Chapter Text
He knows that things have gotten ridiculous when he seriously considers napping in Scott's car, just to make sure the scent takes.
Instead, Stiles spends the rest of the day trying to keep himself occupied. He makes inquiries at the high school about potential openings and the sort of experience they'll be looking for. He sifts through the rentals section of the classifieds and starts compiling information about cost versus amenities, because he appreciates his dad's offer but he's not exactly thrilled with the idea of moving back into his old bedroom. He idly browses the web for a while, ending up switching back and forth between half a dozen cooking websites and a paranormal investigation forum that he thinks might actually not be complete bullshit.
No matter how things go with Derek tonight, this is the life that Stiles is choosing for himself, and he's determined to head into it fully prepared.
He does leave Scott's shirt in the car, in the interest of preserving the scent. No point in shooting himself in the foot there, after all.
The thing is, there's a reason why Stiles tends to go off half-cocked, jumping into action as soon as the barest semblance of a plan is in place, and that reason is simply this: he hates waiting. Hates it deep down to the marrow of his bones, and would probably never wait for anything ever again if that were actually an option for his life. Waiting gives him too much time to think, to obsess, to go over the millions of different ways that what he's planning to do could go horribly, spectacularly wrong. He's all for plans, he really is; he just prefers to develop them on the fly, while he has enough immediate action to distract the part of his brain that absolutely knows better.
When he'd been sixteen and overheard his dad talking about the dead body in the woods, he'd rushed over to Scott's house the second he'd gotten shoes on his feet. That's been the pattern of his life since then, and despite the occasional concussion and contusion and best-friend-turned-into-a-creature-of-the-night, he thinks it's worked out pretty well so far.
By the time he pulls up in front of the Hale house, Stiles can't quite decide if it's a good or bad thing that he's had way too much time to think about the possible pitfalls of this plan. In the pros column: he is fully prepared to plant himself in Derek's bed in the hopes that Derek will eventually have to sleep.
In the cons: his hands are shaking the second he takes them off the steering wheel.
Because the upshot of it all is that he's never stopped being afraid of Derek. Not really. True, it's been years and what feels like lifetimes since he figured out that Derek's bark was worse than his bite, and nearly just as long since he realized that he no longer believed that Derek might actually hurt him. But just when he no longer saw Derek as a threat to life and limb, Stiles had to face the fact that he had become an emotional threat, instead.
Which was, and is, just . . . so, so much worse.
Bruises and lacerations and concussions all heal. In Stiles's experience it's rejection, it's loss that will cut you just as deep five, ten years down the road. Stiles had always been careful about letting anyone in enough to hurt him; the fact that Derek Hale of all people has managed to snarl and sneer and bluster his way beneath his skin is, frankly, still a little bit baffling. The fact that he's the one with the power to leave him terrified of the pain he's sure is coming is downright infuriating.
Stiles holds on to that feeling, lets the irritation smother the fear long enough to get out of the car, to march up the front steps and into the house without so much as a courtesy knock.
“Stiles?” Derek steps out of the living room, looking unfairly good in a simple henley and jeans, and frowning as Stiles strides past him. “Where are Scott and Allison?”
“At home, probably,” Stiles says over his shoulder. He doesn't even slow down on his way to the kitchen—it's the only place in the house that feels like neutral territory, and he needs every edge he can get right now. “Scott said something about making pork chops.”
He heads immediately for the fridge, poking around inside until he finds a can of Coke that he can swipe. When he turns around Derek is standing in the doorway, his frown escalated to a scowl. In a weird way, it eases Stiles's nerves a little. The comfort of the familiar, he suppose.
“They're not coming.” It's not a question, really, and Stiles doesn't pretend to believe otherwise.
“Not tonight,” he says, fidgeting with the can he's still holding. He doesn't even want it, really; it's just something to keep his hands occupied. “Looks like it's just you and me.” Derek is taking slow, hesitant steps into the room, and his caution is ridiculous enough that Stiles feels the tension draining out of him. “Dude, relax. I'm not gonna bite.”
Derek snorts at that, but he stops moving like he's expecting an attack. He plants himself across the counter from Stiles, arms crossed as he studies him.
“So why the subterfuge?”
“You're kidding, right?” Stiles asks, eyebrows lifting towards his hairline. “After you took off this morning? Scott said the sandwich was good, by the way; almost makes me wish I'd kept it for myself.” He grins. “Any chance I could talk you into making me one? I didn't eat much in the way of dinner.”
“You . . .” Derek is staring at him like Stiles just slapped him across the face, a mixture of horror and hurt and confusion before his jaw tightens and his eyes shutter again. “Was that supposed to be a joke?”
“Um. No?” Stiles sets the can down on the counter, watching as Derek's eyes follow the movement. “I've never really seen the appeal of the 'make me a sandwich' brand of humor; it's sort of done to death, you know?” He steps away, stripping out of his jacket and tossing it over the back of a chair. The kitchen's too warm for this many layers. “So why'd you run away?”
“I didn't run away.” Derek is visibly struggling to relax again, something that seems to be easier for him with Stiles at a little bit of a distance. “I remembered something that I had to do. You could've stuck around.”
Stiles just stares for a moment before he runs a hand over his face. “Okay, look. There are some things we've gotta talk about, and it would really help if you'd at least pretend that you don't think I'm an idiot.”
Derek scowls. “I don't think you're an idiot.” He shifts uneasily. “And we really don't need to talk.”
“Yeah, we do,” Stiles insists. “If you don't want to, that's fine. I'll talk; you can just keep your mouth shut and listen for once. There are some things I've never really told you. About . . .” He rubs his palms against the sides of his legs. “About how I feel.”
“You've been perfectly clear about things, Stiles,” Derek says as his expression grows thunderous. “I don't need to hear it.”
“Yeah, well tough, because I need to say it.”
“Saying it out loud won't solve anything.” Derek's jaw clenches, and he turns away, heading for the door again. “You can show yourself out whenever you're ready to go.”
“Oh, no. No, like hell are you brushing me off like that.” Stiles darts forward, planting himself in front of Derek with a hand braced against his chest. He's wearing a scowl of his own now, glowering into Derek's face like he can make him stop being an insufferable asshole by the power of his will alone. “Do you think this is easy for me? I spent years—I mean, literally years—trying not to say this, and all it's ever done is poison everything else I have. I can't even manage to . . . do you know that my last relationship lasted less than a month? I'm not saying it's your fault; I swear, I'm not trying to put that on you. But I have to do this, okay? I have to, so that we can both just . . . move on.”
Derek looks like he's struggling with an emotion that Stiles can't quite identify, and it hurts to realize that he would've recognized it easily years ago; that he was once read Derek's expressions so fluently that he did it without conscious thought. Now they're like a language that he's half-forgotten, and he's left floundering as Derek glances down at the hand still on his chest before he takes a deliberate step back.
“That's Scott's shirt,” he says, as though the words are significant in a way that Stiles doesn't understand. When Derek doesn't get a reaction he lets out a frustrated sigh, turning away to pace back to the counter. “Take it off,” he says tightly. “I'm not going to have this conversation with you smelling like pack.”
Stiles's stomach clenches, and he's abruptly glad that he's hardly eaten anything in the past few hours. He strips the t-shirt off and tosses it angrily towards his jacket; he's down to just a long-sleeved shirt now, and he feels oddly exposed.
“All right, jackass, now that your delicate sensibilities are no longer being offended, let's start with this Stiles isn't pack bullshit.”
That has Derek turning to face him, and there's nothing ambiguous about the confusion on his face now. “What about it?”
“What—” Stiles fists his hands in his hair, barely resisting the urge to start tearing it out in clumps. “I honestly can't tell if you're being deliberately obtuse or if you're actually just this stupid.”
“What do you want from me, Stiles?” Derek yells abruptly, his own hands clenching into fists at his sides. “You said you weren't part of this pack. I've tried to respect that, I've tried to understand it, but it never seems to be enough. You turn up here with a pair of cubs attached at your hips; you make dinner in my home, for my pack; you come here smelling like our only breeding couple; it's like you're bound and determined to deliver as many mixed signals as you possibly can, and what, you expect me to stay polite about it?” A growl is building behind his words as he steps forward. “You're the one who rejected your place here, so don't come crying if the way I treat you reflects that.”
Stiles is staring. He can't help it, can't spare the brainpower to school his expression when he's struggling to understand what Derek's just accused him of.
“When did I reject anything?” he demands at last, letting his own frustration grow to match Derek's. “I never—”
“Did you think Bianca wouldn't contact me after your meeting?” The question has the rest of Stiles's words dying on his tongue as Derek stares him down. “You declared yourself packless to another alpha—an alpha who's considered you one of ours for the past several years, who made accommodations to respect that—and you thought she wouldn't call demanding an explanation? And I, of course, got to look like an idiot, because I didn't know. Suddenly I'm an alpha who can't even keep track of his own pack members, who didn't even realize—”
“Wait, wait, hold on.” Stiles holds up a hand, scowling again now. “You're not actually going to pretend that you didn't have any idea that I would say that. You made sure I knew—”
“What? That you were always welcome here? That you were important to—to us?”
“Oh, bullshit. You said you didn't want me to stick around; you're the one who made it clear you didn't consider me pack.”
“I never said that,” Derek growls, and Stiles scoffs.
“No, you never really had to. But excuse me if I didn't much feel like waiting to be asked to leave when I was already the only one that you never asked to stay. I was the only one you didn't offer the bite to, Derek; the only one you flat-out refused.”
“You were eighteen, Stiles. I told you I didn't want to keep you here; I never said I didn't want you to stay. You were still a kid, you weren't ready for—you needed to figure out who you were, what you wanted, and if I'd turned you then, you wouldn't have been able to do any of that.” He glances away, casting his eyes around the room like the words he's searching for might be hidden somewhere nearby. “I knew you might move on, might decide you didn't . . . but I always thought you'd still be pack.” Derek looks at Stiles again, hesitant and defensive and resigned. “I never thought that was something I might lose.”
“Why didn't you just say that?” Stiles asks, his voice rough and open, so terrifyingly vulnerable that he has to cross his arms in front of his chest in a feeble attempt to shield himself. “Why didn't you ever just tell me that you wanted me to stay?”
“It was your choice to make.”
“It was Allison's and Lydia's, too,” he shoots back. “Why did they get options that I didn't?”
“It's not the same,” Derek hedges. “Their circumstances were different.”
“What, because they had mates in the pack?” Stiles asks, frowning. “Did you really only offer to turn them to keep Scott and Jackson around? Because that's fucked up, man.”
The look Derek shoots him is withering, and paradoxically makes Stiles have to fight to keep a grin off of his face. “If I have to treat you like you're not an idiot, you have to stop pretending to be one. You know I wouldn't offer to turn someone if I didn't think that they deserved it. I wanted to keep Lydia and Allison around because they're both assets to the pack, with or without their mates.”
“But I'm not?” Stiles presses, and Derek groans.
“It's not that simple, Stiles.”
“I don't see why not. You say you wanted me in the pack, you offered the bite to them but not to me, there has to be a reason for—”
“Because I wouldn't have been able to let you go,” Derek finally snaps. “I wouldn't have been able to let you leave, not without . . . you weren't ready for what I would've asked you for.”
“And what gave you the right to decide that? Why did you get to be the one who said what I was ready for?” He takes a step closer, glaring because how dare Derek? “You don't have the first clue about what I need, that much is obvious.”
“Then why don't you tell me instead of trying to make me guess?” Derek demands, and Stiles . . .
Stiles is kissing him before he can talk himself out of it. Stubble is a rough scrape against his chin, the sensitive skin of his upper lip, but soft as velvet beneath his palms where he's framing Derek's face, holding him still as Stiles fits their mouths together. Derek's lips are as soft as he'd imagined, still slack with surprise until Stiles presses in harder. Then Derek is pressing back with a hesitant, slow-building heat that Stiles can feel in the tense lines of his body, in the way fingers tighten and clutch at the front of his shirt like Derek can somehow drag him closer. Stiles lets out a noise at that, soft and broken and eager, the sound of something deep and vital coming loose inside of him.
And then abruptly there's sharp pressure against his chest as he's shoved away, stumbling back halfway across the kitchen while Derek stares at him, panting and furious.
“I . . .” Stiles is shaken, unmoored; he lifts a hand to his lips, to skin already starting to swell, and fights against the wave of sickness that wants to overtake him. “Sorry,” he manages. “I . . . shouldn't have—”
“No.” Derek sounds wrecked; Stiles's stomach gives another slow, sick roll. “You can't just—I'm not convenient, Stiles.”
“You think?” Stiles can't help but laugh, because he's having trouble breathing and sarcasm is still his second nature. “You never have been; that's the problem.”
“I can't just be a stand-in for you. I won't. So sorry, but you're going to have to find someone in your new pack to scratch that itch.”
“Someone—god damn it.” Stiles pinches at the bridge of his nose, trying to keep his head from spinning straight off his shoulders. “You lost me again. I thought we'd already established that this is my pack. Didn't we just go over this?”
“Now who's being deliberately obtuse?” Derek asks angrily. “You rejected us. In front of an other alpha, who you accepted food from. You gave her implicit permission to court you for her pack; have you forgotten that?”
Stiles blinks at him. “It was a muffin.”
“It was symbolic,” Derek grits out.
“Okay, you know how ridiculous that sounds, right?”
“I'm aware.” He sighs heavily, anger draining out of him as he rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “That doesn't change the fact that this isn't going to work. It would mean you making a decision right away, because I can't just give you something casual, Stiles. Not with what you mean—what you meant to me.”
“No, hold on. Just . . . just hold on.” Stiles edges forward, frustrated and amused in equal parts when Derek steps warily back. “Let's back up to the part where you accidentally admit that you have feelings for me.”
“Don't. This isn't what you—”
“No, uh-uh. You don't get to tell me what I'm ready for, or what I want, or what I need, Derek,” Stiles says quietly. “If you don't want to get involved with me because you aren't attracted to me, or just not interested, then say so. But you said that you wanted me to have the freedom to live my life, to figure out who I am, to . . . to find myself, or whatever weak-ass self-help phrase you want to use. And I might be a little slow, because it's taken me this long to realize it, but I'm never going to be able to do that anywhere else.”
“Stiles.”
“There's too much of me left behind here,” he presses on. “With my dad, and the pack, and this whole stupid, monster-infested town. And it might sound like the cheesiest, sappiest thing ever—this from a guy who had a front-row seat for Scott and Allison's early days of romance, so that's really saying something—but the biggest part of me has always been tied up with you. I tried staying away, tried letting these feelings just die off on their own. It didn't work; it never even came close.”
“I can't—”
“I think that you should kiss me.”
Derek squeezes his eyes closed. “Stiles, stop.”
“Make me.” He's grinning when Derek opens his eyes again to glare at him. “You might have to get a little closer to manage that, though. Might even have to touch me again.”
He's half-expecting the growl that comes with Derek's patience finally snapping, the surge of sudden purpose that makes him stride forward and seize Stiles's shoulders in a hard, unrelenting grip. The fact that Derek seems more intent on shutting him up than doing anything interesting with their new position isn't terribly surprising, either. But Stiles finds himself caught off-guard by the open desperation in Derek's eyes, the resignation he sees there before Derek lets him go to slide a hand around the back of Stiles's neck, pulling him in for a kiss that feels hard and sharp and necessary.
“I won't be able to let you go,” Derek growls against his lips, fisting a hand in the fabric at the small of Stiles's back and hauling him closer. “It was hard enough before . . . if we do this, I can't—”
“Good.” Stiles runs his hands through Derek's hair, petting and tugging while he scatters tiny bites along the length of his jaw. “Fucking . . . good. I don't know what made you think I'd want you to, god, get with the freaking program, Hale.”
Derek's mouth finds his again, messy and wet, too insistent to be careful. Stiles meets Derek's tongue with his own, kissing back every bit as fiercely. He feels like he could drown in the taste of him, the scent and the heat of him, and he can't get close enough. The grip he still has on Derek's hair helps him steer them around; with a careful shove he has Derek collapsing onto one of the chairs, breathing heavily as he stares up at Stiles. He takes a moment to admire the view—wet red lips and blown, heavy-lidded eyes—before he straddles Derek's thighs and leans down to kiss him again.
Between his hands braced on Derek's shoulders and Derek's possessive grip on his ass, Stiles has the perfect leverage to start working his hips in a slow, suggestive roll. Derek breaks away from Stiles's mouth to shift his attention to his neck instead; there are going to be bruises and teethmarks there in the morning, and the knowledge has Stiles groaning, grinding down more insistently. He's so hard he aches with it, every slide of his cock against Derek's a fresh, bright torment. Then Derek's hands lift, slipping beneath the hem of Stiles's shirt to trace the curve of his spine, blunt human nails scratching lightly on the way back down. Stiles shudders, pulling away long enough to strip the stupid thing off.
“You, too,” he says, tugging at Derek's shirt the second he gets rid of his own. “Come on, good relationships are based in equality. Strip, wolf boy.”
“You're ridiculous,” Derek grumbles, but he's tugging his shirt over his head as he says it so Stiles isn't too inclined to take offense. “I actually have no idea how you manage to survive in the adult world.”
“Says the guy who didn't have running water for half a year after he first moved back to town.” Stiles groans as Derek slides the flat of his tongue over his collarbone, pausing to suck another livid red mark into his skin. “Fuck,” Stiles says on a long, drawn-out moan. “Derek. God, I want you to fuck me.”
It's not exactly what he meant to say, but he's really not sorry when Derek's hips give a quick jerk into his as he buries his face in Stiles's chest. Stiles takes the opportunity to let his own hands roam, over Derek's shoulders and back, up his neck and into his hair. Derek's breathing is warm and uneven against his skin, sending Stiles's mind wandering to what it would be like to feel that mouth all over his body, hot and intent and—
“We should move. Upstairs,” Derek says at last, interrupting that particular train of thought, even as he tilts his head to swipe his tongue over one of Stiles's nipples.
“Oh my god,” Stiles moans, giving a hard shudder before he shakes his head. “No. Here; I don't want to move, don't want to wait, I just want you in me. You have no idea how many times I've thought about it, since I was seventeen freaking years old, god, just fuck me already, Derek.”
Derek smothers a noise against his shoulder that's half-groan, half-laugh. “I don't exactly have lube stashed in the kitchen, Stiles.”
“That's just tragically poor planning on your part, really.” Stiles leans down to mouth at Derek's ear, humming in contentment when he nips sharply at the lobe and feels the shivers that wrack Derek's body in response. “I'll expect better in the future. But I'm sure you'll think of something for now; you can be creative if you're motivated enough, I believe in you.”
“How did I never realize how incredibly high-maintenance you could be?” Derek grumbles before he slides his hands beneath Stiles's ass, lifting him as he stands in one swift movement. He deposits Stiles on the table and cuts off his protest with a hard, brief kiss. “Stay,” he growls, and stalks over to the open pantry door.
Stiles takes the opportunity to strip out of the rest of his clothes, though he wishes he'd kept his underwear on when his bare ass hits the cool, smooth wood. He only has a moment to squirm, however, before Derek is back, a bottle of olive oil clutched in one hand, and Stiles only stops laughing when his back hits the table and Derek is sucking Stiles's tongue into his mouth.
It's only moments before Stiles is struggling to breathe properly, bucking up into the hand that Derek has wrapped around his cock, wide palm and long fingers and just shy of enough pressure. The tease of it has Stiles gasping, squirming as he tries to get more, tries to get Derek to touch him the way he needs. Instead of taking the hint, Derek pulls his mouth away, trailing it down Stiles's body and yes, yeah, okay, this works too.
Tongue and teeth and lips set to work in a maddening tease, skating over his stomach and thighs and the jut of his hipbones while Derek grasps his waist and tugs him towards the edge of the table. There's a suddenly slick finger sliding over his entrance when Derek's mouth finally wraps around his cock; Stiles lets out a shuddering sigh and spreads his legs as wide as he can manage, trying to thrust forward into both sensations at once. Derek's tongue twists as his finger finally presses inside, and when Stiles looks down it's to see that Derek's eyes are closed in concentration, his nose flaring each time his head lowers as he pulls in as much of Stiles's scent as he can manage.
As if he's felt the weight of Stiles's gaze, Derek's eyes open; Stiles manages to meet them for a handful of rapid heartbeats until it proves too much, and he lets his head fall back again with a groan and a muffled thunk against the tabletop.
Stiles's mind becomes a haze of pleasure that's just shy of enough: the occasional burning stretch as Derek adds more fingers; his mouth, wet and clever as he keeps Stiles hard without letting him near the edge. Stiles thinks he might be making noises by now, but can't quite bring himself to care. It's Derek taking him apart like this, touching him the way he has in any number of fantasies that Stiles has always tried to deny having, and it's more than he can take and retain his sanity. He feels empty despite Derek's fingers pumping in and out of him, twisting and stretching and opening him up. He needs more—needs the weight of Derek's body over him, needs the firm press of him between his legs, needs to be able to grip and hold and feel for himself that this is real.
“Derek.” Stiles threads his hands through Derek's hair, the only part of him that he can reach, and tugs until Derek lifts his head. “Oh, shit,” Stiles breathes out; Derek's mouth is slick and red, still slightly swollen, and Stiles has to fight the urge to shove him back down so that he can finish what he started. Instead he keeps pulling, urging Derek up so that Stiles can suck the taste of himself off of his tongue. “I'm good, I'm ready. Come on. Come on, come on, please.”
“I don't have a condom.” Derek sucks Stiles's lower lip into his mouth, teeth scraping as he releases it. “Stiles, are you sure—”
“Oh my god, yes, now stop being such a fucking tease.”
Derek's eyes look dangerous when they meet Stiles's again; it's possible that Stiles should be concerned by how big a turn-on that is for him. He'll look into that later, when he's not busy holding out his hand to let Derek pour a pool of olive oil into his palm, taking in the rich, warm smell of it while Derek finally strips out of the last of his clothes. Stiles reaches down to stroke the thick oil over Derek's cock, and he can't help laughing a little under his breath. Derek's breathing is unsteady, but he still manages to cock an eyebrow, and a grin spreads over Stiles's face.
“Just remembering an article I read once about how olive oil is good for the skin. I feel like I'm giving your dick a beauty treatment.”
Derek groans, though he doesn't stop lifting Stiles's legs up to wrap loosely around his waist. “Are you constitutionally incapable of being serious?”
“It's possible.” Stiles's breath catches as the head of Derek's cock nudges against him, sliding over the rim where he's stretched loose and open. “You should . . . ah, see what you can do about that.”
Derek's answer is to start pushing slowly inside, inch by careful inch, until Stiles makes a frustrated noise and tightens his legs, trying to pull him deeper. He knows that his strength isn't enough to budge Derek, but thankfully he seems willing enough to take the hint; he presses forward, one smooth, sharp thrust that brings his hips flush against Stiles's, and they stay like that for a moment, mouths brushing together in touches so light that Stiles doesn't even think they count as kisses.
Then Derek is moving—slow, push-drag rolls of his hips that leave Stiles breathless, and his hands clutch and scratch at Derek's back as he moves to meet him as best he can. The table is too hard beneath him, slippery with sweat and a thin sheen of oil; he can't get traction, can only brace himself as best he can and hang on as Derek's thrusts start coming faster, harder, like he can lose himself in Stiles if he only keeps trying.
Stiles can't spare a hand for himself when he feels Derek's rhythm begin to falter. He just clings tighter, managing broken words of encouragement every few thrusts, as eager to feel Derek coming inside of him as he is for his own release. When he feels the base of Derek's cock begin to swell he lets out an eager noise, only to have it turn to protesting disappointment when Derek begins to pull back.
“No, no no no, come back.” Stiles tightens his legs again, trying to keep Derek inside. “What are you doing? Don't stop, god, don't stop, what the fuck, Derek?”
“If I don't pull out now I won't be able to,” Derek grits out. His hips give another stuttering push forward of their own volition, and Stiles groans his approval. “Stiles—”
“Would you stop giving me, like, zero credit?” He manages to shift higher, clenching his muscles around Derek until he lets out a soft stream of curses. “My best friend's a werewolf; I've been fantasizing about you since I was barely post-pubescent; do you think I haven't done my homework? Do you want to hear about all the times I've thought about this happening? Or do you just want to finish fucking me and have a heart-to-heart after your knot goes down?”
That seems to be all it takes to shred the last tattered threads of Derek's control; he grips Stiles's shoulders, and with a deep growl starts to fuck into him in earnest, hard thrusts that rattle Stiles's teeth and drive the air from his lungs. He hitches his legs higher, and the new angle has sparks suddenly sizzling up and down his spine as Derek's cock skims over his prostate. Derek is beginning to swell again, pushing deeper and deeper as he does, until finally with one last short, hard thrust and a deep groan, he's coming inside of him. It goes on for what feels like forever, filling Stiles's body, centering him where they're connected, where the base of Derek's knot is catching against his rim.
He feels impossibly full, stretched to the point of breaking, and doesn't realize that he's shaking until Derek rubs a warm, comforting hand over his stomach and he feels the tremors ease. Derek doesn't stop as Stiles relaxes, continuing with firm strokes, fingers splaying and contracting over his skin in a soothing rhythm. Stiles's legs start to slip and his hips shift with the movement; he feels Derek's knot tug hard against him, but this time his cock gives an interested twitch at the sensation. He's gone half-soft by now, but he starts to harden again as he moves deliberately, testing; when Derek's hand wraps around him he couldn't stop his groan of relief if he tried.
“That's it.” Derek's voice is soft and sated as he noses at Stiles's ear, at the side of his neck. “That's good. You look so good stretched around me, so good with my knot in you. Like you were made for this.” His hand moves faster, stroking and tugging. “Come for me, Stiles. Just let go.”
Three, four, five more strokes and Stiles does, coming with a strangled noise over Derek's hands and his own stomach, his body clenching and spasming around Derek's knot and setting off a sharp wave of aftershocks. Derek settles on top of him immediately, the mess of Stiles's release smearing between them, mouths meeting in a sloppy, unfocused kiss.
“Okay,” Stiles says when he can breathe again. As the pleasure begins to fade he's becoming increasingly aware of the state that he's in: covered in sweat and oil and semen, sore muscles protesting the unyielding table beneath him. His tailbone aches, and he doesn't even want to begin to think about how he probably smells. “Next time, definitely: bed. With actual lube, and pillows, and a mattress that isn't made of wood.” He shifts a little, as best he can, and his stomach flutters as Derek's knot tugs at him again. “So, uh. How long does this usually last?”
“Fifteen minutes.” Derek's forehead is resting against the curve of Stiles's shoulder. “Maybe half an hour. You're not comfortable?”
“I'm covered in my own bodily fluids and pinned to the kitchen table by over two-hundred pounds of werewolf, what do you think?”
“You're the one who insisted on me fucking you in the kitchen instead of going upstairs.” Derek nips at Stiles's jaw. “Hold onto me.”
“Why, you think cuddling will make my leg cramps go away?”
“Can you just do this one thing without arguing?”
“Fine, fine.” It's not like it's a hardship, really, wrapping himself around Derek. There's a sudden movement, Derek's hands sliding under him to cup his ass again, and then Derek is hauling him up until they're both upright. “Ah. Um.”
“We're going upstairs,” Derek says, and starts to make his way out of the kitchen.
“Fu-uck.” Each step has Derek shifting inside of him, stimulating oversensitive nerve endings until Stiles can't tell if he's being taken apart by pleasure or pain. “You're bossy, do you know that?” He snorts. “Of course you do, Mr. I'm-the-Alpha; bossiness is like your stock-in-trade.” He buries his face in Derek's neck, trailing a lazy line of bites and kisses across his skin while he's there. “You're lucky I love you enough to put up with it.”
He can feel Derek's chest rise and fall in a deep breath, and he's gathered closer yet.
“I know.” He gives Stiles's ass a quick squeeze. “You ready for the stairs?”
Stiles lets out a despairing moan, but nods. “Bring it on.”
*****
Stiles isn't quite asleep when he feels Derek stir behind him, feels the arm draped over his side curl into a gentle grip. Soft lips rest against the nape of his neck, over the bruise that Derek bit into the flesh there there over an hour ago.
“I love you, too.”
The words are felt more than heard, breathed against his skin like a secret promise. He leans back into it, sleep-warm and sated, and smiles warmly. Eventually, he knows, Derek will say the words without having to pretend to believe that Stiles is asleep. In the meantime, Stiles can be patient.
They have plenty of time.