (with Stiles' hidden glass-half-empty tendencies trying hard to surface and take over). For a millisecond, Stiles' floundering brain flitted to the word "beseeching" --

And then Derek raised his fists, their belts in them, to Stiles' hands. He clearly meant for Stiles to take the belts from him, so Stiles slowly did, his mind skipping ahead to a soothing "he was just handing these to me" return to normalcy, to the known.

When their belts were securely gripped in both Stiles' hands, Derek bowed his head, but held up his wrists. For the briefest moment, Stiles froze. It wasn't a fight/flight/freeze moment, but it was sort of a "deer in the headlights," shockingly odd moment, except that Stiles wasn't sure who was the deer, he or Derek.

Stiles squeezed the belts he gripped in both hands uncertainly, utterly thrown at Derek's oddly supplicating posture and behavior, his wrists extended up to Stiles.

Then Derek crossed his wrists, one over the other, still held over his bowed head. The bottom fell out, sort of. Or Stiles' jaw fell open. Yeah, it was his jaw. He swallowed a couple times, trying to compose himself.

He had no approach for this. He couldn't use humor right now, not even gentle poking fun. The finest tremble of Derek's crossed wrists clearly said this was not that time. . . indicated, actually, that this had been incredibly hard for Derek to do. But even as Stiles internally sighed with relief, his heart also leaped with anxiety. He'd -- they’d -- never done anything like this before. He was completely out of his depth and one hundred percent aware of it.

But the longer Stiles stood there doing nothing, the faster the moment would slide by, he knew. Then Derek would turn away, walk away, retreat into the bathroom, fifty-fifty chances he'd slam the door. . . Or he'd just silently dress and slip out of the house -- no hug, no goodbye, no kisses he couldn't stop kissing, parting such sweet sorrow and all that mushy stuff Stiles secretly loved (and was pretty sure Derek did too) -- and most importantly, no explanation, no matter how Stiles asked what was wrong and flailed and begged him to stay. He would slip back to his Camaro and be gone before Stiles had a chance to stop him. He turned like that, on a dime -- never argumentative, never angry, just. . . closed. Closed up. Shut down.

Stiles couldn't let that happen now at this uncertain and fragile moment, still possible to avert Derek's sensitive shut down and flight. To catch things before they derailed, he spoke cautiously before he'd thought about exactly what to say.

“You want me to. . . ?” he said very quietly, gesturing at Derek's crossed wrists with their belts.

Derek didn't speak, but he nodded.

“Okay. Um.” Stiles hesitated, then half turned and dropped his own belt on the bed. He turned back to Derek, Derek's leather belt in his hands.

“Okay, so -- I'll --” Stiles fell silent. Right now, action was more important than words.

He let the belt slide through his hands, then grabbed one of Derek's wrists and looped the belt around it. He pushed the other wrist close to the first, and looped the belt around it too. There was still some belt left so he looped that around both wrists once more. The leather belt tongue looked like it was too short to buckle around Derek's wrists, but it did make it around them, just barely. The stiff edges of the belt pressed into the soft flesh of Derek's wrist.

“Like -- that?” Stiles whispered.

Derek nodded silently. Stiles inwardly heaved a sigh of relief, but the next move, he didn't know. He looked at Derek for a clue, but Derek just silently raised his gaze to meet Stiles’. His eyes -- they looked through Stiles, then at Stiles. Impassive. He said nothing.

“What. . . now?” Stiles said softly.

Derek shrugged as if this was no big deal (but it was, it was, Stiles knew). His passive gaze changed subtly. Trepidation, uncertainty. . . beseeching.

“Do. . . do what you want,” Derek mumbled, the apples of his cheeks flushing like he had a fever.

“I. . . ” Stiles swallowed. “Like. . . whatever?”

This was -- terrifying. Exhilarating. Freaking Stiles the fuck out. Hot as fuck: he was already hardening again. Scary because he was in the dark, out of his depth, knew not what the next step should be, only that the wrong move might ruin everything.

Derek nodded slowly. “Whatever. . . you want.” He dropped his gaze to the carpet. “You--” He cut himself off, took a breath, and finished softly. “. . . Use me.”

Stiles’ breath stopped a moment. Unbidden, all kinds of scenes of debauchery flashed through his mind's eye. Then he shook his head. Keep moving, he thought. Whatever this is, just keep it going. What to do, what to do? Whatever he wanted was -- he hadn't thought he wanted anything; sex with Derek was a-fucking-mazing. But now, now --

Stiles unzipped his pants completely, shoved his underwear down and with trembling hands pulled out his cock, fully hard, so hard. He stepped forward, put his other shaking hand on the back of Derek's head, and pulled it toward his cock. He touched the head of his cock to Derek's soft, pliant lips.

“Suck me,” he whispered. “Suck me. . . hard.”

A crazy thrill ran up his spine, watching Derek's lips part, watching his mouth open and envelope the head of his cock. It was immediately hot, fierce suction. Stiles’ stomach tightened reflexively.

Derek sucked him. Hard. Stiles couldn't tear his gaze away from his cock going in and out of Derek's mouth, cheeks hollowed by the incredibly tight suction, Derek's wet lips sliding over Stiles' ring of thumb and index finger at the base of his cock. He couldn't take his hands away from the back of Derek's head, moving up and down -- god, it was good, so good --

His hands did their own thing and pulled Derek's mouth down hard on his cock. He felt himself bottom out in the back of Derek's throat; it convulsed around his cock, but Derek didn't stop sucking.

“Oh, fuck,” Stiles groaned. He pulled back out of Derek's throat and Derek took a huge breath through his nose, but kept sucking.

Stiles’ hands went light on the back of Derek's head, happy to just follow Derek's own ferocious sucking up and down. If his goal was to make Stiles come as fast as possible, it was going to work; he was getting close.

“Whoa -- oh, god, Derek that's so fucking good, slow down --”

Derek suddenly changed to slow, excruciating sucking, teeth lightly scraping the shaft and head, time now for finesse, for tongue swirls. . . oh, this might be worse -- no, better, definitely better -- But --

Derek said anything, right? Whatever Stiles wanted?

“Faster, again,” he murmured, putting his hands on the back of Derek’s head and neck. “Harder. More.”

This time Derek just got to work like a machine: relentless, unstoppable pleasure, up and down Stiles’ cock, driving Stiles -- knees weakening, stomach trembling -- full speed to the edge with all the tight -- hot -- wet -- tight --

And watching was almost (not really, but almost) as good. Stiles watched his cock swallowed again and again, moving in and out of Derek’s luscious mouth, his hands tight on the back of Derek’s head, fucking Derek’s face, hitting the back of Derek’s throat, so phenomenal. His hips couldn’t help it, and began moving, too, thrusting. But their movements were complimentary, his thrusts matching Derek’s sucks --

So tight -- so hot -- so wet -- so tight --

With a strangled moan, eyes squeezed shut tight, Stiles came, bucking his hips into Derek’s willing sucks and suction, his willing mouth, willing throat. Derek swallowed, and swallowed, and swallowed, his throat convulsing tight around Stiles’ cockhead. Stiles’ knees shook, his stomach heaved, he panted hoarsely like he would never catch his breath. It lasted so long -- too short -- absolutely excruciating pleasure pulled up and out of him by Derek.

Stiles jerked out of Derek’s mouth, cock hypersensitive now, and collapsed (rather than sat) down on the bed, legs splayed wide. Derek wiped his mouth on the inside of Stiles knee and then pressed his forehead against the inside of the opposite thigh, panting and catching his breath.

Stiles lay back flat on the bed, still panting, blissed out, limbs and body suffused with post-orgasmic languor, pleasure, gratitude, balls empty, heart full.

But while he lay there catching his breath, Derek’s forehead still rested on the inside of his thigh and his panting slowed back to normal breathing. And why didn’t he get up? Climb up on top of Stiles, kiss him over and over like he usually --

Oh. Right. Because he was still on his knees with his wrists still bound, he lacked the leverage, maybe, to get to his feet without the full use of his arms. Stiles propped himself up on both elbows, looking down the length of his body, past his spent, softening cock, to Derek. Who sat back on his knees, now, his forehead pressed against Stiles inner knee.

“I -- Jesus, Derek.” Stiles’ voice didn’t sound normal; it was hoarse and gravelly.

But Derek didn’t get up. He rubbed his face on Stiles’ inner thigh, inhaled deeply, kissed it, rested his forehead there where his kiss had been a moment before. The supplication of his position, his posture -- wrists bound together in front of him, at the ends of his perfect, muscular arms -- was so lovely, so oddly passive, so opposite his typical aggressive affection after sex. It was strange and arousing (after that? arousing again? already? but yes) but it took Stiles a moment before he sat up completely.

When he did, he saw Derek’s hard, dark cock poking up out of his partially open jeans, the tip wet, oozing pre-ejaculate.

“Oh.” Stiles’ voice was returning, but soft, quiet, gentle for this new Derek, this submissive, passive Derek.

He stroked Derek’s shoulders. Felt the muscles bunched up because of his bound wrists. And that seemed wrong and so fucking perfect and what the hell were they doing, and why was Stiles hard again? but he really couldn’t help it. This Derek was new. This Derek was a question mark, a puzzle Stiles knew he should be able to figure out, but he couldn’t right now, thinking clouded by afterglow, trying to figure out --

Derek came up on his knees again, slid his chest over Stiles’ thigh, bent over, looking away. And that was part of it: Derek not looking at him, keeping his eyes closed or directed downward. It was sexy and strange and arousing. Stiles' cock beat back to full hard in rhythm with his heartbeat, uncertainty tugging at the edges of his thoughts: what was he supposed to do now? What did Derek want? Whatever it was, they did not seem to be finished, and of course Stiles should help out Derek's thick, hard cock --

“I. Uhm.” Stiles stroked the back of Derek’s neck. “Der?” he asked quietly.

Derek hitched more of himself up over Stiles’ thigh, as if over Stiles’ lap, but over only one thigh because he’d already been between Stiles’ thighs. But he still didn’t -- wouldn’t? -- didn’t look up at Stiles.

He spoke, barely above a whisper. “Whatever you want. If you’re not done with me.”

Done with him? What did that mean?

“No, I. . . ” Stiles trailed off, looking down the slope of Derek’s back, his chest pressing Stiles' thigh, his bound wrists helping him, though not much, bend over Stiles leg, his hips higher now than they were, almost as if he was offering himself --

Oh. Oh. But -- they’ve never, Stiles has never -- he’s always been the receiver, not the giver. He’s thought about it, of course, but happy enough (ecstatic enough) the way things were, to be the receiver, maybe a little too timid to ask this Derek with all his strong, broody, possessive, sexually aggressive -- not aggressive, maybe assertive, or aggressively affectionate -- behind closed doors.

But Derek’s posture, his beautiful ass up, wanting, it seemed -- Stiles’ heart beat harder again. The thought that -- whatever he wanted, it seemed increasingly like Derek wanted him to. . . but they’d never -- not that Stiles didn’t want to, hadn’t thought about it (fantasized about it, jerked off to it). But it hadn’t seemed like their thing. Derek took, he manhandled, he pushed Stiles around, bent Stiles how he wanted him, Stiles thanking lacrosse practice warm-up stretches for increasing his flexibility, happy to be pushed and pulled and fucked and sucked and made to suck --

“Do you.” Stiles' voice cracked a little. He cleared his throat. “Want me to, um. . . ” He couldn’t finish the sentence, could only stroke from Derek’s shoulders and upper back, to farther down, hesitating just a moment before stroking one perfect cheek of Derek's perfect ass. Stiles stroked it again, not speaking, showing Derek what he was thinking. His cock throbbed, harder now, imagining how much tighter --

Derek nodded, still looking away, but he pressed his stomach down harder over Stiles' thigh.

“O-okay.” Stiles gulped, immediately even more fiercely turned on, but hesitant, too. Uncertain again. But this wasn’t only about what Stiles wanted. It was also what Derek wanted Stiles to want. And he did, he did want that --

Derek’s stomach began to tremble over Stiles’ thigh. His entire body began to tense up.

Do it, Stiles’ mind whispered. Don’t hesitate, don’t think, just keep it going, don’t let Derek think and react and then overreact, take it as rejection --

He slid his thigh out from under Derek’s and shoved Derek’s chest and face onto the bed.

“Over the bed,” he ordered, though unnecessarily, duh, since Derek was already there. Stiles stood up behind Derek, then swiftly knelt.

Derek’s arms, still bound at the wrist, were sandwiched between him and the bed, though. Stiles hurriedly grabbed Derek under his armpits from behind. He pulled him back a little, against his own chest and stomach, all that warm flesh yielding passively, deliciously, to Stiles’ movement.

Stiles slid his hands from Derek’s upper arms to his elbows and then raised them, so Derek’s wrists were over his head. Then he leaned forward, his body pressing Derek’s body back down onto the bed. Stiles' cock seemed to naturally find the cleft to nestle into, his hips and thighs pressed up against Derek’s ass and the backs of his thighs. He felt the muscles of Derek's flanks and back flex under him as Derek bent down, his arms outstretched before him on the bed. Derek turned his face to rest his cheek against the bed, almost tucking it into his upper arm. To not look at Stiles? To not be looked at? What?

Keep going, Stiles thought. Just keep it moving. Don’t give him time to think.

“Hang on,” he murmured. He reached around Derek's waist, to unbutton and unzip Derek's jeans, to free Derek’s cock. But he couldn’t not handle it -- so thick, so stiff and hot and hard. He closed his eyes, stroking Derek’s cock in the snug space between Derek’s cock and the mattress, long slow strokes.

Just feeling Derek’s cock without looking at it was hot. Stiles felt the slick tip of it, not enough to lubricate anything, but he stroked Derek’s pre-come down the shaft on the downstroke. His hand skidded slightly across the soft velvety skin of Derek’s cock on the downstroke. The pre-come hindered smooth, dry jacking of Derek’s cock, but also was not enough to smoothly lubricate the move.

Derek’s body lightly shuddered beneath him. He pushed his ass back, back against Stiles’ hard cock. He offered himself. He wanted it. Words were unnecessary. Stiles reluctantly let go of Derek’s cock, pulled back from the warm skin to skin contact all along Stiles’ stomach, hips, and thighs and hard, so hard, cock. He shoved Derek’s jeans and his underwear down to his bent knees, then tugged them off completely, Derek helpfully lifting one leg at a time.

But, shit. The lube -- Derek had been very firm with Stiles: it couldn’t just be hand lotion. That was fine, in a pinch, but it should really be lubricant, as messy as it might be. Because he didn’t want to hurt Stiles. The lube, that lube, that Derek wasn’t too embarrassed to take off a drugstore shelf and bring to the checkout line, unlike Stiles -- it was in the drawer of the little table next to Stiles’ bed.

As if he sensed the reason behind Stiles’ hesitation, Derek whispered into his upper arm.

“You won’t--” He paused. “I’ll. . . heal.”

Stiles froze for just a split second, but then unfroze. He stroked Derek’s back and hips, felt the shape of Derek's broad back tapering to the hips and ass Stiles' own hips and cock snugged up against. He thought about when he was younger, just figuring it out, the whole masturbation thing. Not using anything, he’d chafed himself pretty badly a few times. Hence the lotion that Derek ruled out for fucking. (Plus it felt so much better with the lotion.)

“I -- that’s not what I’m worried about,” Stiles murmured, still stroking Derek’s back, soothing long strokes, calming both of them, he hoped. He’d never done this with Derek (well, with anyone). Derek obviously wanted it, but inexperience and this whole other Derek he didn’t know made Stiles nervous. But he couldn’t let the nerves get away from him. “I don’t want to hurt you. And I don’t want my. . . ”

Derek inhaled a breath, hesitating before he spoke. “Oh. Right,” he agreed quietly. “Whatever you want.”

Whatever you want. Hearing that again, and again, was slowly driving Stiles crazy, in good and bad ways. Mostly good. Overwhelmingly good; just a tiny, niggling worry in the back of his head, whispering, get it right, you have to get this right.

“I’ll just --” Stiles moved back, stood and quickly shucked his jeans, then stepped over to the nightstand, and scrabbled in the drawer until he found what he was looking for. In a flash he was back kneeling behind Derek, the small bottle of lubricant in his hands, the offering of Derek’s ass so sexy, so fucking hot, to behold.

He tried to remember: it always happened without them talking; the talking (what little there was; Derek was not a talker, but he didn’t seem to mind Stiles’ nervous running monologues until he shut up in ecstasy) happened after; tried to remember what Derek did to him first. Right. Fingers.

“Sorry if it’s cold,” he said in a rush. Then he flipped open the lid and dribbled what he hoped was enough lubricant on his first two fingers. But then Derek usually started with one. Oh, well. . .

Derek spread his knees apart. With a shaking hand -- that Derek couldn’t see shaking, fortunately -- Stiles vented Derek’s cheeks apart and stroked his trembling fingers over Derek’s tight, little opening, trying to smear the lube on Derek.

Derek sighed and his hole twitched under Stiles’ gentle touch, and fuck that was hot, so hot, fucking inferno hot --

“Derek, I --” Stiles cut himself off, stroking Derek’s hole again and again, slippery now with the lube.

Derek groaned softly, and that was enough encouragement -- Stiles slipped the tip of one finger into the tight ring of flesh, felt Derek sigh out a long breath, and it yielded. Still super tight, but slightly less so. Stiles pulled the tip of his finger out, smeared more lube over Derek’s hole. Derek hissed out a breath, muffled in his upper arm.

Stiles took a deep breath and slowly shoved his index finger in. Derek was so fucking tight and hot around it. He shuddered slightly, tilting his ass up a little more, like he was trying to help Stiles.

Stiles gently, slowly finger fucked Derek until he wasn’t quite so tight, until he yielded more readily, Derek’s body thrumming happily.

“Okay, um,” Stiles said softly, and this time he slipped the tips of both fingers in. Derek groaned again, louder this time, though not loudly. He exhaled sharply, but he didn’t move away. Stiles was afraid maybe he was going too fast --

“Okay,” Derek whispered.

Was that permission? Was that “okay, now, both of them, all the way in”? Was it “Okay, you’ve never met this Derek but he is fine with this, more than fine with it, even though he’s not saying anything remotely definite or instructive or helpful”?

Whatever it was, it seemed like a green light, so that’s what Stiles did: shoved both fingers in. Not fast, not brutal, but firmly, to the hilt, not stopping until they were in up to the third knuckles.

And Derek slowly let him in, so tight around Stiles’ fingers. He groaned through his teeth. His whole body relaxed, and Stiles remembered Derek talking him through it the first few times with “don’t hold your breath” and “relax” and “breathe.” Was he supposed to be saying those things to Derek? Because he wasn’t. But Derek was relaxing. And he obviously knew what to do because he’d talked Stiles through it, patient and gentle, before Stiles got used to it and he could be rougher. Derek took long slow breaths now, exhaling slowly, his tight, hot passage yielding a little more --

Stiles pulled his fingers out slowly, about half way, and Derek exhaled and groaned through his teeth again, a dark, deep sound, almost guttural. God, it was hot. Stiles’ cock twitched; it was throbbing and hard, so fucking hard, no nervousness there --

“You can--” Derek panted. “It’s okay. . . ”

He trailed off, but Stiles was pretty sure what that meant, at least. It meant go. It meant give it to me, I can take it. It meant hurry.

He could do that. He could more than do that. Stiles placed one hand on the flat of Derek’s lower back, and with the other, he slowly started fucking Derek with his two fingers. Then a little faster. A little rougher.

Derek whimpered. Whimpered. It didn’t even seem possible that Stiles could cause Derek to sound this way, this way Stiles had never heard him. But he was. So Stiles fucked Derek a little faster and rougher with his fingers. The lube started to seem like -- well, not enough. So he pulled his fingers completely out, causing Derek to huff out a sharp sigh, and hurriedly dribbled more lube on his fingers. Then he shoved them quickly back in, and continued penetrating Derek with both fingers.

Derek sighed. Groaned. Shuddered. He twitched on Stiles’ fingers, clenched and unclenched. His hips almost kind of writhed, but in a sexy “oh my god yes” way, not in a “stop stop no too much" way. Besides, Derek was bigger than him, heavier than him, stronger than him. If Derek wanted this to stop -- and clearly he didn’t -- he could easily stop it.

“Oh, fuck,” Derek moaned into his bicep, and then turned his head to rest the other cheek on the bed.

Every move he made seemed connected to his tight opening gripping Stiles’ moving fingers. His body twitched and trembled, while he clenched and unclenched. He sighed and moaned softly, as Stiles’ fingers stroked in and out, easier now. He breathed faster now, and maybe it was time --

Stiles withdrew his fingers and Derek inhaled sharply.

“I’m, uh, going to. . . ” Stiles trailed off. He quickly grabbed the lube and with his other hand, grabbed his cock.

“Yeah.” Derek spoke roughly into his other upper arm. His fists, bound together at the wrists, unclenched. “Yeah.” His voice was a bit muffled but his cheek slid against Stiles’ blanket as he nodded.

“Okay,” Stiles breathed, slicking himself with the lube, then pouring some more on Derek’s ass, holding his cheeks apart with one hand. Derek flinched a little, and Stiles stopped. “Sorry--”

“Cold,” came Derek's breathless explanation.

“Right,” Stiles agreed tightly, equally breathless. He dropped the lube, grabbed his slick cock, and positioned the head against Derek’s tight, hot hole.

Derek pushed back against it a little, which was so fucking hot. Stiles grabbed Derek’s left hip for leverage, and gripping his cock with the other, pushed firmly in. Derek was tight. Really tight. Stiles worked his cockhead in; it was fucking amazing, so tight and hot like a fever.

Derek panted, now. He shoved his ass back harder, and Stiles pushed harder, and then he was halfway in Derek, who was tight like trying to put on gloves that were too small, except on Stiles' cock. This was so fucking awesome and weird and really tight and hot and totally unexpected, this whole night was a jawdropping surprise and Stiles was just way, way the fuck out of his depth. . . but damn, it was really hot.

He shoved again, hard. Derek shuddered and panted and his tightness yielded more, and Stiles was in. All the way in. To the balls. And it was almost painfully tight, but so incredibly sensual and intimate, Stiles had never been harder or felt more turned on than now.

He pulled slowly most of the way out and Derek moaned, a long, slow moan that ended in a whimper and Stiles could not stand this. He was trying to go slow, but Derek was making it all kinds of difficult with his moaning and groaning and pushing back and panting. Stiles pushed back in roughly and Derek’s sharp intake of breath tightened him around Stiles again, but then he exhaled and relaxed and Stiles pulled slowly back to lessen the tightness on his cock, halfway out again. They did that again a few more times, and Derek's tightness relaxed a little more -- still very snug, but not on the edge of painfully tight, now sexy tight, a firm velvet grip on Stiles’ cock--

Then Derek pushed back against Stiles hard, and that seemed like permission to -- just full out --

He started really fucking Derek. Harder, faster, in and out of his beautiful ass. His hands gripped Derek’s solid and muscular hips hard. Derek heaved like a race horse under him, squirming and whimpering. Stiles could not get enough of Derek’s whimpering, like he had often whimpered when Derek was deep inside him, fucking him like a stallion. Now he was the stallion, Derek the whimpering one, and it was good -- new -- strange -- good.

It was too good, amazingly good -- the blood in Stiles body seeming to rush to his head and his cock simultaneously. Sweat broke out on his upper lip and forehead. He wasn’t going to last --

“Oh, god,” Stiles moaned, and Derek moaned too, his voice sounding wet. A millisecond of concern at the sound of Derek’s voice made Stiles look up towards Derek’s face. But he couldn’t see it; Derek still tucked his face into his arm, his bound wrists flat on the bed over his head. But Derek’s fists were clenched. Clenching.

And just like when Derek was sucking his cock, now they were moving together: Derek pushed back hard against Stiles as Stiles thrust, matching Stiles’ rhythm as Stiles banged Derek. That said everything, without Derek even speaking.

The inevitable stirred deep inside Stiles; he felt the oncoming pleasure wave, and then he was past the point of no return. He came, hard, fuck, harder than maybe he ever had, pumping into Derek. He grabbed Derek’s hips to hold him still, shoved hard into him, to the hilt, shoved them both hard against the mattress, his cock deep inside Derek, pulsing and spurting. He shuddered behind Derek --

Derek tightened rhythmically on his cock, his hips trembling in Stiles’ desperate grip. He shuddered -- was, was Derek coming? coming with him? without being touched? Yes. He was.

Ecstasy broke over and inside Stiles, paradoxically shattering but coming together. Damn the bedspread: Derek shuddered on Stiles’ hyper-sensitive cock, moaning through his own aftershocks as the rhythmic tightening of his orgasm spasmed around Stiles' cock. Pleasure spread like warm honey through his body, his muscles twitching, sweat dripping down his cheeks from his temple. He collapsed down on Derek, the heat between their bodies feverish. He pressed his sweat-wet forehead to Derek’s shoulder blade, while Derek panted in rhythm with his own spurts.

Stiles' cock was already softening slightly, so he pulled out before he was completely soft, which wrung a soft moan out of himself as well as Derek. He didn’t think he could kneel anymore; he’d have rug burns on his knees -- so worth it. He sat back on his heels, but that stretch was too harsh on his thighs. He sank down to the floor, pulling Derek down with him, one arm around Derek’s hips.

Derek sank down on the floor with Stiles. They were silent, both still panting. The sweat on Stiles began to cool; his orgasm-blanked thoughts began to stir again. Blanket. They needed the blanket.

“Can you,” Stiles asked, his voice raw, “grab the blanket?”

Derek didn’t move for a second, but then he stretched both hands over to the side of the bed. Bound by his belt at the wrists. Well, fuck.

“Uh. Sorry,” Stiles gulped.

He hurriedly sat up and dragged the blanket swiftly down on both of them, then leaned over Derek and quickly unbuckled Derek’s belt and freed his wrists. He saw the deep impressions of the hard edges of the leather belt on Derek’s reddened wrists, and inhaled sharply, his bliss banked, anxiety surging.

Derek rubbed one wrist with the other hand, then switched. Stiles lay back down beside him, staring at the ceiling, at a loss for words. Should he apologize? It seemed like a bad idea to joke about it. . .

Then Derek held his wrists up and the red marks and indentations were gone.

Right. He healed. Of course. Stiles heaved a relieved sigh.

Derek nudged his way into the nook of Stiles’ armpit and lay his cheek on Stiles chest, sliding one arm over Stiles' chest. But that was Stiles’ spot -- on Derek -- Stiles was the one who always settled into the nook of Derek’s armpit, and lay his head on Derek’s chest, and this was -- this was. . .

Well, it was all right. Bewildering, but all right. Better than all right: it was great. New, but. . . nice. It was good to lay on his back on the scratchy carpet, under his blanket, Derek tucked against him, their breathing slowing. Stiles' brain tried to freak out, but under the influence of afterglow and the slow dawning of understanding, maybe, his brain found it harder than usual to freak out. Derek was -- into that. And apparently, so was Stiles, though he hadn’t known he would be. But it was okay, maybe. And he was deliciously tired and needed a nap. . .

Derek cleared his throat. Stiles was instantly fully awake again.

“I.” Derek fell silent, still as stone for a moment, then started again. “We. . . I. . . ” He trailed off

Stiles brain stuttered to life, but under the influence of afterglow, less unfiltered than usual. He was very, very careful not to say the dreaded we need to talk.

“That was. . . good,” he began quietly.

Derek slowly relaxed against him, releasing a breath he’d been holding. “Yeah,” he murmured.

“I didn’t know. . . ” Stiles paused, trying to find the right words. “Just. Surprised. Is all. It was good.”

Derek paused, then spoke. “Yeah?” he said shyly into Stiles' chest.

Derek. Shy. Did not compute. But. . . but it did. In a way. It did.

“Yeah,” Stiles agreed more easily. “I -- I liked it too. Really liked it.

Derek hesitated. “Good. I. . . thanks.”

Stiles jostled him a little, in his nook. “You don’t have to thank me. It was good for me too.”

Derek chuckled into Stiles’ chest again, but he didn’t say anything, just squeezed Stiles a bit tighter.

“Just. . . ” Stiles began gently. He felt Derek tense up slightly, as if preparing for the worst. Stiles thought a moment, and found the right words again. “A little heads-up. Would. . . help.”

Derek relaxed against him again. Tightened his arm around Stiles. Rubbed his face on Stiles’ chest. “Yeah. I -- should’ve. . . You’re right. I just. . . ”

This new thing dawning between them, it beckoned Stiles like a warm light in the distance of his jumbled, happy thoughts. The buzz of orgasm was fading and a lovely drowsiness slowly took over his body. He sighed happily and yawned, then spoke.

“Hard to. . . in the moment. I get that.”

Derek nodded slowly against his chest. He let out a long, seemingly relieved sigh and relaxed more heavily against Stiles. It was. . . nice. Good. Really good to have Derek tucked against him, into the nook of his arm, this new Derek. But maybe not new. Maybe just. . . a little different than Stiles had expected.

The floor was hard, the carpet was kind of scratchy. But it was warm under the blanket together, and they fell asleep that way.