#ubermick

All of his happens in the space of time it takes Stiles to drop his jaw. The shout he readies strangles in his throat.

Derek catches the arrow. He snatches it neatly from the air with a turn of his wrist, as though it were a buzzing fly. Ares, thinks Stiles. He is the son of the War-God. Or else he is certainly Apollo's, who rules the bow, to meet an archer thus.

The Amazon does not pause. She looses two more dead-on shots that Derek unaccountably dodges and grabs before they hit. With a fistful of arrows Derek moves to meet her, pushing Stiles behind him hard enough to make him stagger. Derek's eyes are flashing, and something like a slow growl is working itself loose; but she faces him without fear. She is very beautiful, and very cold.

“Look for me again, Spartan,” she says in the accent of the East, and she flips over backwards in a move that seems as impossible to feasibly execute as Derek's maneuver. Down again, through the bushes and thorny brambles, a somersault of long limbs and she is gone; when Stiles breaks from his stupor and ducks past Derek, the woods are as silent around them as they had been, and she has left the most difficult of trails to follow, climbing up into the branches overhead. 

Stiles breathes hard, spins on Derek. Derek is staring at the arrows. His hand looks seized on them. Derek is panting, his adrenaline up, the huge muscles of his arms bunched tight. Stiles goes to him and starts to loosen his grip, finger by finger. 

They both watch him do it. They stand breathing shallowly. Stiles does not ask questions. He gets the arrows free. They drop soundlessly into the trampled grass. 

Derek says, “It has been two years or more since last I met her.” He shakes his unfrozen hand, then slides it around the back of Stiles's neck and tugs him in. Stiles goes, burrowing silently against his chest, blinking free threatening images of Derek pierced by arrows. Derek's heart is whole beneath his ear. He listens to the way it is beating wildly. 

Derek hesitates. “Some time ago there was a feud between our people. Her mother died a casualty of war, and the tribe blamed me. Allison of Scythia is impressionable. And formidable.” He cants his head and shuts his eyes. His dark eyelashes make a line on his cheek. “I had hoped she had finally forgotten me. Found a life for herself outside of death.”

Stiles sucks air in slowly. He does not flinch away, but he cannot pretend to love the topic. Underneath Derek's words he can taste old fear and guilt, stale but still present; perhaps he blamed himself as much as the Amazons did but could do nothing for it. Still, Derek has long been a soldier, and must long ago have learned to live with difficult decisions and harsher acts. 

“She will try again?”

Derek nods to confirm it. “Not soon. But she will try, when my guard is down. Perhaps she will always try.”

Stiles says, “If she has sworn an oath to avenge her mother it is not a thing to forget.” He wants to stop talking about this. Hard enough to resist where prophecy would tug him; he does not want to think about oaths. 

Instead he rubs his cheek to the fabric of Derek's tunic, soft with wear. “If she had struck you I would have dealt with her,” Stiles says, feeling the need to assert his strength after the way Derek had shoved him behind and down. “If she tries again I will.” He can forgive Derek the instinct, but Derek needs to be reminded of his capability. This time he pushes Derek down. 

He takes a long time readying Derek with his lips and tongue. He shows Derek what he has learned. Derek's body heat is still up from the ambush and his cock springs to the ready after the first touch, but Stiles takes his time. He licks at salty, silken skin, gets Derek firm in his hand to feel the rush of blood. He mouths at Derek's balls, drawn up tight, his wet tongue slipping lower to tease. 

Derek says “Stiles--” and tries to guide him back, but Stiles takes his time. He breathes hot air against slick surfaces, and moves his fist on Derek's cock, finding the best way to hold him. His cheeks hollow as he sets his mouth to the head. Derek grows harder in his mouth, and his hips leave the ground. His fingers that had been sifting through Stiles's hair clench and grasp.

Only then does Stiles begin to take him down and deeper. His jaw eases and more of Derek slides in. Derek is immense but Stiles is quite practiced at this by now. Slowly, slowly, ever so slowly, so slow, but then he has his nose to the dark hair at the base of Derek's cock and his throat is swallowing him and Derek is shuddering. Then Derek is going up on his elbows to watch while Stiles pulls back to do it again. The suction of his mouth makes a wet noise and Derek groans, almost as delicious as the weight of him on Stiles's tongue. 

Stiles drags himself back, away, long enough to say, “We are equals, Derek. Partners. It was you who taught me that.” Stiles flicks his tongue to the sensitive underside of Derek's cock, with a sound like tsk. “We protect each other. No man only for himself. The Spartan way,” he says. “Remember that the next time you look to shield me.”

Derek's hands are tight in his hair. He does not push Stiles away, he pushes him back down, finding the heat of his mouth and pressing until Stiles has reclaimed him. “I will remember,” says Derek. “Now suck, damn you. For the love of all Gods.”

Stiles enjoys the sight of Derek with his head back, his spine arched, his hips straining up; all of Derek is straining. Then he snaps his eyes back to the task in hand and starts to suck in earnest, going up and down on Derek as his tongue smooths the way; Derek's cock hits against the back of his throat and is swallowed further. Derek's self-control has slipped and he keeps pressing down on Stiles while he thrusts between his lips, until they find a rhythm that both of them can take and take to it like a dance they both know. Soon – which Stiles takes as proof of his burgeoning skillset – Derek is rumbling low, moving against him with abandon; his warning is a deeper growl before all of him tightens and loosens, and he fills Stiles's tongue with the bittersweet taste of him. 

Triumphant over Derek, flush with him, Stiles for a moment thinks what Derek would say, if Stiles were to spit the warm fluid into his hand, slick up his own aching cock, open Derek up and push himself inside. Derek would be tight and wet with what Stiles has won from him, Derek would take him with a whine and wild eyes. 

He would lie back and let Stiles have him, let Stiles hold his thighs apart and hold to the chiseled line of his hip while he thrust deep. He would go into Derek all at once, he decides, to see the expression on Derek's face. He would see if he could press Derek down while he rode him, see which of them would come out on top. Perhaps he would let Derek win easily, let Derek roll him with a wrestler's turn. Derek would straddle him with Stiles still buried deep, Derek would drive them on together --

Derek is reaching for him, using the exact pressure that Stiles favors, saying something, his name, and Stiles swallows, tucking the vision away for later use. Feeling heavy, he drags himself up over Derek, settling between his thighs anyway, setting his head along the curve of Derek's shoulder. 

Derek's hand has his cock and is working him slowly. He touches at the top of Stiles's spine with his free hand and then starts to scratch along his back, making scrapes that show faintly scarlet. Stiles hums against his neck, eyes shut and bent against Derek like a bow until he snaps. Gets a mouthful of Derek's skin between his teeth, the bite of Derek's nails on his skin, Derek's grip tightening at the last to draw him out.