Stiles never grew out of his clumsy, awkward limbs-that-don’t-coordinate stage. In everyday life he’s just as likely to trip over his shoelaces as fall asleep half-on half-off the sofa and drool on the floor. Derek has winced, regularly, at the sight of Stiles wobbling in place with hot coffee in his hands, or miraculously, barely dodging tree branches and roots as he stumbles through the forest after the wolves. He has not once, but three times, watched Stiles walk straight into someone’s swimming pool fully clothed.
It’s a wonder Stiles still alive, quite frankly.
Derek inhales as much of their shared air as he can; he smells sweat slick cum desire melded perfectly into love want need.
He stretches his face up a moment so he can watch their reflection.
No one else will ever, ever get to see Stiles as he is right at this moment, but if they could, they’d be stunned.
Here, now, no one could even begin to believe that Stiles isn’t simply the epitome of poise and control and precision. Whatever he lacks of it in the rest of his life, when it comes to fucking, Stiles is strength and poise.
Perfection.
The roll and rock of Stiles’ hips is all curve and muscle. His pace is exemplary and his flow divine. He fills Derek’s everything in a way that defies logic and every possibility Derek had ever contemplated: his sighs fill Derek’s ears, his scent fills Derek’s lungs, his eyes fill Derek’s soul, his tongue fills Derek’s mouth, his cock fills Derek’s ass,
And slides again and again through the slick and caresses Derek’s nerves and every pass back and every one forward fills Derek’s knot just a little more.
Stiles moans and Derek looks at him as he and leans forward, gaze trapping Derek’s eyes once they’ve caught hold. His tongue laps out at the sweat above Derek’s lips and Derek can’t do anything but let his whole body sway into the never-ending-music that Stiles’ hips and heart are making.
Derek would sing if he had the words, but instead he stretches his neck and claims a soft kiss.
[Image Source & cheers to @jennoasis for making me remember that I’d bookmarked it for later!]
Derek had been counting the days with sit-ups and miles run and ink-marks on a calendar that more than once almost became claw-marks in the door behind it when he’d realized how much longer there was to go and how little of Stiles’ scent there was left in Beacon Hills.
Derek had cracked, finally, that morning. After one hundred and one days of waking up alone, of facing the idea over and over that Stiles, changed, improved by the training and tasks he was completing as a mage-novice, would not return, Derek had barely made it past the treeline of the preserve before shifting onto four paws and barreling his way into or through everything in his path to be away from the place Stiles might never return to.
It had taken the Sheriff’s voice, apparently brought to the heart of the forest on Scott’s back, to coax Derek out of the small, dark cave he’d found to spend what he’d thought would be the last of his days in:
“He’s coming back, son. The training was ninety-nine days, but he had a day each way for travel, yeah? He’ll be home in a few hours. Don’t make him come back and find you’re not here for him.”
Derek had walked back with them, tail and ears down, shaking inside but holding on to the fact that John Stilinski’s voice had been clear and his heartbeat steady and that he had absolutely no reason to lie to the wolf he’d begrudgingly begun to treat as one of his own.
Scott left them at the Stilinski’s house; John in the kitchen getting things ready for dinner, Derek sent upstairs to wash.
The shower had all but blocked the sound of the car approaching the house, but not the footsteps along the porch or the back-slap of father and son greeting each other with hugs, or the Sheriff’s resigned, “I’ll see you tomorrow then, yes?” as he opened and then closed the front door and walked out to the street.
Then there was Derek’s heartbeat and someone climbing the stairs at speed.
Derek had landed with a thud on his back and was thankful, for so many reasons, that he was a wolf.
Not least, of course, was the fact that he was able to withstand being tackled by almost two hundred pounds of Stiles and slammed into the hardwood floor with all the enthusiasm that one hundred and one long, long days apart had mustered in his Mate.
There was also the scent of his Mate. The taste of his Mate. The thrumming power emanating from his Mate.
His Mate.
His Mate who moved faster than Derek had ever seen a human, mage or not, move.
Derek registered the flurry of clothes and the flash of a tattoo that hadn’t been there before and the silver wrist-band that marked Stiles as no longer just a novice mage.
Then there were kisses and cold feet on Derek’s calves and the heat of Stiles’ chest pressed into his and the slick wet of Stiles’ very enthusiastic need leaking from his cock. There were bites into Derek’s shoulders and licks up Derek’s neck and Stiles’ voice chanting, “Mine. Mine. Mine,” over and over into Derek’s ear.
Derek’s body didn’t take too long to catch up.
They slid together slick and fast and hot and Derek came seconds after Stiles’ orgasm shook the walls of the house, which was something they would have to talk about. But, not now.
At this moment there were slow kisses and Derek’s legs wrapped around Stiles and his own voice whispering out how much he’d missed his Mate and how right he felt now that the one hundred and one days were done.
Derek closes his eyes and concentrates on the feeling of his cock slipping up and down in the slick on Stiles’ ass.
When Stiles came home with his head newly re-shaved… It looked so much like Stiles was sixteen again, and Derek had thought about being sixteen himself, and somehow Stiles had just understood.
He’d disappeared for a minute, and come back from the study with an old backpack with a few books in it and said, “So, you promised you’d help me with my Chem homework? Harris never sneers at you when he gives you your test papers back, so I figure you’re doing something right.”
Derek hadn’t known that this kind of roleplay was something he’d be into, but. Fuck. The shy kiss Stiles had given him over the textbook, the mumbled ‘admission’ of his virginity, and this: pretending they can’t ass-fuck ‘cause neither of them have ever done it before and are horny teenagers who just want to get off with each other. It’s shockingly sexy.
Stiles rolls hips in a way that a virgin definitely wouldn’t know to try, and Derek opens his eyes and watches his cock head near-catch again and again on Stiles’ rim and growls at how good it is. It’s strangely easy to ignore how muscular his husband is, the grey hairs on his own body, the fact that they’ve been at this for far longer than either of their teenage selves could have lasted.
“I saw you,” Stiles breathes out. He looks over his shoulder. “I saw you in the locker room. I saw how big your cock is, I saw you were uncut, too. I—” He starts jacking himself off. “I want to taste you next. Can I?” He licks his lips and adds, “I’ve never sucked anyone, can we do that, too?”
The batting lashes it what does it. Derek comes all over Stiles, and Stiles squeals with delight and surprise at how dirty it is that Derek licks it off.
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