Disclaimer: See initial chapter.
A/N: The prompt for this was: Genderswapped
I titled it, Never Say Never, because I thought I'd never write a genderswap story (they're not my cup of tea).
Warning: This features femslash, but between two male characters, and memories of teenage boys masturbating with articles of clothing...hopefully no one finds this overly disturbing. The ending is extremely cheesy. This is imperfect. I apologize in advance for everything.
Free Reader Tip #15: Magic is evil. Okay, so it's only evil some of the time, and only when certain people (not yours truly) are using it, but it's important to be aware of that, and of the fact that bad mojo can really mess with your wolf's head. It's not a good thing. Especially the evil kind of magic that gives your wolf a splitting headache and leaves you wishing that you'd never been born because the pain is that unbearable.
Though the spell is cast on Sunday morning, the effects don't show up until late Tuesday afternoon, thankfully after Stiles has left school for the day, and just after he's made it through the front door.
He doesn't even know how he made it through the day, because halfway through second period, it felt like his bones were in some kind of vise that was constantly being tightened. His head had felt like someone was shoving an icepick through it over and over again at regular intervals, and his insides felt like they were being mistaken for one of those long balloons that can be twisted into animal shapes. He'd hated clowns before. He hates them even more now, and he knows that he's being irrational, but he can't help it, because he is in pain unlike anything he's ever experienced before.
By the time he makes it to his room, his stomach is on fire, and his body is turning itself inside-out - literally. It feels like his bones are breaking, the joints popping. He can hear it. Hear, and feel them shifting around inside of him. It's excruciating, and it's not until he catches a glimpse of himself in his bedroom mirror that he connects the pain to its source - the mage in the forest; black eyes filled with anger and hatred; words shouted at him and Derek in a language that sounded like something a child had made up to pretend to speak Chinese; air shifting around them; a spark of electricity that had made his skin tingle, and his ears pop.
"This is not happening," Stiles says, eyes wide with fear and disbelief, heart skipping a beat as he takes a good, long look at himself in the mirror and sees someone else looking back at him.
His stomach twists sharply, and Stiles bites his lip, hard, makes it bleed, wraps a protective arm around his aching stomach. His eyes narrow in on the blood as it's reflected in the mirror, because that is the only real thing in all of this. The rest of it can't be real, in spite of what he's seeing in the mirror, what his eyes are telling him is true, because this kind of thing does not happen in the real world. It happens in science fiction, fan fiction, sometimes fantasy, but it does not happen to real people, unless they take pains to make it happen, and Stiles has not done that, does not want to do that, because he likes who he is just fine. Enjoys being a boy in love with a grumpy wolf.
His mouth opens in a silent scream as a fresh wave of pain assaults him, and he doubles over, clutching at the edge of his dresser. Knees buckling, he crashes to the floor, and, body wracked by a series of mind-numbing seizures that make him feel like he's being electrocuted, he passes out, wakes to darkness that feels absolute. He's cold. His body aches. His head feels like it's made of lead, and he can't move, though his muscles twitch every few seconds, making him feel on edge.
He's bit through his bottom lip. It stings and the taste of blood lingers in his mouth, makes him feel sick as does the memory of what he'd seen in the mirror. He thinks that maybe Peter was right, they should have killed the mage right away, instead of giving him a chance to surrender, but Stiles hadn't wanted another death on Derek's, or even Peter's, conscience.
It had seemed like a good idea at the time - giving the mage a chance to surrender on his own - now Stiles realizes that it hadn't been a good idea at all, but it's too late, because the damage has been done, and he doesn't know if it's reversible, hopes that it is, because he can't fathom living out the rest of his life like this.
The sound of his father moving around downstairs spurs Stiles into movement. He sits up, resting his back against the dresser, and closing his eyes until his head stops feeling like it's going to spin off of his neck.
"Stiles? You home?" his father calls up the stairs, and Stiles' head pounds.
He opens his mouth to respond, but clamps it shut again. How is he going to explain this to his father? His dad's not going to understand. Stiles is having a hard time wrapping his mind around it himself. His father's new to all of this - werewolves and magic and the supernatural.
He can just imagine the conversation unfolding. Hey, son...whoa, wait, who are you? You're not my son. Well, Dad, you see...
Groaning, Stiles pushes himself to his feet, forces himself to look at his reflection in the mirror and confirm what he'd seen the beginnings of before he'd mercifully blacked out. Turning the light on, Stiles stares at himself in the mirror. His tee-shirt is taut across his chest, showing off his midriff, and his jeans are far too tight, no longer hanging off of his hips.
He raises a hand to his hair in disbelief and wonder. It's no longer as short as it once was, but falls in a wavy cascade down past his shoulders. It's thick and a rich, coppery brown in color. His green eyes are offset by high cheekbones, and long eyelashes, which haven't really changed all that much - they've always been long, and as Scott liked to tease, girly. His lips are fuller and just a touch more plump, his chin more angular.
Stiles turns around, eyeing himself in the mirror as he does so. His ass is bigger than it was, his hips wider, his waist thinner. And he's definitely got breasts now. They're not as big as Lydia's, but they're big enough to cause heads to turn. At least they would have caused his head to turn had they been on someone else's body. He resists the urge to touch and poke at them, squeeze them like some kind of perverted anime character, and mentally slaps himself as he zeroes in on the nipples that are definitely showing through the thin tee-shirt that he's wearing. It's a little cold in his room, and they're definitely a tad on the perky side. An experimental thumb rub through the fabric of his tee-shirt raises goose-flesh on his arms, makes the nipple harden in response.
He blushes, his cheeks coloring slightly as his thoughts turn toward Derek, wondering what the wolf would make of him now. If Derek would think he was pretty, or if he would laugh at the dusting of freckles on his pert nose, and the way his cheeks dimple when he smiles.
"This isn't real," Stiles says in a voice that is soft and feminine, too high pitched to be his own. He clamps a hand over his mouth, his fingers are slender, bordering on delicate, his hands smaller and decidedly 'girly'.
He pinches himself, and winces in pain. "Ouch."
"Who the hell are you? Stiles? You in here?"
His father's voice startles him, as does his looming figure that blocks the doorway. There's a scowl on his father's face, and Stiles offers him a sheepish smile, even as his father's eyes narrow on him, and the man frowns.
"Are those Stiles' clothes?" he asks, entering the room. "Who are you, and what are you doing here?"
Taking a deep breath, Stiles holds his hands out in front of him, ignoring how different they feel, how small they look. How they hardly seem to weigh anything at all.
"Dad," Stiles says. "It's me."
His father's forehead creases in confusion and his eyes widen in panic, and Stiles realizes a few seconds too late that his father's mistaken his meaning. In any other circumstances, it would be funny, and Stiles would laugh, but this isn't funny, and he needs his father to understand what happened. Needs his father to believe that this girl standing in front of him is, in fact, his son, and not some strange girl pretending to be his daughter from some undisclosed affair.
He ignores the little voice at the back of his head that says the horror on his father's face is a little too real for this to be something that the man has never considered, because he does not want to go there. The thought of his father with another woman, other than his mother is not something that Stiles can handle right now, not on top of magically morphing into a curvy girl.
His father is shaking his head, though, lips thinned in a look that Stiles is very familiar with. If he's not careful, his father will kick him out, or haul him off to jail. That would not be a good thing right now. Not that the prospect of being jailed is ever a good thing.
"Dad, it's me," he tries again, ignoring the unfamiliar sound of the feminine voice that's coming from him. "It's Stiles. I...there was a mage, and he cast a spell on me and Derek, and he turned me into a girl, but I don't think it's permanent, at least I hope it isn't, and I need you to believe me, because I -"
He's cut off by his father's laughter. His father's laughing so hard that there are tears in his eyes, and Stiles crosses his arms over his chest, protectively, his lower lip trembles and he doesn't understand his reaction, why he feels like crying just because his father is laughing at what he thinks is some elaborate joke being pulled on him by Stiles and some girl that he's never met before.
"That's a good one. You almost had me. Okay, Stiles, you can come out now," his father says, once his laughter has subsided, and he's wiped away the tears.
He begins a meticulous search of the room, peering underneath the bed, in the closet, out the window, and in every nook and cranny. After finding nothing, he finally takes a good look at his son, who is nearly four inches shorter and definitely of the female persuasion, and his jaw drops. There's a look of shock and fear on his face, and Stiles feels like crying, because he really needs some support right now, and in the absence of Derek and Scott, his dad is his support.
"I'm Stiles, dad," Stiles says, sniffing, and wiping at his eyes. "I was hit by some kind of spell, and I just really need you to not laugh at me right now."
"But you're a girl," his father says, rather unhelpfully. "Can that really happen?"
His father's inched away from him, as though fearful of getting too close, like it's catching or something, and that makes Stiles want to cry even more, because he's not some kind of freak. He's just a boy trapped in a girl's body. A body that he hopes is only temporary, because, when all's said and done, he really does like being a boy (that one time in seventh grade aside, when he and Scott had stayed up late speculating about what it would be like to be a girl - both of them had gotten rather hard at the prospect of touching boobs and other intimate parts of a girl).
He's still Stiles, though, and his father's acting like he's some kind of abomination. "I'm still me, dad," he says, choking out the words through a sudden onslaught of tears.
His father stands stiffly and closes his eyes, his hands are fists at his side that open and close with each breath that he takes, as though he's battling with himself in an effort to stay in Stiles' room rather than flee.
Stiles has never felt so alone, so unloved, as he does in this moment, and he feels like running away from it all, because this is not how his father is supposed to react to this. His father's supposed to be comforting him right now, promising him that everything's going to work out okay, that Stiles will wake up in the morning and be back in the body that he's used to. He's supposed to hold him, and talk him through the panic attack that Stiles can feel building up inside of himself, not staving off his own knee-jerk reaction to supernatural repercussions for doing the right thing.
Up until now, his father's always been Stiles' rock. Always. He's never faltered in his steps. He's taken everything in stride, and with a calmness that Stiles has never really found within himself, though he's attempted to emulate it. He's had moments of it, but nothing like what he's seen in his father, and this, watching his father struggle to control his gut reactions, is costing him, chipping away at his father's pedestal, and making Stiles wonder if his father's just been faking it all along.
Warm arms wrap around him, and Stiles' head is pressed against a firm chest. It's familiar in a way that nothing else is right now, and he wraps his arms around his father, clinging to the man as though he's being saved from drowning, and in a way, he is. The man's heartbeat is steady and strong, breaks through the panicky thoughts that are threatening to overwhelm Stiles and take away his breath.
He's dizzy, and sick with fear, and, in an effort to keep the mother of all panic attacks at bay, he rubs the rough fabric of his father's shirt between his thumb and forefinger like he used to when he was little, grounding himself; breathes in the sharp scent of his father's cologne suffused with sweat from an honest day's work; and hones in on the sound of his father's heartbeat until his own matches that of his father's in rhythm and tempo, his breathing soon follows suit as he listens to his father's voiced commands, of, "Breathe, I've got you son, breathe. That's it. I'm sorry, son. I've got you now. We'll figure this out together."
Though the transmogrification process is far less dramatic, and painful, for Derek, occurring while he's sleeping, it's no less surprising and unsettling according to the wolf who shows up in a panic an hour after Stiles' father has finally gotten him calmed down enough to think straight.
Stiles can't help, but smile at how fetching the uncomfortable the wolf looks sitting on the couch in Stiles' living room, trying to decide whether or not he should cross his long, shapely legs.
Derek's drop dead gorgeous as a woman. Long, dark hair flowing down to the middle of his back in wavy curls. Dark, smoldering eyes set in high, chiseled cheekbones. His chin's less sharp, face more heart-shaped than it is when he's a he, and not a she. And then there are his full, pouty lips that are just begging to be kissed, tinted a rosy red without the aid of lipstick, cheeks dusted a faint pink without the aid of rouge. He's coltish. Long limbs and fingers.
The word, dainty, comes to mind, but the flash of red from Derek's eyes as he spits out, in a soft, lilting voice, his acrimony toward the mage who'd done this to them, banishes that thought almost immediately, and Stiles shivers, knowing that his lover, in any form, has the potential to kill lying just beneath the surface of his currently porcelain white skin. It shouldn't be the turn on that it is. Especially not when the both of them are stuck in bodies that don't belong to them, but Stiles finds himself wondering if Derek's skin feels as soft as it looks, if his hair is silky to the touch, how his ample breasts would react to the warm, wet press of Stiles' tongue and the blunt scraping of teeth on teat.
They need to go to the mage, and get him to take the spell off of them, or wait for the spell to run its course. Stiles knows this, but, watching his boyfriend try to find a comfortable position on his couch that doesn't show off too much cleavage through his overly tight tee-shirt, stirs up something inside of him, and Stiles' mouth goes dry as he wonders what it would be like to fool around with Derek while they're still both girls. If he can coax Derek into donning a form fitting black dress and black lace panties.
I'm a sick, sick boy, Stiles thinks, no, make that girl, as he pictures Derek naked, tries to keep his mind focused on the discussion that his father and Derek are having, and his body from responding to the images that his naughty mind is supplying him of Derek's well-proportioned ass, the way that it might bounce, and redden if he were to spank it.
They've never done anything like that before, and it's a more than a little disconcerting that Stiles is even entertaining the thought now, that the thoughts spring so easily to mind now that he's a girl. Thoughts of Derek mewling beneath him, begging him with eyes lust-dark and pink lips slightly parted while Stiles straddles hips that are wider yet lean. Derek handcuffed to a headboard, Stiles' face buried between ample breasts that smell like cinnamon and dirt. Derek's melodic voice washing over him, urging him to go down on him, to ply fingers and tongue and lips to heretofore forbidden regions (regions that Stiles, outside of fantasy, has never gotten to touch, let alone fuck) while he writhes and bucks and calls out Stiles' name over and over again.
And it's like he's thirteen again, lying side-by-side with Scott on his best friend's bed make-believing kisses and the conquering of girls, the loss of virginity, and the perplexity of bra clasps, taking turns practicing with a couple of Melissa's, and reveling in the rough-soft feel of lace against bare skin. It's chafing, and when Stiles imagines the way it had looked on Scott when it had been his turn to practice taking it off without using his hands, it's mind-blowing sexy, and Stiles disappears into the bathroom while Scott plays out his own fantasy in his bedroom, dirtying his mother's bra, and stuffing it beneath his mattress afterwards. Stiles wonders if it's still there, if the sullied bra he'd stolen from Melissa is still safely stowed away behind the loose board in the McCall's bathroom wall.
"Stiles." Derek sounds exasperated, and though his voice is stern, and holds a tiny hint of the anger that Stiles knows Derek's feeling right now, the distinctive feminine lilt to it, along with the rasp of a not fully expressed growl is like a Siren's call, and Stiles wants to drag his boyfriend up the stairs and explore their new bodies and fuck like the horny teenager he is.
"Have you heard anything that we've said?" Derek asks, voice accusing, slim, yet muscular arms wrapped severely across a slightly heaving chest, inadvertently pushing his breasts up, making them nearly pop through his black tee-shirt.
"Uh..." Stiles says, thoughts fleeing, mouth Sahara dry, palms and uncharted territory a rain forest in the middle of monsoon season.
His vision tunnels, and he's wet, tingly and warm...down there...and he kind of wants his father to make himself scarce, right now, doesn't want to discuss the dark mage, and the undoing of gender-altering spells just yet, because he's feeling driven to fuck his wolf until they're both incoherent piles of girly mush, breasts tangled with hair and the strong scent of musk hanging thick in the air between them.
Something of what he's thinking must register on his face, because his father's got a deer-in-the-headlights kind of look on his face, and Derek's pretty eyes are growing dark, his lips parting to let escape a soft, needy moan. They almost don't make it up to his room, and Stiles thinks, but isn't sure, that he can hear his father's voice trailing after them. Something about dodging a bullet, or about how he should've put a stop to him and Derek long ago, rather than letting them date in the hopes that Stiles wouldn't do it anyway behind his back and become just another statistic, a runaway driven from the home because of an overly strict father.
None of it matters in any case, because Derek's standing in the middle of his room, naked, body shaped like an honest to goodness hourglass. Stiles only has a moment to think that maybe there was something else to the spell that had been cast on them, something that not only turned them into girls, but also hiked lust up a notch, before he's struggling to get out of his clothes, tee-shirt getting stuck on breasts that ache with the need to be touched and fondled, laved with a warm, wet tongue.
There's a split-second of dizziness, an out of body experience in which he sees himself, naked and vulnerable, pale skin breaking out in goose bumps that have nothing to do with cold air, and everything to do with the beauty standing in front of him, mouth gaping in a silent 'oh' of shocked pleasure. He's shorter and decidedly curvaceous as a girl.
Derek closes the gap between them in two long strides, his legs, even as a woman, no less long than they were when he'd been a man. His touch is like a conduit for electricity, sparking Stiles' nerve endings to life wherever Derek touches him, warming his insides as though with fire.
"Touch me," Stiles trills out, his girly voice low and flirty. He bats his eyelashes, and smiles in a way that he hopes is seductively.
Derek complies, fingers twining in long hair, rubbing at Stiles' breasts, making overly sensitive nipples hard. Welcoming Stiles' touch, he takes a step back, and they explore each other, first with their eyes, and then with fervent feather-gentle touches that give way to something harder and just shy of bruising.
Skin hot and throbbing with need, Stiles trembles beneath Derek's heated touch, and smiles when Derek trembles too, long, dark hair fanning milky white shoulders. Derek's hair feels like liquid between Stiles' fingers, tastes like strawberries and cream when he kisses it.
Stiles has never touched a girl in any way that could ever be termed as intimate before, and right now he's more than a little intimidated. In all of his wet dreams, ending with him locking lips with one of the guys from the Lacrosse team or his goofy best friend, he's never dreamed that touching a girl could be like this. And maybe, if the girl had been anyone else (his crush, Lydia), it wouldn't have been so invigorating.
He knows that Derek has touched other girls, though, and suddenly he's self-conscious, feeling like he's an elephant with four left feet and a stubby, misshapen trunk. Derek's first girlfriend, Kate, had been as drop dead gorgeous as Derek is now. Stiles is downright mousy by comparison. At least he feels like he is.
"Stiles, fuck, you're beautiful," Derek breathes the words out against Stiles' lips.
Long, slender fingers are splayed out across the soft expanse of Stiles' stomach where butterflies are dancing a frenetic tango. Derek's fingers drop further south, nestle themselves in the downy forest of coarse, tightly curled pubic hair, and Stiles' breath comes to a stuttering halt for a second and he trembles like a leaf in the wind.
Even now, in their altered state, their bodies fit together, perfectly, as though they're the last two pieces belonging to one of those impossibly difficult puzzles to solve. Stiles fits snugly against Derek's female form, head tucked beneath Derek's chin, breasts squishing and molding themselves neatly together with Derek's. It's comfortable. Safe. Sexy as fuck.
Derek's hand strays down to Stiles' ass, and Stiles draws in a sharp breath when Derek cups and squeezes, starts to massage the ample flesh and stake a claim on it.
Stiles' hands move to from Derek's slender shoulders, to Derek's hips, down to the two round, fleshy mounds of ass, eliciting a heady gasp.
Free Reader Tip #16: Wolves are highly sensitive to touch. If you want your wolf to be silly putty in your hands, then look no further than ass, lips, the muscular planes of abdomen, which, no matter what form they take, male or female, will be ripped and tight as a six pack, because wolves get a good workout every single day. Hopefully in your bed, as well as by running through forests.
They stumble-walk their way to the bed, Derek landing on top of Stiles, and staring down, heatedly, into dark pools of lust-filled eyes that are rimmed with green the color of a storm-tossed sea.
Even as a female, I bottom, Stiles thinks wryly as Derek adjusts his slight weight, pinning Stiles to the bed beneath a pair of thick, vivacious thighs.
The absence of a cock, dripping pre-cum onto his stomach is not lost on Stiles, nor is the decidedly wet heat gathering between his legs. He's aching there. It's not the same sensation of a cock hardening, but the reaction is the same. He wants to rock up against Derek, and create friction between them. He's panting and moaning, and he thinks that he can feel the wet heat emanating from between Derek's parted legs as the wolf lowers his body onto Stiles', starts licking a path from left nipple to belly button, making Stiles squirm and gasp with need.
"Derek," Stiles moans, unable to breathe deeply, or think coherently as the wolf dips his dark head, hair falling across Stiles' stomach, making it clench and twist with arousal as he pets absentmindedly at the wolf's hair.
Stiles opens his legs wide, lets bony knees fall to the side, and pushes down at the feel of a tongue, hard and wet, tap, tap, tapping at what must be his clitorus. It feels fucking fantastic, and as Derek continues to fuck him with his tongue, Stiles forgets what it means to breathe, to see, to do anything other than beg for, "More, more, more. Uhnnnnnnnnnn, Derek, Derek, fuck, fuck, fuuuuuuuuuuuck," back arching up off the bed, fingers twined in hair that's soft as silk as Stiles experiences an orgasm unlike any that he's experienced as a boy.
After Stiles comes, Derek laps up the aftermath, and Stiles can feel another orgasm building up inside, coiling in the pit of his fluttering stomach when Derek's nose presses into his pubic hairs, the wolf's tongue sliding in and out of the slick opening in a steady pumping rhythm that Stiles doesn't know if he can replicate when it's his turn to taste, suck, and fuck the wolf with tongue.
The second orgasm flows into a third, and Stiles swears that fireworks are going off somewhere nearby, because, not only can he see them, but he can feel and hear them going off. Toes curling into the bedspread, fingernails digging half moons into tender flesh, Stiles screams out a breathy series of praises bearing Derek's name and prowess in bed.
Free Reader Tip #17: Never hesitate to praise your wolf's performance in bed. It's like an aphrodisiac, or something, for them. Need I say that it leads to many a hallelujah, the seeing of colorful stars, the sounds of happy grunting and panting, and multiple orgasms, for both of you?
"Did you like that?" Derek asks, raising a flushed face creased with doubt and worry. "Was I any good?"
Shaking his head in disbelief, hair tumbling about shoulders slick with sweat, Stiles pulls Derek close, and reassures the silly wolf that, "Yes, it was good, and yeah, I liked it."
Stiles pushes Derek back, delighting in the startled, "Oof," that the action elicits, and the way that the wolf's dark hair cascades down shoulders and back. Stiles settles between Derek's open thighs, and lowers head and lips, questing fingers to the wolf's hot, wet, throbbing pussy.
Stiles experiments with a little finger banging first, watches Derek's pupils widen, the full, pouty lips tremble and bleed as the wolf bites down hard enough to tear through skin, and then pulls the lower lip in between pearly white teeth and suck at the blood there. Stiles, wanting to taste the blood - fingers still banging out a quick tempo on either side of the wolf's clitoris, working Derek into a frenzy of wordless sounds as Stiles simultaneously works the fingers of his other hand into Derek, searching for the wolf's g-spot, knowing that it's gotta be somewhere - surges upward and steals a kiss, sucking Derek's lower lip into his mouth, and tasting the intoxicating mixture of copper, and, once again, strawberries.
Derek's stomach ripples, and the wolf sighs out a breathy growl, coming, vagina walls tightening around Stiles' fingers. Fingers clenching at the bedspread, toes digging into the mattress, head thrown back, Derek lets out a spine-tingling howl. The wolf's dark hair hangs and sways like a curtain in the breeze, and Stiles is mesmerized, wants to make the wolf come a second time.
Stiles keeps his fingers inside of the wolf's vaginal walls, pumps the tips of them against the fleshy g-spot, and, circles the nipple of Derek's right breast with his tongue, playfully bites at the tender, sensitive flesh there, causing Derek to pant out a curse, and the wolf's fingers to dig painfully into Stiles' hips. There'll be bruises, but Stiles doesn't care about that. He cares only about making the wolf howl again, because Derek's never done that before.
Stiles around the teeth marks he's made on Derek's breasts, moves onto its twin, and suckles at the teat, making it hard and, making Derek cry out, voice hoarse and husky, "Stiles, oh, fuck, Stiles, Stiles, Stiles." This time, when Derek comes, there is no howl. The wolf growls out what sounds like a steady purr, head tossed back, body quaking.
Stiles pulls out fingers slick with Derek's essence, and Derek pushes forward, takes Stiles' fingers into his mouth and sucks them clean, hooks a hand behind Stiles' neck and pulls him close for a kiss that leaves Stiles' head whirling, and his insides feeling like jell-o.
Stiles, wanting to give as good as he got, starts kissing his way toward Derek's center, enjoying the way that the wolf's muscles shudder beneath his lips, his tongue, his teeth, the way that the curly pubic hairs tickle his nose when he closes in on his goal, and the way the wolf pets him, gently urging Stiles to, "Fuck me, Stiles," in a breathy, feminine drawl.
Derek tastes a little different as a female. The come is far less musky, less potent, and a little wetter than Stiles is used to. He likes it, relishes the mewling sounds that his tongue is rending from Derek, who's propped up on elbows, feet resting on either side of Stiles, dark eyes lined with an electric blue, watching Stiles as his tongue coaxes a third orgasm from the wolf.
Spent, they both crawl beneath the covers, Stiles' hair spread out across Derek's breasts, Derek's slender arms wound around Stiles' chest.
"That was -" Stiles starts to say something, but sleep quickly pulls him under, as though he's been drugged, and, later, he'll realize that it was just part of the mage's spell, that the sleep he and Derek are pulled down into is one which had been premeditated. One which was meant to keep them under for good. But the mage hadn't counted on Derek and Stiles having a magic all their own. Love.
When they wake the next morning, Stiles finds that he's spooned up behind Derek, whose arms are wrapped possessively around him, Stiles is almost disappointed to see that the spell's been broken, that they've both reverted to their distinctly male forms, Derek's semi-hard cock pressing into the small of his back, the wolf's warm breath tickling the back of his neck, no long, brunette locks to block it.