"And they lived happily forever after."

Stiles closed the book, put it on the nightstand, and leaned back on Derek, who wrapped his arms around him, hands warm on Stiles' naked skin.

"Well, this is the worst fairytale I've ever read."

Derek laughs at him, and Stiles feels the vibrations through his body; it's warm and it's tingly, and it makes him want to crane his neck, let all the pale skin of his throat exposed so Derek will kiss it, lick it, bite it until it's raw and purple and marked.

"And what would you know about fairytales?" Derek replies, lips brushing against Stiles' shoulder and sending chills down to his very toes.

He hums and puts one of his hands on the back of Derek's head, rubs there for a while, fingers going through the soft hair as Derek leans back into the touch.

"What do I-? Please. You and me? We are pure fairytale material, buddy."

Derek hums and drags his lips over Stiles' shoulder to the spot between his shoulder blades that makes Stiles pliant, all heavy limbs.

"How so?" Derek breathes out then, one of his hands slipping beneath the waistband of his pajama pants, fingers tracing the skin above his groin, nails trailing soft paths.

Stiles' breath stutters and his stomach flutters as the hand that had been absentmindedly caressing the back of Derek's head falls to the duvet.

"Well," Stiles gasps out, "you are the big bad wolf, and I'm your little red."

Derek's fingers lower enough to brush against Stiles' cock, and he feels it stir against the soft, careful touch.

He sighs and grabs at Derek's arm, puts his hand there to anchor himself, just a loose circle of touch as Derek's fingers lazily trace the length of his hardening dick and he stutters out an embarrassingly rough yes.

"But doesn't the big bad wolf want to eat little red riding hood in that one?" Derek drawls, and Stiles can feelhis smirk.

Asshole.

"Are you telling me-" he stops for a second to draw in some air as Derek finally (finally) stops beating around the bush and makes a loose fist around his dick, pumps it once, slowly, and then again, "are you telling me you don't want to eat me out, big guy?"

Derek groans against his shoulder, open mouthed and hot and obscene, and Stiles smirks, feeling victorious.

"You like that, huh?" He asks, cheeky, voice a low murmur as he disengages from Derek's hold to turn around and push his legs together so he can straddle him. "You wanna eat your little red out, big bad wolf?"

Derek's eyes are bright and clouded by lust at the same time, and his hands come to rest on Stiles' hips as he pursues Stiles' mouth in a filthy, desperate kiss.

"I, yes." Derek replies, talking against his mouth, words mangled and rushed, as his hands trail upwards and downwards, as if he couldn't decide where he wanted to touch first; as if he couldn't make up his mind about how to start devouring Stiles.

"Good." Stiles grunts, his own hand fisting Derek's hair and tugging to get to his neck, to his shoulders,. "Good."

He moves his hips in a little circle, feeling Derek hard and ready under him, and Derek moans, deep and husky, and it punches Stiles in the gut, rude and intense like it always is, even if they've been doing this for years.

"And we lived," Stiles says, panting and pausing his movements to mouth at Derek's collarbone, "happily forever after."

Derek stifles a chuckle on his shoulder, mouths at it for a while as he bucks up to meet Stiles when he starts thrusting again, and then says, "I don't think I can tell this one to our kids."