There was no good way to say it: sorry about your surprise sex swap and your nonconsensual werewolf bite also rearranged your butt plumbing and congratulations, I've probably destroyed your sex life forever were not exactly Hallmark sentiments.

Derek doesn’t get why he likes it so much. It’s just not -- he hadn’t expected to need this. Not from Stiles. Not from anyone, ever. He doesn’t do this. Except he does, now. Because it’s for Stiles, and Derek -- fuck, he likes it too.

Derek goes away to deal with a hostile rival pack, and Stiles calls him up to settle his nerves. “Ah, you feeling a bit stressed out big guy?” “Yes,” he says, voice raspy. “It’s okay. I’m going to take care of you right now."

Derek sighs, envisioning Stiles pulling a file out of the nightstand and ruining whatever mood they might have managed to capture completely. What Stiles has in his hands when he turns back around is definitely not a file, though. Instead, it’s thick and black, curved into a wicked-looking c-shape with a small bullet vibrator jutting out of one end. “That is not what I was expecting,” Derek admits honestly. “Yeah, I can tell, you’re turning,” Stiles gestures to his own face, “you’re kind of, um, pink.”

Stiles accidentally finds a trunk full of Derek's professional dom gear from when he lived in New York. They don't talk about it. Then Stiles turns eighteen, and they do.

There's a part of Derek that he hates most of all - it's only caused him trouble. He pushes people away and finds a workaround and it's fine, until the day Stiles goes searching through his things.

It takes Stiles four days to notice something’s wrong. Well it’s not like jerking off three times a day is unusual behavior. The third day, he has his usual good morning session, comes straight home from Lacrosse and jerks off without even taking off his jeans because it’s laundry day tomorrow and it’s not like he’s got standards. And everyone jerks off last thing at night; it’s like a glass of warm milk for your dick. Stiles has been hit by a jerking off curse. He might not make it through May unscathed.

One of Stiles' goals for Thanksgiving weekend is to take advantage of the privacy away from his crowded dorm rooms to get to know his new vibrator. He gets, uh, stuck. Deputy Derek Hale assists.

And with his fingers pressing inside of him and his cock brushing against the sheets and his face in the leather that smelled like Derek, he felt pathetic and desperate all at once. He knew that if he ever got the chance (the opportunity) to be with Derek that he’d ask him to fuck him within half a second. He wanted the older man inside of him and around him and all over him until his senses were so consumed that he was completely senseless. or The five times Stiles fingered himself and the one time Derek did it for him.

It starts, like so many things do, with a dare.

Stiles gets a workout.

“Stiles, what happened?” Derek says as sternly as he can (which isn’t very). Nevertheless, there is a pause on the line, and a small sigh. “I was just…having some Stiles personal time, you know? And…I may have gotten something stuck. Um, in me.” “In you?” Derek says incredulously. “What do you…oh.” Enlightenment strikes. “Like, in your…” “Yes, in my butt!” Stiles snaps.

It looks like a seizure, Stiles falling down and twitching and writhing on the floor. His limbs are shaking, his body trembling, but afterwards Stiles always tells him it isn't a seizure. Derek isn't so sure. If it's not a seizure, what could it be?