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"Dude—dude, the bombchus respawn," Stiles says, cramming a handful of goldfish crackers into his mouth.
"I know," Derek says gruffly.
"So don't wait. There's no point, they'll—"
"There's one coming."
Erica comes in, slumps and points an entire arm at the TV. "Really, guys?" she asks. "Didn't this come out, like, fourteen years ago?"
"Good math," Stiles quips from the sofa. "It came out when I wa—aah—ah." He peels his attention away from the game. "Sorry. When I was four or five. I used to go to my neighbour's house, watch him play it." His eyes drift back to the screen. "It's kind of how I became a backseat gamer."
Derek turns for a second, meets Erica's eye, and makes a face.
"Why don't you play a game that came out in this decade?" Erica asks sweetly. Leans on the top of the couch, behind Derek's head. She musses Derek's hair absently, and Stiles narrows his eyes at her.
"Why don't you quit whining, judge-o?"
"Oh, she's judge-o now," Derek says, smirking.
"Isn't there a statue here?" Stiles asks Derek.
"No, just up in Ikana."
"Weird, you'd think there'd be one here."
"Guys," Erica groans gutturally, throwing her entire body weight against the couch. "Can't you do anything else? I want to be in here, but you guys are playing a game I didn't even like when it was new."
"Not our fault you're a side-quest hater," Stiles says. He turns his head, pointedly glares at her hands resting on Derek's chest, over his shoulders. Then he looks at her. "Why are you even here?" he asks, something just now dawning on him. "Didn't you and Boyd break up again, like, a week ago?"
Her face pinches up for a second, but then she just glares, rests her cheek on Derek's head, which Stiles widens his eyes at, outraged, but he says nothing, because he probably deserves that for bringing up her breakup. Again. Still. "I'm bored," Erica snaps huffily.
"Erica, your hair is in my face and I'm about to fight a giant skeleton," Derek says mildly.
"That's a shame," she says. But after a moment she tucks it behind her ears, at least.
They both watch Derek fight the giant skeleton, Stiles thoroughly entertained ("Use your arrows! Spin!") and Erica making a psychotic glare the whole time, and then there is a cutscene. "Stiles, what time is it?" asks Derek.
Stiles glances at his chunky watch, and swears. "It's a quarter 'til, dude."
"Shit, I have a fucking test in five minutes," Derek yells, jumping up and running to the door so fast both Stiles and Erica are thrown off.
"Good luck," Stiles calls as the door swings open.
Derek laughs mirthlessly and darts out the door. The slam echoes in the quiet room.
"I like that guy," Stiles says to Erica. She rolls her eyes.
::
Stiles is lethargically flossing his teeth a week later when Derek bangs into the bathroom and thrusts a paper under his nose. "Mgnh?" Stiles pulls the floss out and looks at the packet. It's Derek's test, with a 99.8 written on it in a red scrawl. "Oh," Stiles says, grinning. He peers up at Derek's face, and Derek looks weirdly determined, and he doesn't even have time to piece out why before Derek is lifting him up onto the bathroom counter and attacking his mouth. Stiles strangles out a squeak and winds his arms around Derek's neck, an exam in one hand and a piece of floss in the other.
"Derek, God," Stiles says when they come up for air. "You used to be so cute and shy. You were confused by Brokeback Mountain, you'd never kissed a guy, you'd never heard of Rasputin!"
"I wrote an essay on Rasputin," Derek says, voice rough. He grabs the packet from Stiles, flips to the third page, and points forcibly at a giant block of black pen. "I got an A." He looks crazy. Stiles wants to blow him.
"You've surpassed me," Stiles says weakly. "You're going to move on to bigger and better things. Harder history courses, kinkier boyfriends with bigger dicks—"
"You asked me to tie you up and bite you on your birthday," Derek says, and it makes Stiles' dick twitch. "I don't think I know anyone kinkier than you." He hesitates. "And I like your dick."
"You don't know many people, do you," Stiles asks, smirking guiltily at the memory of it. Derek shrugs, puts his mouth hungrily to Stiles' neck. "Well, we should—we should celebrate by letting you do something kinky." Derek pulls back, stares at him. "Is—" Stiles gulps. "Is there something you want?"
"I want to fuck you," Derek says promptly, jaw clenched and brows furrowed.
"Ah," Stiles says, dazed. "Okay."
Derek blinks. "Okay?"
Stiles stops being dazed, glares at Derek. "Yeah, okay. What, did you expect me to cry about it? I just—don't expect me to be good at it, I'm pretty sure we've established I'm more of a—a pitcher." He smirks. "Get it? Because you play baseball."
"Yeah, I got it," Derek says. Leans his palms on the counter, on either side of Stiles' hips. "But if you'll recall, I generally pitch in baseball." Stiles raises an eyebrow. "Just something to keep in mind."
"Uh huh," Stiles says.
"Another point: a pitcher is also something you load full of liquid. You are a pitcher, ergo…" He shrugs, steps away from Stiles. "I'm just saying."
"Okay, first of all," Stiles says, grinning, "this is why I love you. Second of all, I already fucking agreed, you don't have to keep convincing me." He slides off the counter, takes Derek's hand, and leads him into the bedroom. He grunts unattractively when Derek pins him onto the bed too quickly. "You have been taking charge a lot more, lately, haven't you," he muses, waggling his fingers where Derek's holding his wrists.
Derek blushes, yanks his hands back. "Sorry," he says.
"What for?" Stiles objects, trying to keep the whine out of his voice. Wriggles his wrists in the hopes Derek will put his hands back. "Sometimes sex changes. At least that's what I've just decided. Why haven't you said anything until now?"
"I thought you wouldn't want to," Derek says. Looking at him through his lashes.
"Well, it just never seemed like something I'd be inclined to—" Stiles stops himself, rolls his eyes. "It doesn't matter, I'll try anything once." He pauses. "With you. Only with you."
"Only with me," Derek repeats softly to himself. He looks back at Stiles. "You don't have to. If you don't want to. I already like having sex with you, we don't have to change anything."
"Der, if you could see your face right now, you would be busting up, so can I just say for the record that I deserve an award for keeping control right now? You clearly want this. Real bad."
"Well, I never said I didn't want it. I just mean—"
"Shut it! We're doing this thing, whether I like it or not. You're topping, and I should get used to the idea. Teach me my lesson, Derek."
"Jesus, Stiles," Derek says, but before Stiles can say anything, he kisses him, hard and bruising. Stiles whimpers and starts fumbling with Derek's belt.
And really, Stiles is kind of surprised it took Derek this fucking long to ask. They've only been dating since they were in high school. Three years is a long time to not ask for something as simple as switching roles. And sure, Stiles has always been the more adventurous of the two, but Derek had to have parsed that out eventually. The look on Stiles' face when he was screwing Derek, he had to have eventually thought, "Maybe I would like doing that, too."
And the fact that Stiles hasn't even tried fingering himself since he was fifteen and it sucked is irrelevant right now. Derek showed up six minutes late to an exam and passed it with flying colours. Boy deserves some steamy academic sex now and again. Stiles is willing to do this for Derek, especially since Derek bit him on his birthday. And also, Stiles loves the guy. He would give it all, he would sacrifice, don't tell him it's not worth dying for, etcetera. Derek probably shouldn't have shown him that Costner flick.
The point is that Stiles is not complaining. He fingered himself again just now (Derek watching rapt and hungry, which is actually kind of hot) and it was—well, it was all right, something Stiles is willing to explore again sometime soon, and he's letting Derek lube up his dick and stick it up his ass, okay, that is love right there—right there—oh.
Oh, okay. That's.
Hm.
"I-I don…" Stiles begins, and then has to stop when his mouth just falls open and doesn't allow him to continue to form words. He stops breathing, and then he gasps raggedly. Derek—
"Am I hurting you?" Derek demands, gets down next to his ear to ask, keeping quiet because Boyd's probably home by now. Has to drape himself over Stiles' body, hot along his back, to get that close, the whole thing is ridiculous, Stiles encased in wet heat, full of Derek. Words.
Words. "Ah, I," he says, dragging out the y in the sound. Words aren't. He shakes his head brokenly.
"No?" Derek inquires, allowing himself a shallow thrust, and.
Stiles groans. "Is," he pants, swallows and manages to get his voice out, "Is this what it's like for you all the time?" deep at first, and breaking off high at the end.
Derek chuckles low in Stiles' ear, grips his hips to push deep into him again. Stiles keens, pushes up to meet him. "I should—" He snaps in again, sudden. "—say the same thing to you. Stiles."
"De-Derek," Stiles responds. Shoulders quivering as he props himself up on his forearms, hips dragged up to Derek, and Stiles arches his back, positively salivating for it. "Oh my god," he says softly as Derek strikes a rhythm, "Oh my god, Derek," like Derek's been keeping this a secret for two years, like Stiles could have had this impossible pleasure and Derek's been taking it, hiding it away. That's how it seems, and isn't that how it is? "J-jesus fucking, Derek, how—" But Stiles can't even say it, that's the nutty part, is Stiles feels so good, so perfect right now that he can't even speak in complete sentences. He becomes vaguely aware the headboard is smacking against the wall, because he's bracing one forearm against it, when did that happen—he gets his lips to work to say something about it, but Derek is way ahead of him, and grabs his chest, wrenches him upright, and Stiles practically wheezes, he can't believe this. Derek's arm coiled around his middle, up to his collarbone, right hand gripping hard at his hip, and Stiles hangs on to him any way he can think to.
"Mnh, Stiles," Derek says, lips to Stiles' neck, and this is so right, how have they not been doing this all along? Pitcher his ass, Stiles needs this. Needs it so much he digs his fingernails into Derek's bicep, reaching up—
"Ha-harder?" Stiles manages, and Derek just fucking gives it to him, and Stiles feels his mouth fall into this ridiculous grin, ecstasy, like yes, this is precisely correct. "Holy shit, yes," he grinds out, getting close, his words tripping back unevenly. They're not making sense, but they're happening, nonsense and swearing, "Fuck, right there," mortifying, "Derek, how, what," questions, what is this, "God, mygodyeah," desperate, "I th-think I'm—" and he is. Coming, that is. All over the bed, and frankly it's for the best because he comes and it almost hurts and the sheets needed washing anyway, and it's like he's totally empty of anything except this deepseated satisfaction bordering on elation, bones and muscles replaced with something gooey and made of air, and Derek pulls out of him, and Stiles flops over, bounces onto the mattress like a puppet with cut strings. Derek turns him over—Stiles tries to help, but he's sort of useless right now, whimpering and—tugs the backs of his knees and gets right back in, goes at it, and Stiles just blinks sweat and tears—are those fucking tears?—out of his eyes, his clumped lashes and watches Derek's face.
Derek doesn't look much different from the way Stiles felt, and Stiles weakly gets his legs around Derek's waist, clings octopus arms around his shoulders, and Derek buries his face in Stiles' neck and just fucking fills him up, "Oh, jesus," Stiles gasps, squeezes his eyes shut because it's weird and foreign and probably, clearly, something that will grow on him, like the taste of beer and the feeling of hair on his head (which only started to appeal to him because Derek pulls it sometimes in bed, and the thought of him fucking him senseless while pulling his hair has his dick trying valiantly to start up again—but no, cock, not again. Not yet, anyway).
Derek doesn't collapse on Stiles, except that he totally, definitely does.
They lie there and gasp like fish, Stiles unearthing his fingernails from Derek's back one by one, his legs having already flopped onto the bed. Derek rolls onto his side, wrapping his arms around Stiles, crushing them together. Stiles looks at him, eyes wide with shock. Derek's face is distorted, blurry. "What just happened," he says softly.
Derek shakes his head, a combination of what and can't talk yet, and then finally manages to say, "I had sex with you." He pulls Stiles' glasses off, and ah, that's what was wrong. They're clouded up with moisture.
"I," Stiles says, and huffs a breathless laugh. "Yes, I am very much aware of that, Derek." Before Derek can reply, or even summon some kind of emotional response to Stiles' sarcasm, Stiles bursts out jubilantly, "Baby, that was the best thing you've ever done to my body and I don't understand how I thought I wouldn't be into it."
"Yeah?" Derek says weakly.
"Absolutely, I came just from you fucking me." Stiles hugs Derek, like a kid who just got a present. "Oh, my god. You've just converted me, how is this possible."
"We can still do it the other way," Derek says. Frowns earnestly. "Whenever you want it that way, I'll—"
"After the novelty wears off," Stiles replies. "Next time," he licks his lips, "next time kiss me about nine thousand percent more, though, okay?"
Derek kisses him. "Okay." And then again. Because he said nine thousand percent—that's a lot—and there's no reason next time can't be right exactly now—no reason at all—so they sort of drag each other into the shower for Derek's Dick vs. Stiles' Ass: the sequel.
::
The next morning, Stiles is all drunk on morning-after shinies and keeps giggling to himself and bumping his feet against Derek's under the table (Derek just eats his toast smugly, and Stiles never knew you could eat toast smugly) when Boyd enters the kitchen and flings a wrinkled packet of partially water-damaged paper onto the table. Stiles peers at it, confused.
"This," Boyd says, "was on the floor of the bathroom."
"Oh, your test, baby," Stiles says, smiling at it. "Let's put it on the fridge."
"Really?" asks Boyd. "The fridge. Because you didn't celebrate it enough last night."
Stiles snorts from in front of the fridge. Derek turns at looks at him, and jesus, it just makes him flush neon red. "Y'heard that?" Stiles asks sheepishly, wrinkling his nose.
Derek is charmed by him. Derek is the only one. "Yes," Boyd says. "Yes, Stiles. I heard that."
Stiles plunks a YOLO magnet over the staple on Derek's test, plucks a stray hair off of it. "Well," he says, examining the grade again with satisfaction—he taught Derek everything he knows, just saying, "it isn't like you've never heard it before. Or," he turns and points at Boyd, "it isn't like you've never done the same to us. Remember your birthday?"
Boyd is undaunted. "You gave me dirty looks for the entire day, and ate all my blackberry pop tarts," he says, and Stiles smirks at the pop tart box on the counter, "all of which is beside the point. The point is, I thought there was some kind of special-ass occasion going down, and that's why I was putting up with you guys boning in the shower at shit o'clock in the morning, and it turns out Derek got a fucking A."
"He got two As," Stiles mumbles into a glass of apple juice just to be vulgar.
"It's Kleinfelter's class," Derek says plaintively from the table, and he's actually glaring and grumbling this, but Stiles knows him too well to be ignorant of the fact that this is Derek's brand of plaintive. "She's notorious for being a hardass grader."
"She failed Allison in Russian Civ," Stiles says. "Failed her."
"Y'all—" Boyd begins, and then waves them and their bullshit away with both hands, stalks out of the kitchen.
"Allison Argent," Stiles calls after him, but the front door slams without a response.
Boyd finally gone, Stiles scurries over to Derek and plops down into his lap. It makes Derek splash his coffee onto the crossword puzzle, but Derek doesn't care. He pushes both coffee and crossword away and pulls Stiles close. "I am definitely not up for volume two of my unexpected-yet-passionate sexual reawakening yet," Stiles says, "but I want it known and broadcasted that this is only because my ass will seriously cease to exist if it takes your dick again this soon."
"You want that broadcasted," Derek says, smirking.
"Only around your bedroom, when it's just you in it."
"Stiles."
Stiles raises his eyebrows expectantly.
"Shut up."