Smutty follow-up to (There's) no smoke without fire over on AO3. Can standalone, since there's nothing but porn to see here.
They wait two weeks. Two long, agonizing, terribly adventurous weeks.
When it happens they're in Stiles's bed. Derek is on him with three fingers in him, and Derek's voice is like gravel and cream, and Derek says, "Can I?" with dark lashes down in a line on his cheek.
"Oh, so now fucking's back on the table? I seem to remember the time of the picnic table three days ago, when you said, 'My dearest Stiles, I am most afeard you are still not at leisure to receive the girth of what I conceal in my codpiece.'"
"Stiles. Speak contemporary English." Derek's fingers communicate in Morse codes of utter awesome.
Stiles hitches a breath. His heart is hammering in his chest and his brain is yammering a mile a minute, and this may actually be happening, and it may actually be better not to piss Derek off if he wants it to happen. Like he's been wanting it to happen since he first saw Derek after Derek came back. Like he's been wanting since Derek kissed him after Stiles said he'd like it if he did.
Derek isn't exactly an easy mate to have, but then again, neither is Stiles. They're neither of them the jackpot. More like Crackerjacks prizes. It's weird as ever between them because they basically skipped the courting stage and just went right for it but both of them are better when they're together.
They fight and bicker and argue each other into corners until they see valuable opposing perspectives and then they make out. And blowjobs. They agree about a lot of things, turns out, and find they have more than they knew in common and they prefer to fall asleep together at night whenever they can without clothes and with lots of blankets.
They work together to save the world.
They do naked things as much as humanly and wolfishly possible. Occasionally they smoke weed and reenact the time on the rock. Derek lets him be remote-control-commando when they watch TV on the couch, shoulder to shoulder and hip to hip and grabby hands. It's all been kind of spectacular. Not that Stiles likes to brag. Although he does. To Scott, mostly, who still looks confused, and Lydia, who gives him his best hookup tips.
"Sorry, I'm just-." Stiles shakes his head, shakes himself all over. One of his favorite things with Derek is that he doesn't have to finish his sentences half the time, Derek knows what he means. "The correct answer to your question is yes. You can, you should, you must. I want you to, I'm just."
Case in point, Derek understanding. "I'm nervous too," says Derek.
Derek's fingers twisting in him slow down, Derek pulls them free slowly. He's used a lot of lube, worked on Stiles a long while, not so slowly, but now: "I'll go slow, okay?" Everything's slow.
"You-Derek-"
"Don't want to hurt you," Derek says. "Can't handle the idea of you hurting just because I need to-"
Stiles smirks, ignoring the first part of the sentence. "Say it. No backsies."
"Fuck you," Derek says, licking up Stiles's neck, over the gooseflesh he's made. Then he's off. "Claim you, Stiles. No backsies. See if you fit me like you were made for me, like I think you will."
Stiles opens his mouth to say something about that, but he forgets what, because Derek's hands are firm on him, rolling him onto his side, Derek sliding in behind. One arm hooks low over Stiles's belly, and Derek's lips are traversing the buzz-cut of his hair. Like this all of Derek's big body is curved around him, they're touching everywhere, sweat-sticky. Their feet tangle. Derek toes against his heel.
Stiles is hard and his heart is fluttering, and Derek's reaching to grip him the way Stiles prefers, the way Derek has quickly mastered. After a while, he lets go. His hand goes to his own cock, and he starts to ease himself into Stiles. He's taken a long time in preparation, but he doesn't go anywhere fast. Slow.
Stiles resists his twin instincts to squirm away and shove back, keeps still-ish somehow with Derek all around him and oh my god, in him, moving in him, even if that's just the head of Derek's cock and even that feels like a lot.
He should be freaking out more, he thinks, only he wants this and Derek does and they've worked at it and up to it and now - now more of Derek, so big, too big, just unfathomably large, Derek's cock unfairly and gloriously huge and hard. At current entering Stiles and stretching him in every direction.
And Stiles. Doesn't know if he can do this. Can he do this? Derek thinks he can.
Derek thinks that he was made for it -
Sideways, he can't see Derek unless he cranes his neck, but he feels Derek everywhere. Derek's strong, sure grip lifts his leg carefully for better access, bends it at the knee, and Stiles twitches only a little, feeling Derek go deeper.
Then Derek is soothing the back of his thigh, like he knows just where the muscle threatens to cramp, and then he's palming across Stiles's abs, up his chest, rolls Stiles's nipple between his fingers with the flair with which he'd twisted up the first joint at the party a century ago and lured Stiles out into the open.
The nipple play revs him up and this time Stiles tilts back, trying to find the best angle, figure out the math of their bodies. No wonder Lydia knows so much. He keeps in mind how many times he's asked Derek for this, even keeping actual begging aside.
Focuses on how Derek's clever fingers made him wet and open for this and how the pressure's less and it starts to feel better if he starts taking in even gulps of air, if he breathes. "Breathe," Derek agrees, from somewhere close and everywhere.
He breathes. Sucks air in down to his stomach. Derek has his hand splayed there now. Derek's hand moves in tiny circles. Stiles grapples with air some more and then he lets himself relax against Derek, Derek is solid as iron behind him but also so soft, Derek goes slow and deeper and deeper.
Derek says, "Stiles, you feel." From Derek it's an entire sentence. He doesn't have to hear the rest.
And Stiles says, "Yeah, but you-" and the shape of Derek's grin is bold as he kisses the back of his neck. Derek wraps arms around him, locking in the rest of their limbs.
He mouths along his shoulder as he thrusts in short, shallow increments, letting Stiles adjust to every inch of his cock. There are a lot of inches. Like, Stiles would get out a ruler but he doesn't want to give the ruler envy.
They had indeed worked towards this and it's working, and any pain is nothing, is secondary, to having Derek inside him. If they were made for this now he understands why. It's what they're supposed to do, it's such a relief not to be apart anymore. Derek's arms are anchors while they carefully roll their hips together and Derek's cock is fitting, and Stiles can do this, he's doing it. It's one of the most excellent things he's ever done.
Derek's balls are heavy on his ass when he's all the way in. His teeth are have returned to the nape of Stiles's neck like he'll keep him down that way if he has to but he doesn't have to.
Both of them moan, and then Stiles's moans are words, pleas, instructions, urging Derek to move, telling him to move, because Derek just holds on and holds himself buried to the hilt when he's there.
Stiles twists his head around, aims the stream of his chatter directly at Derek, face-to-face, Derek with pupils blown; Derek looking shocky, wide-eyed, unlike himself and also like Derek with no masks on.
Finally something gets through enough to Derek to make him pull back. Gives Stiles room enough to gasp before thrusting home again and stealing his sound. Derek strokes deep twice more, warming him up, opening him up; and Stiles can't believe he's taking all of him but he is, he's full-up with Derek, Derek filling him.
It hurts because it's going to in the beginning and Derek's cock is surreal and it's better than Stiles thought it would be, he hadn't known it was going to be like this. He's parallel and perpendicular to Derek, and Derek is starting to move his hips in delicate circles to mimic the movement of his palm on Stiles's belly.
Derek never pulls out all the way, never leaves him. Derek never stops touching him while he slides in and back, Derek does it slow like he'd promised. His arm and its infinite bicep is thrown across Stiles's body and tucks him close. Stiles has gone quiet so that he can focus on what's happening to him, to them, so Derek's the one talking for once, whispering things, Stiles's name and bitten-off observations, as he delves farther. His lips are at Stiles's ear, tongue tracing its fragile curl.
After some moments of this that number amongst his finest moments ever Stiles tries something new. He braces himself and relaxes himself and pushes back on Derek, tries to guide his way in. Becomes more active in it, makes it happen instead of happening to: he can handle it, he's proven that already. He can take Derek, too.
He sets his jaw and snaps his hips, and Derek's arm around him is clutching, and suddenly it's Stiles setting their rhythm as he rides the length of Derek's cock.
Derek ducks away from Stiles's ear, which is lucky because the growl he growls is tough enough on the old ear-drums, travels and echoes its way down to Stiles's toes, rumbles back up to settle along his ribcage. It's reassuring to hear Derek growl, more familiar than what they're doing. Really, they might have tried it up against a wall. Might try that next. Mental note.
Stiles is moving faster than Derek had. Derek is impossibly big: porn star big, long and thick, a dick to match the breadth of his shoulders. He's gotten more used to it, now, if Derek's cock can be gotten used to, and as his body rocks back onto Derek's and Derek rocks into him, Stiles speeds them up.
"You don't have to go so slow anymore," he breathes, instead of faster.
Because Derek's the one gripping like he needs the reassurance. Stiles forgets to add anything sarcastic. "I'm-" for once at a loss for words, is there a word? "Good, you are -" and proves himself by reseating Derek's cock, becoming a long line of limbs drawn against Derek. Then he does it. Knows he would and hadn't known. He tilts his neck, baring the pale expanse of his throat. Offers himself right up.
Derek is Derek is Derek, but Derek is too much a wolf, had been born a wolf and was now all alpha about it, not to take the wolf-bait. He growls again, a far more dangerous noise than the puppy-grumble before, and all of Derek's muscles and all of Stiles tighten up with it. Derek quickly drops his head and has his teeth fastened at Stiles's pulse-point, and he thrusts hard at the same time.
Derek bites, too-sharp canines threatening skin, while his hand settles heavily on Stiles's thigh. Derek is shifting his leg again, angling Stiles to get at a better angle, and when he presses back in his cock sparks at just the right place.
Stiles scrabbles at the sheets, then takes it out on a hapless pillow, then bends into Derek like a bow, panting; and Derek is still biting him and keeps on fucking him just like that, driving deep to hit the spot that makes Stiles keen.
He's doing that, Derek is fucking him now, there's no other word for it. Before Derek had been fitting his cock in slowly and now Derek is fucking him like Stiles told him to.
Derek is fucking him on his bed. On Stiles's full-size mattress, neither king nor queen, only just big enough to hold Derek fucking him and nothing else. Stiles imagines the view from above must be pretty spectacular: Derek's gladiator body all wrapped around his own lanky offering, the two of them joined in an obscene 'C'. Derek's fingerprints must be burned into his hipbone like brands. Derek's somehow harder than ever as he moves.
They move together against the sheets, Derek's the greater momentum now as he loses caution and just - just claims, like he said he would. Derek is relentless, hasn't stopped with the teeth, his strokes thorough and deep and repeating, and when Stiles makes noise about it he doesn't slow, no, he reaches for Stiles's cock, takes him in his hand and gets Stiles to jump and swear. He starts to jerk him with too-good timing, twist of Derek's hand as his cock goes in and out and in, but Stiles makes a half-hearted attempt to shrug him off.
He can hear the worry behind the roughness in Derek's tone. "Are you - I thought -"
"No, it's good, really good, really, really good, I'm good, we're good -" Stiles is glad to talk again, all things and incoherence considered. Mostly-silence has been nice and mind-boggling to just feel it happen and there was the growling too but he's more comfortable when actively narrating. "If you keep doing that I'm going to be down for the count and I don't want to stop until dinnertime." It's eleven o'clock at night. He means dinner tomorrow.
Derek's short bark of a quasi-laugh feels good everywhere. He always sounds surprised to be laughing, and Stiles is always glad to hear it. "Don't worry. I don't need to stop. We'll start up again later, when you can."
And it doesn't sound like a joke. Derek isn't joking. Derek doesn't joke over-much but Stiles knows that inflection and this is no joke. "You - how now, brown cow?"
"I could stay in you until dinnertime tomorrow, stay hard, if I wanted to." Derek rocks his hips for unneeded emphasis. "Werewolf perk."
Stiles is trying not to come from the image alone. But this is bullshit. He's read everything there is to read about werewolves and this is nowhere in the literature. Nothing about superpowered screwing. Sure, they had enhanced endurance, but they didn't actually get superspeed and senses and that, could they? He drops his jaw and shakes his head. "Nuh-uh. Scott would've told me-"
"Scott's never been with his mate."
Only just that, and then Derek does a totally unfair thing: he tilts Stiles's head back to get at his mouth and kiss him. He resumes his knowing stroke on Stiles's cock. The motion of his lower body has slowed again to a luxurious pace, a momentum of inches.
These three things happen and Stiles comes, just comes apart completely, shooting hot and thick over his stomach and Derek's hand and the sheets. Derek quickens in him as he does it, urging him on, and Derek's tongue slipping in to meet his own is an additional cheerleader.
"Derek." It's such an excellent name, strong and quick, hard on the tongue in the end; he says it around Derek's seized lower lip. "Derek, oh my god, oh my god." Once more, with feeling: "Derek, god."
Derek holds on to him through it. His arm binds back around Stiles like rope. He noses into his hair, against his ear. "Been wanting to make that happen for a while," he says.
He remembers how to work his lungs, his vocal chords. "Yeah? How long?" Derek had never quite elaborated on when the knowledge that they were partnered for all eternity really sunk in.
There's a space of silence, and then, "Too long." Derek shakes his head, hips shifting, and it's a poignant reminder that he's still balls-deep and holding himself on the edge, the ridged muscles of his arms and neck strained with effort.
Stiles arcs backwards to show Derek he's still in the game. Even so, this is his first go, and there's limits to how long he can stay on the field - a battle of flesh versus will, if you will. He starts to talk his way through it. "So look, this mystical wolfy viagra thing -" He doesn't have to see Derek's answering smirk and all-suffering eyebrows to know they're there.
"Yeah," says Derek. "I think it works kind of like that."
"Neat. We'll mount a research study. I mean, so it works like, you can keep yourself - keep yourself from coming. But you can make yourself come, too?"
Derek grunts an affirmative. "That's what I've been doing." His hand is roaming over Stiles, spreading come into the treasure trail at his navel, trailing sticky fingers upward.
Before Derek pushes two fingers into his mouth, Stiles asks, "Can I make you do it?"
"Your efforts are crucial," says Derek. His fore and index fingers sink between Stiles's lips, and Stiles's tongue greets them, wrapping around and greedily sucking free the evidence of his total loss of virginity. Derek's fingers taste like him and Derek, and he chases the flavor.
Derek surges in him as he does it. Starts to set up to a rhythm again. Slowly.
Stiles puts his head against the crook of Derek's shoulder. "I want you to - I need you to come in me. I command it."
Derek's fingernails dig and are maybe growing, but he ignores the pressure. Likes it. "Shh, sour wolf, wait, that's not even my favorite part. I want you to fuck me-" Derek's fingernails and definitely growing and it stings and it's worth it - "-fuck me in your favorite position," Stiles concludes. "And come in me like that," he adds after a beat, to see what color Derek's eyes turn.
It's a bit too precise to pass for really dirty talk but it seems to be working on Derek. He says into Stiles's ear, while his hips never stop, "You're, ah," and there's the grind of Derek working his jaw. "You're not ready for that one quite yet," and Stiles closes his eyes and clenches up on him because Jesus Christ, Derek, really? But then Derek is saying, "The runner-up, however," and he smooths Stiles's flank. "That we could try."
"Do or do not, there is no-"
"Save the Star Wars quotes for later, Stiles," Derek says, "and I'll show you my old Han Solo costume."
Hard to know if Derek's joking now. Hard to know if Stiles's mouth can go more bone-dry or if his cock is actually already starting to respond again. He may not have the gift of wolfy viagra, but he has the power of teenage hormones on his side.
"That's happening," Stiles manages. "It is. Then he bounces on Derek enough to get his attention to say the least and says, "Now show me what you mean-"
"All right." Derek eases out of him, and this time, for the first time, he goes all the way. Stiles makes a slight noise of negation as his cock slides free. Then his body is telegraphing too many signals: aches and pains, euphorias and ecstasies, pithy protests and exuberant riots.
Back to slow, Derek is guiding him over and down, face-forward on his stomach with his legs straightened out, doing it purposefully. He reaches for a pillow, then urges Stiles's hips up to slip it underneath. He's diagonal, half-propped, ass in the air and exposed and he doesn't care because Derek is arranging him. "All right?" says Derek again. He swings a leg to settle over his thighs. Is on his knees, straddling. The weight of him is dense and good.
Then Derek is back in him like he hadn't ever left. Huge and hard and pulsing in him. He reenters Stiles in one go - or he goes halfway which is the length of a normal-sized cock and then he just keeps going - slanting down at Stiles, Derek low on his hands and knees, Stiles laid out beneath him. It's deep. Deeper than before, than anything he's ever felt, there's no way Derek could be further in. It hurts again like a flash of lightning but the pain isn't part of this now.
Stiles squeezes his thighs together, then reaches back to tug his cheeks farther apart to accommodate, squeezes his muscles around Derek, opens himself to this, too. As Derek starts to thrust again, he's dragged against the sheet, his too-sensitive cock caught up in the building friction of it, trapped and rubbing beneath him. Every time Derek moves he moves too, and Derek moves to gripping his hips, which don't have much room belted under Derek's body-weight but he likes that, likes being held down under Derek. They grind into each other, get ground up.
Derek's teeth must be grit. "Stiles - I'm going to - if you -"
"I want you to," Stiles says, teeth grit too. "Need it, Derek. You know-" and Derek leans in over him, slow, seals all the surfaces of their skin together, seeks just the right way to fit into Stiles. When he finds it he comes in him, comes with his bite back on Stiles's throat but also his lips are there. Derek's hips jerk, and he doesn't stop coming, is buried deep in Stiles and filling him anew. His mouth is a steady, heady ache at the vee of Stiles's neck, where Derek has started to draw out a blood-bruise. Derek keeps staying in, and in, stays massive and pulsing and still in Stiles.
He takes it long as he can, the drape of Derek on him and over him and in him, how Derek lets himself sprawl across Stiles; but eventually it's too much after the night's activities and Stiles starts to go up on his elbows. Derek is nearly dead weight, breathing like an engine next to his ear. He's shifted on purpose to cover Stiles better than a blanket: Derek's museum-statue abs are on his lower back, Derek's arms are shadowing over Stiles's arms, putting their hands together; Derek's slick, wet cock, slicker and wetter now, doesn't feel much softened and hasn't slid out of him very much at all.
Stiles gives him a minute. Sixty seconds. Then he says, "You know, contrary to the opinion of some very confusing websites, you can't fully mate me." That had been a relief. To say the least. Because stranger things had happened than Stiles Stilinski finding himself with a brood of werepuppies. And did he actually really need to go there just now, with Derek's cock still huge in him, Derek's come starting to be a slow hot drip down his inner thigh that doesn't stop?
"Not in that way, no." Derek sounds gruff, but the words aren't gruff as he says them. "In our own way. Yes." After that they lie quiet a while together feeling nothing but the places they are joined. After that, Derek edges back on his knees and leaves Stiles, slowly. Stiles keeps lying still, letting himself record it all in the vast, dusty archives of his brain.
Then Derek's leaving the room. He's gone before Stiles can suggest his dad may be out and about and it's a very bad idea. The warning's half-formed by the time Derek slips back in from the hall, silent on the pads of his feet. Stiles blinks at him, at Derek with a cup in his hand and a washcloth. He paces back to the bed, naked, resplendent, and crawls back to the center.
Coming with Derek fucking him defied a singular word, but maybe Stiles would settle on yes. Better than good, it'd felt right, and there isn't any going back on it, and they don't want to. Derek coming in him, all his strength all over him and pinning him to Earth, that had been unbelievable, better even than coming himself since he was doing it to Derek.
But Derek wetting the blue washcloth in the cup of warm water and cleaning Stiles off is something else entirely. It doesn't really have a word. Derek watches the careful progress of his work, does it well. When both of them are scrubbed rosy, he flows back, settles beside him in an echo of how they'd started out the night.
That's when Derek asks for a word. Like he's been reading Stiles's mind like usual. Says he wants a word to describe what Stiles is thinking. Says he's curious. Only one. Humor him.
"Just one," says Derek, moving to fit. "I know you can do it. I believe in you. Give it your best shot."
So Stiles says, "More."