HEY! I was just asking for this fic the other day on twitter!
NIC THOSE TAGS ERMAGERD
#Derek Hale as the bottomiest bottom is a thing my heart pines for #okay#because he’d want it #would need to be fucked #would feel cheated by any orgasm that happened without something to clench down on and drag it out #but he’s still Derek #still grumpy #still has no idea how to ask for what he needs #just frowns and hopes Stiles figures it out #and luckily #Derek’s ass is one thing that always has Stiles’ attention
THANK YOU FOXXCUB BECAUSE I WANTED TO DO THAT BUT COULDN’T FIGURE OUT HOW
"You could’ve told me," Stiles says in a whisper that wraps around the choked moan Derek feels as it stumbles and staggers out of his throat. "Could’ve told me how much you—god, how much you needed it.”
Derek’s fingers shove under the pillow he’s slumped against, feeling like his face is on fire and his body’s being drawn into thin, taut strings that Stiles is tugging on the way he’s tugging on Derek’s hips, pulling him back again and again.
He can’t make himself answer, doesn’t think he could even if he tried. He’s never known how to say it, at least not in any way he thought someone would want to hear.
“Please,” is what he finally does say, without meaning to or even knowing what he’s asking for. Stiles is already giving him this, the perfect hot-full shove of his cock that splits Derek deeper every time he lets his back drop into an almost-painful arch. “Stiles, please.”
Stiles makes a desperate, hungry-sounding noise, like he was punched in the chest mid-moan, and his long fucking perfect fingers, still slick and a little sticky with the lube he’d used to work Derek open he was nearly sobbing, clench tighter and spread wider on his hips.
Derek sucks a breath through the fabric of the pillow that smells of Stiles and now of him, and wishes for bruises with every thought that’s rattling inside his skull.
He shoves back into the motion of Stiles’ body, trying to get more and more of Stiles heat and weight inside him, covering him, as if there’s anything Stiles is holding back. As if Derek had ever had to say it’s okay, I can take this, because Stiles knows he can push and Derek will bear it perfectly. That he’ll take it like he was made for it. Made for Stiles.
“You’re so good,” Stiles tells him, one long, hot breath on a shudder of his ribs that Derek feels against his back. “You’re fucking perfect, Derek.”
Stiles rocks into him harder, pulls back until Derek can feel the head of his dick tugging at the already stretched redness of his hole, slams back again and drives the air out of Derek’s lungs.
“I thought about this,” he hears Stiles say, just barely registering the words over his pulse pounding in his head. “About fucking you. Came all over myself so many times just thinking about seeing you like this.”
His hips snap against Derek’s ass, hands slipping over the jutting bones of his hips, and Derek’s so full, so high on the feeling and smell and sound of all of it, losing his mind and leaving his body. And he still wants more. Still needs.
It’s a fumbling grasp of Stiles’ fingers over his cock that jolts him back into himself, the stretch and slick slide of Stiles still fucking him, taking him, giving him something he still doesn’t know how to ask for. He groans high and broken when Stiles tugs and more fire spreads from his hips, heaviness in his belly and sweat dripping off him onto the sheets.
“Stiles,” he says, because it’s all he can say, all he knows and thinks and wants. “Stiles.”
“Yeah,” Stiles breathes, leaning over until his lips meet the shape of Derek’s tattoo. More bruises Derek wishes for. “You’re gonna come like this,” more hard-sharp jabs of Stiles’ hips, “just for me,” fingers sloppily tugging at Derek’s dick, playing with the slit where he’s so wet, “with my cock still inside you.”
Derek comes like he’s dying, a long-low groan that’s wrung from him with the pulses of slick white he streaks onto the sheets, over Stiles’ fingers and up onto his chest. He feels Stiles twitch and pulse into him, tries to grip down and feel it more, keep Stiles there as long as he can.
Stiles’ breath is wet and warm on his back, his hand still on Derek’s dick, one of Derek’s awkwardly raised to thread his fingers into Stiles’ hair, touching wherever he can reach.
He didn’t – doesn’t – know how to ask for this.
But he has it now.
And he’s not letting it go.
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