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Stiles is barely eighteen when he walks into the tattoo parlor.
It’s stupid, maybe, but it’s legal, and what he wants. So he flips through binders, sits down in a chair that reminds him of the one he reclines in at the dentist’s office, and offers up his arm. He figures with everything that’s bitten, scratched, and mauled at him, a tattoo really isn’t going to make him scream in pain.
He’s right.
The guy chats with him, asks shamelessly about the scars and Stiles tells him, "Just life, dude." The man nods and asks him if he wants them worked into the tattoo. Stiles thinks about it and nods. The colors he chose are earthy and mild, he thinks, light shades that remind him of the stains lemons leave on your skin when the sunlight hits.
The tattoo is vein-like and strange, but it’s so very…right. It’s not necessarily a picture, but free-flowing lines that wind around his arm and dip and dance around his scars. It makes him feel free, makes him feel powerful. It takes another two sessions for it to be really complete, and he has to wear a bandage over it in the meantime, but when it’s done, it’s done. And it’s perfect.
It takes a month for Scott to see it because it's not lacrosse season and he doesn't do cross-country. Stiles doesn't really spend as much time half naked as everyone else seems to. When he does see it, because Stiles doesn't want the blood and guts of a ghoul on him, he stares. Stares like it's more than a tattoo, like it's a whole concept he's trying to understand.
“When’d you get that?” Scott asks.
Stiles looks down at it. “About a month ago. Around my birthday.”
“That’s…ridiculously cool.” Scott steps forward, blinking at it. “Wow, that’s so awesome, can I touch it?”
Stiles rolls his eyes, smiles. “Yeah, dude, you can touch it. But can I wash the blood off of me first?”
Scott shakes his head like he hadn't even thought of that. "Yeah, of course. But, dude, what even is it, it just looks so cool."
Stiles shrugs. "It was something and then the guy said he could work some scars into it so it was something different."
And that’s that for a while, because it doesn’t matter that much. Erica says it looks hot, Isaac grins and traces the lines, and Boyd says it looks very spiritual. Derek stares at it, wordless.
He goes in for his second tattoo when he’s about to leave for school in Southern California.
It's not so much of a second one as a continuation. He decides that, though the pattern isn't of branches it acts like them, so he branches it down over his shoulder and down to the center of his back, kind of like draping a toga. At the center of his back the lines concentrate and sort of circle. He adds a splash of jade-shaded almond shapes and feels stronger somewhere deep inside.
The first official relationship he’s in, it’s with a girl from his English class. She likes to stroke her hand down his arm a lot. He loses his virginity to her. Then there’s another girl, after that, a girl in his dorm building, and she scratches her nails down his tattoo, kisses and licks up the vines.
Then there’s a guy, the last conquest of his freshman year, and Stiles ends up dating him all through summer. He has tats. They compare notes.
When Stiles goes back for his sophomore year, he’s single and a little bit taller and he has another tattoo.
This time it's straight up swirls. They crawl up from the top of his foot over his ankle and spread along the back of his calf and they hurt, they hurt when they rise from the bottom up like the earth is carving into his skin but when it's done, like always, it's done. Now when he walks his mind doesn't drift far from the way the earth is moving under his feet.
He dates a few more people, no more than a handful that year, but he brings home his boyfriend, Phillip, over the summer. That’s the same summer that the shifters come to town. Shit happens. Stiles still sees Phillip around campus, but he doesn’t really make eye contact anymore—a hazard, Stiles guesses, of slaughtering a mythical creature in front of him.
Then there’s Julie, who smokes weed with him and massages his tattoos. She has long, curly hair and she tells him how much a soul he is, how his aura is good, and how he is a warrior, but loving, strong and peaceful and courageous.
Stiles has fun with her.
He never feels more like pack than when he's wounded. When Boyd carries him he doesn't feel weak and when Isaac cleans his wounds he doesn't feel pitied. He turns his head and sees Erica and Scott just as battered from the night as he is and he feels like he belongs.
Derek stands like a guardian, all guilt-ridden and quiet and brooding up a storm. But when Scott’s and Erica's wounds heel and they scamper off under the moon, Derek moves closer like he's looking at Stiles and seeing something else.
He sits up, un-tattooed arm wrapped up in bandages and coated in thin layers of sweat and dirt. His leg is wrapped up too, the one that does have the tat snacking up his calf. “I’m okay, you know,” he says slowly. “I’ve had worse.”
Derek just keeps looking at him strangely.
“What’s wrong, dude? Do I have something on my face?” He wipes a palm down his cheek and manages to streak it with mud. “Oh, awesome.”
Derek gets him a wet paper towel, helps him clean himself up a little bit, but he still doesn’t say anything. Not until Stiles is about to fall asleep.
“You look very grown up, Stiles,” he mutters.
Stiles chuckles. “Thanks, I think.”
He goes back for his final year of school at UCLA, goes with a heart that’s longing for something it hasn’t been longing for in a long time. He had a stupid crush on Derek when he was in high school, yeah, but now… Now this is different.
And he doesn’t get to see him until Thanksgiving.
At Thanksgiving Derek watches him openly and unabashedly. He stares, no, he looks as if he's trying to read philosophy somewhere on his body. After dinner he takes his contentment and a beer out to the front porch and leans against a post.
"I don't know you," Derek says softly. Stiles turns around to face him and frowns.
Derek scratches his arm and takes a single step forward.
"It's like you grew into yourself instead of out. You're so many layers buried into each other, sometimes I want to tear into you just to figure you out."
Stiles licks his lips. “I haven’t changed. Not really.”
“You’re more confident. More calm. More relaxed. You don’t sweat the small things as much as you used to.” Derek looks out into the woods, into the darkness. “And the only thing all of this has done, as far as I’m concerned, is make you harder to decipher.”
“You could just ask me, you know.”
Derek nods. “I know.” He steps forward, pushes his hand through Stiles’ hair that sticks up a good three or four inches off his head now. “Stay safe at school.”
“I always do,” Stiles responds calmly. And even though his heartbeat speeds up a little bit, it’s nothing compared to how it would’ve if Derek had touched him like that when he was sixteen.
So Stiles goes back to school, studies for a month, and then goes home again for Christmas.
He catches Derek sleeping, isn't sure if it's a testament to his stealth or Derek's comfort. He sits on the floor and leans his back against the couch that Derek is resting on and it only takes a few minutes before Derek's fingers trace the nape of his neck. He growls and Stiles turns to him, his eyes curious.
"What's wrong?"
Derek sits up and traces the soft angles of the seal. "Did you really have to mark yourself here too?"
Stiles blinks. “You don’t like my tattoos?”
Derek doesn’t say anything, just keeps tracing Stiles’ skin, traces the pattern of the small addition he’d made to his first tattoo, a new purple-ish swirl that trails outward and loops against the base of the back of his neck. It’s barely visible above the neck of his T-shirt.
“I want to bite you,” Derek says softly, sometime later. “Not to change you, just… Just to bite you.”
Stiles closes his eyes, leans back into Derek’s hand. “You wouldn’t be the first,” he says with a smirk on his mouth, and Derek’s hand freezes.
Wordlessly, he removes his hand from Stiles’ neck and stands, going for the stairs.
Stiles goes back to LA.
He's so very nearly done when Derek gets there. He's waiting for Stiles outside his Thursday night seminar. He's wearing a plain T-shirt in the late spring breeze and he looks like he's very nearly done as well. Stiles walks to him like there are magnets buried underneath his skin. Derek runs his fingers through his hair and holds his hand to his cheek. "I don't care."
Stiles blinks. "About what exactly?"
Derek licks his lips. "I've been caring this whole time that you've been marking yourself like a fighter, like a protector. I've been caring because you're mine to protect. But I didn't, so you went out there and marked yourself with power and you let others touch and look and want you."
“I didn’t know what you wanted—”
“And I don’t care anymore. I don’t care about the marks, I don’t care about the others—I just care about you.” It sounds like it pains him to say it. “I just want you, Stiles.”
Stiles wants to kiss him, but it feels…wrong. It feels cheesy and overdone and too clichéd, so Stiles simply hugs him, and they stand there for a moment, holding each other.
“I’ll be home in two weeks,” Stiles whispers to him. “I already—I applied for a job.”
Derek doesn’t laugh at him. “You don’t even have your degree yet.”
“I will in two weeks.” Stiles leans out of the hug, hands on Derek’s shoulders. “I’ll see you in two weeks, Derek.”
Derek holds his hand on the back of Stiles’ neck for a moment, and then he nods and walks away.
They’re the longest two weeks of Derek’s life.
And, alternatively, the shortest of Stiles’.
He goes out drinking with his friends, gets hit on, and he doesn’t even blink at any of them, just passes them by with the heady knowledge that he has Derek Hale waiting for him when he gets home.
It actually takes a little more than two weeks for him to get out of there. His father drives all the way down, helps him pack up his stuff, and then they take their time getting home.
“Derek Hale has been coming around for dinner sometimes,” his dad tells him when they’ve stopped at a diner for lunch. They don’t get to talk on the road, since they’re both driving different cars, but now… Now they talk. “With Scott, of course, and the others. And Melissa.”
Stiles smirks. “I’m aware, Dad.”
“Did you two ever…” He trails off, swallowing a bite of his sandwich. “Have a history?”
“Dad!” Stiles laughs, pushing his plate away. “Jesus, no, we never—we weren’t like that.”
The Sheriff nods. “And…now?”
Stiles shrugs. “Now is different from then. And…I don’t know yet.”
“Okay. Well, when you do know, it would kind of be nice to include me. Since I’ve been living in a cloud of secrecy for, oh, 22 years.”
“Alright,” Stiles agrees with a grin. “Sure thing, Dad.”
He gets a call from Scott while he’s on the road, ignores it in favor of the radio and just keeps driving. He forgot how good it felt to just drive. He hasn’t been home in months, the last person he saw from home—besides his father—was Derek, but even that’s not what’s important to him right now. Right now it’s just the road. And it feels good.
It’s almost disappointing when he arrives in Beacon Hills. His father is already in town, refilling the tank, but Stiles had stopped five miles out to fill up, so when he gets home, it’s empty.
He starts moving in boxes and bags of clothes, books, other trinkets he’d picked up and stuffed in his apartment. His car is almost empty (although there’s just as much stuff in the Sheriff’s ride, too) when he notices Derek standing across the street.
He leans against his Jeep, arms crossed, and stares until Derek walks over.
“Hey,” Stiles says.
Derek leans over him, one arm braces against the Jeep. “Hey.”
Stiles lifts an eyebrow and takes Derek’s fingers with his, interlocking them. “Miss me?”
Derek looks down at their hands. Nods slightly. “Yes.”
“Wanna help me finish unpacking?” Stiles asks. “Just have two more boxes to carry in.”
Derek’s response is to separate their hands and move towards the truck, pulling both boxes out together, one stacked on top of the other. And then he walks up the driveway.
With a grin, Stiles closes and locks the car, following him inside.
His room is pretty much the way he left it four years ago, with the exception of a little less decoration. He’d taken some things—pictures, posters, sentimental stuff—to college with him that he wasn’t even sure if he was going to put back up.
“I’m looking for an apartment,” he tells Derek as the other man sets the boxes on the desk. “I, uh, didn’t get the teaching job, shocker. But I’m in the registry for substitutes, and I got a job at the public library. I feel like sticking around for a while, you know?” He’s facing his bookshelf, thumbing over the novels he hasn’t seen in a while, smirking at the worn-out copy of Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets he has wormed between a Dean Kootz novel and a book on ancient spell work.
He can feel Derek standing inches behind him, one more step and he’ll be able to feel his breath on the back of his neck. Derek lays his palm over his left hip and Stiles grins. “Last one, I promise.”
Derek’s muscles tense up and his fingers curl around the hem of Stiles’ shirt. He leans back against Derek’s chest and feels the pads of fingers tracing the thicker lines over his lower side.
“Black,” Derek mumbles into his ear. “You’ve never done black before.”
Stiles nods, still grinning like an idiot. “Yeah, I—I like it, I mean. It’s… It fits. Also I, uh, may or may not have been just a little bit drunk when Tara and I went out and decided to get tattoos so. But it coordinates pretty nicely, huh?”
Derek presses his forehead against the back of Stiles’ neck. “Yeah.”
Stiles can feel the breath on the back of his neck, is overwhelmingly aware of how Derek is touching him, and it’s so strange because—because if this had happened four years ago, he would’ve been a wreck. And if this were happening with someone else, down in LA, it would be hot, but it wouldn’t be so…intense. So right now, standing there, Stiles feels like his knees are going to give out on him, the happy medium between his eighteen-year-old self and his 22-year-old LA self.
He turns in Derek’s arms, coming face-to-face with him, and his heart is pounding, he knows. He also knows that Derek knows.
Derek’s arms reach up and make a cage around him, his palms flattening out on either side of the bookcase. Stiles can feel his hardback copy of Werewolf Anatomy (& Other Mythical Creatures) vol III digging into his spine. And he doesn’t care.
And that’s when the Sheriff starts clambering up the stairs so forcefully that even Stiles can him.
Stiles tugs his shirt down and shoves Derek off gently just as the Sheriff comes in.
“Derek. Will you be joining us for lunch?”
Derek nods stiffly and the Sheriff lingers unnecessarily for a few moments before leaving, the door pride wide open behind him.
Stiles smirks. “Well. This’ll be fun.”
They make burgers, standing out in the summer sun, and the Sheriff makes an offhanded comment about celebrating Stiles’ return home.
“Damn straight,” Stiles says emphatically. “Now you can’t get rid of me—ever.” He looks over at Derek, eyes sparkling. “Where’s my party, sourwolf? Balloons, streamers, the whole nine yards. And a cake.”
Derek, who has a beer in his hand, shrugs. “Ask Scott. I put him in charge of the party.”
Stiles rolls his eyes. “You didn’t actually plan a party…did you?”
Derek takes a sip of his beer.
Later, when they’re cleaning up, the Sheriff waves his hand towards the kitchen and sighs. “Okay, I’m exhausted.” He clambers over to Stiles, drops a kiss on his head, and says, “Welcome home, son. Don’t wake me up until I have to go to work.”
Stiles looks at Derek when he hears his father’s bedroom door close. “And then there were two,” he drawls, smirking. “So, what now? Parcheesi? Chess? That party you were talking about?”
Derek blinks at him and Stiles can feel hands on his sides.
“Or we could watch a movie,” Stiles suggests, still looking at Derek like a challenge. “We could go down to the high school, laugh in their faces about how they still have a month of school left. Or we could go visit Scott, it’s been a while since I’ve seen him.”
“Stiles,” Derek says softly.
“Hm?”
“Shut up.”
And then Derek kisses him. Derek kisses him with his arms wrapped around him, with one hand snaking up his body and behind his head, pushing their mouths together. Derek kisses him like he means it, kisses him like he just can’t get enough, like he never wants to stop, and by the time they break for air, Stiles feels like his whole body is vibrating.
It’s the best first kiss he’s ever had.
“So this is a thing, right?” Stiles asks, still breathless. “We’re—we’re really doing this?”
Derek kisses him in response.
They go out to the preserve, meet up with the rest of the pack, and they all hug him, welcome him back. They go running in the afternoon heat, barely affected by the shade of the trees, and that’s all they do for hours, running and jumping and tackling each other. Well, Derek tackles.
“Gross!” Scott shouts when he finds Derek and Stiles on the floor of the woods, kissing. “Ugh, my eyes!”
Stiles laughs when he breaks the kiss, looking towards his best friend. “Dude. Karma.”
They go back inside when the sun sets. Isaac showers, finds a book, and curls up on the couch. Boyd and Erica disappear for a while, and Scott ditches to go see Allison. Stiles follows Derek upstairs without asking him if he wants company.
He stands in the doorway of the bathroom as Derek gets undressed. He’s not shy, not really, but he still feels the urge to look away when Derek meets his gaze and shoves down his underwear. But then Derek gives him this look, one that he recognizes all too well from fairly cliché porn and ridiculous encounters in bars, and gets in the shower.
Stiles decides to join him.
They mostly kiss a lot, wrapping their arms around each other and barely taking time to breathe. Stiles washes Derek’s back, Derek washes his, and then they press up close together and jerk each other off, moaning into each other’s mouths.
“We need to do that again,” Stiles pants against his shoulder. “But slower. And on a bed.”
“Stiles.” He twists his fingers in Stiles’ wet hair and tugs him back so that he can press their foreheads together. “I want—I have to be clear about this, okay? About what I want.”
Stiles nods. Both their heads bob amusingly and Stiles smirks. “I know, Derek. I’m your mate.”
Derek licks his lips. “Is that what you want?”
“Oh, what do you think?” And then Stiles yanks him into another kiss and pulls him under the spray again.
Derek lays him out in bed a little while later, naked, arms and legs spread out, and Stiles squirms, laughing.
“This is very…luxurious.”
Derek’s hands grip his calves. “I want to trace all the marks on you,” he whispers. “I want to know every inch of you by the time the sun comes up.”
“That sounds like an”—Stiles breaks the sentence with an involuntary yawn—“exhausting process. Do I have to be awake for it?”
Derek looks up at him. His eyes are closed, his shoulders relaxed, and he’s half hard, yes, it doesn’t seem like a good enough excuse to keep him awake.
“Tomorrow,” Derek says, and Stiles blinks his eyes open.
“What’s tomorrow?” he mumbles.
Derek crawls back up the bed, up his body, and lays a hand over the swirls and scars of his left arm. “Everything,” is Derek’s response.
He wakes up to the kitten licks at the center of his back, to the weight of Stiles sitting on the swell of his ass, his hands on Derek's shoulder. Derek turns his head away from the pillow. "Stiles."
Stiles stops and leans in to kiss his cheek. "Derek."
He turns under Stiles and grabs his hips. "Stop it. It's my turn." He rolls them, forcing Stiles onto his back.
Stiles grins at him. “Your turn? I have more tattoos than you do—it’ll take days to go through mine.”
“Guess I’d better get started,” Derek says lowly, and then he lunges forward and pulls Stiles into a kiss.
Stiles breathes Derek in, feels the warm press of their chest against each other. The whole room is warm with the summer sun and Stiles doesn't remember morning sex being quite like this, so clear and real. He drags the pads of his fingers in a claw shape down Derek's back and breathes in gasps of air when Derek's lips move down his neck.
“I’ve dreamt about this,” Derek rasps into his skin. “I’ve dreamt about every part of your body, and—and seeing it. Seeing you, touching you, it’s different.”
“Am I living up to expectations?” Stiles asks.
Derek looks up at him, his lips inches away from Stiles’ chest. “Surpassing them.”
He kisses his way down Stiles’ chest, licks at his newly-defined muscles, and then trails right back up to his shoulder, where the tattoo begins. He follows it down, nuzzles, licks, kisses his way down the swirls and stripes and earthy tones, and then he turns Stiles over, onto his stomach, and continues across his shoulder blade and down his back to where it ends.
By the time he finishes, Stiles is rutting into the sheets, moaning his name. “C’mon, Derek, please.”
"No," Derek says quietly, his voice rough. “No, I know they took their time. All of them. I want—I need—I need this.”
Stiles groans as Derek continues his slow torture. "You're crazy."
Derek kisses the black swirls on his hip. "Maybe."
He continues, traces the swirls that remind him so much of his own tattoo, runs his hands down Stiles’ waist, over his thighs, his knees, and then comes to where the ink starts on his calf. It’s similar to the one on his arm, green and brown and yellow, less purple, but with tones this time of pink instead. It covers part of the top of his foot too, over the sensitive veins, and Derek traces it with his tongue.
“Must’ve hurt,” he mutters.
“A little bit,” Stiles confesses. “But it was good pain. Like remembering.”
Derek kisses his way up the inside of his leg, up to his thigh. Stiles whines and whimpers against the sheets. Derek covers him with his body and snakes his hand to splay over his stomach, sandwiched between Stiles and the mattress. "Why do you do it?" He licks at the mark at the nape of his neck. "Why do you do this?"
Feeling Derek behind him, against him, it’s hard for Stiles to come up with a proper response.
“Why do you put on this armor—why did you have to protect yourself, why couldn’t I have done that for you?” He’s moving slightly now, his cock caught between Stiles’ thighs, and Stiles moans desperately, arching against him.
“I wasn’t ready for you,” Stiles tells him. “I didn’t know you were waiting.”
“I was always waiting.” Derek bites him then, with his human teeth, just a small one on the nape of the neck, where he had confessed to wanting to bite Stiles so long away. “I was waiting when you were getting over Lydia, I was waiting when you were pining for Danny, I was waiting when you left for school, when you brought that boy home over summer vacation, when you called Scott and bragged about your new girlfriend—I was always waiting.”
And maybe that should be creepy, maybe it should be possessive and not romantic at all, but it just makes Stiles feel loved and wanted. And that’s the best feeling ever.
Stiles turns with some difficulty and holds his hand to Derek's cheek. "I wasn't ready. I wasn't ready for you to make me into something. I am all of these things." He takes one of Derek's hands and runs it over his shoulder and then down to the scar along his left side and then down to the unmarked skin of his thigh. "All of these things. I did on my own, I made for myself. Who I am."
Derek knows that the frustration will always be there, he knows it's what makes him love this boy, that he won't be molded and owned. That he belongs to himself.
“I’ll never be done waiting for you, will I?” Derek asks.
Stiles takes Derek’s face in his hands. “You have me. But I have myself too.” And he pulls Derek into a kiss, hand snaking down to grab onto his cock. “Now enough seriousness,” he says with a smile. “We’re supposed to be having sex, now making vows.”
Derek kisses him once, twice, three, four, five times, and then whispers, “Same thing.”
He holds onto Stiles’ waist as he blows him, sucks him all the way into his mouth and presses his fingertips into that tattoo, into the one that connects him to Stiles, the one that makes his heart feel warm and full.
He holds on and doesn’t come, makes sure that Stiles knows what he wants.
Stiles' eyes are glazed over when Derek leans on his elbows and hovers over him. He licks into his mouth slowly, mingling the flavors, moaning and mumbling. Stiles claws at his shoulders, his legs climbing up his hips. "Derek, Derek, please."
He noses at Stiles' neck, still not satisfied with the scent he licks at his pulse. "Please what."
Stiles whines. "Stop teasing me."
“You’ve teased me for years, Stiles. Can’t take what you dish out?”
Stiles laughs throatily, and it ends in a whine. “I know what I can take.” Grabbing at Derek’s back, Stiles arches against him again and again. “C’mon, Derek. Fuck me.”
“No.” Derek rolls them, twice, gets Stiles well and truly flat against the mattress, trapped, his wrists in Derek’s hands, his legs pinned down by Derek’s. “I won’t fuck you. I want to worship you. You know that, don’t you? How badly I want to spread you out and take my time with you? Fit inside you and stay there until you’re sobbing, make you feel so full that you can’t help but lie back and take it and beg me to let you come. And I will—God, Stiles, you’re going to come so many times that you won’t be able to stand up.”
Stiles digs his fingers into Derek's hair. "You want to own me."
"I want to be yours," Derek whispers against his skin as he takes the lube from the bedside table and warms it over his fingers. "I want to be the only name you scream." He kisses him as he dips a finger slowly into him. "I want to be in your mind when you're asleep, under your skin when you shiver."
“You want to consume me.” He spreads his legs, lifts his knees, closes his eyes as Derek’s finger moves inside of him.
“I want us to consume each other.” Another finger. Stiles gasps, just barely, high and breathy. “I want to be your mate and for you to be mine and for us to be one.” He presses his forehead against Stiles’ neck, panting as he feels Stiles clench around his fingers. “I want you to love me like I love you, Stiles.”
"Can't," he gasps, pulling Derek into a sloppy kiss. "I can't; I'm me and you're you." He pants heavy and breathless as Derek's fingers move. "You see, I'd kill for you and you'd die for me and I want—ah—I want to be your world and you—oh, Derek," he sighs and kisses him again with a moan. "You want to be the center of my universe."
Three fingers. Derek sucks a hickey in Stiles’ neck, listens to him babble.
“And we’re just—God, we’re just not compatible because we’re so different and we don’t—we can’t work out in the end, not really, not when you want so much from me, oh my God.” He yanks on Derek’s hair, surges against him. “And I love you, I do, I love you, but you’ll always resent that, won’t you, Derek?”
Derek growls. He kisses Stiles like he wants to tear off his lips, kisses him like it’s the very last one they’re going to get. “I love you,” he says finally, “and whatever that means to you, I’ll take it.”
“Will you? Even if something better comes along? Someone who will let you be their universe?”
“I want you, Stiles.” He crooks his fingers, makes Stiles sob and clench his hands around Derek’s shoulders and in his hair. “I want the boy who’s so protective of himself that he doesn’t let anyone be his universe. I want the boy who covers himself in ink and runs with wolves and howls at nothing. I want you.”
Stiles takes the last of his strength and turns them again. He throws a leg over Derek and straddles him, his eyes so strong they're nearly glaring. "You sure about that?"
Derek curls up and bites his bottom lip, tugs hard enough to break skin and guides his hips until Stiles sinks onto him. He licks at the bitten lip and closes his eyes. "I'm sure."
“Don’t close your eyes,” Stiles says, and waits until Derek opens them. “I want you to remember this—all of it.”
“Like I could forget it.”
They both end up closing their eyes eventually, though, overcome, and Stiles rocks against him, places his hands on Derek’s chest and lifts himself up, lifts and falls and fucks himself on Derek until he’s shaking so hard that he can’t move.
“The best,” he gasps, grinding down, digging his fingers into Derek’s skin so that he doesn’t touch himself, so that he can resist temptation. “You’re the best I’ve ever—Derek—oh my God.”
Derek growls and pushes his hips up, once and twice before Stiles' arms give out and Derek wraps his arms around him, rolling over and thrusting into him, burying his nose in Stiles' neck. "Last, Stiles, want to be your last. Only."
He lets his head fall back, his mouth open. “Yes,” he moans, “only you, Derek, I promise.”
Derek holds him, strokes him as he comes, keeps pushing inside of him even as he shudders and whines, and then Derek’s hit with a heady realization—that he’s going to come inside Stiles, fill him up, and it just makes him shout, makes him tremble and push ruthlessly inside of him, and come so hard that he collapses.
Stiles strokes his hair, slow and patient. He feels like a child whose world is small and private. He traces lazy trails over the tattoo on Stiles' hip.
"I'll be yours," he whispers, when he realizes that's what they've been working towards all along.
When Stiles kisses his forehead he can feel the secret smile. "Already are."