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He can tell when Derek is about to come by the shade of red his eyes take on, like low smoldering embers in a bed of pale ash. The color is warm, Stiles thinks; warm and feeling like late-nights and contentment and home. Like whiskey-rough and fuzzy heads and a moment of falling into perfect oblivion. "C'mon, baby," he slurs against one pale, darkly haired knee, twisting his fingers and rubbing, almost mean and lazy and with absolute intent, against Derek's prostate from the inside, so that Derek breaks apart on a moan, back arching and spine shuddering and thighs clenching.
"Stiles," Derek growls, thick and sweet, and then Derek is swiping his palm through his own come, slicking it along his perfect stomach as Stiles settles up on his knees against him, lines his cock up and pushes inside of Derek on a groan. Then Derek is smearing his come across Stiles' face, breath hitching and whining in the back of his throat as Stiles works his way full inside him, takes a big breath, bites at Derek's finger, and finds his prostate again.
There is a long litany of, "Fuck, fuck, fuck, oh god, fuck yes, Stiles, fuck, fuck, fu-hgnnn," coming from Derek's dark and filthy mouth, and Stiles pants, grips Derek from behind his knees to press his legs down and out in a way that makes Derek wince but whine, also, and Stiles has done this before, many times, and every time is not always the hottest thing he has ever felt, and not every sex is the best sex, though it does tend to trend to the mind blowingly awesome, but Stiles always has to think of his grandmother, may she rest in peace, so that he doesn't come like it actually is his first time, anyway, and now is no different.
"You're perfect," he breathes, eyes wide and dark in the low light of the train car, which makes their voices ricochet unevenly, and bounces the sound of Derek moaning back so that Stiles feels like he can feel the sound rub against his skin. "You're perfect, Derek, perfect, I can't even- Shit, dude, you are so beautiful."
"Don't-" Derek grits out, pushing up and against him aggressively, moving his body to take him in, "Don't call - hah! - me dude."
Stiles gasps, which stutters, and grits out unevenly at the end as a heartfelt groan. His hips are snapping forward, and his knees are slipping, and he's fairly certain he's developing better bicep muscles with the effort of spreading Derek open without putting all his weight into the stretch, and Derek is being rocked back on the sweat slick sheets a little bit with every thrust.
He says, "Okay, buttercup."
And it might say something about them that this is when Derek comes for a second time, strangling his howl on his own wrist and mangling it, with wet and desperate eyes. Stiles keeps his gaze through it, and then shudders and relaxes and lets go and comes like he'll die if he doesn't.
*
Stiles throws himself into a chair the next day with barely a minute to spare, and Scott winces, cringing. It's Stiles' favorite class of the semester, which is only their second, like, ever. Which, wow, a year goes by fast, Stiles thinks, but not as fast as high school did.
"What?" he asks Scott, patting down his face and chest as if maybe something had grown in there overnight, in between fucking Derek and scrambling out of a tangle of sleepy limbs to his jeep, late for class. "What is it?"
Erica leans over Stiles' shoulder from where she sits one row up, . This is why it's Stiles' favorite class, in the big lecture hall in Building C, because the whole pack is there; it's just a two-year college, something to get the basics out of the way without costing an arm and a leg and two years of breathing room and thinking while they all try and get themselves sorted after the confusion that was high school and the supernatural equivalent of a slow-burning apocalypse that they had, somehow, bewilderingly, survived. College had hit them all so fast and sudden that none of them had known what to do with it.
Erica shakes her golden hair out over him in a cascade of vanilla scented curls as she drapes her arms around his neck, and says, "I think what Scott's trying to say is that he doesn't understand what a masochist is."
"What?" Stiles asks, again, patting Erica absently on one of her hands. "No, really, what?"
"It's just," Scott whines.
Isaac places a comforting hand on top of Scott's head. "I mean, we're werewolves, so we kind of know. That, uhm."
"You're not any better at this than he is," Stiles says in disgust. He knows they can smell Derek on hm, but they ought to be used to that by now. He turns his head to Boyd, who just shakes his head and looks away in amusement, and then he flails a hand beseechingly at Lydia and Jackson, where they're tangled up past Scott. Lydia looks ineffable bored, and Jackson looks handsomely constipated, but he flicks a folded up piece of paper at Stiles, and Lydia twirls her pencil in her hand, and Stiles opens the note to see their masterpiece: it is a drawing of Stiles ass and Derek's penis, complete with knotting, which, really Lydia.
"Uh," Stiles says, and Allison laughs, just a little bit, soft and understanding, and Stiles blushes viciously as he gets it, because, oh yeah, the pack knows but they don't get it. They know Stiles and they know Derek but they can't really know StilesandDerek, which is as it should be. And the peace is still so new, hell, StilesandDerek are still so new, and stability is so important, and Stiles remembers how to phrase his words into the right kind of lies like an afterthought, now that he's on the same page as everyone else.
"Yeah," he grins through the blush, pulse hammering for too many reasons, "werewolf stamina, man, want me to tell you what it feels like?" He slides along the chair and wriggles a little, with intent, which makes Erica and Lydia laugh, Boyd to sigh and quietly ask the girl next to him to tear his eyeballs out, and Jackson and Scott both look like they will never recover.
Allison and Isaac both say, "No thank you," and that's enough to end it. Stiles folds the drawing and tucks it in his pocket, and lets Scott copy his homework to make him feel better.
*
Derek is on his hands and knees and he is trembling, head bowed and the wings of his shoulder blades don't look fragile, they look substantial and beautiful and every inch of Derek is muscle and strength and vitality, and Stiles smooths his palm from the nape of his neck to the base of his spine because he loves him, every vicious inch of him.
"Let me make you feel good," Stiles breaths against his skin, and when Derek whines he takes it as consent, and spreads Derek's ass so he can get his mouth and teeth and tongue on him, press into Derek and taste the heaviness of him, silken and hot and delicate on the inside.
*
Derek has an actual apartment, but they hang on to the abandoned subway depot as a great place to train, which, fortunately, now roughly translates into playing tag. They also have an entire forest to play tag in, but they only do that at night, silent as wolves, when they have to be careful and the thrill of being a hidden predator rides their blood high and the humans stay home. Playing tag in the subway depot means that Lydia and Stiles and Allison can play too, and nowadays the dank expanse of it echoes with laughter (and occasionally with the sounds of Stiles and Derek having sex, later, once everyone is gone.)
They're not playing today, though, they're at the apartment Derek finally caved and rented out sometime during their Junior year of high school. It has a big living room, and a decent kitchen, and a tiny bedroom, but it's perfect for pack nights with boxes of pizza littering the coffee table and end table and one is even perched precariously on top of Derek's bookcase. They are watching nonsense reality television, and Lydia is throwing a peperoni slice at the screen in disgust; Derek presses his nose against the space behind Stile's ear, and Allison is sprawled against Scott with Isaac's curls between her fingers while Boyd and Erica and Jackson play a game of flinty-eyed poker at the little table set off from the kitchen.
"Oh, hey," Allison says, "It was your one month anniversary last week, wasn't it?"
Derek blinks; Stiles can feel it in the flutter of lashes against his temple, and he can't keep his smile behind his eyes, lets it stretch his mouth as he rubs his thumb against Derek's wrist, and says, "Yeah."
"Damn," Jackson mutters from behind, "I forgot to give you your present."
Scott snorts, and Allison hides her face in her hands.
"Excuse me," Stiles says, in horrified surprise. He knows this is a trick. Derek, still and tense and a little amused beside him, also knows this is a trick.
"Yeah," comes Jackson's distracted voice, and Erica's vindictive laugh. Jackson curses, apparently having lost that hand, and then says, pointedly, "We all pitched in and bought you a truly terrifying dildo."
"It is," Lydia confirms, "truly terrifying."
"We think it's modeled after Boyd, since Boyd has massive everything," Erica adds, laughing. "We figured it'd be good practice for you, help you keep up with Derek. Just looking out for the interests of our Alpha, y'know, making certain you can take it."
"You are so crude," Stiles says mournfully. Then he says, "Also, shit, Boyd really does have massive everything. Oh my god, this thing must be terrifying."
"I am touched by your concerned," Derek remarks, voice dry as sandpaper, and then Boyd adds, "I think I am still offended by all of this, just so you know."
Isaac says, "It's a compliment Boyd, a compliment," which just makes the other werewolf growl. But Stiles is thinking about a truly terrifying dildo, and he turns to look at Derek, who is still and tense against him, but in a thrumming way, like possibilities are running beneath his skin, and excitement sparking in his eyes, and he has to hold very still to contain all the desire filling him. Stiles understands, because he feels the same way, and he says, "You're a week late, which is awful, you are awful betas, but I still want my present."
Scott makes a horrified strangled noise.
*
Stiles holds his hand steady, holds his body steady and his heart steady and his eyes stay fixed on Derek, who is the only one of them moving in the space of his bed. "Oh," Stiles breathes. "Oh, oh wow."
Derek makes a noise, something like a curse and a sob, and rocks himself back onto the dildo, which is neon green and terrifying, made of something like silicone and veined, like some strange alien dong, and it stretches Derek's hole so tight that Stiles is actually afraid of hurting him before the fear gets lost in the frantic sound of Derek's noises, of his white knuckled grip and the tears gathered in his dark lashes, lost in the pulse of Derek's hard cock and the greedy way he fucks himself on the dildo, wicked and sexy and glorious like a feast laid out for Stiles.
Stiles keeps his grip on his cock loose, holding himself firm where he kneels beside Derek, keeps himself steady for the werewolf. "Oh," he murmurs, "Oh" and "Oh" and "Oh" until he can't take it anymore and starts to rotate his wrist, pushing it into Derek and putting his shoulder into it, turning into it so it takes him deep and sudden and surprising, and he leans in, bites at Derek's shoulder, and Derek comes, sobs into his pillow. Afterwards Derek throws the dildo out the window, and after afterwards Stiles goes and retrieves it, but in between those two moments Stiles takes Derek in his arms and holds him close and kisses his eyelids and brings him to orgasm again, once, and twice more, with sweet and lazy touches on his cock and no where else while the man shakes and moans and curses and demands from within the circle of his arms.
*
Derek has been scowling all day. He scowled before his coffee, briefly less during his coffee, and then he scowled after his coffee. He scowled when Stiles kissed him good bye, and he scowled in the frowny face he sent back to Stiles when Stiles texted him sometime during his second and last class of the day.
"Oh, dear," Stiles sighs.
Scott looks over and just takes a moment to stare. "You know," he says thoughtfully, "it's still really weird that Derek, the great and fearless Alpha, knows how to use emoticons."
"You forget, best friend, that he didn't start off as an Alpha. Besides," Stiles waggles his eyebrows, "I train him well."
"Hn." Erica narrows her eyes and smiles like a predator. "Does he train you as well? In bed, late at night, does he spank you if you don't call him sir?"
Stiles blinks, doesn't breathe, and then says, "Ahhhhhhhh you are way too interested in this. Why was that so detailed."
Scott whispers, voice a dead thing: "Why. Why would you. Erica."
Erica shrugs, unrepentant. "Just curious. Gives me something to think about when I'm bored? Also, hot."
"What's hot?" Boyd asks, coming into the lounge and leaning against the couch the pack usually commandeered.
"The fact that Stiles is Derek's bitch."
"Hey! I am no one's bitch!"
"You're Derek's bitch," Boyd disagrees. He nods at Erica, "I guess it's a little hot. If just because Derek can use his dick to shut Stiles up for a while. Stiles being silent is the sexiest
thing I've ever heard of."
"Why do we have to talk about this," Scott says flatly. "Where is Allison. I want my Allison."
"I am never silent," Stiles protests, but he willingly gives up on protesting as to whether or not he is or is not Derek's bitch. They won't believe him, either way, and they enjoy it so much, are so comfortable with the concept, as if it's the only way they can fathom them, this, the DerekandStiles, and it's not like Stiles has so much pride, certainly not enough pride to be upset about this, what would be the point, what does it matter? Derek is the Alpha, and after everything they'd gone through for that to be okay, for the pack to be okay, Stiles can take one for the team and be the so called bitch, if it means they don't get confused.
Lydia asks, "What stupid thing are you peons discussing now?"
"The intimate details of how I'm Derek's bitch," Stiles sighs.
Lydia's smile is like a shark's, zeroing in on blood.
*
Derek is licking into his mouth, curling his tongue around his teeth and biting at his lip. He is holding Stiles by the wrists, pressed against the pillow, and his face is a gift and his eyes a smear of hot green dilated by pleasure, and he is saying filthy, inexcusable things against Stiles' mouth.
"Please," Stiles says. "Oh god, you're- I can't even- Yes."
Derek presses a wolfish smile against Stiles' neck, licks along the tendon there, and Stiles breaks his grip because Derek allows it to be broken, and presses his hands, palms against Derek's hot and naked back, presses him down and close against his body. Their cocks rub against each other, and Derek nips at Stiles' jaw and moves down his body, Stiles' hands trailing until they settle in Derek's hair and Derek sucks him down.
"Oh, fuck," Stiles wheezes.
Derek laughs around his cock, and Stiles lays back, dazed and warm, and finally he tugs Derek up by his hair and kisses him, lazy and sloppy, and tenderly presses him against the bed so they're nearly side by side, Stiles half over him. Derek's leg goes up, wraps over Stiles' hip, and he presses into Derek, a little stilted, because it's not the easiest position. But it feels good to be surrounded by Derek's heat, to press into his hole, already slick and loose from lube and Stiles impatient fingers from the first round. He stretches into him, and Derek makes a beautiful sound when he enters, and his eyes are fierce and heavy lidded, and he archs his back and makes Stiles do all the rest of the work.
"You know, you're pretty much. Yeah." Stiles says, afterwards.
Derek rolls his eyes, and huffs a laugh. "Yeah," he says, and in that one word he says everything.